Warrior Reborn (18 page)

“Oh, you’ll ken, little one.” Orabilis chuckled again and dropped her spoon back into the big black pot. “And without any interference from the Seeress, I promise. When he holds you close with his lips covering yers and you’ve no the desire to push him away, you’ll ken well enough. The fire will rage and there will be only one way to tamp down a blaze such as that. Now go and get yer things ready for yer journey back to Tordenet. Yer brother’s men will reach the house soon and I canna think they’ll be wanting to linger.”

Christiana hurried to the bedchamber, grateful for the excuse to escape. Her cheeks flamed with the memory of what had happened in the shed last night. The fire had burned then and, in truth, it burned even now as she remembered the feel of
Chase’s lips upon hers. But was it the same fire of which her Shen-Ora spoke?

She gathered the bags Orabilis had prepared for her, taking her time in order to calm herself before she returned to the main room. There, a clay jar waited for her on the mantel above the fireplace, holding the precious elixir that would allow her to see whether Chase might indeed be the man her Shen-Ora had described.

At the doorway she stopped and closed her fingers around the small pouch that rested against her skin. Inside were the messages from the gods.

One to be Reborn, one to be a Warrior.

Was what she felt for Chase love, as the crones in her life all seemed ready to claim, or was it simply duty? She was prepared to give her life in order to save his. But that wasn’t because of love, surely. That was only because it was as the gods had foretold.

After all, she could hardly expect to be Reborn without first preparing for death.

T
wenty-three

B
RIE SMOOTHED HER
hands down the soft material of the brightly colored overdress. In all her years, she’d never worn anything so beautiful.

Her hair, braided around her face, interlaced with sprigs of dried lavender, hung shining down her back.
To flow around you like a curtain when you dance,
Eleyne had said.

It did indeed flow when she twirled. She’d tried it. Twice already.

For perhaps the first time in her life, Bridget MacCulloch felt beautiful.

“I’ve checked through all the goods in both wagons and it’s no use.” Eleyne limped toward her, a small bundle clasped in one hand. “You’ll have to perform without shoes. There’s none here what has slippers to fit those great feet of yers. You can take those ugly things yer wearing off once we reach the great hall. Oh . . .” The annoying woman stopped, unwrapping the bundle in her hand. “I do have this, though you must swear on all that’s holy, you’ll use it with great care.”

“This” turned out to be a fine chain of silver, so intricately delicate, Brie could easily believe it had been spun by Magic from the Faeries themselves. Tiny crescent-shaped discs hung from it and made a tinkling noise when Eleyne lifted it to show her.

“It’s beautiful,” Brie said, sounding like some moonstruck maiden.

“Aye. Lean yer great head down where I can reach you and we’ll fasten it in yer hair.”

Brie could easily hate the petite blonde, if not for Eleyne’s occasional lapses of kindness.

When Brie stood, the chain draped in a loop across her forehead, warm against her skin, giving off tiny little melodious notes with each movement of her head.

Perhaps Eleyne wasn’t the worst person in the world, after all.

A long, low whistle of appreciation sounded as Mathew and Hugo rounded the wagon to join them, the younger man pulling a small cart filled with their instruments.

“Quite nice,” Mathew complimented.

“Dinna you get carried away, cousin,” Eleyne cautioned. “You can adorn a cow with all the pretties you can find, but in the end, all you’ve got yerself is a dressed-up cow.”

No, Eleyne was indeed the worst person in the world.

“We’re ready then. Come along with you,” Hugo said, heading out, leaving Mathew to pull the little
cart. “We’ve tonight to warm them up and then tomorrow’s performance when the laird’s sister returns. I can fairly feel the silver MacDowylt has promised in my pocket already.”

“No to mention whatever coins the soldiers might toss our way. Perhaps the laird’s sister will be delayed.” Mathew lifted his cousin up to sit in the back of the cart with their instruments before hurrying forward to walk next to Hugo on their short trek to the castle. “Perhaps we’ll have even more performances here.”

“I’d no mind that,” Hugo answered. “No at all, considering this laird’s generosity.”

Brie tempered her steps, walking next to the injured Eleyne, ignoring the woman as she went on and on with last-minute reminders about pointing your toe and feeling the beat of the music.

Instead, Brie cleared her thoughts, searching for the center she needed to inhabit before battle. Tonight would be her best chance. The laird would be lulled by drink and the performance would allow her close access to him. With his guard down she would strike, swift and deadly, claiming her revenge.

A shiver traveled up her spine as she remembered her earlier encounter with the MacDowylt. Even now, she chastised herself as she’d done a thousand times or more since that moment in his tower.

She should have killed him then. That fancy sword of his had been at hand and he’d been
defenseless, lying there naked and vulnerable. Like a great witless fool, she’d passed up the perfect opportunity.

Yet, there had been something, some force in that room that had felt as if it stalked her, driving fear in her heart that prevented her from taking any action against the MacDowylt.

Force, my great arse,
as her father had liked to say. She knew there could be only one acceptable truth of that encounter. No force but fear had stalked her in that tower. Her own fear. Like an untested warrior, she’d allowed it to get the better of her. It had to be that. If she were to accomplish what she needed to this night, she could allow herself to believe in no other power but that of man.

Done and done. She would not make that mistake again.

Entering through the narrow door in the massive gates, she tried not to wonder whether she would ever see the other side of the wall again. She’d tried to prepare herself that she’d likely not escape this place, but it didn’t matter. As long as she succeeded in her quest, she didn’t care.

The knife her father had given her on her last birthday burned against her breast in a promise of what was to come.

Torquil’s men might well take her life this night, even as she would surely take his. But if there was a sword anywhere within reach, she would not pass to the next world alone.

“This is it,” Hugo announced, leading the way up the stairs of the keep, a broad smile curving his lips.

“Think on all I have labored to teach you,” Eleyne hissed over her shoulder, grabbing her cousin’s arm for support.

A twinge of regret for the minstrels who accompanied her sparked in her heart. For their unwitting assistance, they’d likely forfeit their lives, too. The guilt of that knowledge weighed heavily.

“Try not to dance like a great heaving cow.”

And just like that, the guilt lifted.

“You can do this. Concentrate on the music.” Mathew flashed a smile as they passed into the great hall itself, his young face alight with excitement. “I have faith in you, Bridget MacCulloch.”

She would concentrate. But not on the music.

T
ORQUIL LEANED BACK
in his chair, his attention diverted by the arrival of the minstrels but only for a moment.

He had larger worries plaguing his mind than whether his silver was being put to good use.

Something had felt . . . wrong when he’d returned from his foray over his lands last night. Something within his tower chamber had seemed amiss.

Nothing appeared to have been touched. Nothing moved, nothing gone. Had that been the case, there would be heads on pikes decorating his wall today.

At first he’d had some minute concern that one
of the Tinklers had made their way into his lair. His watchers had quickly assured him that, although several of the castle’s women had made visits to the wagons camped just outside his walls, not a single one of the Tinklers had left their camp.

He’d been willing to accept those assurances because the residue in his tower didn’t feel like Tinkler. That he couldn’t identify exactly what it
did
feel like was what concerned him now.

As did the mysterious marks on his chest. Blisters they were, as if he’d been burned. Five small ovals circling his heart, and he had no more clue as to where they’d come from than he had about what had been snooping within his lair.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one little bit.

Deep inside, the beast raised its muzzle, sending a warning snarl vibrating inside his chest.

Torquil lifted his tankard, motioning for it to be filled. If he couldn’t have answers this night, he needed diversion, for he had questions and worries aplenty.

The influx of new men had slowed to a stop as winter had taken hold. At this rate, he’d not have the strength of army he wanted by spring.

Buying men hadn’t worked, and since he hadn’t yet conquered the Magic that would allow him to force new recruits to his will, he must consider the remaining alternative.

To the west, perhaps two days’ ride, the old Sinclair hoarded men and money. With only one son to
carry on, it would be a simple matter to capture the heir, and in doing so force the old man to bend his knee to Tordenet. That would have to be his next move.

“More ale, my lord?”

He pushed away the plans and machinations that filled his thoughts to study the woman in front of him. The maid who poured his ale had a familiar look to her. She might have been the one Ulfr brought to him most recently for his pleasure, but he couldn’t remember. She had the small stature and the same dark hair, but he couldn’t be sure without seeing her eyes, and she kept those fixed on the pitcher from which she poured.

Just as well. If she was the one, she’d been a great disappointment, her and her mud-colored eyes. How Ulfr had ever thought she looked anything like Christiana was beyond his reckoning.

Low in his belly, the beast stirred, as if it feasted on his thoughts of sensual pleasures.

Surely there would be one among these crowds tonight who might meet his needs.

His hall was filled with scores of men and women, all eating his food, drinking his ale, sucking off the teat of his generosity. The tables were lined with them and more crowded around in clumps, laughing and talking with one another.

When the music began, the revelers cleared a space on the floor. One of the female minstrels twirled into that open space, her hair and her skirts
flowing out around her, drawing his attention to the musicians in the far corner of his hall.

This festivity wasn’t to his taste but his men seemed to be enjoying the performance and that, after all, was why he’d chosen to allow this. He needed the loyalty of these men in the coming days. There would be battles to be fought before his strength grew, and in that time he would be dependent upon them.

Soon, though, he would uncover all the secrets of the scrolls. And when he did, his mastery of their Magic would seal these men and any others he chose to his cause. They would dance to his tune without his needing to work for their petty loyalties. They would belong to him blindly, doing his bidding forever.

He emptied his cup and smiled, catching the eye of another passing server as he lifted the cup for a refill.

His back ached from the hours he’d stood this day, forcing his mind, bending his will to accomplish the next task, the one that would allow him to send not only his spirit but also his body traveling from one location to another through the Magical ether that surrounded everything.

He’d failed again, but he was close. He could feel it.

Deep inside, the beast stirred. The beast could feel how close he was to conquering the Magic, too.

To his left he caught sight of Halldor O’Donar.
Though the big man watched the festivities in the hall, his eyes roamed, always on guard.

Torquil lifted his tankard once more, sparing a thought for how much he hoped that O’Donar was the brother who would become his new champion. He liked the look of that one.

He followed the direction of the big man’s gaze, straight to the woman who accompanied the minstrels. Her body moved with the beat of the drums, a slow, fluid extension of arm and leg as if time slowed down in some majestic battle.

Each time she looked up she looked directly at Torquil, with a brazen refusal to avert her gaze from his. No shy, coy maiden, that one.

What could she think to gain by such bold behavior? Surely one such as she didn’t imagine she might catch the laird’s eye. The thought required his amazing self-discipline to prevent his laughing out loud.

The very idea of a lowly woman such as she daring to hope to wed a man as powerful as he was beyond funny.

“No wedding in yer future,” he muttered into his cup, surprised to find it empty so soon.

He lifted his tankard once again, his humor fading as the dancer made her way across the floor in his direction.

No marriage, but a bedding, perhaps? She was a bit overly large for his tastes, but a coupling with one who moved as she did could be entertaining for a night.

She certainly seemed to have caught O’Donar’s eye. As she approached the head of the table where he sat, O’Donar rose to his feet and moved in their direction.

Yes, a bedding might be in order with this one. Even the beast within stirred in interest. If she pleased him, and if it came to pass that the big warrior down the table was his new champion, he could gift her to the man. Surely a move such as that would ensure O’Donar’s loyalty for a good, long time.

At least for as long as it took for Torquil to conquer the Magic.

Torquil chuckled aloud at the knowledge of his coming power. The woman moving closer obviously thought his mirth was directed at her, because her lips curved in a return smile.

Let her think what she wanted. A whole new set of thoughts would be running through that pretty head when he had her delivered to his chamber later tonight.