Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Scotland’s Thirteenth Realm
Autumn of the Twelfth Age
“Why would the mighty one not come to our Seven Cairns’ portal here in this realm?” Keeva tried and failed for a third time to manifest her floating orb in an attempt to hover just above the rough terrain north of the Moray Firth. “And why does my magic not work here?”
Mairwen, Master of all the Divine Weavers, the goddess-ordained protectors of the blessed Highland Veil, ignored the inane question regarding the use of Weaver magic.
Keeva could be such a scatter-minded apprentice at times, often benefiting from silence whenever asking a question for which she already knew the answer.
Keeping her pace steady, Mairwen silently counted off the minutes, patiently waiting for the impetuous youngling to remember her lessons.
“Oh.” The lass sheepishly ducked her head. “I forgot that the dragons dinna trust us.” She stumbled across a fallen branch hidden in the overgrown, grassy hillocks and cursed under her breath. “Have they placed wards everywhere to block our magic?”
“Dragons dinna require wards, child. Ye know that. Their ancient powers come from the world’s core.
” With the agility and grace of a red deer, Mairwen side-stepped her way between a pile of white, weather-bleached boulders and a tangle of thorny vines that surely hid a gully deep enough to cause injury.
“Mind those nettles along the edge there.” Her apprentice’s exasperated huff made her smile.
“A good trudge is balm for the soul, Keeva. Have ye allowed yer magic to make ye lazy?”
“No.” Keeva huffed again, growling as she stomped along the narrow dirt path like a sullen bairn.
“It would have been so much easier, more effective even, if the great chief had visited us at Seven Cairns, where we have all our tools. He will surely wish to see her. I could’ve prepared a much more impressive presentation. ”
“Our ease is of no consequence here, and ye know that as well. We owe the MacRaith. Exceedingly so. We have sorely failed the man. Twice.” It was Mairwen’s turn to grumble under her breath.
Never had the Weavers experienced such devastating failures.
Never. The humiliation of attempting to match the wrong fated mate with the ruler of the Thirteenth Realm burned deep in her gullet like a poorly digested meal.
And not only had they made fools of themselves by doing so once, but they had done it twice.
She shook her head, thoroughly disgusted.
They had actually brought incompatible mates through the portal.
How could Glennis and Bedelia have gotten it so very wrong?
The two Master Weavers of Light, one mastering in love, the other mastering in dreams, had sworn all the signs pointed to those particular twenty-first century women, assuring their souls longed for the completeness of joining with Chief Magnus MacRaith, ruler of Scotland’s Thirteenth Realm, the reality of the dragon kindred.
But the Weavers had been wrong, and Mairwen still didn’t understand what had caused the horrific errors.
“The Highland Veil needs this match as much or more than those of this reality. Its tapestry grows weaker by the day. If we dinna succeed in this task soon, it will tear and allow the planes of existence to merge. Evil watches our efforts, as do the goddesses. If we founder yet again and are forced to reverse everything as we did before, erase another human mind to return them to their twenty-first century life, we will—”
“Lyla Ibrams is the one,” Keeva said, but her tone sounded less than reassuring.
“Bedelia and Glennis brought in the entire Council this time, both the Weavers of Darkness and those of the Light. They dinna trust themselves after erring twice before. Every spell was cast by every sect. Every sign read. All pointed to Ms. Ibrams. Even yer tarot spread agreed with her as the choice. Remember?”
“Aye, I remember.” The lass spoke the truth, but Mairwen still had her doubts not only because of the past failures but also because of the prophecy.
“Yet this woman, this Lyla Ibrams, can no longer sing, ye ken? Even when speaking, her voice possesses a hoarseness she canna escape. The chief will not be impressed. He already doubts us—as well he should.” And she deeply dreaded what the MacRaith’s counterpart, his soul’s dragon brother, would say.
As joint ruler over the dragons and mortals, those of dragonkind and humankind, of the Thirteenth Realm, Talon Darkmist never minced words or failed to share his thoughts on any matter brought before him and his spiritual brother, Chief MacRaith.
“’Tis true, she canna sing as she once did,” Keeva said. “But she is still quite musical. Her ear for pitch and tone is phenomenal. Her human associates and agents in the twenty-first century used that word often whenever speaking about her or promoting her concerts.”
“The concerts she is no longer able to give.” A glance at the sky slowed Mairwen’s steps.
The realm’s sentries, barely perceptible dragons that were smaller and able to change the hue of their scales to match their surroundings, slowly circled overhead, tracking their journey toward Kindred Fortress.
“All here know of the prophecy. How could Ms. Ibrams be the greatest dragon healer ever to exist when she can no longer sing?”
“Maybe there are ways other than song that heals dragons. Ways we have yet to learn.” With a worried look up at the sentries, Keeva reached over and nervously plucked at Mairwen’s sleeve. “Why are there so many? Surely they know we mean them no harm?”
Mairwen allowed herself a heavy sigh as she nudged her apprentice onward.
“We are Weavers who have failed them. The dragons trust us even less than usual. Now, come. We must make haste.” She too regretted the inability to manifest their orbs so they might skim across the land and get this chore finished.
This humbling experience was not something she relished.
As if in answer to her unspoken desire, an enormous dragon materialized in front of them, as if drawing its existence from the elements of everything around them.
It possessed the blood-red coloring of Chief MacRaith’s personal guard.
The mighty being stared at them, then tilted its head.
Its barely civil nod displayed the iciness of dragonkind’s disdain for the Weavers.
“Lord Darkmist sent me to fetch ye,” it said.
“If ye dinna recall, I am Hellys, first of the female guards and first of the MacRaith’s personal guard.
I escorted you previously. Both times.” The way she growled out the words both times made her feelings about this visit quite clear.
She thought the Divine Weavers a waste of time.
Another red dragon, this one smaller, hovered overhead with a large basket, similar to the ones humans used under those strange balloons they had invented in the eighteenth-century timeline.
The beast slowly lowered it to the ground, released it, then flew away.
Hellys watched, her great golden eyes narrowing as twin curlicues of smoke rose from her glistening nostrils.
Then she shifted her focus back to Mairwen.
“The MacRaith tires of waiting as do we all. If you would be so good as to get inside the basket, we will hasten to Kindred Fortress.”
“Thank you,” Mairwen replied with as much grace as she could muster.
She understood Hellys’s disdain, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.
Head held high, she unlatched the gate to the carriage-sized basket, stepped inside, and lowered herself to the bench in the center. Keeva took a seat beside her.
Wings beating the air into a whirlwind, Hellys rose, hooked her claws around the basket’s handle, then hovered in place and spoke in the ancient tongue only dragons understood. “Oothfos bethued.”
“What did she say?” Keeva whispered.
“I am unsure.” Mairwen knew nothing of the dragon’s language and intended to keep it that way. A Weaver’s attempt to learn their ancient tongue would insult them. “Since neither you nor I have been transformed into something vile, a protection spell would be my hope.”
“It is neither for yer transformation nor yer protection, Weaver,” Hellys said.
Her deep, booming voice vibrated through the thick, woven reeds of the dark brown basket, making it crackle and groan.
She unceremoniously opened her claws and released the container.
It hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud.
“Welcome to Kindred Fortress.” She took to the skies, soaring away without another word.
“A transportation spell, then.” Holding onto the side of the basket, Keeva rose to her feet, but stood there a moment as if unsure of her steadiness.
“Obviously.” Mairwen gingerly pushed up from the bench, not entirely trusting her own stability.
Even though she was immortal, she was still quite capable of injury or damage.
What most mortals didn’t understand was that death was not the worst thing one could experience.
After a moment to gather herself, she squared her shoulders, kicked open the door to the basket, and stepped outside.
“Come, Keeva. We have an audience with Chief MacRaith.”
Hellys had deposited them just outside the front gate of the fortress’s curtain wall.
The tall double doors were wide enough to accommodate an enormous dragon’s broad wingspan stretched to its fullest. As vast as the mountain of Ben Nevis, the sprawling castle of stone, weathered to a weary gray green that blended into the cliffs surrounding it, rose from the earth like a city unto itself.
The doors to the gate slowly swung open, revealing a pair of scowling Highlanders with their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
“We had better have it right this time,” Mairwen warned Keeva. “I dinna believe another opportunity will ever be granted.”