Chapter 2 #2
That, or it might have destroyed them all, which was why Rory wouldn’t risk trying to pit his power against the enchantment in any fashion.
Now as he finished pounding out a piece of iron so he could mend the bottom of a cooking pot that the enchantment no longer repaired, he sensed the core of darkness inside him shrinking by a tiny measure.
That power, which he never used, could only be reduced somewhat by hard labor.
He’d never told the laird that was why he’d offered to become the clan’s armorer, as he needed the heavy smithing work to keep dark blood magic from overwhelming him.
Even Ava didn’t know just how dangerous he could become to everyone around him.
Never tell anyone about us, Chomha reminded him from his memory.
The door to the forge suddenly flung open, and a wave of druid magic blasted into the chamber. It struck him so hard he nearly fell to the floor, and then dashed itself onto the back wall, where it transformed into white mist.
“My lady Torra?” Rory said as loudly as he dared, but the mist funneled itself between the stones and vanished.
Once his legs steadied he looked over at the open door, and saw that someone or something had extinguished all of the torches.
Taking a candle from his worktable, he walked out to relight them, staggering back as a tall mortal running from the opposite direction collided with him.
The candle fell and went out, leaving them both in darkness.
Without thinking he clamped the struggling person against him, and detected the full curves and soft, clean scent of a female.
The coolness of an autumn breeze swept through him as he experienced a bewildering surge of near-overwhelming desire.
In the next moment the sound of stone cracking accompanied a shower of dust that fell on both of them.
“Be still, Mistress,” he whispered as urgently as he dared.
She looked up and yelped, covering her head with her hands.
He didn’t have to follow her gaze to know that the passage was on the brink of collapse, so he swept the female off her feet and dashed back into the forge with her, kicking the door shut behind him. Stones fell on the other side with a tremendous roar, proving him right.
Once Rory set the woman down on her feet he got his first good look at her as she stared in return at him, her big gray-green eyes so wide now he could see the whites all around the sea-colored irises.
No wonder she had stoked so much heat in his blood, her thick, long hair reminded him of molten iron beginning to cool, all amber and peach and copper red.
The tresses flowed around her lovely, mysterious features as if intending to clad her flesh with impossible fiery beauty.
She had the look of a feline, from the slanted shape of her eyes to the liquid grace with which she moved.
She’s a jotunn from the old stories, made flesh.
The woman stood nearly as tall as he, and had the same broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, long-limbed build as he possessed.
Indeed, the lady had to be the largest mortal female he’d ever encountered, as if she’d stepped out of one of Chomha’s old Norse tales, but that wasn’t what gave him pause.
Her appearance did not seem strange to him at all, for she exactly matched the lass he’d been dreaming of since Inga had died.
He simply hadn’t been aware of her uncommon size in his dreams.
“You.” She took a step back, sounding frightened now as she muttered, “Am I dreaming again?”
The shock of her low, melodic voice made him doubt for a moment his own senses, for it also sounded the same as that of the lady in his dreams. Had he gone mad at long last?
Chomha had warned him of that, too. For some the dark blood magic, like wood worms, could bore into the mind and destroy all reason.
“You can’t be real.” She ran her hands over her head as if searching for a wound. “Why are you here? Why am I?” She glanced around them. “Where’s that blonde woman who grabbed me?”
She had two strange white objects protruding from her ears, which offered a reason as to why she hadn’t heard him. He pointed to his own ear, and when she didn’t try to remove them gently took out one.
“I’m as real as you, my lady.” As she took a step back he knew she’d heard him, and for some reason his whispered words had terrified her even more. “Dinnae run away.”
The woman took out the other white object from her other ear.
“Say that again.” When he didn’t, she added in a strained voice, “Please.”
Rory repeated what he’d said, taking care to keep his tone to a safe murmur, and saw her hands trembling as she rubbed her palms together. Tears now shimmered in her sea-storm eyes, and her face had gone a pretty pink color. Before he could ask why she flung herself into his arms.
“Even if this is a dream or a hallucination or where we go after death, I’m not fretting here, Blue Eyes,” she said, her voice filled with joy as she held him in a tight embrace. “I heard every word you said. Every single word. Say something else.”
Aside from the wildness of the desire she wrought inside him, which seemed a shameful betrayal of his love for Inga, he had to guard against speaking too much.
The more he said, the greater the chance his mortal weakness might again damage the stronghold’s red granite stonework.
Nor could he explain such to her; given that she knew nothing of the half-Fae she would regard him as a madman.
What he needed to do was take her to Lady Ava, the laird’s wife, who had also come into the spell trap from the outside world.
Yet the outer passage had obviously collapsed, so the only alternative was to guide her outside through the only other door, which led to the lists.
“Please, come with me, my lady,” he murmured as he drew back and took hold of her hand, bracing himself as a strange chill shimmered along his arm. “’Tis someone you need to meet.”
“Sure.” She beamed at him, still delighted. “Do you work for Mr. Beaumont? That is some special effect he’s got going on out there. Is it a potential feature for a new tour? Because I have to say, it just about scared the pants off me.”
As she chattered on matters Rory couldn’t understand, he led her outside, where a third of the garrison had gathered to practice and hone their battle skills.
The woman’s smile vanished as she took in the sight of three hundred men sparring, attacking straw-stuffed targets and observing others’ bouts.
“This joke just doesn’t want to end,” she said, turning to regard him. “Where did you find all the jumbo extras to play medieval warriors? Highlanders R Us?”
The sound of her lovely voice made every man in the lists stop what they were doing to stare at her and Rory.
Several men dropped their sparring weapons, and one archer released as he swung around to look, forcing Rory to reach out and snatch the arrow out of the air before it buried itself in the woman’s shoulder.
“Thanks, Blue Eyes. I like breathing a lot more than bleeding.” White-faced and trembling again, the woman faced the men gawking at them, and forced a broad smile for them. “So, dudes, what is Beaumont paying you to do the gladiator scene?”
One of the garrison captains sent two of his patrollers to run into the stronghold.
Sawney shuffled closer, his smile genuine. “We’re no’ paid, Mistress. ’Tis sparring practice.”
“Whatever you say, Highlander.” She looked up at the green sky. “That’s a very odd choice for a sunset color. Is that projected? How are you covering everything up like that?” She glanced around again. “Or is this inside a dome like Epcot?”
Rory glanced down at her white-knuckled grip on his hand, and then saw Darro, the laird’s second, emerge from an archway and trot over to them.
Part of him experienced a surge of relief, for he could pass the woman off to the chieftain.
The rest of him wanted to hold onto her until he fathomed why she was his size, and how she made such a strange sensation run through him each time they touched.
“Chieftain shall explain all to you.” Rory tried to release her hand, but she wouldn’t let go of him. “You dinnae need me, lass.”
“Don’t you move,” she told him. To Darro she said, “I’m Harper Ensley from Fear-Faire. How about you go and find Renard Beaumont, and bring him here?”
Harper. Rory grew a little dizzy as her name echoed through his thoughts, over and again. Harper Ensley.
From the distant past in his memories his màthair’s voice said, Watch for a harper, my son. Such a creature appears in every portent I’ve divined for you. When the harper comes, you shall meet your destiny, or your destruction. ’Twill depend on you both.
The chieftain bowed before he said, “You’re no longer in that world, Mistress. You’ve become caught in a spell trap along with the McKeran Clan, our vassals and our stronghold. Others like you, they’re here as well, and shall reassure you. Might I take you to meet them?”
“Only if he comes with,” she said, tightening her grip on Rory’s hand.
Ashort time later Harper became torn between resisting the almost unbearable urge to run away screaming, and marveling over her newfound ability to hear what Ava Travars was telling her.
By some miracle she could hear everything now, from the sound of footsteps echoing in the outer halls to the soft murmurs of some of the big men who had gathered around them.
When she spoke, she heard her own voice, which sounded softer and deeper than she remembered.
She could also hear equally fine on both sides, which she hadn’t ever been able to do in her memory.
Her deafness had disappeared entirely, which could not possibly have happened. Yet somehow it had.
Maybe I’m hallucinating the sounds.