Page 112 of Dark Victory

June 19, 1550

HE REMINDED HIMSELF that he would go home to the thirteenth century, where Tabitha was alive. But instead of doing that, he sank down on the stairs, shocked. Tabitha would die at An Tùir-Tara.

He could not move and he could barely think. He was consumed with grief. But all he had to do was return to Blayde in the thirteenth century and she would be there, waiting for him. A sense of confusion began. He could not live without her. Nothing had ever been as clear. He loved this woman. But he hadn’t had the power to prevent her death—not now, and not as an older, even more powerful man.

He breathed hard and realized he was crying.

Watching Tabitha die was something he would never forget.

Even if they spent two-and-a-half centuries together, he could not watch her die again. An Tùir-Tara had to change! But how could he possibly accomplish that?

He began to tremble, rage joining the grief and the guilt. Was her death written? If so, he would never forgive the gods!

A shadow fell across the dark stairwell. Macleod took another breath and somehow looked down the stairs. MacNeil stood there. His fury knew no bounds now. But the walls didn’t shake, the stairwell did not move and no stones fell from the ceiling.

He hadn’t felt the Abbot’s power, either.

Beginning to realize what had happened to him, Macleod slowly stood. “I willna allow her to die here.”

MacNeil’s face was as hard as stone, but the light in his eyes was pitying. “Ye dinna learn.”

“Ye cold, heartless bastard! Tabitha is kind an’ good. She deserves immortality. I will find a way to save her!”

MacNeil’s face never changed, but his gaze flickered. “Ye’ll never trust in Fate. Ye’ll never trust the gods.”

He wanted to murder MacNeil with his bare hands. He wanted to curse the gods loudly enough so that they knew he was through with them, so that his curses came true. “Never,” he snarled.

MacNeil stared, pity still in his eyes. “Yer temper doesna serve ye well, lad.”

“What do ye want o’ me now?”

“Ye should know by now that yer temper only causes ye more grief.”

“What do ye want?” he shouted. “Tell me or be gone an’ get out of my way!”

“We want nothin’ from ye.”

An inkling began, but he dismissed it. MacNeil had hounded him for most of a century, demanding he give up his vengeance and take his vows. The gods would never really disown him. Of course, he could never take those vows. How could he? Fate would claim Tabitha, taking her from him. Her Destiny was written by the Ancients. He would never serve them now and that was his revenge against them.

But Tabitha was waiting for him in 1298—and his decision to take his vows had pleased her more than anything else he could ever do.

He could not think clearly, he realized. He was too upset, too sick, too shocked. But maybe he could bargain for her life. “Tell them to change An Tùir-Tara. Let Tabitha live. Let her die a natural death. An’ then I will serve them.”

MacNeil made a dismissive sound. “Ye’re done, Guy. The gods dinna want ye to serve them. Yer own grandfather has disowned ye.”

He did not care—did he? Tabitha would care. Somehow, he would explain it to her. But to do that, he had to get back to Blayde in 1298, and once there, he would find a way to change Fate. He faced the fact that he was empty inside now. “Where are my powers? Did they take them, or is this the reason no Master should go back or forward in time and see himself?”

“When ye encounter yerself in another time, one of ye will lose power.” MacNeil stared. “But ye’ll never lose the power to leap, otherwise, how will ye get back to the time where ye belong?”

Macleod tensed. “I dinna have the power to leap. ’Tis gone.”

MacNeil’s face twisted in anguish. “I am sorry, lad. When I told ye they’ve disowned ye, I meant it. They’ve taken yer powers. Ye’re mortal now.”

If he was mortal, he would not be able to leap back to 1298. He began to breathe hard. “I have to get back to Blayde. I have to get back to Tabitha.”

“Did ye think to defy us fer ninety-seven years and walk away unscathed?” MacNeil turned away.

“Send me back,” Macleod shouted, rushing down the stairs. And he tripped, falling. He was a mortal now.