Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (2 page)

Is beadarrach an ni an onair.

Honor is a tender thing.

—
Scottish Gaelic proverb

Prologue

Seven riders crested the snow-covered hill like warriors out of legend, sweeping away the sun's glow, bringing twilight in their wake. The setting sun burnished armor to silver and shields to bronze as the riders streamed forward.

Alainna stood on the hill and waited as they approached. Cold wind stirred her russet hair and filled the plaid draped over her gown, but she remained motionless. Another few moments and she would be trampled unless they slowed, unless she leaped aside. Yet she felt no danger.

Sunlight surrendered as the riders came closer. Alainna felt the subtle pause in the breath of the world said to happen in the time-between-times. Her great-uncle, the clan bard, had said that at moments of fleeting change—dawn, sunset, mist—the earthly and the mystical realms could interweave. She was sure that happened now, while she watched, entranced.

In the glen below, she heard her kinsmen shout, involved in a hunt. They had not seen her standing on the crest of the hill. She did not glance toward them, but kept her booted feet firm in the snow. Her hair blew back like flames, restless and vivid on the wind.

The first of the riders neared her and pulled back on the reins. His tall, creamy stallion rounded, danced on slender legs. The other warriors drew to a halt and waited as their leader walked his horse toward Alainna.

"Who are you?" she asked.

He watched her, helmeted and silent. The shield suspended on his saddle carried the painted design of a single diagonal arrow, white on a blue field. That symbol of his identity held no meaning for her.

The warrior lifted away his helmet and tucked it under his arm, then pushed his chain mail hood from his head. The last of the stolen sunlight glinted in the dark gold of his hair. The stars and the night seemed part of his cloak, midnight blue edged with silver. His eyes were clouds, gray and deep.

"Alainna MacLaren." He knew her name, but she did not know his. "You are the daughter of the chief of Clan Laren. Now that he is gone, you are clan leader in his place."

"I am," she answered. "Who are you? A prince of the
daoine sith,
the faery people? Or do you lead the warriors of the Fianna, the warband of Fionn MacCumhail, come out of the mists of time?"

"We are not they," he said.

"Aenghus the Ever-Young, god of the sun, with your host of men. That is who you are," she said. The stories of the golden, handsome hero-god Aenghus mac Og were among her favorites of those told by her great-uncle of an evening. Somehow, she was not surprised to see a warrior god appearing at sunset, in the magical moment between light and darkness.

His smile was subtle. "Do we look of that realm?"

"You do. Why else would you ride over our lands at the changing of the light?"

"Why else," he said, "but for you."

"For me?" She stared at him.

"You sent for us. For me," he added quietly.

Her heart bounded, her breath caught. Hope, swift and bright, soared within her. She and her clan desperately needed help. Yet she, as their leader, had sent for no one. How had this warrior heard her plea, whispered only in her prayers, and held as a silent yearning in her heart? How else, but by magic?

"Who are you?" Her voice was a breath.

He watched her steadily. "I will help you if you want to save your clan," he murmured. "But you will have to give up what is most dear to you."

"I would give up anything to save them," she said fiercely, returning his intent gaze. "I swear it."

He extended his hand toward her. "Then so be it."

She looked into his handsome face, gazed into his eyes, like steel, like silver. He was not of this earth, she was sure. He must be a prince, even a king, in the faery world, capable of magic, capable of helping her people.

"What do you want of me?" she asked.

"Come with me," he answered.

She drew a breath. "If I do, all will be well for them?"

"It will." He watched her, his hand outstretched.

A feeling rose within her like a torrent. Not fear, but a wrench within, a longing. She wanted to go with him. The desire grew stronger and she closed her eyes against its power.

"Alainna," he said, his voice like the lowest chord of a harp. "Come with me."

She glanced down the long hill, where her kinsmen hunted. She loved her clan and her kin deeply, and she could not bear the thought of leaving them. Yet she must do whatever she could for the clan, no matter the cost to her. She had made that promise to her dying father.

If she could find the courage to ride into the Otherworld never to return, her clan would flourish and be safe. Their proud and ancient heritage would last forever.

She drew in a long breath and looked up at the shining, silent warrior. "I must have your promise that my clan will continue," she said.

"You have it." She knew, somehow, that she could trust him.

She lifted her arm in acceptance. He stepped his horse closer, holding out his hand and leaning toward her. His fingers were warm over hers, and her heart leaped within her breast like a bird new to the wing.

* * *

Alainna awoke, sitting upright in the dark, heart pounding.
A dream,
she told herself.
Just a dream.
She caught back a sob and sank her head into the support of her hands.

If only the dream had been real. Her clan needed just such a bold warrior, some miracle of intervention, to help them. Try as she might, Alainna could not save her diminished and threatened clan alone. She could ensure that her kin were sheltered and fed, and she could do her best to preserve their proud and ancient heritage. But she could not fight their enemies in battle, and that help was most desperately needed.

Clan Laren now consisted of a handful of elderly men and women with only Alainna to lead them. The rival clan that had feuded with them for generations would triumph soon, unless they could be stopped. Once spring arrived, the ancient spell that had aided her clan for so long would end, and their enemy's power over them would increase.

Her kinfolk urged her to find and marry a Highland warrior, a champion with comrades at his back willing to fight. Clan Laren needed such a man, but no one would take on the risk of a failing clan and a strong enemy.

If only the dream had been real, she thought again, and sighed deeply. The golden warrior did not exist, and time grew short.

* * *

Steel sparkled in the dawn as Sebastien wheeled and sank the tip of his sword with masterful control. The edge whistled in a fast, low arc and surged upward again. Muscles taut, gripping the leather-wrapped hilt with his right hand, he spun on bare feet. The balanced blade sliced and soared through the cool morning air.

Frost rimed the battlements around him, and a brisk wind sifted the dark golden strands of his hair. His back was sweat-coated and cool beneath his loose linen shirt, but his exertion created heat within.

He focused on footing, timing, balance, strength. Each step and thrust was fierce, edged with desperation, punctuated with fury, but he felt powerless. His blade cut nothing but air. He had no enemy to fight, no way to protect what was most precious to him.

The wind was high and fast on the rooftop of the royal tower. He paused, breathing hard, while the breeze whipped at him. His gaze swept the forest treetops, the glinting towers of the abbey, the vast blue mountains far in the distance. Scotland was a beautiful land, full of promise for Norman knights seeking favor and property. He had come here for that purpose.

Now he must leave as soon as he could. He clenched his jaw in frustration. He had spent three years in this cold northern place. If he stayed longer, he could reap the reward the king would undoubtedly offer him—but he had no more time to wait.

He turned to wield the sword with banked power. Lunge, strike, pull back, spin. His weapon practices provided action and solitude, both of which he craved. Whenever the king stayed at his royal tower in Dunfermline, the rooftop guards were used to the training habits of this particular Breton honor guard. They often left Sebastien alone on the battlements while they fetched an extra serving of breakfast.

Before dawn, he had left the garrison quarters and had gone up to the roof. He liked this time of day for its mystical promise, liked the soaring view from the roof, and secretly cherished the lift he felt within his soul.

Another thrust of the sword grazed steel on stone and raised blue sparks. Even that strike gave him some satisfaction, although he knew the edge would require extra care later. He wanted conflict, hungered for encounter. Frustration roiled within him, demanding release.

A letter had arrived for him yesterday, carried by a Breton messenger whose ship had been greatly delayed. The news Sebastien had received, several months late, had stunned him to the quick.

His small son, housed in a Breton monastery, had been in danger six months ago, and Sebastien had not been there to protect him. He was not even certain where the boy was now.

Half a world away, half a year late in learning the news. He cursed the strong ambition that had taken him to Scotland when he might have stayed in Brittany with his five-year-old son. Instead, he had put Conan in the care of monks and had accepted another term of knight service.

The letter had been sent by the abbot of the monastery where he had left Conan, and where Sebastien himself had been raised as a boy. A fire had ruined the Benedictine complex, injuring many, killing some, among them monks Sebastien had known well. His son, along with the other boys, was unhurt, but all of them were in dire need of a home.

The monks desperately sought a benefactor to provide housing and goods until the monastery could be rebuilt. Without that support, they must disperse among different religious houses. Their young charges were to be sent elsewhere too, some turned out in the streets.

The abbot had inquired of Sebastien where Conan should be sent. He had hinted that the knight, a favorite of the duke of Brittany and the king of Scotland, could help all of them if he would lend the use of one of his Breton properties.