Gawen's Claim: Highlander Fate, Lairds of the Isles Book One Page 2

  Fury swept over him at the memory. He’d heard tales of some people—and stiuireadh—changing the events of the past. As far as he knew, the stiuireadh made their own rules about what could and could not be changed. It was something he’d never forgive them for, these witches who manipulated time. It wasn’t natural. After receiving Siobhan's letter, he’d considered informing her that he had no intention of helping one of her kind.

  But he couldn’t let himself break the Pact, that ancient promise that his ancestors had held so dear. And the Pact had meant a great deal to his father, who’d held the stiuireadh and their abilities in great reverence. Would he still hold such reverence for them if he knew they wouldn’t prevent his death, or the deaths of his wife and daughter?

  “Traveling through time,” Aonghus mused, pulling Gawen from the maelstrom of his thoughts. “I cannae fathom it. To see a different year? A different century?”

  Gawen scowled at the reverence in Aonghus’s tone. Like other high-ranking members of his clan, Aonghus had learned of the stiuireadh when he was a lad. There weren’t many who knew of the ancient Pact and the existence of these witches; it was a carefully guarded secret, only passed down to certain sons by their fathers, brother to brother, cousin to cousin. The knowledge of witches who could manipulate time was a dangerous thing; there were many who believed that all witches were evil and must be destroyed.

  “'Tis unnatural,” Gawen said, taking another swig of his ale. “It doesnae matter, Aonghus. They donnae need our worship. I will do my duty tae assist this stiuireadh and then send her back tae the time in which she belongs.”

  "Do ye think she'll be bonnie?" Aonghus asked, unperturbed by Gawen’s hard tone. He gave Gawen a teasing look. "A bonnie lass will—”

  "No," Gawen said shortly. He’d seen only three stiuireadh in his lifetime; each one had been decades older than him and reminded him of his departed Nan, with her stooped shoulders and ash-gray hair. “And it doesnae matter if she is bonnie—the stiuireadh arenae tae bed. When they come tae a different time, ’tis only tae carry out a duty.”

  He stood, setting down his ale on the mantle of the fireplace. His study had suddenly become stifling, and he was weary of discussing the stiuireadh. He needed air.

  "I'm going for a ride."

  He felt Aonghus’s eyes on him as he left the study. Aonghus knew him better than anyone; they’d been friends since they were lads, since before Aonghus had stepped into his own father’s position as steward of Carraig Castle. Aonghus was one of the few men who’d seen Gawen weep over the loss of his parents and dear sister. He’d clamped his hand on Gawen’s shoulder and gruffly told him to allow himself to grieve; Gawen had feared he’d shame him for his weakness. He was grateful every day for Aonghus’s presence. After his family’s death, Aonghus was the only person he was close to.

  He was on his way out of the castle when a tall, blonde woman, Achdara, intercepted him. There was a time when he would have been happy to see her, but now he stiffened. They had exchanged a few drunken kisses after feasts in the past, and he’d considered courting her before the deaths of his family. She’d pretended to sympathize after their deaths, but he’d realized her concern was a façade—she’d only wanted the status of becoming lady of his castle, wife of the laird and chieftain. She had since wed, and subsequently been widowed, by a wealthy merchant. Yet she made her continued sexual interest in him clear, though he no longer had any interest in her.

  “Laird MacRaild,” she said, stepping so close he could smell the cloyingly sweet rosewater scent of her hair, a scent he usually found enticing

  “Lady McNabb,” he coolly returned, emphasizing her late husband's name.

  She tensed at the formal use of her name, before the sultry smile returned to her lips. She took another step closer to him; he resisted the urge to step back.

  “Are ye off for a ride, my laird? Perhaps I can join ye?”

  “I thank ye, but I’d prefer tae take my ride alone,” he said, forcing a polite smile. “Good day tae ye. I’ll see ye at the feast.”

  He swept past her before she could offer a protest, glad to be out of her stifling presence. He was relieved that he’d not gone through with courting her; there was a coldness to her he’d not noticed before.

  Moments later, he rode away from the castle, relishing in the damp air on his skin as he made his way to the old cemetery south of the castle grounds. A fresh rain had fallen, and the sky was a somber gray, though hints of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the green countryside that surrounded him.

  He soon arrived at the cemetery, and after tying up his horse to a nearby tree, he walked to the familiar stone markers of his family’s resting place. He knelt before their graves, placing a hand on the damp earth and closing his eyes.

  He’d been uncommonly close with all three of them; he hunted every week with his father, took walks with his mother and sister, and always sat at their sides during feasts in the great hall. His parents had been getting on in years and preparing to step down from their roles as laird and lady, expressing their desire to return to his mother’s ancestral manor in the Highlands to live out their remaining years, leaving the castle to Gawen and whoever he chose for his wife. Gordana had been looking forward to getting wed and starting a family of her own, playfully ignoring her older brother’s protectiveness when it came to her suitors.

  I cannae wait for ye tae meet the lass ye’ll wed, she’d chided him. Ye’ll be tae focused on her tae worry about yer wee sister.

  He could remember every detail of the last feast they’d enjoyed together. It had been during Yule; he and Gordana had watched their parents dance in the center of the great hall before getting up to dance themselves. There had been such joy on their faces, such ignorance of the tragedy soon to come.

  The outbreak of plague had swept over the castle like a storm, first affecting the peasants who lived just outside the castle, then the servants, then the nobles. Local healers didn’t know the cause, or how to stop it. Many, like Gawen himself and Aonghus, weren't affected by the illness, but when it passed, two dozen nobles and servants had died, including his parents and Gordana.

  He’d stayed at their bedsides even after they'd passed, grief wracking his body as he took in their still forms, wondering how they could suddenly be gone. That was when he’d sent for the stiuireadh, begging her to change what had happened. This is something that can’t be changed, she’d insisted, before leaving him alone in his study, shaken and utterly broken.

  He closed his eyes, willing away his anger at the stiuireadh, before getting to his feet.

  I’ll do this for ye and only for ye, Father, he silently vowed, looking down at his father’s marker. And then my duty to the stiuireadh is done. I’ll nae help them again.

  Chapter 3

  Present Day

  Isle of Skye, Scotland

  “The threads of time aren’t always fixed,” Siobhan said, flipping through the pages of her grimoire. “Sometimes they can shift and weave. I know of many travelers who’ve gone back to reverse tragedies that have occurred: those are the lucky ones. But there are other events that must happen—those are the things that shouldn't be changed."

  Lila and Siobhan were seated across from each other in Siobhan's study, which was tiny and overstuffed with grimoires and other ancient-looking books. They’d been here for most of the morning, with Siobhan reviewing the spells Lila would need to perform in the past.

  Lila considered Siobhan’s words as she took a sip of her hot tea. She'd heard this before. When one had the ability to travel through time, it was tempting to go back and change major world events for the better. There had been witches and travelers who’d tried, all with dire consequences. Some things were simply meant to happen—from events as seemingly minor as a car accident to major events such as wars or revolutions. One of the first lectures her parents had given her and Avery had been warning them of the dangers of attempting to change things in the past that time—or fat
e—needed to happen. One ancestor of theirs had foolishly attempted to prevent the First World War and had simple ceased to exist. Another had attempted to prevent the death of her husband and ended up dying herself.

  You must never attempt to change what must happen, her mother had warned her and Avery. Only those events which are malleable in the fabric of time can be changed. That is why stiuireadh take the council of the fiosaiche; they can see what can and cannot been changed.

  “If this dark witch is attempting to change something that can’t be changed—why are we trying to stop her ourselves? Won’t Time itself turn on her, the way it has with others?” Lila asked now, her brow furrowed.

  “Sometimes—rarely—if a witch is powerful enough, and with the right spells, some events not meant to change can indeed change. But always with dire consequences to other events, people, and to the witch themselves. She’s already changed something; it’s why I was alerted to her presence. Whatever this dark witch—this aingidh—did, it was evil. She murdered or otherwise harmed someone who shouldn’t have been. We need to stop her before she can do any more harm."

  A shiver snaked along Lila’s spine at the word "aingidh,” derived from the Gaelic word for wicked, the coven's term for a witch who used her magic for dark purposes.

  Lila wasn't naïve; she knew there were witches who used their ability to perform dark magic. She’d heard many tales of such witches. Power like theirs was easily corruptible.

  “This grimoire," Siobhan said, sliding it across the table toward Lila, "contains very old spells, ones which should work better for you in the past. I know you’re somewhat familiar with Skye, but I have some old maps of the island that the coven’s historian prepared; I’d like for you to review it. And Lila,” Siobhan hedged, a look of concern flickering across her features, “I know this is a lot to take in, given that we need you to leave in two days. If it’s too much—”

  “No,” Lila said quickly—too quickly—forcing a smile. “I’ll be ready.”

  She had to be.

  Siobhan studied her for a long moment, as if not quite believing her, before reaching out to take both her hands.

  “I know it's difficult, coming from a family of powerful witches. I'm not the strongest in my own family."

  Lila looked at her in disbelief. The fiosaiche were especially powerful witches. She found it hard to believe that Siobhan didn't possess great power.

  As if reading her thoughts, Siobhan smiled.

  "Power is relative, especially among our kind," she said. "Just remember that every witch has their own distinctive power. And I think you—" Siobhan began, but stopped abruptly. Her brow furrowed, and she looked as if she wanted to say something more. “You’ll do well,” she said finally, leaving Lila to ponder what she'd stopped herself from saying. “Let’s take a break; the coven historian wants to go over some things with you. Then we can practice more Locator spells.”

  For the rest of the day, Lila worked with both Siobhan and the coven historian, Madeline, who reviewed the basics of the time period with her.

  "I've already been to 1395," Lila grumbled to Madeline, eager to get back to practicing spells. “Is all this reviewing necessary?”

  "Staying in ruddy inns with your sister is different from staying in a castle where everyone will notice you. You need to remember—just because Laird MacRaild knows what you are, not everyone does. You need to fit in as seamlessly as possible."

  Lila dutifully fell silent as Madeline went over court dances of the time and made her repeat her backstory until she knew it backward and forward: she was an old friend of Laird MacRaild’s family, visiting from England and staying at the castle for a time as his honored guest.

  When she wasn't with Madeline, she was with Siobhan as she practiced Locator spells. Her magic was passable; she was able to locate the objects Siobhan directed her to using spells, but finding an object was far different from finding a person. Still, she made herself show confidence she didn't feel, issuing spell after spell, from Levitation spells—lifting a grimoire from Siobhan's desk—to more complex ones such as Concealing spells—concealing the same grimoire from view.

  After they’d finished for the day and had a quick dinner, Siobhan seemed satisfied and urged her to get some rest.

  Lila returned to her guest room, bone tired. She hadn't wanted to show Siobhan what a toll performing spells had taken on her; the more powerful the witch, the less of a toll his or her magic took. Her eyes were heavy, and she fell into a deep sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Her dreams were a torrent of vivid activity. She saw the vague features of a handsome man whose visage filled her with warmth—and a longing that was almost painful.

  She stood on the edge of a cliff, terror racing through her as she looked down at the sheer drop to the ocean below.

  She saw the briefest flash of a woman’s face, too distant and vague for her to clearly make out her features, but in that brief moment a powerful sense of grief and fury seized her.

  When she awoke, a sob of grief tore from her, and she didn't know where the grief had come from.

  Lila looked around her bedroom, wide eyed and trembling. Could the image of that woman be the dark witch they were looking for? If so, why did she appear in her dream? Why had she felt that grief and rage?

  Her hands were still shaky as she made herself shower, trying to luxuriate in the droplets of warm water on her skin—this may be the last shower she’d enjoy for some time. But her unease had settled in on her like a great weight; she could barely concentrate as she changed into the underdress and blue gown Madeline had provided for her, before styling her hair into the late-fourteenth-century style of two braided buns wound through with ribbons.

  When she went down to the entryway to meet Siobhan, she tried to keep her features neutral. She was relieved that the other witches had already left, that she only had Siobhan to contend with. But she was a terrible actress because Siobhan's features instantly creased with concern.

  “Is everything all right?” Siobhan asked.

  Lila feared that if she told Siobhan about her nightmare, she would hesitate in sending her back and send someone else in her stead. And despite the dread and lingering unease in her belly, she was determined to go.

  “Just a little nervous,” she lied, forcing a smile.

  Siobhan studied her for such a long moment that Lila feared she would press, but instead she stepped forward and took both her hands in hers.

  “You will do well. And remember, you can always use a Summoning spell to contact me if you need help. Now. Are you ready?”

  Lila wasn't, but she nodded. Siobhan held her gaze before closing her eyes, murmuring the words of a Transport spell.

  A tug of wind yanked at Lila’s belly, and the world dissolved around her. She disliked Transport spells; they disoriented her. They were akin to hopping on a motorcycle that was going a thousand miles an hour. They were a bit like traveling through time, though time travel was far more disorienting. She suspected Siobhan had performed the spell to prepare her for the more arduous trip she'd soon take through centuries of time.

  When the world faded back up around them, they were a half mile away from the fairy pools of Skye. The portal was located in one of the tucked away coves near the pools; it was how the legends and stories started forming about these waters. Little did the tourists, who came to visit the pools, know that there was a magical time portal nearby.

  Stiuireadh could technically travel through time anywhere, but the magic around the portals, where their druid ancestors once worshipped, was powerful and helped in pulling the stiuireadh to the time in which they wanted to travel. This was her first time using this portal. She and Avery had used Tairseach, the portal in the midst of the Scottish Highlands, when they’d last traveled to the past.

  At the thought of her sister, her stomach lurched with unease. This was her first time traveling to the past on her own. What if she ended up in the wrong time? What if she simp
ly disappeared from the fabric of time altogether? Such occurrences weren't unheard of.

  "Doubt is the most dangerous thing when performing magic," Siobhan said calmly, with that eerie ability of hers to sense what Lila was thinking. "You are a powerful stiuireadh, Lila. Remember that. No matter what."

  Lila tried to let Siobhan's words settle in, to believe them. You are a powerful stiuireadh. You can do this.

  Siobhan stood back with a patient smile, and Lila knew that it was time. She gave Siobhan one last nod, expelled a breath, and stepped forward toward the cove, murmuring the words of the Time Spinning spell that would draw her back through time.

  "A 'toirt seachad uine, cluinn mo ghairm. A 'toirt seachad uine, cluinn m'iarraidh. Stiuirich mi gu sabhailte tro do shigle."

  Swirling darkness surrounded her as the world disappeared, punctuated by the distant sounds of voices and other sounds she couldn't identify. It was like traveling solo on a rollercoaster in the dark—a rollercoaster that moved faster than the speed of light. She knew it was the threads of time tugging her back, back, back, through decades and centuries, past an infinite number of births, deaths, wars, famine, destruction, joy, sorrow . . . until she felt as if she was suspended aloft in midair, before some force sent her hurtling toward earth.

  The darkness around her lifted as a pair of strong, muscular arms wrapped themselves around her.

  Lila blinked, disorientation seizing her.

  She was now in the center of an unfamiliar forest grove. She looked up at the owner of the muscular arms—and her breath hitched in her throat.

  The man was square jawed with proud, aristocratic features—firm chin, high cheekbones, generous mouth. His hair was a deep, fiery red, long and wavy, and a beard dotted his strong jawline. His eyes were a clear sea green—verging on blue—framed by thick lashes. He was broad shouldered and muscular, holding her as if she weighed no more than a feather.

  It was the man she'd seen in her dream. But her dream hadn't done his masculine beauty justice. The man was preternaturally gorgeous, and for a dizzying moment she wondered if she was still swirling through time and this moment—this gorgeous man—was a mere hallucination.