Chapter Fourteen #2
Hugh MacHugh’s hand closed around her wrist. “It willna do you any good to go out there, my lady.”
“Ah, but I do disagree,” she owned, jerking free.
She yanked open the door and scooted out onto the landing before he could try to stop her again.
But she saw at once that he had no need.
A tight phalanx of guardsmen lined the entire length of the keep’s outer stair, their close-packed ranks grim-faced and silent.
And even if she’d consider nipping past them, their drawn and crossed swords blocked the way.
She was well and truly trapped.
Though she would catch Anice and speak to her later.
That knowledge — and her pride — lifting her spirits, she straightened her back and walked to the edge of the landing with
all the dignity she could muster. She put her hands on the cold stone of the landing wall and leaned out into the chill morning
wind, pretending to relish its briskness.
One, two obviously deep gulps of the brittle air — and perhaps an appreciative sigh or an artful head toss — should be enough
to convince the guardsmen.
It wouldn’t do to have them think their new lady had been about to gallop down the keep stair and streak across the bailey,
looking for broody hens!
But when, after enough air gulping and head tosses, she turned to go back inside, all thought of hen eggs, Anice, and even
stony-faced guardsmen fled her mind.
Maldred the Dire’s heraldic crest was gone.
Or rather, she couldn’t see it.
Her jaw slipping, she stared up at the space above the hall door where the great hoary stone should have been. Either her
eyes had suddenly gone as milky as old Buckie’s or her taibhsearachd was playing some new trick on her.
Yet no weird buzzing filled her ears. And neither the landing nor the solid bulk of the keep walling appeared to fade or waver.
Everything looked and felt as it should — save for the missing crest stone.
Her heart thumping, she stepped closer, craning her neck to get a better look. In that moment, the sun broke through a cloud,
its bright morning light silvering the tower wall like a polished mirror.
At once, she spotted the great stone slab that was once Maldred’s, recognizing its distinctive shape set so prominently above
the door.
But the sight sent chills down her spine and she had to clasp a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping.
The stone might still be there, but no one could ever call it Maldred’s again.
Every last faded line of incising and carvings had been erased.
The stone stared down at her, its age-pitted bulk looking no different from the other squares of granite masoned so proudly
into Dare’s walls.
But the power of it stopped her heart.
That, and the distinct impression that the stone could see her. Then the clouds closed over the sun again and the odd sensation
vanished.
Gelis shivered and rubbed her arms.
Then she smiled.
Whatever force had smoothed the stone’s surface, she knew in her heart it boded well.
Dare was on its way to healing.
She was absolutely certain of it.
Ronan was almost certain he’d made a grave error.
His little skiff, scarce more than a cockleshell, tossed and pitched in the cold, choppy waters of Loch Dubh. The small, black-watered
loch vexed and bedeviled him, giving itself as dark as its benighted name.
Scowling, he set his jaw against the pain in his ribs when the skiff plunged into yet another deep trough, but struggle as
he would, the tossing waves and icy, spray-filled air undid each hard-won ply of his carefully wielded oars.
A driving wet mist drove up the loch and low clouds raced across the surrounding hills. The gusting wind blew in his face,
making it ever harder to reach the little islet standing out so blackly against the thick gray fog shrouding the fine, rolling
sweeps of Dare’s highest moorland.
But a dark-cloaked figure stood waiting on the islet’s stone jetty, the man’s penetrating stare piercing the whirling mist
and keeping him on course.
Tall, white-maned, and wind-beaten, the berobed observer could only be Dungal Tarnach.
Or so Ronan hoped.
He tightened his grip on the oars, almost sure of it.
No one else save Valdar knew his true whereabouts.
And the power of the man shone bright against the islet’s thickly wooded foreshore, his mere silhouette edged with a shifting
orangey-red glow that lit the tall ash and scarlet-berried rowan trees behind him.
The glow brightened as Ronan drew near, the wind swinging round to buffet him from behind and send the little skiff racing
across the foaming waves, directly toward the old stone pier and the slick, weed-hung rocks lining the strand.
“So you came — Raven.” The man nodded in greeting, then held out a hand to aid him ashore when the skiff bumped against the
jetty.
Ronan gripped the extended hand, pride not letting him refuse the courtesy. “I would hear what you have to say,” he said simply,
stepping up onto the pier. “I trust I will not have cause to regret meeting with you.”
The Holder looked at him, his eyes like smoldering coals. “Come with me to the Tobar Ghorm and you can decide what you make
of my tidings.”
“There are tales told in my family of the Blue Well,” Ronan said as they left the jetty to follow a narrow track through the
trees. “The well was sacred to the Ancients. A place where folk no longer remembered gathered on certain days to drink the
water and leave offerings in the hope of securing good fortune or curing ills. The Old Ones —”
“Still hold Tobar Ghorm as hallowed.”
Ronan frowned. “Then I find it an odd trysting place for a Holder.”
Dungal Tarnach turned to face him. “The well’s sanctity is the reason I chose it,” he said, the strange glow edging his robes
gone now.
Even his eyes no longer glimmered eerily but appeared a faded light blue.
They’d left the trees and now stood in a small clearing overgrown with dead heather and thigh-high, autumn-red bracken. The
Holder glanced at the Tobar Ghorm, his almost-ordinary gaze fixing on the barely discernible well in the center of the little
glade.
Of very great antiquity indeed, little remained of the well save a tumble of toppled stones. Some were covered with early
Celtic carvings, while others appeared simply moss-grown or riddled with lichen.
Even so, cloaked in soft mist as the clearing now was, it was all too easy to imagine ancient rites taking place there. Perhaps,
too, that those so gifted might use the well’s Druidecht to pass easily between this world and those beyond.
Ronan shuddered and drew his plaid closer about his shoulders. The Tobar Ghorm’s pagan magic yet pulsed here, untouched by
the centuries, its life force seizing him like a fist clenched around his soul.
Unthinkable that a turned druid would dare risk treading here.
Yet Dungal Tarnach stood proud, not a trace of shame or humility on his face.
He looked at Ronan then and for one brief moment a trace of sadness flickered in his eyes. “You think one such as I cannot
hold a place such as this in high honor?”
“I did not say that.” Ronan frowned, feeling oddly chastised.
“You did not have to.”
“I —” Ronan bit off the words, not even sure what he meant to say.
He glanced up at the low black clouds racing so swiftly across the sky, wishing they could whisk him back to Dare. The Tobar
Ghorm and its little islet were more than dark, bleak, and lonely.
The place was having a weird effect on him and he didn’t like it.
Most especially he didn’t care for the way — since stepping into the clearing and nearing the well — he couldn’t help but
notice the lines on the Holder’s face or the bony thinness of his shoulders.
The slight hitch in his step when he walked, as if his hips pained him.
“Did you know, Raven,” he said then, suddenly standing next to the well, “that even on a day as dark as this, the water of
the well remains blue as sapphire?”
As if to prove it, he leaned over the fallen stones and peered down into the rubble. Straightening, he turned back to Ronan.
“You should look.” He glanced at the well again, his robes lifting in the wind.
“I saw the water as a lad,” Ronan admitted, remembering his awe at its brilliance.
And, too, how his young boy’s heart had believed his father’s tale that the dazzling blue was the eye color of a beautiful
but tragic Celtic princess who’d drowned herself in the well when her sweetheart was killed in battle.
Preferring death to life without him, or worse, being forced to wed another, she’d rowed herself out to the little islet and
taken solace in the only way she knew.
Ever since, or so legend claimed, she granted favors and healing to those visiting her well, taking especial care to help
those unlucky in love, not wanting others to suffer the sorrow that had taken all joy and light from her life, ultimately
causing her death.
Pushing the tale from his mind, Ronan strode across the clearing to join the Holder at the well. He did not attempt to peer
through the jumble of stones and weeds to see the glittering water.
Instead, he folded his arms. “ So- o-o, Dungal Tarnach,” he began, “if you are indeed the man who penned a certain missive,
I would hear the name of the traitor in my midst.”
The Holder raised a brow. “You doubt my identity?”
“I would only be sure I hear the words from the man who brought such tidings.” Ronan narrowed his eyes, taking in the Holder’s
simple robe and his flowing white hair and beard. “You do not look like any MacKenzie I ever saw. Or did you use Druidecht to bespell my grandfather?”
“Valdar MacRuari saw what he expected to see — as did all your men.”
“Dare men are no fools.” Ronan spoke with conviction. “They know men that are others roam our glen from time to time. They know to be wary.”
“And they knew MacKenzies were still riding through your lands.” His mouth quirking, the Holder lifted a hand, palm upward
to the heavens.
In a blink, he was changed.
For one earth-tilting moment he stood before Ronan no longer looking aged beyond measure, but like a shadow image of the Black