Doon

by Carey Corp

  Kenna seemed on the verge of tears. “I … I don’t remember how I got here.”

  “She’s killed them wi’ her evil magic. The witch must die!” Gideon proclaimed, his skeletal face emanating zealous triumph. Gideon held a broadsword in one hand and a wicked-looking dagger in the other.

  Like a scene from a movie, Gideon charged at Kenna, his face contorted in rage as she let out a strangled cry. Racing against Gideon, who was just a dark blur in my peripheral vision, I leapt forward and tackled Kenna. We both slammed into the ground. The air whooshed from my lungs as I gripped her shoulders and braced for the impact of a sword in my back.

  But it never came.

  Jerking my head toward where the guard should be, I sucked in a sharp breath. Fergus and Gideon were engaged in battle not two feet away. The tension left my body in a surge of relief, and I thanked God for Fergus Lockhart—our guardian angel.

  Gideon shouted a jumble of accusations and curses. Flecks of froth appeared at the corners of his thin mouth as he swung his weapon with the appearance of superhuman strength. But the raving madman was no match for Fergus, who disarmed his captain with a deft movement and a great heave, then finished him off with a swift uppercut. Gideon crumpled to the ground, out cold.

  “Kenna, are you okay?” I asked, rolling onto the grass.

  “I’m fine, but you’ve been holding out on me.”

  As we both sat up, I blinked at her in confusion. “What?”

  A small smile formed on her lips. “I thought you said you were a cheerleader, not a ninja.” Her voice hitched, betraying the feelings behind her words.

  I smiled, tears filling my eyes as she threw her arms around me. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Och, lass! Were ye trying to get both of you killed?” Fergus scolded as he squatted down beside us. “Next time, wait for my signal.”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered as Kenna and I broke apart.

  “Mackenna, are ye hurt?”

  “I’ll be fine. No permanent damage—at least to me.” She absently rubbed the back of her head as she looked around.

  “And you, Veronica?”

  Meeting Fergus’s pale blue eyes, I searched for answers I knew he didn’t have. “I’m fine.”

  “Go on and get back ta the trail. I’ll be right behind ye.” He picked up Gideon’s rag doll body and effortlessly hoisted it over his shoulder.

  I picked my way down the rocky trail with care. How had those poor men died? The Doonians were certain the witch had no power here—but I was beginning to wonder. A conversation I’d had with Fiona after the tavern incident circled through my mind. There had been no crime in Doon before we came. No violent acts, no unexplained disappearances, no black petunias growing on dead ground, and certainly no murders—aside from the time long ago when the witch had bewitched a man into doing her bidding. What were the odds of Doon having a sudden crime wave at the same time the two American girls showed up?

  My heart squeezed in my chest—everything Jamie thought of me could be true. It was possible that when we crossed the Brig o’ Doon we made the kingdom vulnerable to the witch’s influence. And if we didn’t find a way to stop it, more people could die.

  The next morning, I sat curled in the alcove of the window seat and stared into the crackling fire, picking out patterns in the flames. It was hard work keeping my mind blank, but everything that’d happened in the last twenty-four hours hurt too much to contemplate. Kenna and I had been ordered to stay in the turret room—for our own protection, according to Fiona. But with a guard inside the suite, as well as outside the door, the confinement felt more like a prison sentence.

  Kenna paced the other side of the bedroom, mumbling to herself. The occasional word reached my ears: “mob,” “pitchforks,” “dungeon,” “beheading.”

  We’d both fallen into bed after dinner the night before, too exhausted to speak. Now, listening to my friend babble, I realized I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  “Ken, please stop. We need to talk.” I patted the cushion next to me.

  She flopped down, her arms crossed under her chest and her lip jutting out like a kid who didn’t get the last pink balloon at the fair.

  “Yesterday in the meadow, what happened before I got there?”

  “One minute I was urging Duncan to go to his father … and the next, I was lying on the ground surrounded by a bunch of dead guys.” Her eyes were silver with tears. “I have no idea what happened to those poor men.”

  I nodded and took her hand. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

  She shrugged and then wiped her cheeks. “I can’t find a single box of Puffs in this joint.”

  I bit my lip against a chuckle, popped up, and jogged into the bathroom. Thankfully, Doon was progressive enough to have toilet paper. As I wrapped a few pieces around my hand, I stopped and stared up at the toilet tank above me. Maybe the tiny book hidden there contained some clue that I’d missed. What I’d said to Kenna was true; the deaths weren’t her fault. But I couldn’t absolve myself so easily. I’d been the one obsessed—the one Kenna followed to the bridge.

  Jamie’d said there was a price for everything. It seemed as if the price I’d paid to enter this paradise was costing my best friend as well as innocent Doonians. After delivering the tissue to Kenna, I sank down at the table. I cradled the journal in my hands, knowing it was too late to turn back the clock, but praying there was a way to stop what I’d inadvertently set into motion.

  Hours later, I closed the journal with a sigh and picked up the page of notes I’d taken. The pieces were here; I could feel it. But for some reason I couldn’t fit them together. I ran my finger across the last paragraph of my notes.

  The Rings of Aontacht are purported to do different things depending on the Protector’s will. Page 47 says that their purpose is to enable individuals to cross the Brig o’ Doon at times other than the Centennial. This seems consistent with pages 73 and 109. But on page 148 Gracie says the symbols on the rings indicate they can be used for the purposes of protection and substitution. The prominent symbol indicates that someone can take the place of another at a spiritual level. Sacrificial substitution.

  Opening Doon: An Esteemed Legacy, I flipped to the chapter on ancient symbols.

  Kenna, fresh from a nap, flitted around the room, singing snippets of show tunes and lighting lamps to push back the growing darkness of the stormy afternoon. When she stopped to light the lantern on the table in front of me, I lightly touched her hand. She paused mid-song, her brows pinched together.

  I pointed to the open page at a three-looped knot labeled Unity. “Does this look like the first symbol on your aunt’s rings?”

  “I think so.” She sat across from me. “Why?”

  I ran my finger down the drawings, to another one that looked familiar. “And this one?”

  She leaned over and studied the triple spiral. “I do remember that one. What does it mean?”

  I read the tiny script beside the picture aloud. “The Triskele is the symbol of substitution or rebirth.” I moved to the next symbol I recognized. “And this one represents sacrifice or an exchange offering.”

  “It’s pretty, but I wouldn’t get it tattooed on my lower back or anything.” I glanced up to find Kenna’s scrutiny on me rather than the symbol. “What’re you doing, anyway? As soon as the bridge opens, we’re gone. We’ll probably never see those rings again.”

  “Has it occurred to you that all the horrible stuff going on in Doon started after we got here?”

  “I guess, but I figured that was just a coincidence. I mean, Glinda and Elphaba we’re not.” She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “But I could totally get my Glinda on if you think it’ll get us out of here faster.”

  Not in the mood for one of her Wicked sing-alongs, I shot my best friend a dirty look as a succession of knocks sounded. Our eyes darted toward the door and then back toward one another for reassurance. After so much time in isolation, the implications of that knock felt
ominous.

  At the guard’s signal, Kenna and I moved to the bedroom and waited for him to answer the door and then sound the all clear.

  When we returned to the living quarters, Fiona stood beside a flushed Fergus, whose bright red nose and eyes told me he’d been crying. The giant guard turned to me, lifting his chin in an attempt to hide his anguish. “Our good king seeks an audience with Miss Veronica.”

  My heart stuttered, my eyes darting to Fiona and then back to Fergus. “Why?”

  Fiona lifted her pursed lips and exchanged a meaningful glance with Fergus, then said, “The Laird MacCrae doesn’t have long for this world.”

  I’d figured as much, but that didn’t explain why the king wanted to see me. Unless it was to punish me for what I’d allowed into his kingdom. I fastened my concentration on Fergus, hoping he was gifted in cryptic conversation. “Does the laird—uh—know about the meadow?”

  Fergus cleared his throat, a sheepish look on his mottled face. “Ye kin speak plainly in front of Fiona. She knows about the guard’s deaths, as does Duncan. But we’re keeping it from Jamie and the Laird MacCrae, fer now.”

  “What about Gideon?” Kenna asked. “I figured he’d be screaming my guilt from the rooftops by now.”

  “Hard to do when he’s locked in the dungeon.” The corner of Fergus’s mouth lifted in a hint of a smile. “Everyone thinks he and his men are on a border mission for Centennial preparations.”

  Fiona’s pretty mouth in turn twisted into an expression that was equal parts smile and frown. “Veronica, you should go. I’ll stay with Mackenna until ye return.”

  Fergus placed a meaty hand on my bicep, his voice both reassuring and urgent as he guided me toward the door. “That’s true. We need ta hurry, m’ lady.”

  As I moved with the giant, I glanced over my shoulder and met Kenna’s guilt-ridden face. Without exchanging a word, I could tell she was relieved she wasn’t going with me and at the same time ashamed she felt that way. “Don’t worry,” I said, fostering confidence I didn’t feel. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

  Right.

  Knees shaking like an arthritic granny as I descended the stairs, I tried to reassure myself with worst-case scenarios. When visions of public execution and slow torture brought on by Jamie’s orders didn’t do the trick, I focused on the only positive I could find—I could protect Kenna. I would shoulder any blame if it meant getting my best friend across the bridge at the Centennial. That way, at least one of us would live to see our dreams come true.

  CHAPTER 21

  Veronica

  The dim corridor grew longer with every step Fergus and I took. Torch-like sconces diffused our path in flickering light as we hurried past the rich tapestries, distinguished portraits, and burnished suits of armor that lined the austere passageway. Like living creatures, deep shadows set up residence along every angle.

  I rubbed the goose bumps along my arms. This part of the castle felt ancient, almost like an entirely different structure than the bright and airy palace I’d come to love.

  We approached a set of arched wooden doors, iron hinges, and ringed door pulls lending authenticity to the gothic atmosphere. Fergus lifted a lion-head knocker and tapped lightly while I lingered a few feet behind. Waiting, I glanced up at my protector. I must’ve looked as scared as I felt because he broke his stoic façade to give me a tiny smile of reassurance. His usually flushed skin appeared colorless, his bright eyes dim and shadowed.

  The depth of his sorrow pulled me out of my selfish preoccupation. The people of Doon were suffering along with their beloved laird. I caught Fergus’s meaty hand in mine and gave it a brief squeeze. Knowing if one of the other guards saw our exchange, my new friend would suffer for it, I let go quickly. Fergus acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod of his head.

  The door opened a crack and Fergus spoke in hushed tones to someone inside. The only word I could make out was my own name. As the door closed again, I clenched my teeth. The waiting was the worst. I just couldn’t fathom why the king would want to speak to me, of all people. I wasn’t even a Doonian. Yet, my heart whispered before I could stop it.

  The door opened again, and Duncan slipped out into the corridor, followed by Jamie.

  A lock of golden hair fell over Jamie’s forehead, partially obscuring his red-rimmed eyes. It had been only a day since I’d last seen him, but it felt like a thousand years of miserable separation. I had to fight back the urge to run and embrace him.

  “Lairds, I will escort the lassie. No need ta concern yer-selves.” Fergus’s posture was rigid, his words uncharacteristically formal.

  “Thank you, Fergus,” Jamie said, his voice sounding strained. “I have need to see to a few judicial matters. Duncan shall attend Father after h—” Jamie’s voice cut off, and he cleared his throat with a rough cough before continuing. “His meeting.”

  Jamie’s eyes darted to mine and then away so fast, the supportive smile I started to give him died on my lips. But I couldn’t leave things like this—not after what had happened between us on the cliffs.

  As he turned to go, I followed on his heels. “Jamie, wait!”

  Stopping abruptly, he turned. His pale face void of emotion, he stared down at me. And I had no idea what to say.

  “Are you okay?” Mentally kicking myself for being an insensitive jerk, I watched every feature of his face tighten. Of course he wasn’t okay; his dad was dying. “I mean … Is there anything I can do?”

  A sardonic smile twisted the corner of his mouth as his eyes shifted to hard ebony. “Aye. You can leave me alone.”

  Without waiting for my reply, he turned and walked away, his swift footsteps echoing through the corridor. Feeling as if I’d just taken a blow to the gut, I wrapped my arms around my waist in an attempt to keep myself from collapsing onto the stone floor.

  Catching my eye, Duncan flashed an apologetic smile before turning and following his brother.

  “We should no’ keep the laird waitin’,” Fergus said gently.

  Hoping I could keep myself together, I turned to follow him, clasping my hands tightly in front of me as we entered the dark chamber. A single candle on the nightstand illuminated a massive bed draped in burgundy velvet and shadow.

  “My laird, I have brought Miss Veronica Welling, as ye requested.” Fergus stood in front of me, his large frame blocking my view of the king. I checked the urge to twist my hair behind my head, knowing Fiona’d spent considerable time that morning braiding the sides and neatly tying them back with a ribbon that matched my royal blue skirt.

  “Well, let me see her then, man.” The voice sounded stronger than I’d expected for a dying man.

  “Aye, sire.” Fergus stepped out of my way.

  The king sat propped up by large pillows behind his back and under his arms. His long silver hair rested loose on his shoulders.

  “Have a seat, my dear.” His kind, dark eyes helped relax the knots in my chest.

  Fergus moved a chair to the side of the bed and I sat. The king tilted his head, studying me for several seconds. Then he focused his regard on Fergus, whom I could feel hovering close behind. “Tha’ shall be all, Fergus.”

  With a furtive glance in my direction, Fergus let himself out of the room.

  I turned back to face the king, and he appeared to shrink before my eyes. Falling back into the pillows, he closed his eyes. Just when I started to ask him if I could get him anything, he said, “Authority can be quite exhausting.” His eyes opened then and he stared at me intently.

  Sitting straight, my hands folded in my lap, I wasn’t sure if I should agree or remain silent. But before I could make up my mind, the king continued, “Veronica—may I call ye Veronica?”

  “Of course.”

  “Veronica, dear, why have ye come ta Doon?”

  I jumped a little, startled by the question no one had yet bothered to ask. But now that it had been put to me, it seemed the most obvious question of all.

  What had le
d me to Doon? Had I manipulated Kenna to the bridge, knowing she would force me to cross? Or had I done it to help my best friend find what her aunt had so desperately wanted for her? Or had my own personal mission to find the boy who’d haunted my days and nights influenced my every action? I was pretty sure I knew the answer. I glanced up at the patiently waiting king.

  “I … began having visions shortly before I came to Scotland. When I first put on the Ring of Aontacht and heard the legend of Doon, I felt in my spirit it was all true. Gracie Lockhart believed Kenna had a reason to come here, but Ken had a hard time believing it and well, I …” I hesitated, not sure what I wanted to say.

  The king nodded in encouragement.

  “I knew the kingdom existed, and that no matter what it took I had to find it.”

  “Because of the dreams ye were having?”

  “They weren’t dreams exactly, since I was awake, but in any case … it seems I misinterpreted them.”

  The king sputtered as coughs began to rack his frail body. I scrambled to the pitcher I’d seen sitting on a nearby table. Returning with a glass of water, I helped the king sit up straighter and held the glass to his lips. After a moment, his hands were steady enough to hold the cup on his own.

  “Sir, should I get Fergus?”

  He waved his hand and shook his head dismissively. “Sit, lass. I’m fine now.”

  I perched on the edge of the chair, wondering if I should cut the audience short. The conversation was clearly taking its toll, but my heart urged me to continue on the chance it could shed some light on Jamie’s behavior.

  “Could ye indulge an auld man and tell me what ye had visions of before coming here?”

  My shoulders slumped. The moment of truth had come. I didn’t want to give him false hope, considering the strong implications of the Calling in Doon’s culture. But I couldn’t lie to this honorable man, the king of Doon, and, most importantly, Jamie’s father.

  “It was your son … Jamie.” Inexplicably, tears filled my eyes.

  “Ahh, yes. ’Tis as I suspected then.” There was a gentle smile on his face, and as his dark eyes crinkled at the edges I could see why this man held a special place in the hearts of everyone in the kingdom. He reached out his hand for mine. I held his large, bony fingers, wondering what I’d just done.