Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  The Stone Maiden

  The Celtic Nights Series

  Book One

  by

  Susan King

  National Bestselling Author

  THE STONE MAIDEN

  Reviews & Accolades

  "King—whose research into the territory and time period is evident—strongly draws readers into the plot and her characters' lives."

  ~Publishers Weekly

  "Exhilarating... Demonstrates why fans and critics cherish her novels."

  ~Affaire de Coeur

  "Filled with excitement. Susan King shows why she is considered by fans and critics to be one of the monarchs of the sub-genre."

  ~Midwest Book Reviews

  "A strong heroine [and] an honorable man... this story brought a tear to my eye. Every part blends seamlessly... I could feel the mist and smell the heather."

  ~LaurieLikesBooks.com

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-441-7

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © Susan King. 2000, 2013. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover by Kim Killion www.thekilliongroup.com

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedicated in loving memory to my sister Barbara

  Her ways are ways of pleasantness

  and all her paths are peace.

  ~Proverbs 3:17

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks are due to Walter S. Arnold, sculptor, for sharing his knowledge of stone carving techniques; to my agent, Karen Solem, and my editor, Audrey LaFehr, for much patience and support; and especially to Mary Jo Putney, Jacci Reding, Jo-Ann Power, Jean Brashear, Eileen Charbonneau, and Julie Booth for seeing me safely through this one.

  Is beadarrach an ni an onair.

  Honor is a tender thing.

  —Scottish Gaelic proverb

  Prologue

  Seven riders crested the snow-covered hill like warriors out of legend, sweeping away the sun's glow, bringing twilight in their wake. The setting sun burnished armor to silver and shields to bronze as the riders streamed forward.

  Alainna stood on the hill and waited as they approached. Cold wind stirred her russet hair and filled the plaid draped over her gown, but she remained motionless. Another few moments and she would be trampled unless they slowed, unless she leaped aside. Yet she felt no danger.

  Sunlight surrendered as the riders came closer. Alainna felt the subtle pause in the breath of the world said to happen in the time-between-times. Her great-uncle, the clan bard, had said that at moments of fleeting change—dawn, sunset, mist—the earthly and the mystical realms could interweave. She was sure that happened now, while she watched, entranced.

  In the glen below, she heard her kinsmen shout, involved in a hunt. They had not seen her standing on the crest of the hill. She did not glance toward them, but kept her booted feet firm in the snow. Her hair blew back like flames, restless and vivid on the wind.

  The first of the riders neared her and pulled back on the reins. His tall, creamy stallion rounded, danced on slender legs. The other warriors drew to a halt and waited as their leader walked his horse toward Alainna.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  He watched her, helmeted and silent. The shield suspended on his saddle carried the painted design of a single diagonal arrow, white on a blue field. That symbol of his identity held no meaning for her.

  The warrior lifted away his helmet and tucked it under his arm, then pushed his chain mail hood from his head. The last of the stolen sunlight glinted in the dark gold of his hair. The stars and the night seemed part of his cloak, midnight blue edged with silver. His eyes were clouds, gray and deep.

  "Alainna MacLaren." He knew her name, but she did not know his. "You are the daughter of the chief of Clan Laren. Now that he is gone, you are clan leader in his place."

  "I am," she answered. "Who are you? A prince of the daoine sith, the faery people? Or do you lead the warriors of the Fianna, the warband of Fionn MacCumhail, come out of the mists of time?"

  "We are not they," he said.

  "Aenghus the Ever-Young, god of the sun, with your host of men. That is who you are," she said. The stories of the golden, handsome hero-god Aenghus mac Og were among her favorites of those told by her great-uncle of an evening. Somehow, she was not surprised to see a warrior god appearing at sunset, in the magical moment between light and darkness.

  His smile was subtle. "Do we look of that realm?"

  "You do. Why else would you ride over our lands at the changing of the light?"

  "Why else," he said, "but for you."

  "For me?" She stared at him.

  "You sent for us. For me," he added quietly.

  Her heart bounded, her breath caught. Hope, swift and bright, soared within her. She and her clan desperately needed help. Yet she, as their leader, had sent for no one. How had this warrior heard her plea, whispered only in her prayers, and held as a silent yearning in her heart? How else, but by magic?

  "Who are you?" Her voice was a breath.

  He watched her steadily. "I will help you if you want to save your clan," he murmured. "But you will have to give up what is most dear to you."

  "I would give up anything to save them," she said fiercely, returning his intent gaze. "I swear it."

  He extended his hand toward her. "Then so be it."

  She looked into his handsome face, gazed into his eyes, like steel, like silver. He was not of this earth, she was sure. He must be a prince, even a king, in the faery world, capable of magic, capable of helping her people.

  "What do you want of me?" she asked.

  "Come with me," he answered.

  She drew a breath. "If I do, all will be well for them?"

  "It will." He watched her, his hand outstretched.

  A feeling rose within her like a torrent. Not fear, but a wrench within, a longing. She wanted to go with him. The desire grew stronger and she closed her eyes against its power.

  "Alainna," he said, his voice like the lowest chord of a harp. "Come with me."

  She glanced down the long hill, where her kinsmen hunted. She loved her clan and her kin deeply, and she could not bear the thought of leaving them. Yet she must do whatever she could for the clan, no matter the cost to her. She had made that promise to her dying father.

  If she could find the courage to ride into the Otherworld never to return, her clan would flourish and be safe. Their proud and ancient heritage would last forever.

  She drew in a long breath and looked up at the shining, silent warrior. "I must have yo
ur promise that my clan will continue," she said.

  "You have it." She knew, somehow, that she could trust him.

  She lifted her arm in acceptance. He stepped his horse closer, holding out his hand and leaning toward her. His fingers were warm over hers, and her heart leaped within her breast like a bird new to the wing.

  * * *

  Alainna awoke, sitting upright in the dark, heart pounding. A dream, she told herself. Just a dream. She caught back a sob and sank her head into the support of her hands.

  If only the dream had been real. Her clan needed just such a bold warrior, some miracle of intervention, to help them. Try as she might, Alainna could not save her diminished and threatened clan alone. She could ensure that her kin were sheltered and fed, and she could do her best to preserve their proud and ancient heritage. But she could not fight their enemies in battle, and that help was most desperately needed.

  Clan Laren now consisted of a handful of elderly men and women with only Alainna to lead them. The rival clan that had feuded with them for generations would triumph soon, unless they could be stopped. Once spring arrived, the ancient spell that had aided her clan for so long would end, and their enemy's power over them would increase.

  Her kinfolk urged her to find and marry a Highland warrior, a champion with comrades at his back willing to fight. Clan Laren needed such a man, but no one would take on the risk of a failing clan and a strong enemy.

  If only the dream had been real, she thought again, and sighed deeply. The golden warrior did not exist, and time grew short.

  * * *

  Steel sparkled in the dawn as Sebastien wheeled and sank the tip of his sword with masterful control. The edge whistled in a fast, low arc and surged upward again. Muscles taut, gripping the leather-wrapped hilt with his right hand, he spun on bare feet. The balanced blade sliced and soared through the cool morning air.

  Frost rimed the battlements around him, and a brisk wind sifted the dark golden strands of his hair. His back was sweat-coated and cool beneath his loose linen shirt, but his exertion created heat within.

  He focused on footing, timing, balance, strength. Each step and thrust was fierce, edged with desperation, punctuated with fury, but he felt powerless. His blade cut nothing but air. He had no enemy to fight, no way to protect what was most precious to him.

  The wind was high and fast on the rooftop of the royal tower. He paused, breathing hard, while the breeze whipped at him. His gaze swept the forest treetops, the glinting towers of the abbey, the vast blue mountains far in the distance. Scotland was a beautiful land, full of promise for Norman knights seeking favor and property. He had come here for that purpose.

  Now he must leave as soon as he could. He clenched his jaw in frustration. He had spent three years in this cold northern place. If he stayed longer, he could reap the reward the king would undoubtedly offer him—but he had no more time to wait.

  He turned to wield the sword with banked power. Lunge, strike, pull back, spin. His weapon practices provided action and solitude, both of which he craved. Whenever the king stayed at his royal tower in Dunfermline, the rooftop guards were used to the training habits of this particular Breton honor guard. They often left Sebastien alone on the battlements while they fetched an extra serving of breakfast.

  Before dawn, he had left the garrison quarters and had gone up to the roof. He liked this time of day for its mystical promise, liked the soaring view from the roof, and secretly cherished the lift he felt within his soul.

  Another thrust of the sword grazed steel on stone and raised blue sparks. Even that strike gave him some satisfaction, although he knew the edge would require extra care later. He wanted conflict, hungered for encounter. Frustration roiled within him, demanding release.

  A letter had arrived for him yesterday, carried by a Breton messenger whose ship had been greatly delayed. The news Sebastien had received, several months late, had stunned him to the quick.

  His small son, housed in a Breton monastery, had been in danger six months ago, and Sebastien had not been there to protect him. He was not even certain where the boy was now.

  Half a world away, half a year late in learning the news. He cursed the strong ambition that had taken him to Scotland when he might have stayed in Brittany with his five-year-old son. Instead, he had put Conan in the care of monks and had accepted another term of knight service.

  The letter had been sent by the abbot of the monastery where he had left Conan, and where Sebastien himself had been raised as a boy. A fire had ruined the Benedictine complex, injuring many, killing some, among them monks Sebastien had known well. His son, along with the other boys, was unhurt, but all of them were in dire need of a home.

  The monks desperately sought a benefactor to provide housing and goods until the monastery could be rebuilt. Without that support, they must disperse among different religious houses. Their young charges were to be sent elsewhere too, some turned out in the streets.

  The abbot had inquired of Sebastien where Conan should be sent. He had hinted that the knight, a favorite of the duke of Brittany and the king of Scotland, could help all of them if he would lend the use of one of his Breton properties.

  Months had elapsed since the abbot had sent out his plea. Sebastien, unaware of their dilemma, had not replied.

  He growled in despair and swiped at the buffeting wind. Then he lowered the sword and faced the rising sun, hair and shirt billowing, body and spirit stilled and strong.

  He had allowed his hunger for land wealth and chivalric renown to rule him, and his son was no longer safe as a result. Since the death of his noble French wife, he had continued to pursue his ambitions on behalf of the child whom he adored.

  Conan would someday own his mother's dowry property, still in the possession of her family, who had only disdain for her widowed husband. Sebastien had earned the love of his late, sweet wife, but her family thought him unworthy.

  What worth he possessed had been conjured from nothing. Sebastien le Bret, famed for prowess and valor on the jousting field and in battle, knight in service to dukes and to kings, lacked ancestry, inheritance, and an old, proud surname.

  Left as a foundling at the monastery of Saint-Sebastien in Brittany, he had only the name the monks had given him. The rest he had gained for himself. He was weary of striving, but he would continue for his son's sake.

  Now he must set aside his dreams and goals and return to Brittany as soon as possible. He lifted the sword over his head and slashed it downward in a final blow, sweeping it into another arc, spinning with the turn. He stopped and stood in the wind.

  The sun crested the mountains like a glowing wafer. Morning brought duties that required his presence as an honor guard to the king of Scots. Sebastien turned, snatched up his tunic and belt, and headed for the stairs.

  Chapter 1

  Scotland, the Highlands

  Autumn, 1170

  In the hushed, shadowed time before dawn, Alainna set a small sack of oats and a handful of wildflowers at the base of the stone pillar. She murmured a blessing and stood back. Beyond the tall stone, the loch swept rhythmically to shore, and a pale glow edged the sky.

  She twisted her hands anxiously, then stilled herself, realizing that impatience would not hurry the beneficent spirit of the Maiden.

  The pillar called the Stone Maiden rose twelve feet in height, a column of gray granite shaped like a gowned woman. Ancient carvings on the front and back were worn smooth in places. Mist wreathed the stone, cool and damp.

  "Maiden," she said, "I am Alainna, daughter of Laren of Kinlochan, son of Laren, son of Donal, son of Aodh—" She did not continue, although she knew the names of her ancestors back to the Stone Maiden herself—with whom she shared a name, from alainn, beautiful—and to Labhrainn, the Irish prince who had founded the clan centuries ago.

  Legend said that the stone housed the spirit of a maiden who had been captured there, long ago, by a faery spell. The Stone Maiden, tradition claimed, acted as a guar
dian for Clan Laren. Generations of the clan had left offerings and had spoken charms to appeal for the Maiden's protection. As clan leader since her father's death a few months earlier, Alainna hoped for a reassuring omen to report to her kin.

  Now she murmured her heartfelt wish to see her clan safe and flourishing, and waited.

  Wind whispered over her head, loosening strands of her braided, red-gold hair. She heard birdsong, the shush of the loch, her deerhound's bark as he fretted a field mouse nearby. The rising sun glinted on the wooden fortress of Kinlochan across the narrow stretch of water. She stood patiently beside the stone, but no clear sign appeared.

  She sighed. Somehow she must save Clan Laren from vanishing into Highland memory. The solution she needed would not come from offerings and chants. Only swift action would solve their dilemma.

  The deerhound ran toward her to circle her anxiously, barking. He faced the hill that sloped away from the loch-side. Peering through the mist, Alainna saw a red deer there, nosing through old heather.

  "Ach, Finan, do you long to chase the deer, then?" she asked, touching his head, which reached above her waist. The dog's fierce growl raised chills along Alainna's spine. "Finan, what is it?"

  A man walked over the top of the hill and came down the hillside. Alainna knew him by his height and heavy build, by his wild black hair and the red and brown hues of his plaid.

  Cormac, the young chief of Clan Nechtan, her enemy, came toward her. Had she known that he was out here, that he watched her when she was alone but for the dog, she would not have lingered.

  "Hold, Finan!" she commanded. She curled her hand in the dog's leather collar. His long body quivered, growls rumbled in his chest, and his wiry blue-gray coat lifted. But he stayed, as she knew he would.