Page 68 of Luthias

“No one but Sage Duine may enter in my absence,” he told his men, who bowed. “If the lass wakes, treat her gently, but dinnae permit her leave the chamber, and summon me at once.”

Down in the great hall Darach had assembled the other chieftains and senior clansmen, all of whom rose to their feet and bowed as Luthias joined them. Above the great hearth the clear crystal crypt created by the first sage enclave gleamed with the reflected colors of the Fire Sword it held again.

“You’ve mistaken a thief for a defender, my lord,” Camdyn said as soon as he straightened from his shallow bow, the jagged orange streaks in his black hair glowing like hot coals. Broad-shouldered, brutally muscled and ever in a dark mood, the armorer always spoke the truth as he saw it, with merciless bluntness. “Dinnae put weight in the mutterings of those rock-headed bawbags. They’re mad, the lot of them.”

“Hold.” Darach stepped between him and Luthias, his marked eye glowing dark red. “I didnae tell you so you might prod the laird and spit on the enclave. Cannae you keep shut your gob until you’re asked to spill your spleen?”

“Shall we spill something more, then, Chieftain?” Camdyn gave him his oddly beautiful smile. “The lists await, and my blade ever ready for you.”

“Dinnae you bairns ever cease your prattling?” Taveon walked between them, slapping both Darach and Camdyn on the back of the head. The tallest of the MacRoss, the war master’s night-black hair and eyes made his gleaming pale hide look carved from marble. “Go out and kill each other, then. The men in the hall would speak in peace.”

Glaring at the war master, Darach rubbed his skull and sat down. After a moment Camdyn did the same.

“All of us ken the old legend,” Luthias said once the rest of the men had gathered at the longest table. “I found Mistress Parker with the Fire Sword in the armory tonight. None saw her enter the stronghold.”

“Aye, my lord, ’twould seem ’tis truth.” Camdyn leaned back and folded his arms. “Or mayhap you but caught a stupit wench smuggled into the keepe by our enemies to confuse and bedevil us.”

“I’ve beheld her,” Darach countered. “She’s no’ Carack.”

Taveon gave him and the armorer a stern warning look before he regarded Luthias.

“I’d side with you, my lord, but the chieftain claimed her garbed in a jacket and trews, and wearing very fine baubles such as the Carack fashion for nobles,” the war master said. “I’d dearly wish to ken how she gained entry to the stronghold without anyone seeing. ’Tis enough to warrant questioning the lass.”

He hadn’t wanted to use what he had taken from her before he’d left his chamber, but kept in ignorance his men would only grow more suspicious. He drew out the odd things he had taken from Emery and handed them to Taveon.

“Mind the metal hasp. I found the clip in her hair, and the pendant about her neck,” he said. “I’ve never seen the like. You?”

“No, my lord. ’Tis written in some form of Britannic.” The war master turned over the pendant and squinted at the tiny square portrait of the lass. “By the Gods. Who painted this miniature? ’Tis so real.”

Darach took the clasp and examined it closely. “’Tisnae stone nor glass. Look at this hinge work. ’Tis as if elves fashioned the piece.”

“Now she’s come from Elphyne,” Camdyn said, and spat on the floor. “What next? Shall we beg the sages build another crystal crypt, and mount her in the hall beside the blade?”

“You ken how to read,” Luthias said to the war master. “Tell them.”

“Her pendant, ’tis inscribed ‘Emery Parker, Intern, Department of Arms and Armory, Pelton Mus-e-um.’ ’Tis much like that the Romans chiseled on their casing stones.” Taveon’s gaze shifted down and his eyes narrowed. “What the fack?”

Camdyn took the pendant from him, and after a moment swore and passed it to Darach, who made a strangled sound. As the men passed it around to examine it, Taveon braced his brow against his hand.

“The date inscribed on the pendant means the Fire Sword found Mistress Parker in the twenty-first century,” Luthias said. “She’s travelled back over seven hundred years to come to the clan. ’Twould mean the rest of the legend, ’tis true. She’s been brought to save us all.”

Chapter Three

Deep in the dark, narrow shafts that sprawled in every direction beneath his land, Laird Callum Carack walked with his master sage Reothadh, who discreetly guided him with a hand on the back of his arm. They passed blurs he knew to be bare-chested miners chipping away at the recesses, the sound of their tools striking the stone growing louder as they were noticed. Callum had never cared for the smell of the men’s sweat mixed with damp rock and dirt, but for this brief visit he could tolerate the stink. When they arrived at their destination, a newly-found vein of gold, Reothadh’s grip on his arm tightened, and he halted.

The vague shape of the surveyor waiting for him lowered. “My lord, ’tis an honor you’ve come–”

“Leave us.” Callum waited until the man hurried off before he said to the sage, “Show me.”

“Aye, my lord.” Reothadh lit a candle and used a polished round of silver to reflect the light onto the stone wall of the shaft.

The sudden flare of light restored Callum’s vision, and showed him a vein of gold as wide as a man’s arm and three times as long. Above and below the gleaming deposit colorful streaks of dark blue crystal sparkled. As the sage moved the candle closer, the crystal glittered with flecks of every color of the rainbow; something only a Carack born could see.

“’Tis dreamstone,” Callum confirmed for the sage.

“Thank you for settling that, my lord,” the sage said. “The deposit here, ’twill make enough elixir to put to sleep an entire town for three days and nights, if added to their ale barrels.”

“You hope,” Callum said, only too well aware that the sages would have to prepare the concoction perfectly to fulfill his claim. He reached out to touch the gold, which felt cold and damp against his fingertips. This he could depend upon; gold kept the clan’s coffers filled to overflowing. Yet as he moved his hand to the glassy streaks of multi-colored crystal, he thought of the hastily-written scroll he had found in his bed chamber.