According to Reinn, long ago all the clans had Blooded Ones living among them. Once it had been a common thing, for the Norse Chiefs to marry the most powerful of the Blooded Ones and for the magic to be shared among the clans. The sacred magic, although powerful, was often fatal to the bearer, so a time came when all the Blooded Ones were nearly eradicated from the use of unscrupulous Chieftains. Yet one day the Neilsson Chief held the last Blooded MacMhaolian family and claimed them as his own, only to be used in service of the Neilsson clan. Nearly all of the clans bowed down and agreed to terms. All except for the Sturlusson Clan.
Agnarr vowed to recover the power taken from his clan, and restore a Blooded One to his family lineage, no matter what the cost. He would do anything to find his lost woman, and give back the power of time travel to their clan. Although Agnarr did not possess a Blooded MacMhaolian he was still a formidable man. He had amassed a fortune and had powerful allies among the English settlers. If he ever gained control of one of the mythical Blooded MacMhaolian, Jora shuddered to think what the consequence of his evil could accomplish. Although she feared what Agnarr could do with such power, she feared equally what he would do to her for hiding what she knew from him.
On occasion while she worked in the tavern, Jora discovered a customer who had a bit of the Old Norse blood. It was not often, but it did happen, and although they never had enough magic to be of any use, this time was different. When Benjamin grabbed her hand in the tavern, her visions had exploded in a vivid rush of power she had never witnessed before. His heartbreak flowed through her, as if their minds were melded into one simple being. Later, when they had fought, the feel of his skin upon hers had sent her senses reeling, and she could not bear to endure it again. She hoped Agnarr had no more use for her when it came to Benjamin.
“What else do you see in him, Jora?” Agnarr asked. His voice was curt, but direct, and she knew he suspected she held back from him.
“Only what I have told ye, my lord,” she answered.
“You say he’s the get of Chief Dagr. So he must be from the future, then,” Agnarr muttered, staring at her as if he meant to read the truth in her face.
“I cannot see where he comes from. But I know he is the son of Chief Dagr.”
Agnarr reached out for her. He ran his fingers slowly down her cheek, then to her neck, and finally rested on her shoulder. He held his palm out, expectantly, and she placed both her hands into it. She fought against the tremor and stared up at him, unflinching, as the intensity of his visions filled her mind.
“What do you see now,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes. Although he asked it of her, he did not want her true answer. He wanted to be flattered and fawned over as usual, and she was wise enough to recognize his dangerous mood.
“A red-haired woman. I see her with you. I see you standing beside her, and I see you spill her blood,” she lied smoothly. He smiled. It was a gesture that did not reassure her.
“It seems fate has turned in our favor,” he murmured. When he pulled his hand away from her shoulder, she suppressed the urge to jerk away from him. Inside his soul was nothing but darkness.
“The blood of a Neilsson Chief is nearly as powerful as a MacMhaolian. Rest now, dearest. I will have need of your talents on the morrow.”
She backed away slowly from him, her hip striking the table edge before she turned and fled. Once inside her own tiny room, she shut the door softly and leaned her head against it as she struggled to control her spinning head.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 6
Makedewa
THE ROW OF glass lanterns glimmered through the trees as he approached. The clear globes were strung up in rows from house to house, illuminating the path in a glow of flickering candlelight. It was a beacon to his tired eyes, beckoning him back to the Norse village. Makedewa heard the raucous laughter and the thud of drums from the Northern Hall and he smiled. It seemed nothing had changed in the year he had been gone. The Norse celebrated each night as if it were the last they might live, drinking to their Viking gods and filling their bellies with food. Although the reason for his visit was one of urgency, it would still be good to be among them once more.
He tethered his horse to a post outside the hall as he glanced inside the open doorway. He was not surprised to see he went unnoticed, but he wished they would take more care by posting sentries at night. Makedewa would speak to the Chief about being more careful. After all, being the brother of the Norse Chief should entitle Makedewa to have his voice heard. Surely Chief Winn would take his advice.
Makedewa spotted his brother sitting at the head table. Winn looked different somehow. Perhaps it was the mantle of fur that covered his shoulders, or the hardness in his etched face, but he had taken on the appearance of a leader and wore it proudly. He no longer wore the shaved scalp of a Powhatan warrior, his dark hair instead falling loose down his back, and Makedewa noticed a new tattoo marking his brother’s neck. For an Indian, tattoos marked a common man; perhaps to the Norse it was the mark of a Chief.
Winn’s wife sat by his side, her long auburn hair flowing over her shoulder as her attention was diverted downward. Makedewa could see a bundle clutched in her arms, a tiny babe pressed up against her breast. So the child had been borne safely, and it appeared that they were all in good spirits.
All the more reason he regretted the intrusion he must make. Makedewa had not planned to return to the village so soon, and as he spotted Rebecca across the hall he was painfully reminded why.
She was turned away from him, so he could only see the outline of her profile as she laughed. She wore a dark grey cloak, her corkscrew curls sprawled in golden ringlets over the thick ermine lined hood. Even so far away, Makedewa could see the flush of her round cheeks, and with an ache hammering deep in his chest he started toward her.
In that moment he could not recall why he was there, or what news he had to bear. He had left the village to give her time; to give her what she needed to be whole until she could decide if she could be his. But now seeing her across the room, all he could think of was holding her in his arms once again. Time itself seemed to slow as he entered the hall. He could be beside her in only a few paces.
“Makedewa!”
The swirl of chaos smothering the hall came to an abrupt halt as his name was called. Tearing his gaze from where Rebecca stood, he turned toward the sound of Winn’s voice. The Chief pushed his way through the crowd, and Makedewa felt his brother clasp his arm in greeting.
“Winkeohkwet,” Makedewa answered. Winn pounded him heartily on the back, his brotherly embrace unbreakable.
“So you’ve returned to us! I had hoped to see you soon, brother,” Winn said. Makedewa sighed as the reasons behind his arrival came back to him in a rush. With the heavy unease surrounding his arrival, he prepared to give his brother his news.
“I did not plan to return yet, but I need your help,” Makedewa answered, glancing back at Rebecca. As Winn gripped his arm tighter, Makedewa spotted Cormaic standing next to Rebecca. He also noticed the Norseman’s hand on Rebecca’s shoulder, as if Cormaic bid her a silent plea to stay at his side.
“What is it? Anything, you know I will give it to you,” Winn said. Rebecca’s eyes finally met his across the room, and Makedewa nodded to her, praying she would understand why he did not come to her before all others.
“It’s Benjamin,” Makedewa said, tearing his eyes away from Rebecca. “He is in trouble. Two men have him captive. They have a woman they call a Seer. And they know he is a Blooded One.”
Winn’s jaw tightened as he gripped Makedewa’s arm.
“We’ll speak outside. No need to worry the women,” Winn muttered. The Chief looked back to Erich, who stood watching from a spot near the mead barrel, and the older man read the unspoken order in his gaze. As Erich left the festivities to join them, Makedewa followed his brother out of the Long house, leaving the others to their festivities.
Chetan joined them as well. Makedewa
grunted a Paspahegh greeting to his older brother as other men gathered with them outside. It would be difficult to tell Winn the truth. Benjamin and Winn shared a Norse father, and Makedewa was brother to Winn by their Paspahegh mother. Although Makedewa did not share blood with Benjamin he still considered him kin, yet he knew Winn would feel this loss deeper than anyone else. Winn’s face was stoic, but Makedewa knew him enough to read the concern in his hooded eyes. Despite all that transpired between Benjamin and Winn, the young Chief would do anything to help his Norse brother.
“Are they Englishmen? Where do they keep him?” Winn asked.
“They look English, but they sound like Norsemen,” Makedewa said. “One man’s name was Reinn, and there was a woman Seer they called Jora. She works as a serving wench in the tavern. I think they do not wish to kill him. They took him to a tobacco farm near Elizabeth City.”
Winn darted a glance at Erich, who shook his head.
“Reinn? If it was him, then we must act quickly. We need to fetch Benjamin before the lad tells him anything,” Erich said.
“What do you know of this man?” Winn asked, clearly impatient with his wife’s uncle. “Tell me all of it.”
Winn had taken the title of Chief upon the death of his Norse father, and he brought his experience in leading the Paspahegh to his new role. It was evident, however, that Winn trusted Erich as he navigated the delicate task of leading the Norse.
“Reinn is an old enemy of ours, loyal to the Sturlusson clan. This feud is older than all of us, my lord,” Erich said. “Generations ago, a blooded MacMhaolian saved the life of a Chief, one of yer own bloodline. In return, the MacMhaolian asked the Chief to protect the blooded MacMhaolians, to keep the other Chiefs from abusing the magic. In those days, men fought to control the Blooded MacMhaolians, and they used them against the good of nature. Some Chieftains traveled back in time to change things. The MacMhaolians knew it must be stopped, that time-travel should not be used on the foolish whim of greedy men. Your kin made the blood vow to protect them, and gave their lives to do so. Most of the Chiefs did not challenge the new way. But the Chief of Clan Sturlusson would not accept it, and he has tried ever since to gain control of the blooded MacMhaolian once more. Agnarr Sturlusson nearly succeeded with my sister, and that is why Dagr and Malcolm took her to the future.”
Erich paused, his eyes downcast. “Reinn and Agnarr traveled with us through time. They were taken as prisoners during a battle with the Sturlusson clan, they came with us as thralls. They escaped with a few others when we landed here. They bear only ill will to our clan.”
“Then why now? What use can my brother be to them?” Winn asked.
“They know the power of the Chief’s blood. Agnarr must know who Benjamin is. He’ll stop at nothing to have a blooded MacMhaolian, and if yer brother has given us up, none of us will be safe. The Sturlusson clan has always used the sacred magic for their own needs. Ye say he has a seer?” Erich asked, directing his question to Makedewa.
“She’s not very skilled. She either lies to her own people, or she thinks Benjamin has no clan. I do not think he will give up the village to them,” Makedewa answered. “He told them his name is Dixon, and he denied having any kin. But there is more, brother,” he added. Makedewa met Winn’s stare, waiting for permission to continue. Winn would not like what Makedewa needed to tell him.
“Go on,” Winn said.
“I stole inside to aid him, and he sent me away. He asked me to tell you to stay away. And then he said he would join them.”
A sigh emanated from Erich, and the older man lowered his head.
“Benjamin would not betray us,” Winn said quietly.
No one spoke in reply. Every sinew in Winn’s neck stood taut as the Chief glared at them all, and for the first time in his life Makedewa could not meet his eyes with shared confidence.
“At least they willna kill him,” Erich finally murmured. “If they know he’s a Blooded One, they want him alive. Do ye know if he still has his Bloodstone?”
“I could not tell,” Makedewa replied.
Winn turned away from the men and walked off a few paces, his fists clenched at his sides. When his voice finally surfaced, strangled and low, he still did not face them.
“Benjamin cannot travel. He’s tried to use the Bloodstone and failed once before. Will they kill him if he’s no use to them?” Winn asked, referring to the time Maggie had given Benjamin his Bloodstone. Benjamin had failed to travel through time, instead ending up in the same place he had left, only two years later. Although Benjamin was the son of the Chief, it seemed he was not powerful enough to bend time to his will, even with a Bloodstone. Makedewa feared the foolish Norseman might bargain with a talent he did not possess.
“He’s of use to them, if he can Time Walk or not,” Erich said. “He’s of the Chief’s blood. Even being the second son, the Neilsson Chief’s blood still runs through him. And he traveled here once as a boy, remember? There must be some magic in his veins. That’s still of value to people like Agnarr.”
“Can we fight them?” Winn asked.
“Aye. We can. They may have magic among them, but they fall like any other man on a sword,” Erich agreed. “But I think it best we wait. If yer brother has joined them–”
“Benjamin has not betrayed us!” Winn bellowed, swinging around. The tone of his declaration left no room for argument; it was evident the Chief would hear no question of Benjamin’s loyalty. “Gather the men. Tell them to prepare to leave on my word. Tell them to be ready.”
Erich nodded in deference and left them to do his Chief’s bidding. Chetan and Makedewa remained with Winn.
“This is not your fight, brothers,” Winn said quietly once they were alone. Chetan scowled at the Chief.
“Right. As if I will let you foolish Norsemen die alone,” Chetan scoffed. “Of course it is my fight. You are my brother. Your fight is mine.”
Chetan reached out and placed his hand on Winn’s shoulder, and Winn dropped his chin with a grimace as Makedewa clasped the other shoulder.
“And mine,” Makedewa added. “Who else will save your sorry hides? Humph. There will be no fight without me.”
Winn nodded in agreement, relief washing over his face. Makedewa laughed then, wondering how much his brother had changed in the year they had spent apart. Winn would never have questioned his loyalty. Did Norse pick and choose when to stand by their Chief? Makedewa could not imagine not having his brothers by his side in any battle.
“Thank you,” Winn said. “Take your rest, brothers. I know not when we will need to fight, but it is near. Be ready.”
Makedewa followed the Chief inside. At the entrance, Chetan grabbed his arm and held Makedewa back as Winn made his way through the crowd to Maggie. Although he was a wise leader and a ferocious warrior, Winn sought his wife’s counsel on most matters, and Makedewa could see this instance would be no exception.
“I see Fire Heart still tells him what to do,” Makedewa muttered, more to himself than to Chetan. Chetan grinned.
“No, she does not tell him. He asks her, and she agrees,” Chetan laughed. “He speaks softly to her and she does his bidding. Just as you will speak softly to Rebecca. Go see her, brother,” Chetan urged. Makedewa shrugged off his brother with a harsh growl, leaving the older warrior laughing at the door.
As he pushed through the crowd toward Rebecca, he could see her eyes focused upon him and a smile on her face. Relief flooded through his blood. It was happiness on her face that greeted him, from the glimmer in her bright eyes to the flush across her fair skin, and he suddenly forgot for the moment why he had returned to the village. All he could focus on was getting close to her.
Neither spoke when they connected. He shoved through several pairs of burly shoulders to reach her, and when she was finally close enough he merely took her outstretched hands in his.
As he drew her close, she stared up into his face. He could smell her sweet honeysuckle soap, and see the pulse throb in her thro
at. Barely able to keep his hands from shaking, he bent his lips to her ear.
“Will you walk with me?” he asked. Someone elbowed him, and they were shoved together. She ended up squashed against his chest, her cheeks erupting into a scarlet flush.
“Yes, please,” she agreed breathlessly. He took her hand firmly in his and led her outside, away from the chaos of the crowd. Although they had privacy just outside the Northern Hall, he led her down the path where the candles cast a muted glow to guide the way. When he was certain they were far from prying eyes, he abruptly stopped. He wanted nothing more to pull her into the shadows and kiss her senseless, but had had learned something about restraint in the time they had been apart. He would not act like a stag in heat. She deserved much more than that.
Instead, he struggled to slow his breathing, waiting for her to say something, anything, to indicate what she wanted.
“Have ye returned to stay, Makedewa?” she finally asked.
He swallowed down the lump in his throat.
“I came back for another matter,” he stammered. “When it is resolved, I will be here to stay.”
Her brows squinted downward, and she ducked her eyes away from his.
“So ye did not return to see me?” she whispered.
He closed his eyes briefly with a sigh, at loss to make her understand. With a gentle pressure on their entwined fingers, he urged her closer into his arms, pressing his cheek against hers.
“Of course I am here to see you, chulentet,” he murmured. She turned her chin toward him as the breath caught in his throat, her lips so close to his that he could stand it no longer.
“Did ye have a great journey? Are ye stronger now?” she whispered. Her lips bent upward into a tiny smile, her voice teasing and light.
“Oh, yes. I am much stronger now,” he said hoarsely.
“Then I am glad ye have returned,” she answered.
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