by Hazel Hunter
The three of them retreated into the stronghold, where the laird led his wife and the druid to his tower chamber. Margret Talley, the castle’s chatelaine, intercepted them as she brought in a tray with mugs of hot spiced cider and a platter of fruit, cheese and oat cakes.
“The magic folk forget to eat, and ye’ve no’ yet breakfasted, milady,” the old woman said as she placed the tray on the table, and gave Kinley’s sparring garments a narrow look. “Once ye’re finished scheming, I’ll send up hot water for yer bath, and a proper gown.” She bobbed before Lachlan and left.
“That woman won’t be happy until I’m the largest female in the clan,” Kinley complained, but scooped up a wedge of cheese and a cake as she perched on the window sill.
Lachlan handed Cailean a mug, and watched him warm his hands on the sides.
“You’ve been having mortals guard the groves, then?” Lachlan said.
The druid gave him a wary look. “No’ guard, my lord. After Mistress Burke crossed over unnoticed, the conclave thought it prudent to keep watch for others.” He took a sip of the steaming cider before he added, “This traveler didnae appear in the grove. She was dug out of the earth.”
“What?” Kinley got to her feet. “She was buried?”
“’Twould seem so,” Cailean said. “We fear something went awry during her crossing. A cloaked man came to the grove just before she arrived. He took her from the ground, and carried her off into the woods. Neither has been seen since.”
Lachlan frowned. “He didnae deliver her to a magistrate, or his laird?”
The druid shook his head. “A patrol of undead pursued them, and searched the woods. They didnae find them, but they took something from the grave before they retreated to the hills.”
“Sunrise destroys the undead trails, but our tracker can find the two mortals,” Lachlan said.
He stepped out into the hall and sent a sentry to summon Raen and Diana. When he returned, he saw his wife examining a dagger with an oddly-shaped wooden handle and a long, sharply-pointed blade.
“Our watchers recovered this knife from the pit in the grove,” Cailean told him.
“It’s definitely from my time,” Kinley said, and held it up to the light from the window. “Fixed blade, double-edged, deep finger choil, palm-centered mass. Not military issue, but professional grade. And I’m seeing traces of blood on the guard and the hilt grooves.” She handed it to Lachlan.
He hefted it, surprised by the razor-sharp edges, and how light it felt in his hand.
“Who would carry a knife like this?”
“It’s not a utility blade, and it’s a bit too long for close in-fighting,” Kinley said and thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. Covert attack dagger, maybe.” She saw how the druid was staring at her and grimaced. “Hey, I was combat search and rescue. We didn’t kill people. We saved them.”
A brisk knock sounded before the Abers came into the chamber. A towering mountain of muscle, the former bodyguard immediately scanned the interior, while his tall, red-headed goddess of a wife sized up the three occupants with her shrewd gaze.
“My lord, my lady. Ovate Lusk.” The lightning bolts inked on one side of Raen’s face took on a faint gleam as he regarded the blade in Lachlan’s hand. “Trouble?”
Lachlan quickly explained the situation, and as soon as he finished Diana exchanged an intent look with Kinley. Lachlan nodded.
“I ken ’tis likely we have another visitor from your time,” he said. “That a man came to take her from the grove, and the undead then pursued them, are vexing.”
Raen regarded Cailean. “He wasnae a druid?”
“No’ from any settlement near the grove, Seneschal.” The other man hesitated before he said, “The man has visited the grove several times before last night. He leaves white flowers in the center of the stones.”
“Is that where he dug her out of the grave?” Diana asked, and when the druid nodded she turned to Raen. “We need to go have a look at the scene.”
“Aye, and from there I wish you to track them,” Lachlan told her. “We must find the lass who crossed over before the legion does. Once you have located her, bring her back to Dun Aran.”
“And the man who took her?” Raen asked.
“Him, too,” Kinley said. “I want to know how he knew she was coming.”
“And how he spirited her away so quickly,” Cailean put in. “’Tis difficult enough for a mortal to elude the undead, but to do so while carrying a lady is quite a feat.”
Lachlan felt a pang of suspicion, and frowned. “Take Tormod and Neac with you, and arm yourselves.”
“The undead cannae attack during the day,” the big man told him. “But they may send their mortal thralls to fight us. We will be watchful, my lord.”
After Diana and Raen left, Cailean said, “Thank you, my lord. Might I remain here at the castle until the lady is recovered? I wish to report back to the conclave when we have news of her.”
Lachlan suspected he also wanted to see the woman so he could ferret out the reason for her crossing over, and what powers she might possess. They also might need his help if the traveler was badly injured, as the dagger from the future suggested.
“Aye,” Lachlan said. “See Meg and she’ll arrange a room for you.”
Chapter Seven
DIANA STEPPED OUT of the stream and released her husband’s hand as she wiped her face and squeezed the water out of her braid of gilded copper hair. “I always love the ride, but getting drenched in the process, not so much.”
“Ask Cailean to teach you the drying spell,” Raen said as he shook himself off, spattering her with more droplets. “He likes you.”
“Oh, sure. The same way I like Meg’s fish and raisin pie.” She turned to watch Tormod Liefson and Neacal Uthar surface as transparent, watery versions of themselves, solidify back into their corporeal forms, and wade out of the stream. “But he’s not my only druid pal.” Once they joined her and Raen, she murmured a few ancient words under her breath.
Raen grinned as a sudden whirlwind of air blasted the four of them, drying their clothes and hair.
“I wondered what you and Bhaltair Flen talk of when he visits.”
“Yeah, well, he’s been trying to talk me into going to druid school,” Diana said and rolled her eyes. She walked up to the edge of the woods with Raen. “He’s always ’tissing me about how it’s on me to develop my gifts. You should hear him. ’Tis your duty, Diana. ’Tis your destiny. ’Tis what the gods expect. Like my tracking mojo’s not good enough anymore.”
“You couldnae be a druidess, Red,” Tormod told her as he shook back his white-blond mane before squinting at her with his pale blue eyes. “’Twould require you to wear a great, hot robe while you gather weeds and buss trees and such.”
“Aye, and leap into the body of a newborn each time you die,” Neac said as he hefted his favorite double-headed axe and rested the shaft on one of his roof-beam shoulders. “Imagine poor Raen with a bairn for a wife until you grow breasts again.”
“Thanks for that visual, Chief,” Diana said while she studied the labyrinth of old, gnarled oaks, and spotted a faint trail of sparkling green light that the highlanders couldn’t see. “Okay, I’ve got them.” She turned to look at the other side of the stream. “That’s weird. They come right up to the water, and then disappear.” She glanced at her husband. “Maybe they walked upstream from here to disguise their scent from the undead.”
Raen exchanged a hard look with his clansmen.
“That wouldnae erase blood scent,” Raen said. “Show us where they walked, Diana.”
She led them into the woods as she followed the trails. They stopped and pooled a short distance away, where Tormod pointed out one set of hoof prints in the soil.
“The mount was shod,” he said and crouched down to examine the marks closely. “Looks to be iron, forged in the old way.”
Neac rubbed a big hand over the back of his bald head. “No’ a villager’s horse, then
.” He regarded Raen. “I ken what you’re thinking, Seneschal, but it cannae be. The man was many things, but no’ a fool.”
Raen uttered something in their ancient Pritani language that Diana thought might be a contrary opinion.
“All of our mounts are back on the island,” Tormod said. “So unless there were mounted raiders come to rescue the wench, then aye, it can be and probably is.”
“Boys,” Diana said, folding her arms. “You’re talking over my head again. You know how it harshes my mellow when you do that. So what gives?”
“Naught that can be proven yet,” her husband told her, his jaw set and his body language screaming ready to rumble. “Please, show us the rest.”
She would have gotten cranky right then, but something in the way all three men looked suddenly and lethally serious told her to put the impending tantrum on hold.
“Sure,” she said. “This way.”
Diana followed the trails as they wound through the trees and into the grove clearing. The two remained entwined all the way into the center of the carved, bullet-shaped ancient stones, where they forked at a ragged-edged, shallow pit in the ground. Once the trails split she could see their colors: bright gold, which spilled into the grave, and a very dark blue that continued alone to the other side of the grove.
“Holy crap,” she muttered as she scanned the ground in front of her. She approached the pit and dropped down to run her fingers through the golden light. “This one is a druid, or is like me and Kinley. There’s a lot of blood soaked into the soil here, too.” She glanced over at the other, darker trail, and nodded at it. “That one is not undead or mortal. I don’t know what he is, but the trail is almost black.”
“Search the entire grove,” Raen told the men before he knelt down beside her. “Why would she bleed after crossing over? The portal should have healed her.”
Diana realized what had happened and rubbed her brow. She rarely thought about her life as a detective for the Missing Persons Unit of the San Diego Police Department, but she’d seen too many pits like this to mistake it for anything else.
“It did heal her,” she said. “I think she was attacked in my time, not here. Whoever tried to murder her must have buried her alive. She came here because they put her in a sacred grove on that side.”
“Gods, no,” Raen said as he drew her to her feet and held her for a moment. “And when she woke?”
Diana nodded. “She was still in the ground. It’s not that deep, so she may have been able to punch a hand through the soil.” Moving to the side of the pit, she inspected the disturbed earth, and pointed to a deep gouge. “There, that’s about where her right arm would be. If the guy came to drop his flowers, like Cailean said, he would have seen it. His trail stops here. He must have helped dig her the rest of the way out.”
Her husband leaned over to tug something out of the soil, and unearthed a large, H-shaped object. As he shook the dirt from it, Diana saw that it had been carved from a single piece of wood, and depicted two circles with a stylized letter Z on its side between them. On the underside two leather straps had been fixed parallel to each other.
“What is that thing?” she asked him.
“A buckler. The Pritani carried them as shields into battle, and carved them with their spirit symbol so that other tribesmen would ken them.” As Tormod and Neac joined them, Raen handed the shield to the chieftain. “He left this in the grave.”
The Viking uttered a sour sound. “So he’s mad as well as a fool.” He saw Diana’s expression and tossed out his hands. “If you willnae tell her then I shall. ’Twas Evander Talorc who came and took the wench, Red. The symbol on the buckler, ’tis his war spirit.”
She regarded her husband. “This would be the Evander who speared you through the throat so he could run off with the undead spy gal?”
“The same,” Raen said and took her by the arm. “We will travel through the stream until you pick up their trail again.” When she tugged free of his grip he glared at her. “There is no’ a moment to waste.”
“Your face is turning into a laser show,” she said, and tapped the glittering white-silver ink on his taut cheek. “Their trails aren’t going anywhere. You know the drill. We need to report it to the laird first, tell him Talorc is involved, and see how he wants us to proceed. If he says track them, then we come right back and do that. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“I agree with Aber,” Tormod said. “Evander may lead the undead to siege the stronghold any time he wishes to attack us.”
“The man has been gone from us for years now, Viking,” Neac chided. “If he meant to bring the enemy to our walls, he wouldnae have waited this long.”
As they squabbled over what Evander may or may not have done, Diana said softly, “Raen, why are you so hell-bent on chasing Talorc?”
“Evander hates females,” Raen said flatly. “Before he betrayed the clan he attacked Lady Kinley twice–”
“Now, lad,” Neac interrupted. “’Twasnae the case.” He addressed himself to Diana. “I’ve no love for Talorc, no’ since he clouted Kinley from behind when first she came to us. He claimed he thought she might harm the laird. The second time she challenged him to fight her in the lists. The laird stopped the bout to spare Evander’s pride.”
“Aye, for Kinley would have won,” Tormod put in.
“Enough,” Raen bellowed, and then closed his eyes for a moment. “’Twas my lack of action that permitted Talorc to do this, Diana. I didnae pursue him after he escaped with Fiona Marphee. Had I sought proper justice, he wouldnae have been here to steal this poor lass from her grave.”
“Fine, it’s all your fault,” she said and smiled at him. “We’re still going back to Skye and tell Lachlan about this.” She picked up the buckler, and noticed the color of the soil caught in the front carving. “He didn’t leave this in the grave recently. It looks like it’s been buried here for a while. And see the red dirt? That’s blood. The woman who crossed over last night landed on top of it.”
Raen went still. “Fack me.”
“They always put the bucklers beneath their heads,” Tormod said. “Like a bed pillow.” He eyed her. “There was another here, Red. One Evander put in the ground, I reckon. ’Twas why he brought the posies.”
“I don’t understand,” Diana said. “Another what?”
“Lady,” Neac said and sighed. “’Tis an old Pritani custom. Men of our tribes buried their shields with their wives, to protect them in the afterlife until they could join them. Evander buried Fiona here.”
Chapter Eight
RACHEL CARRIED HER morning brew out into the garden, where she sat to watch the sunrise paint the sky. Walls of mist drifting across the ridges and slopes painted the landscape with a dreamy whitewash, adding magic to the lovely view. Birds came out to sing to her, their songs unfamiliar but the cacophony endearing.
She took a sip from her mug, and smiled at the dark, sweet flavor. She didn’t miss coffee at all, thanks to Evander’s dandelion root tea, and she’d quickly grown to love using honey instead of sugar. Had it been only a week since she’d arrived in this strange, beautiful land? Without clocks and watches and computers Rachel was losing all sense of time—and it didn’t bother her in the slightest.
Learning how to live in this simple era without any of the other modern conveniences didn’t feel like much of a chore, either, despite the hard work involved. Water had to be hauled from the stream by bucket, while most of the food had to be hunted or gathered. Clothing had to be washed with strong, homemade soap, and hung from low tree branches to dry. While she hadn’t yet mastered cooking by fireplace, Rachel could now make simple soups and stews in the iron cooking pot hanging in the hearth. Last night she had baked her first barley-oat bannocks on a flat stone heated by the fire. Evander had only to show her once how to do something. Her cooking had to be all right, as he ate whatever she put on the table without comment.
Rachel sometimes still wondered if this was some version of he
aven. Her parents hadn’t been religious, but they’d taught her to be open-minded. She’d attended services at churches and temples with friends from school, but no faith had ever attracted her to practice it. Nor did she believe the scientific view that evolution was responsible for everything. She’d always liked the nebulous thought that there was something more—something bigger that they couldn’t understand—like some great, hidden design.
Then there was the strange sense of affinity with the mountains and the woods and land in Scotland. She felt more at home here than she had during her entire life in California.
Rachel heard a low groan in her thoughts and glanced over at the barn. Evander had insisted she sleep in his bed while he bunked down with the horses, but with the nights growing colder that couldn’t go on. She rose and went into the cottage to make another mug of tea, and brought it out as he came up the path stones.
“Good– I mean, fair morning,” she said and offered him the mug before she walked with him into the cottage. “The oatmeal should be ready in a few minutes. I hope you don’t mind, but I added some cinnamon and apple preserves to it.”
Evander glanced at the cooking pot. “’Tis how you prepare porridge in the future?”
“Sort of. Ours is instant. Well, pretty much everything of ours is instant, microwaveable, or pre-packaged.”
She went over to check the pot, and then used a long-handled iron to remove it from the hook over the fire and carried it to the table.
Evander took a ladle from the dish cabinet and portioned out the steaming cereal into the bowls she had set out.
“The frost grows heavier each night,” he said. “You shouldnae sit out in the garden too long in the mornings, else you grow chilled.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you sleeping out in the barn,” she said and sat down across from him and tested the oatmeal. It was fragrant but not too sweet. “If you become ill, I’m in big trouble. I don’t know where to find a doctor–”
