Page 70 of Luthias

“Keep quiet what you heard on MacRoss land, you silly arse, or ’twill be the last words you ever utter.” He waited until Fyn nodded, and then pushed him toward the back hall. “Go to the wash house and bathe. You stink.”

The master sage waited until the hunter strolled away before he bowed. “Forgive me, my lord. I spoke with scant reason and no thought. Others shall do the same when they hear the tale.”

“Fyn shall say naught.” It wouldn’t be long before word of the wench appearing with the Fire Sword spread, however. Callum knew Luthias would appoint himself her protector, aye, and keep her close until she fulfilled her purpose. Yet would it not be proper vengeance on the other laird, then, to snatch that female from him before she could do so? “Summon my captains.”

Emery came awake by degrees, first feeling a soft mattress beneath her body and a heavy blanket tucked around her. The air felt strange, as if someone had cranked the A/C down all the way, or it was snowing and someone had left a window open.

In June?

She could remember bits and pieces of what had happened. She wondered if she had finally regained consciousness after what must have been a bad fall off that table in the storage room. But no, she couldn’t be in a hospital, not when she could smell wood burning and hear cows mooing in the distance.

Maybe her senses had gotten a little scrambled. She cracked open one eye to make sure she was alone, which she seemed to be, and then sat up. Her hair fell loose around her face, and when she felt for the clip she wore to hold it back it was gone. As she turned around something bounced against her leg, and she picked up a hexagon of gray stone about the same size and thickness as a guitar pick. One side had been painted red, and the other etched with a strange symbol in white that she didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” As she took in her surroundings she slipped the stone into her pocket. “Gordon? Mr. Buchanan?” She hesitated before she called, “Mr. MacRoss?”

Somehow she had ended up in what had to be the most authentic medieval castle room mock-up she had ever seen. From the rough-hewn rock walls and weathered slate floor to the roaring fire in the gigantic blackened stone hearth, it appeared so genuine it must have been built by expert architectural restorationists. Furs had been draped here and there, and so had several tartans in various patterns of gold, red and black.

Her gaze shifted to a trio of window slits only as wide as her hand but five or six feet tall, and the opaque lengths of something covering them. The rest of the chamber had been only sparsely furnished, with some big chairs by the fire, a few trunks and one huge armoire across from the fire. They’d done it up to look like it belonged to someone important, perhaps a Scottish laird.

Luthias, laird of the MacRoss.

The memory of the strange Scotsman who had cornered her in the storage room came rushing back to Emery. So did everything he’d said to her.

Didnae your masters warn you of me?

Speak truly, and I shall be merciful.

She should have laughed out loud, but this elaborate prank wasn’t funny. That guy pretending to be a laird might have been gorgeous, but leaving her unconscious in one of the exhibits had been a horrible thing to do. She’d have to report it to the personnel director, and she would, as soon as she...as soon as she...

You’ve come to Dun Lasair, stronghold of Clan MacRoss.

’Tis the fourteenth century.

Carefully sliding off the bed, Emery tiptoed over to the window slits and lifted an edge of what felt like thin, oiled parchment to see if there was a brick wall behind them.

No brick wall.

She saw two massive stone walls with battlements, atop which men with bows and spears stood with their backs toward her. All of them wore tartans, tunics and trews that looked quite medieval. Some warmed their hands over low braziers, and she saw gauntlets and cuffs of leather and hammered metal. Beyond the men standing watch a wide snow-topped range of rugged mountains hemmed the sky, the lower slopes disappearing into a thick forest of enormous trees.

Her dad had loved the mountains, and had taken her all over New Hampshire during her childhood to drive and hike through them. Nothing she had ever seen in her life resembled the panorama before her.

Was it some kind of elaborate hazing ritual? Had Gordon and Bill Buchanan arranged this whole deal to initiate her? Who would go to all this trouble for a new intern?

Maybe Buc knocked me out and kidnapped me, and I just don’t remember.

Emery lowered the window covering and backed away, running her hand all over her head. She didn’t feel any bumps or sore spots. According to the little date window on her watch it was seven a.m. on June twenty-eighth. She had been unconscious for at least eight hours. She then inspected the room again for any sign that it was a movie set or mockup. That was when she noticed the complete lack of modern conveniences: no electrical outlets, lighting, manufactured textiles, air conditioning vents or carpeting.

Everything didn’t just look medieval, it was medieval.

By the hearth she saw a round-bottomed dark metal pot that stood on three legs that looked very familiar. She went over and saw it had been filled with water, probably to be heated in the fire. It had been primitively cast of thick bronze. Bronze, she recalled, had begun replacing pottery in Scotland by the thirteenth century. She’d written a paper about them for an antiquities class, and included photos of pots found by archaeologists that looked exactly like this one.

This pot had some soot marks on the bottom, but otherwise it looked brand-new.

“I never fell off that table,” she murmured to herself as she ran her fingertips over the rim of the cauldron. She remembered the sensation she’d felt just before blacking out, when that tingling warmth had wrapped around her and made her hair float in the still air. “My head doesn’t hurt. This isn’t a hallucination. I travelled through time, just like he said.”

Emery should have cried or fainted or screamed her head off, but as the realization sank in she felt instead as if she’d just won the lottery. If she had come to Scotland during the actual Middle Ages, then the whole place would be filled with men walking around armed with daggers and claymores and dirks. Bladed weapons had been the smart phones of the medieval era, Emery thought, feeling another surge of excitement. She could collect all the data she needed to fill in the gaps in her diss, and see the weapons of this era in mint condition up close instead of peering at photographs and ancient relics in glass display cases.

Sure, and in this time period I can also die from an infection, plague, tuberculosis, starvation, or someone hacking me to pieces with one of those claymores.