Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) (18 page)

His worst fear was then suddenly realized. Zara opened her mouth, and began to sing…

*
* *

Dallan was at the window again, lookin
g to the forest, searching. The l
ingering emptiness clung tenaciously to him, refusing to grant any quarter. He groaned, rested his hands on the sill, closed his eyes and leaned toward the glass, as if touching it would make the pain go away.

“Dallan?” came Mary’s voice from behind him.

“I’m all right, Mary, just tired.” He decided he had worried her enough this day, and besides, it was true. He was dead tired now, and he knew the emptiness wasn’t going
to let him sleep. It never did.

A large black form
loomed in the doorway of the cookhouse. “Boyeee…”

The voice immediately irritated Dallan. He turned his head to glare at Kwaku, his green eyes n
arrowed
. Just for a moment, he thought he could feel her again, his wee lass. It hurt.

“You, Boyeee,” Kwaku suddenly boomed. “You will answer de next time it comes.”

Dallan suddenly stared at the Time Master like a confused child.
“How?”

Kwaku began a chuckle, which quickly turned into a belly laugh.

“My God…” Dallan breathed. The heathen knew. He pulled himself up to his full height, unfortunately still shorter than Kwaku’s. “How do I get out o’ here? Tell me!” His tone was menacing, carrying ten long years irritation with it.

Kw
aku shot Dallan a knowing look.
“Not how, Boyeee,” Kwaku told him almost gently. “When.”

Dallan’s face fell. “What?”

“When. Soon Boyeee, soon.”

Dallan’s eyes locked with Kwaku’s. “But how?”

Kwaku shrugged. “Answer de Call, Boyeee.”

Irritation took over and Dallan punched out each word. “I dinna ken how to!”

“
Ahhhh
, but you do.”

“I… oh, what’s the bloody use of even trying to
get a straight answer!” Dallan huffed.
“I’ve had enough. I’m going to my cottage. Tell John where I am, will ye, Mary?”

“That I will, Weapons Master.” Mary, who had been standing quietly in the sa
me spot since Kwaku entered, fi
nally darted for the relative safety of the kitchen.

Dallan watched her disappear beh
ind the hearth then
turned his
attention back to the heathen.
“Out o’ my way, I’m leaving.”

Kwaku, still in the doorway, didn’t move a muscle.

“This again, is it? I’ve no time, nor am I in the best o’ moods to oblige ye in yer game.” Dallan stood in front of Kwaku, arms folded across his chest, his weight leaning slightly on his right foot.

This was Dallan’s stubborn stance, Kwaku’s favorite, and it always delighted him when he could get the Scot to use it.

“What are ye staring at? Have ye nothing better to do than stand there a-gaping at me? Out o’ my way!” Dallan continued his stance, but his eyes and voice pushed Kwaku from the doorway. He went to move past.

Kwaku grabbed Dallan’s arm as he blocked the doorway with his other.

He leaned into Dallan’s face. “De Call, you will answer de next time it comes, yes?”

 
“What will happen if I do?” Dallan couldn’t believe he’d said it. Both men raised a shocked brow at the question.

“Go home, Boyeee. You will go home.”

Kwaku released Dallan and quickly strode away, his long legs carrying him swiftly to
ward a grove of cedars about fi
fty yards off
.

Dallan stood in stunned silence, allowing the heathen to escape. Home? He shook himself, gathering his senses. “Wait!” he yelled after Kwaku as the yellow and purple robes disappeared into the trees.

Dallan took off at a full run, covering the distance in seconds, his muscles straining as he pushed himself harder, his blood racing at the teasing thoughts of home. Antic
ipation spurred him past the fi
rst tree and around the second… and right into John. The collision knocked both men off the
ir feet, each flying in a diff
erent direction. Dallan, trained to react, landed skillfully and was
on his feet again, ready to fi
ght before the Lord Councilor even hit the ground.

“John!” Dallan yelped, di
scovering who
m
he’d just sent fl
ying. “Are ye all right, man? Can ye talk?”

John, his white Councilor’s robes bunched around his knees, his blonde hair and composure a complete mess, studied the grass stains covering his clothes, then looked up at Dallan, mouth agape. He wasn’t able to sp
eak yet, which was just as well
considering the words running through his mind. He pushed them aside, thinking of something more tactful to say, if he ever got his breath back.

“John?” Dallan asked, concern in his voice as he stared into the forest.

Kwaku was gone. He cursed to himself in Gaelic.

“H… help me up, will y
ou?” John’s breath returned as
he began to struggle to his feet.

Dallan gripped John’s arms and pulled him up the rest of the way. “Did I hit ye that hard, then?”

John, hands on knees, fought to remain calm. “I’ll be all right, Dallan. Just give me a moment.” His fall forgotten, he tried vainly to recover from what Zara had shown him.

The Maiden
..
.
so little time …

John worked
to keep his lunch down, then stood upright to see Dallan was still staring intently into the forest.

Zara. John knew she was making her way back to Mishna to tell the Elders and Muirarans what she had discovered about the Maiden’s current state.  “Kwaku’s gone to the city.”
He said to distract Dallan.

Dallan turned
to face him. “And when might ye
be
going
?”

John spoke reluctantly. "As soon as you and I finish our business
.”

“Good. I’m going with you.” Dallan turned and began striding in the direction of the cookhouse.

John started after him again. “Um, I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.”

“And why not?” Dallan turned abruptly and thrust his face into John’s.

“Ah, well.” John couldn’t believe he was actually stammering. “Well, for one thing you… you…”

“Canna
leave
the village?”

John shrugged. “Yes, that’s one reason.”

“The other is that bloody heathen not wanting me to ken what he’s up to.”

John t
ried to turn away from him
bu
t Dallan grabbed his arm
.
“Dinna make me stay here. Take me with you.” His body shook with the intensity in his voice, then, as if catching himself, relaxed suddenly, releasing his mental and physical hold on John. “Please.”

The Scot’s eyes now held the simple need of a child in them. John felt his resolve to keep all his knowledge to himself slip a notc
h. He sighed heavily. “We’ll fi
nish the int
erview first. Th
en I’ll see what I can do.”

Dallan gave him a single nod in acc
eptance as they set off
back to the cookhouse. John needed his papers. Dallan needed Mary. Or rather, something Mary promised to give him. Nothing, not the events of the day, not even the Call, was going to keep Dal
lan Keir MacDonald from the ‘fl
at cakes’ Mary had promised—what John’s people referred to as chocolate chip cookies. After all, a man has to have his priorities. And
, he reasoned, he’d had the ‘fl
at cakes’ often enough to know that they, at least, were real. At this point he wasn’t sure what else was.

My dove in the clefts of the rock, in the

Hiding places on the mountainside, show

Me your face, let me hear your voice
;

For your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely.

Song of Songs 2:14

CHAPTER NINE

“What makes you feel frustrated?” John asked to start the remainder of the interview.

They were in Dallan’s private lodgings, a one
-
room cottage somewhat resembling the dwellings of the a
ncient Scottish countryside. Th
e little
house had a high-pitched thatched roof that the Weapons Master insisted on taking care of himself, and some of the most exquisitely carved windows John had ever seen. With the high ceiling, the interior was light and airy, making it appear larger than it was. A cozy stone hearth graced one wall while Dallan’s bed took up another, directly beneath one of the windows. A battered wooden trunk
sat at the foot of the bed. Th
e other
furniture had been hand-made by Dallan with great care. It was a homey room, not unlike John’s—or any
one’s—quarters in Genis Lee. The diff
erence was that this particular one belonged to the Weapons Master. It was all he owned.

Faded tartan plaids from his clan hung upon the walls and bed, one especially worn one carefully folded over the trunk. It was Dallan’s favorite, the one he had been wearing the night he was taken from his beloved Scotland by Kwaku.

John wasn’t quite sure how Kwaku had man
aged to acquire all the specifi
c MacDonald highland paraphernalia in the room, but he knew Kwaku had done everything possible to make Dallan feel at home. Perhaps howev
er, it had had the opposite eff
ect and made it all the harder for Dallan to shake the homesickness.

Private journals alongside tiny books, aged and fragile, sat neatly upon a table at the wall, and John noted with interest that they were books of poetry. Dallan’s sword and shield rested near the hearth, his sporran hanging on a peg near his bed. A pitcher and
wash
-
bowl
sat on the table with the books, a linen towel neatly folded by their side. A woman’s necklace, probably his mother’s, hung from a small nail pounded into the stone of the hearth. What looked like a child’s toy rested on a windowsill near the door, while various weapons were tucked here and there where space allowed.

Dallan thought about John’s last qu
estion as he lay on his bed munching the last of the flat cakes Mary had given him.  He wiped the crumbs away
then looked to John helplessly, making no attempt to ensnare him in a stare. “I dinna understand what is happening to me when I feel like… like dying. Not knowing, to no be able to understand something. That frustrates me, John.”

John’s eyes, for once, captured and held Dallan’s, the Scot wanting him to take charge, to give h
im answers. John could only offer understanding. Th
e
answer had already been given but Dallan needed to accept and believe it.

The Call. John said a silent prayer that he would come to believe, quickly.

“John?”

“Oh.” John was startled out of his appeals to the Creator. “I’m sorry, I…was giving the matter some thought.”

“The matter?”

“Uh, yes. What happened to you today
…
” John’s voice sounded reluctant even to his own ears.
"…
f
ro
m
what Kwaku tells me, was diff
erent.
” John shook his head, obviously making up his mind about something. He set his tablet and wr
iting instrument down on the fl
oor and leaned forward in his chair, closing
the space between them
.

Dallan sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and shivered; freque
nt chills were another side eff
ect of the Call. “
Who
do I believe, John?” he whispered.

“Believe who you think is right.”

“Who?” Dallan’s posture said he was skeptical, while his eyes pleaded for an answer he could believe.

John closed his own eyes for a moment, head bent low, preparing for the only answer he knew he could give, risky though it was. “You are, Dallan. You know what the right answer is.”

Dallan reacted with a snort, turning his head away as the facial twitch began its dance. Suddenly he turned back, stabbing John brutally with a look of challenge. “What’s the next question?”

John swallowed hard. “You haven’t answered the last one yet.”

“No I didna.” Dallan gripped John even harder with his stare. “You answered it for me, remember?”

For some insane reason, John was feeling brave at the moment. “You know the right answer.”

Dallan’s eyes narrowed to slits.