Page 61 of Luthias

The other guard sighed as he looked over at Cerys. “Would that we could.”

Darach often wondered why Duine remained unwed; he’d been handsome in his youth. Having a face that yet frightened children often made him envious of even the plainest of men, and only one brother had ever made him feel himself lucky to only be disfigured. His gaze strayed to the empty chair on the dais as he thought of Kendric, the only full-blood brother to Luthias, who had left a decade earlier swearing never to return. He hated the selfish bastart with all his heart, but his betrayal still perplexed him. Why should any MacRoss choose wealth over family, and steal from Luthias, who had trusted him completely? How did greed for coin make a man turn his back on blood-kin?

A slice of the plummy cake Cook had made for the feast thumped down in front of him. “End your brooding over Kendric.”

Darach looked up at Taveon’s annoyed expression. “How do you ken what’s in my head?”

“You ever look thus when you think on that traitorous fack.” The war master sat down beside him and stretched out his long legs. “His bones likely rot on some battlefield now.”

“Aye.” After being exposed Kendric had gone north to join a band of mercenaries in Éire to fight for mortals with enough coin to pay for his strong arm. Likely he had stolen from them as well, for he never could resist filching what did not belong to him. “’Tis best, I reckon, that he never tried to make amends.”

“Forget him and enjoy the day,” Taveon suggested. “We’ve naught to worry us.”

“Naught, except Callum Carack burned to death on our side of the boundaries, thanks to some demented fack we’ve yet to name, much less catch, who might have ended Luthias and the lass.” Darach drained his whiskey and sighed. “Would that I could so easily lie to myself.”

“I meant our war with the Carack,” the war master corrected. “Struan accepted the laird’s word on Callum’s end, and said his watchers saw the same. Mery’s one of us now, and we shall find this bone cobbler and hang the gruesome bastart. Our clan lives on.”

Darach wondered why Luthias had not told Taveon about his final vision of the Carack laird’s wake in Dun Deigh’s great hall, and some of his clan still blaming the MacRoss for Callum’s death. At least the new laird, Struan, believed him. According to the legend Luthias’s sain-bestowed power would now fade, which he considered fortunate. No man wished to look into the future.

After what he had noticed tonight, he certainly didn’t.

Some hours later after the laird and his new lady had retired, and the clan had sought their own beds, Darach walked from the garrison to the great hall. He hoped he was wrong, and what he had seen could be explained as a prank, or mayhap by Luthias’s intent. The flower petals and herbs strewn over the stone floor perfumed the air, and scattered as he approached the great hearth, where the embers of the banked fire cast a red glow over the stone.

Taveon joined him, his pale face solemn. “That damned eye of yours sees too much.”

“As do both of yours.” Darach smiled a little. “I look each time I come into the hall, you ken. I’ve always wished to hate the blade, but ’tis all we’ve left of our sire. I swear, when I held the hilt in my hand I could almost feel him. And why shouldnae I? The heat of his anger and love, they’ve branded me.” He gestured at his ruined face.

“Do you reckon ’tis still a part of him, his spirit, mayhap?” the war master asked.

“I cannae tell you.” He toed a bit of burned wood back into the hearth. “’Twouldnae be so powerful with only magic, I reckon. He gave up his life to forge the thing.”

Taveon ducked his head. “’Tis naught about him I ever understood. I wager if he could leave some of himself behind in the sain, he would. He loved as fiercely as he fought. I’d reckoned with Mery’s wish granted, ’twould be finished.”

“Aye, and me,” Darach said softly. “Still, give the laird the night for his lady, and tell him in the morning.”

Taveon nodded.

They both looked up at the gleaming crystal crypt above the hearth where Luthias had placed the Fire Sword after the wedding. The garnets and amber studding the gilded frame glowed in the faintest light, but inside the crystal panels the golden hilt mounts hung empty.

The sain had vanished again.

Chapter One

The strangest night of Emery Parker’s life started in the administrative office at the Pelton Medieval Museum in downtown Concord.

Summer had arrived in New Hampshire, and the setting sun made everything seem bright and warm as it poured its last golden beams through the big windows. Glints and sparkles danced in the air from a prism on the director’s tidy desk, and flashed from the face of the delicate gold watch the older woman wore. The air smelled faintly of lemon, beeswax and rich, dark coffee. A Bach violin concerto being played over the museum’s sound system created an elegant backdrop, and oddly harmonized with the gurgling sound from a drip machine somewhere nearby.

I will behave myself. I will not babble. I’ll act as if I intern at my number one favorite museum every other weekend.

As Emery sat listening to the personnel director go over the details for her new summer job, she also tried very hard not to fidget or smile too much. A forensic anthropology graduate student should be calm, poised and confident, not as excited and grabby as a sugar-crazy kid in a free candy store. She also had to stop staring at the gorgeous four-foot-long Scottish claymore hanging on the wall behind the director’s desk. Even if she was almost positive the sword was authentic, and dated back to the fifteenth century, constantly ogling it would seem creepy.

Maybe I can sneak in and drool over it later, after everyone leaves for the day.

“You’ve been assigned to the Arms and Armor Department,” the director said as she finished signing off on the paperwork. “They’re working on transferring all the old hand-written records into our new computer database, so we’ll start you there. Here’s your employee badge, which you should wear at all times while you’re working.”

Emery took the black lanyard from her and looped it over her head. The plastic case containing the badge with her photo and name also had been dated, so she’d never forget the first day of the best job she’d ever landed. “I will, thank you.”

“As I mentioned over the phone your hours will be from four p.m. until midnight, and Bill Buchanan, the assistant curator for the A and A department, will be your supervisor.” The older woman looked up and smiled. “Do you have any questions?”