Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) (14 page)

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away o’er lawns and lakes

Go answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far

And far more sweet

Th
an
e’er
, beneath the moonlight’s star,

Of horn or lute or soft guitar

Th
e songs repeat.

Th
omas Moore

CHAPTER SIX

John and Dallan left the confi
nes of the one-room cottage to seek the friendly companionship of the village cookhouse, both ready for a brief repast after the day’s recent happenings. Lany had left to take care of business elsewhere.

John smiled as he hurried to keep up with the Sc
ot, still elated with the confi
rmation he and his people desperately needed: Dallan MacDonald was the right man. Kwaku hadn’t made another mistake; thank
the Creator for that! He
had already once grabbed the wrong Highlander, from the wrong century no less. At least the poor victim of the Time Master’s supposed miscalculations had taken it all in stride. After all, Kwaku had shown up just in time to rescue him from a hangman’s noose. But Kwaku had left him little say as to what would happen to him from then on.

John sighed as they neared the cookhouse. Kwaku was using the grizzled little man even now, having him keep an eye on the Muiraran Maiden for them while he prepared the real hero meant to save them all.

Whether said hero wanted to or not.

The two men reached the cookhouse across the village and stepped inside.
A large room greeted them, a fi
re in its homey cobblestone hearth. Th
e fl
ames seemed to wink merrily in their direction as pungent aromas embraced them in welcome. Long wooden tables accompanied by pairs of well-worn benches sat in four straight rows patiently awaiting the many villagers that would come
eat that day. Vases of fresh fl
owers sat atop brightly colored linen runners that stretched down the center of each table surface, adding to the cheeriness of the room.

Dallan reveled in the smells coming from the kitchen beyond the hearth. This was one of his favorite places in Genis Lee. He and John continued to hover in the doorway, to savor all the sights and smells around them.

The few villagers already in the cookhouse glanced up from their food to see who had entered. No one went back to
their
meal
s
. Dallan’s eyes captured theirs one pair at a time
.

John watched with interest, making mental notes to himself. At least he wasn’t the only one to react to the Scot’s intimidating stare. He wondered if he ought to study it further, but his stomach had ideas of its own and began to rumble in protest at his delay. He searched for a suitable table for the upcoming meal and perhaps a continuation of what was left of the interview, anxious as he was to get done.

Dallan left the doorway, letting the villagers get back to eating and headed straight for a small corner table near the hearth. John followed him, noting the expressions of wariness on the faces of those around them, and committed them to memory as he and Dallan took their seats.

“Well, hello,” came a high-pitched voice from behind John. He turned in time to see a plump blonde woman practically skipping to their table.
She briefl
y stopped at another table and spoke a few words to one of the villagers. John had never seen her before, having taken his meals in his quarters since his arrival.

“’Tis Mary Wren. She’s wee Padric’s mother and the
dessert-maker here. A might fi
ne one too,” Dallan told John, seeing the bemused look on his face.

  
Mary was middle-aged, with bright blue eyes that twinkled when she talked. Her mouth seemed animated as s
he spoke, her voice musical. Th
e
epitome of motherly love and security, thought John, looking very much like a woman out of the ancient fables of
Merrie
Olde
England of two thousand years ago.
Dallan's time to be exact.

Kwaku, it seemed, had thought of everything. John knew that Mary, that everyone in Genis Lee had been pl
aced in
their
positions specifi
cally for Dallan, to help make him more comfortable, more trainable.

“Good day to you, Weapons Master,” she exclaimed happily as she arrived and gave a deep curtsy to Dallan. John noticed she had
an odd-accent; ancient British
Commonwealth, if he was correct. “And to you too, sir,” she added
as if noticing John for the fi
rst time, despite almost running into his chair in her haste to get to the table, and Dallan.

Suddenly her eyes met with John’s and grew wide as saucers. “Begging your pardon, Lord Councilor. I… I did not recognize you. Forgive my rud
eness for not addressing you fi
rst.”

“Quite all right. Mary, is it?”

“Yes, Lord Councilor, and thank you.” Mary gave a small curtsy.

John
leaned toward her a fraction. “You were correct in a
ddressing the Weapons Master fi
rst,” he whispered
softly.

Mary nodded her thanks before turning her full attention to Dallan, who had stretched his legs in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, head slightly cocked to one side. H
is face held a look of warm aff
ection, one new to John, who tried to memorize it before it retreated behind the Scot’s emotional walls.

“What have ye made today, Mary?’ Dallan asked, his voice dripping warmth. John noted that too.

Mary gave Dallan a sideways smile and looked around the room before whispering toward him. “Your favorite, Weapons Master.” Dallan’s face beamed with boyish delight. John turned from Dallan to Mary, and back to Dallan again. Where was the seething, often enraged Weapons Master? Was he gone, or simply hidden away now for the sake of the folk in the cookhouse, or for this one woman?

“Did ye put the nuts in them this time?” Dallan asked with something akin to conspiratorial excitement.

“Yes, I did. Just for you, Weapons Master,” she answered with a smile and wink. The boyish look on Dallan’s face exploded.

John was positively enthralled, his mouth half open in astonishment.

“D’ye think it possible to bring me a double portion this time? ‘Tis for John here.” Dallan nodded his head across the table at John, whose mouth hung fully open at this point. “I ken he’ll enjoy them as much as I, but I canna see parting with any o’ my own. Ye ken how partial I am to them…” His words trailed off at Mary’s musical giggles of agreement.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll be sure to put twice the amount
in.
Maybe even more.” Her voice became almost a whisper. “If I can get away with it. You-know-who doesn’t like you eating too many sweets, Weapons Master. He wouldn’t be happy if he found out I’ve been giving you goodies behind his back.” She looked suspiciously about the room as if expecting you-know-who to be hiding under a table.

“Dinna fash yerself, Mary. If he found out, he wouldna blame ye. ’Twould be me the auld heathen would come after. I’ll see yer kept safe from him.”

Of course, thought John. Kwaku controlled Dallan’s diet as he controlled everything else in Dallan’s life in Genis Lee.

Mary sighed in agreement. “I’ll bring you two your meals now, if you like,” she told them, escaping the uncomfortable subject.

“Aye, Mary. That ‘twould be fi
ne.”

 
Mary bobbed a curtsy and left as John
silently sighed then
turned to Dallan. “Shall we continue the in
terview while we eat?”

“That ‘twould be fi
ne.” Dallan replied. “What’s the next question?”

“If you could be anyone besides yourself, who would you be?”

Dallan was quiet a moment. 
“Th
e MacIain,
my grandfather,” he fi
nally answered, sounding a bit unsure of himself.

John gave him a questioning look. “Why?”

Dallan
took a deep breath through his
nose, lifted his chin and puff
ed his chest out with pride. “’Tis true he and I were not close, but I still feel I kent the man. He was everything
to me a
nd the only father
I had
when I was but a lad
. I… I miss him.”

He sighed, and added a Scottish snort. “The Auld Fox. I hope he got
away and was able to pay the Campbells back for what they…”

He looked to John, knowing his rising anger showed on his face, took another deep breath and suddenly… smiled?
A smile oozing with charm.

John looked perplexed for only a moment before realizing Mary must be bringing their food.

“Here you a
re
Time Ma
ster
…” Mary blanched. “Oh, I mean Weapons Master.  After all it's not really official yet …
forgive me.
I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to call you… that is, to infer…” She
looked to
John,
panic on her face then stood
staring at Dallan as if he held her very life in his hands.

Fortunately Dallan didn't know what her mistake was.  He knew a little
about
Time Masters.  He still hadn't a clue he was about to become one.

Mary
then turned to John as though he just appeared out of
a puff of smoke.
“If you need anything else, Lord C
ouncilor, I’ll be nearby. Just c
all me,”

“Oh, uh… everything’s fi
ne. Thank you.”

“I’ll just be going then.” Mary turned away from the table and retreated toward the kitchen.

John watched her leave then
looked
at the food in front of him. He
felt his stomach
do a little flip of
anticipation. A bowl of hearty, mouth-watering stew sat steaming before him, a small loaf of fresh baked bread nearby. A crock of butter stood guard over the bread with a jam bowl and a cold tankard of ale at its side.

It was enough food to feed an army, which was okay, since he felt as hungry as one. He glanced across the table to see if Dallan had fared as well.

He hadn’t.

Dallan was looking uncompanionably at a cabbage wedge that, to John, seemed to be wilting under th
e Scot’s unfriendly perusal. Th
e cabbage had
few friends on the plate to help it out should the need arise. A pile of carrots lay like orange corpses, obviously happy to let the cabbage take the full brunt of Dallan’s slicing stare. A dozen small radishes still rolled on the plate like confused chickens waiting to be slaughtered, wanting nothing more than to return to the kitchen. John wondered if they weren’t thinking of rolling off the plate and making a run for it. Sitting near the plate, trying to look as inconspicuous as
possible,
was a small loaf of bread too we
ighted down by its own hefty fi
ber to even consider escape.

In charge of this inedible crew was a glass
fi
lled with an odd green mixture of the Creator only knew what. It was the only thing in front of Dallan holding up under the pressure of the Scot’s scowl of revulsion.

Now this was the Dallan John knew. He swore everything in front of the Scot cringed as he let out a snort of disgust before attacking the helpless cabbage. John felt a little guilty as he stared down at his own food, it looking eager to be consumed. He began to eat, hoping Dallan wouldn’t say anything to make him feel guiltier than he already did. Perhaps he should continue with the questioning…

“When are you alone
?” he asked Dallan between mouthfuls. By the Creator, the stew was good!

Dallan’s
face contorted as h
e
took a long swallow of the
green liquid
which in turn
burned his throat, making his eyes water. He looked at John, shook himself, and coughed. “Never.”

“You mean to tell me Kwaku has never given you any time to yourself?” John
asked,
almost sure the food on the Scot’s plate trembled.
He blinked a few times to clear his vision, then
stared at Dallan’s glass, swearing the green stuff was staring back…
and smirking. He almost choked on a mouthful of stew.

“By whose order?” John finally
managed, peering closer at the glass.

The Scot snorted as he held the entire host of carrots prisoner in one hand. It would be a massacre. “Who d’ye think, John?” In one bite, it was over. Dallan’s bread lay quivering on its plate, knowing it was only a matter of time…