Sunder (18 page)

A wave of concern washed over Isabella as she accepted that Selwyn/Daniel was a sodomite. Those people (the ones who were caught) were taken to psychiatric hospitals for treatment. They certainly weren’t permitted to marry. So there was a possibility that Selwyn was insane and had just recited an elaborate delusion to her. Given the obvious alternative, it would be preferable if that were the case.

“Have you ever heard of Coronado University in Miami?” she asked hopefully.

“No, but I’m from 40 years before you.”

“Coronado has been the premiere post-secondary institution in the American Republic for more than 200 years. Everyone knows it.”

Realization lit up Selwyn’s eyes, changing his expression from one of disgust at Isabella’s perceived stupidity to one of surprise and worry.

“The Warner University is located in Kansas City on the Missouri side. It was established in 2035 after GE became the sole proprietor of time travel technology. Does any of that sound familiar?” he asked cautiously.

Isabella allowed the silence to sit between them as she shook her head. One of the primary tenets of time travel was that there was no such thing as multiple co-existing timelines. Every legitimate scientific mind had come to that conclusion. If a change was made in the past, then the future you returned to would be different. Everything you had known would be erased. There were not multiple strands of time—there was only one. Given that Selwyn had departed from an earlier year than she had, it stood to reason that her timeline had somehow supplanted his.

“I guess it’s a good thing I wasn’t planning on going back,” Selwyn muttered.

“I’m sorry this happened, all of it. I didn’t know that my timeline replaced another one.”

“No, I suspect only the person who made the change knows that anything is different.” He brought his eyes back up to meet hers. “So what do you plan to do?”

“There’s another traveler in East Anglia. I’m going to find him so he can repair this assembly and get me out of here. Unless you know how to assemble a retrieval beacon?” She fished the beacon out of her dress and held it out to him. Wires stuck out at odd angles and the back panel of the crucifix hung open. Emilio had only managed to finish part of the installation, and Isabella couldn’t even guess what to do with it now.

“Christ, no.” he chuckled. “I’m a history professor and a weapons instructor. I’m a menace around anything with wires.”

“Do you think I can make it?” Isabella shifted so she was leaning closer to him. She had no idea what to do at the moment, and he was her only source of information.

“Honestly, no.” He coughed as he stood to his full height once more. “It’s a long way on foot over very rough terrain. Any people you encounter will be loyal to Shaftesbury and will gladly tell which way you went to anyone who comes asking. And given what that piss head of yours did to Annis, believe they
will
come asking.”

Isabella blinked, then stood up to face him. “No one did anything to Annis. What are you talking about?”

“When he came in to steal the crucifix, he ripped off her clothes and whipped her. The woman had just given birth and was already short on blood. Then he comes in and does that to her? I tell you girl, I hate that munter just like everyone else but I damn sure don’t like her being beaten nearly to death.” There was a vein protruding from his neck as he spat his accusations at her.

“Selwy— Daniel… I didn’t know Emilio before he got here, so I can’t make any judgments on his morality. But I can tell you he absolutely did not look like someone who just engaged in a lengthy beating. There was no blood on his clothes or his hands. How much time did he really have to whip her?”

“Then who else?”

On that question, Isabella had no answer. He was right, everyone hated Annis. But no one, not even Redwald, would have the balls to go out and flog the Lady of Shaftesbury. And no one was sadistic enough to do it right after she had just given birth. Emilio really was the only possibility. But why would he do that?
Is that why you let him die, Lord?

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” she mumbled out. Her prospects were even worse than she imagined. “So I can expect to be executed when they find me, I suppose.”

“Look,” Selwyn stepped out of the fairy circle and started a slow trek away from her, “If you go back to Shaftesbury of your own accord and beg forgiveness, I’m eighty percent sure Cædda won’t kill you. They know for a fact you weren’t the one to hurt Annis and they know for a fact that you didn’t know the bishop before he summoned you. Plus, I planted a rumor that he was holding you against your will. I can’t say for sure if it’ll catch on, but at least you won’t be universally painted as a traitor.

“Likewise I’m seventy percent sure you won’t make it to East Anglia. The search party will get you; or if they don’t, the Danes will, and that’s a whole other set of problems. So, I suggest you stash that retrieval assembly somewhere safe before you come back to town. If nothing else, my GA, Shannan, will be coming here at some point. She actually is an engineer and will know how to assemble that beacon. If you have even the slightest intention of living long enough to meet her, you’ll follow my advice and come home.”

“Selwyn, wait! When is Shannan coming here?” she yelled at his retreating form.

“Not soon enough to do you any good, I’m afraid.” He did not turn around to face her, and Isabella could only watch as Selwyn quickened his pace and strode purposefully off into the woods, giving a half-hearted flick of his wrist as he nimbly avoided the trees. The last glimmer of his outline disappeared into the mist, leaving Isabella to stand alone in her fairy circle.

“Eighty percent sure they won’t kill me,” she whispered pensively to herself. Almost unbidden, her eyes closed and she stilled her body; drawing in a deep breath, she thought about what to do. Warmth crept onto her face and neck, and a telling red glow behind her eyelids announced the sun had managed to emerge from the clouds.

Ah—
she noted the heat was on her left side—
I’m facing north
. So now she knew which way was up, so to speak, but was still conflicted as she slowly opened her eyes.
North to Thetford or South to Shaftesbury?

She cast her eyes downward in contemplation, looking at the beautiful ring of mushrooms, the ring of protection God had surely sent her. This miracle was no doubt meant for her, but which direction was it telling her to go?

A splash of color snagged her eye. The weak beam of sunlight cutting through the mist had settled on two of the mushrooms near her right foot. Their tops were stained with thick layers of red scales that stood in stark contrast to the taut ring of white caps surrounding her.

She had never seen mushrooms like that before. Stepping back a little, she got a better look at the ring and its odd red spot.
It looks like a model of a hydrogen atom
. The simple observation gave way immediately to a dizzying intake of breath as a memory forced its way to the forefront of her mind.

“Where were you?” Alfredo’s ragged voice wheezed out of his shaking form. “You should have been here hours ago. Why weren’t you home with her?”

The red and blue lights strobed over her father’s ashen face and his stooped, blood-splattered shoulders as he kneeled over the soaking wet body of her mother.

There were so many people—the policemen, Padre Lopez-Castaneda, Stefania, and Elizabeth crying together in a far-off corner—and they were all looking at her. She could not say anything. She could only look at Mama lying on the black mosaic tile next to the pool—the pool filled with dark red water. She could only watch as the circle of water surrounding her body flashed like lightning against the police lights—how the blood dripping from her father’s hands pooled into one spot of the ring of water.

“Isa?”

“Yes, Padre?” she hollowly responded.

“Your mother slipped and fell,” he said solemnly. “She has had a terrible accident. Do you understand?”

Without averting her eyes from the long gashes on her mother’s wrists and thighs, Isabella felt herself nodding.

“You should have come home.” The last of Alfredo’s willpower dissolved and the violent sobs shook his body. “Why in God’s name didn’t you come home?”

The buried memory, shaken loose by her fear, twisted her stomach into knots and choked her with long-suppressed sobs. Her father’s question had gnawed on Isabella like a scavenging jackal, and she had no answer for him. She had never, not once, stayed after school. But she had that day, and not for any good reason she could articulate. She just hadn’t wanted to be around Mama, who had been so miserable, so angry all the time. So she had stayed at school, helping Bianca Sequeira build her hydrogen atom out of plaster, grateful for the feeling of freedom, the joy of rebelling. She had felt
righteous
as she ignored her ringing phone.

She could never tell that to her father; she could never admit it to herself—never say aloud the ugly truth. If she had come home when she should have, her mother would not have died. She had never fully appreciated the trouble her little rebellions caused. But now she understood what the dream had been telling her, what the fairy circle was directing her to do.
“Run home, Isa! Run home and stay there!”
It was time for her to heed her mother’s words, to accept her punishment, and to trust—really trust—that God would take care of her. It was time to go home.

As if chased away by her memory, the weak winter sun reclaimed its place behind the blanket of clouds. The lovely warmth on her cheek evaporated, but it didn’t matter—she had her bearings now and knew which way to go.

Her nerves bit into her as she turned an about-face and walked out of her fairy circle, into the trees, and south towards Shaftesbury.

Déjà vu slapped her cruelly as she shoved through the thick tree branches. It had seemed the woods went on forever in the dark, but with only a few minutes of walking, she could already see the forest’s edge. How lucky Selwyn had been the one to find her; she was so shallowly placed in the trees, any fool could have stumbled upon her.

As she stepped over the last bit of forest, she emerged onto the infinite green pasture. Isolation and exposure overtook her, and shivers seized her body. She was alone. The beautiful land sloped gently; though the hills were not steep, they restricted her ability to see people coming. The lost protection of the forest brought new fears into the pit of her stomach, worsening the quaking in her body.

If she just walked up to the gates of Shaftesbury, would the guards even let her in? For all her good intentions, she could very well end up with an arrow in her heart before she could even ask for forgiveness. It would have been better if Emilio had not found her at all.

A horse screamed in the distance, interrupting Isabella’s frustrated train of thought and freezing her legs midstride.

Still as stone, she listened. There was no wind today to howl in her ears, so she heard only silence. She was about to continue on her way when there was another scream, this one human. It sounded like a woman, but could easily have been a child, and it was calling out for help.

The lingering panic at her situation drained away, and she hiked up her skirt on her way up the hill. She had wanted to arrive before dark. But Isabella knew better than anyone the fear of being alone and helpless, and she could not leave the woman beyond the hill to fend for herself. There was a dull ache in her ankle, letting her know she had sprained it last night, probably when jumping out of the tree. But it was mild, and nothing to get excited over. She would just have to be careful with it.

The crest of the hill came under her feet, and at last she was able to see the source of the pitiful cries, which were weaker now and choked with sobs. A grey horse lay on its side, struggling to get up. But the boy it was laying on top of held the reins tight, keeping the animal on the ground.

“Please someone help me,” he cried softly, clearly not believing that anyone could actually hear him. As Isabella came down the hill toward him, she could see far and wide, and there truly was no one else to help the poor boy.

Not wanting to startle him, Isabella came up behind him quietly. He was facing away from her, but she could see he looked like most other young boys. He was on the taller side, belying his unchanged voice, but still had the wiry frame of barely-begun puberty.

She was close enough now to see the predicament he was in. The horse had obviously stumbled and, instead of jumping clear of the falling animal, the boy had hung on for dear life, wrapping his legs into the overly long reins, and fallen to the ground. The boy’s left leg, hidden underneath the struggling animal, had to be broken; there was no way around that. And if he let that horse up, he would likely be trampled or dragged.

“Boy?” she said softly.

At the sound of her voice, his head twisted slowly and painfully around. Sweat had matted the unruly brown hair to his forehead, and tears still flowed freely from his beautiful honey-colored eyes…. Cædda’s eyes. The boy was Wyrtgeorn.

Her recognition of Cædda’s son came a split second after he saw her face, rage smearing over his brief relieved expression.

“You! You whore! I’ll kill you.” His voice was so choked with tears and anger, Isabella was overcome with pity, despite the ejaculation of name-calling. Pinned as he was, he could only really move his eyes, which flicked wildly to the sword lying awkwardly underneath his own body. His face displayed in full color his desperate desire to reach for the sword, but it just as clearly showed he understood that he could not do so while maintaining his grip on the horse’s reins. One slip, and the muscular colt would be able to free himself, leaving Wyrtgeorn to perish under his hooves.