The Inscription

by Pam Binder

  A log shifted and rolled to the lip of the hearth. Amber crossed to the fire and pushed it back in place with an iron poker. This woman Elaenor wrote to was interested in the sciences. Only the rich, or those of royal birth, educated their daughters. There were also the eccentrics, a category she decided, which fit the MacAlpin clan. She dusted off her hands.

  “I have to ask. Any chance this Elizabeth you keep talking about is none other than the one who rules England.”

  “Who else?” She pulled out a letter that was tucked in her sleeve and unfolded it. “Elizabeth is interested in the stars as much as I am. Did you know that before she became queen, her life was in jeopardy? Fearful, she sought the advice of a man who could read the future in the stars. He predicted not only would her life be spared, but that she would be a great ruler. It was then her interest turned toward the constellations.”

  “You have something in common. It is a good place to start a friendship.”

  Elaenor smiled and handed Amber the letter. “I would like you to read it and give me your opinion.”

  Amber stepped away from the hearth and took the note. Across the page, in bold handwriting, was a message from Elizabeth I. She smiled to herself, wanting to savor the moment. This woman would become one of the greatest rulers of all time and she, Amber MacPhee, was reading one of her letters. She felt lightheaded.

  The message was a short one. The ruler of England did not believe in wasting words. Each one held its own weight.

  Weal , ye have consulted with our astrologers and he confirms your theory that time is not solid and can be controlled. He further informs us that someone from the future is here.

  The words echoed over and over in Amber’s mind and the letter quivered in her hand.

  Elaenor touched her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

  Amber handed the letter back. “No. But I’m a little shaky. It must be because I didn’t sleep well last night.” She cleared her throat. “As for the letter… the idea is hard to believe.”

  “I agree.” Elaenor laughed. “However, that is why I like her so. Elizabeth is always eager to explore all possibilities, especially if someone says it cannot be accomplished.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them and Elae-nor’s eyes widened. “That will be Una. It is time for me to leave.” She turned to Amber. “I will miss you.”

  Amber hugged the young woman. She was going to miss her as well. “Your life will be so rich with adventures; do not be in a hurry to experience them all at once.”

  Elaenor smiled. “I shall remember each event and write to you of all that happens.”

  Richard’s carriage pulled away from the castle followed by Lachlan’s personal guard and wagons loaded with furniture and clothes. Amber left the second-floor window and headed for Marcail’s room. The words in the letter repeated themselves over and over in her thoughts. If Elaenor didn’t suspect that Amber was the person Elizabeth’s astrologer spoke of, she soon would.

  However, even if Elaenor made the connection, it was a long journey from Inverness to London and back again. Amber would have that much time to formulate a reason for her presence here, or find a way to return to her own time.

  How could she, when she’d been here for some weeks and was no closer than when she first arrived? Guilt raced through her. If she were honest with herself, she would have to say she hadn’t really tried and Lachlan was the cause.

  She hesitated as she entered Marcail’s room. The injured man, O’Donnell, lay on the bed asleep and Marcail sat on a chair beside him. Amber felt she was intruding on the quiet scene, and backed toward the door.

  Marcail motioned to her. “Please warm yourself by the fire.”

  Rays of morning sunlight shimmered over Marcail’s gown. She was dressed more for an evening at court than at the bedside of a man recovering from sword wounds.

  Marcail nodded. “I am glad you have come. I have finished reading Chaucer’s ‘Knight’s Tale’ and am halfway through the ‘Wife of Bath.’ He treats marriage seriously in his poetry. I find that curious.”

  Amber walked forward slowly. Tapestries covered die floor as well as the walls. A vibrant mural, depicting a storm at sea, was painted over the hearth. Red and white dragons and two lovers sharing a cup by a well were incorporated into the scene. She recognized the tragic story of Tristan and Isolde, one of her favorite legends. She paused in front of Marcail.

  Marcail drummed lightly on the cover of the book. “I have heard you read aloud to Gavin. There is an unusual lilt to your voice and the quality of it pulls the interest of whoever passes.”

  Amber turned her attention to O’Donnell. She could hear his even breathing. What would Marcail say if she knew that the “unusual lilt” was from the twentieth century Pacific Northwest?

  O’Donnell mumbled incoherently in his sleep. Amber listened intently but couldn’t understand the words. She’d thought at first, because of his Irish name, that maybe he spoke a form of Gaelic. But that wasn’t it. At least it wasn’t any version she’d ever heard.

  Marcail looked at her. “It would please me if you would read to him while I rest. You can see his condition is much improved since you tended him last.”

  Amber nodded in agreement. The man’s color was good. He looked as though the bleeding had stopped, and he was resting comfortably. Hardly what she would have expected after seeing those wounds. She hadn’t thought he’d survive at all. Then she remembered Lachlan’s prediction.

  He’d not only said O’Donnell would survive, but that he’d recover in forty-eight hours. An uneasiness ran through her until she felt a shiver run up her spine. Maybe it was a lucky guess. But now, here was Marcail wanting her to read to him. It struck her that it was a modern concept to think those in a coma might be aware of the conversations going on around them.

  The corners of Marcail’s mouth gently turned into a smile. “I can almost hear your thoughts.”

  Amber hoped not.

  Marcail rose from the chair in one fluid motion and walked over to her. “If you are like all the others in the castle, you are wondering why I read to a man held in a deep sleep.”

  For the first time Amber noticed how tired Marcail appeared. Urquhart was packed with servants, yet it was Marcail who was by O'Donnell’s side.

  “I don’t think reading to him is a waste of time. I think he can hear you.”

  Marcail’s voice lowered. “I do as well. Then, it is settled.” She gazed at Amber before handing her the book. “I have marked the page. Do not fear, there is little chance he will awake before my return. I have but one matter to see to before I take my rest.” She hesitated. “Have you ever loved someone?”

  The image of Lachlan popped into Amber’s mind. She forced it from her thoughts and gripped the book tighter, feeling the smooth leather against her fingers.

  “I haven’t known Lachlan that long.”

  “Perhaps not, but he was the first person you thought of. Time, you will find, has no claim where love is concerned. I pray you will experience the type of love of which minstrels sing. Unlike Tristan and Isolde, it continues to elude me.” She glanced over at O’Donnell for a long moment. “But perhaps there are things that are of more importance.”

  Marcail turned and left abruptly. Amber felt relief that she would not have to examine her feelings for Lachlan further, but regret that Marcail had left. The woman was intuitive as well as intelligent and someone Amber would like to know better.

  Amber walked over to the cushioned bench by the window, sat down and opened to the page marked with a white satin ribbon. Last night O’Donnell wasn’t breathing. You couldn’t wash a man’s wounds and bandage him without noticing a little detail like that. He’d also been ice-cold to the touch. She remembered thinking he was dead, so why bother with bandages.

  Today, however, he was resting comfortably as though all he’d suffered was a scratch. If these people were so hale and hearty, why would someone who had been stabbed repeatedly survive, but a woman givi
ng birth die? Of course, Grizel had thought Molly was poisoned. She shuddered, remembering Bartholomew’s expression before they dragged him to the dungeon. There was a missing piece to this puzzle.

  The fire crackled in the hearth and she turned to stare at the flames, wanting to think of something else. The bright colors and lively sounds of the festival at Inverness floated through her mind. But as the pleasant memories surfaced, so did the questions. There was more that had seemed strange at the time. She sat back abruptly and the book dropped to the ground

  The Punch-and-Judy show. Lachlan had laughed along with the rest of the crowd when the puppets began their performance, but when they reenacted the story of the Immortal Knight, his mood had changed. She’d decided, at the time, that he was taking the performance too literally. After all, enchanted beings who could not die were just one of the myths she herself had heard when she was a child. But there was more to it than that. He had not merely disliked the play, he’d hated it.

  He was angry because the story was being told at all, and the excuse he gave was weak, at best. He’d objected to the retelling of that legend, but saw nothing wrong with Jonah and the Whale. So, she reasoned, it was not that he disliked legends in general, but the one about the immortal knight in particular.

  Amber looked at O’Donnell. Fresh linen bandages wrapped the man’s chest. No sign that blood was seeping through them. It was absurd to think this man was like the hero in the story, but it would be easy enough to lift the doth and examine the wounds.

  And find what? The question screamed through her thoughts. She was starting to think like her aunt, seeing trolls, water monsters and men who lived forever at every turn. All she would find, if she removed title bandages, was that she’d reopened the man’s wounds. She decided her imagination would not be running this wild if she hadn’t seen Gavin’s back when he was playing with the other boys at the festival. Obviously Bartholomew hadn’t beat Gavin as hard as she had at first thought.

  Amber bent down and retrieved the book. She needed to concentrate on why she was here, and give her imagination a break before she did something she’d regret. She opened to the page Marcail had marked and stared at the words for so long they blurred before her eyes. Her aunt might give credence to all manner of fairy folk, but her parents were scientists who spent their lives digging for the pots and pans of lost civilizations. They thought that even the most far-fetched legend or myth had a basis in truth. Her aunt felt the same. Until this moment, however, she’d never made the connection between Aunt Dora’s love of legends, and her parents passion for ancient civilizations.

  Even if all the myths held some kernel of truth, there still remained vast areas that were embellished.

  Therefore, a legend could grow around a man who lived longer than was normal, and the people might begin to think he had special powers.

  She sat straighten That had to be it. She repeated the theory in her head and felt, as her parents must have when they dug in ancient ruins, that under the next rock lay the clue that would make sense of it all.

  In the windowless chamber Marcail took her place at the black, marble table reserved for members of the Council of Seven. Despite the gathered immortals, the silence in the candlelit room was almost a presence. They waited for Lachlan.

  They had come from the four corners of the world to discuss the impending danger of Subedei’s arrival. The twins sat at the far end of the table and whispered together. Kuan Yin, wrapped in a gown of gossamer blue silk, sat beside them in quiet meditation. The woman was a living legend in China and was revered for her boundless compassion and loving kindness. Beside Kuan Yin sat Hsi Wang Mu, dressed in red silk with red phoenix and white cranes embroidered on the cloth. Marcail admired the women greatly for their efforts to lead through example, and had heard it said they felt a deep sorrow at die evil they had seen in Subedei’s actions. They had known him before the bloodlust consumed him. She knew they still struggled to find a cure, but the insatiable need to kill was never reversed once it took hold.

  A bitter taste rose in her mouth. The ancients had discovered the secrets of eternal youth, but the cost was too high. It would have been better if they had not interfered, and allowed their race to survive the brutality of those times as best they might. But they had not. For some, that which made them immortal could also turn them insane. It struck randomly. At times it left whole families intact, while at others it infected only a few members.

  The words of the legend of the Lady of the Loch filtered through her mind …a wisdom that will guide the chosen one out of his darkness. It was Marcail herself, who had summoned the Guardian. But time was running out If the Lady Amber/ did not alter the course of insanity that Marcail sensed had begun to infect Lachlan, their race would destroy itself. He alone had the strength of mind and body to put the good of all above his own desires and lead their kind into the next centuries. But if the insanity took hold of him, as it had Subedei, a battle between the two would rage that would destroy both sides.

  She folded her hands in her lap and fought the waves of fatigue that swept over her. She should have rested while she had the opportunity, instead of speaking to Angus regarding the Lady Amber, but the matter they had discussed was important.

  Lachlan entered with Zambodo at his side. Their animated conversation seemed intense. She knew Lachlan respected the man’s knowledge of battle strategy. Zambodo had lived more centuries than he could count. A great warrior, he had lost his hand in a battle against Subedei’s forces and so had a special score to settle. The ancients had been unable to discover a way for the body to rejuvenate an appendage once it was severed.

  Zambodo was from Africa and preferred the warmth and culture of his own country to all else. Still, he had come to Urquhart out of respect for Lachlan. It was by no accident that Lachlan MacAlpin had been chosen, first as member, then as leader of the

  Council. He had the intellect of Socrates, and the reasoning abilities of Solomon.

  A hush fell over the chamber that was felt more than heard, as Lachlan sat.

  “Subedei marches for Urquhart. We all know why he comes. When it was discovered that he raped my sister, the council ordered him castrated. I ratified the decision. The ancients believed it would render a man penitent and weak. They were wrong. Subedei intends to kill us all. I would not jeopardize others. I alone shoulder the responsibility. Leave, while you still can.”

  A murmur vibrated through the chamber. Angus stepped away from the back row to be heard.

  “You are our chosen leader and our friend. The decision to punish Subedei in the old way was not yours alone. We stand together, because alone we perish. Subedei will attack and we shall prepare for his arrival.” He paused and his expression grew dark. “Of more importance is what our brothers, Artemis and Theseus, have to say of their travels to the New World.”

  Lachlan rested his hands on the table. “They have returned from the New World with disturbing news. If our race is to survive, there must be children. If not, we will become like the mists of the Highlands; having neither substance nor soul. Or we can open the books of the ancients, reexamine what has been kept hidden, and begin again.”

  Angus’ voice rose above the loud rumblings of conversation. “The ancients had their reasons for keeping certain truths from all but the Council of Seven.”

  Lachlan looked out over the sea of faces. They believed he would be wise enough to make decisions for them and that as long as the ancients’ laws were not altered, all would be well. His race could live to see the great, great grandchildren of the kings and queens they fought for rise to power, yet they resisted change. If he was to succeed in saving his people, he must use patience.

  He motioned to Artemis and Theseus. “Please tell of the outcome of your search for our people in the New World.”

  Lachlan returned to his own thoughts as the Spaniards told their tale. His people believed they could defeat Subedei as they had before. Lachlan did not agree. His enemy’s bloodlust ra
n deep. They could not easily defeat a man who lived only in order to kill.

  However, the matter of perpetuating the race needed to be addressed. Hopefully the report the twins gave would dispel the illusion that there were immortals enough to continue the race.

  He heard and felt the rise in the level of conversation as his people responded to the report. Lachlan would wait for the tempers and frustrations to run their course before he called them back to order. It was a bitter drink to swallow that a few must give up their immortality, for the sake of the greater good. He stood once more, waiting for the swell of emotions to subside.

  “It accomplishes nothing to condemn or seek revenge on those in the New World who may have brutally murdered our kind. The decision we face is: in what direction do we continue? Without children, our kind will perish. I propose we look into our hearts. If one of us should choose a mate who is not of our race, but mortal, I ask you to consider the match worthy. The ancients claimed that a union with a mortal would not produce children of our kind. I believe we must test that theory.”

  Every bone in, Marcail’s body ached as she willed her feet toward her chamber. She had not felt this weary since her days tending the sick during the great plague that swept Europe in the fourteenth century. Lachlan was to be admired for his courageous proposal. Although many raised a voice in protest, she knew they would consider his words. Her race grew weary, as did she, of the confining rules which dictated who would be worthy and who would not. It had made her wish for the courage to declare a desire to wed a mortal man.

  Lachlan had not expected her to ask permission to enter into a joining ceremony. The expression on his face told her that. But once she had made her decision, die matter was settled. The council was reluctant at first. She had served over three hundred years and when she married a replacement for her position on the Council would have to be found. That, however, was a small price to pay for their race’s continuance. They had made suggestions for a mate. She had, however, already made her selection.