“Starlight can only carry me to the heavens and back. You and Mum can travel anywhere with but a thought.”
Wilona laughed. “My darling, it’s taken us a lifetime to learn to travel as we do. Be patient. In time it will come to you. In fact, it will probably happen when you least expect it. Now.” She turned away. “I promised Bessie I’d make up a batch of biscuits to go with her stew.”
She started away, then paused and turned. “I believe it would greatly please your mother if you and Jeremy would bring home some berries from the forest for our dessert.”
Gwenellen nodded. “You mean, it would go a long way toward making amends?”
Wilona smiled. “Aye. It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Very well.” Gwenellen turned away. “Tell Bessie to whip some clotted cream to go with the berries.”
“Here, Jeremy.” Gwenellen handed the little troll a bucket and pointed to a row of bushes heavy with roseberries. Sweet as cherries, tart as raspberries, luscious as strawberries, without seeds or pits, they were a special treat that grew only in the Mystical Kingdom. “You get those in the lower branches and I’ll pick the ones higher up.”
They picked for several minutes in silence. Finally over a mouthful of berries Jeremy asked, “Are you certain you’re all right, Gwenellen?”
“I’m fine. It was only my pride that was hurt.”
“You’re as fine and clever a witch as your sisters. You’re just too ambitious for your own good. You ought to accept the gifts you have, and not worry about the others.”
“Now you sound like Gram.” Laughing, Gwenellen got to her feet and began to pick once more. “She says I can talk to the dead. That may be a fine gift, except that there are no dead here in our kingdom.” She stood on tiptoe to reach a cluster of perfect berries. “Gram says I must keep on trying to find my other gifts, because each failure is simply another lesson to be learned.”
“If that’s so, you should be just about perfect by now.”
“Aye.” As she enjoyed his joke, Gwenellen’s laughter rang on the air, as clear as a bell. Then she stood back, considering. “Maybe I am trying too hard. Perhaps the answer is to just relax a bit more, and play with a variety of spells, without regard to the outcome.”
“Why not?” The little troll shrugged. “It’s worth a try. Want to start with something simple now?”
Gwenellen looked around. Spying the juiciest berries at the very top of the bushes, she smiled. “I believe I’ll try that flying spell again. Only this time if it fails, I won’t have so far to fall.”
Slipping the handle of the bucket over her wrist, she extended her arms and closed her eyes as she began to chant the ancient words. With each phrase the air grew softer, warmer. The birds and insects fell silent as clouds gathered overhead.
She could feel the sudden rush of air, billowing her skirts about her ankles as she became airborne. Oh, it was just the nicest feeling in the world when a spell went the way it ought.
She opened her eyes, determined to pick the berries at the top of the bushes. To her horror she discovered that she was so high in the air, the Mystical Kingdom was little more than a dot on the landscape far below.
“Oh, no. This will never do.” She closed her eyes and repeated the chant, reversing the words in the hope that it would take her back to the beginning. But when she opened her eyes she saw fields and forests, mountains and rivers, moving below her in a blur of dizzying movement that had her feeling more than a little light-headed.
Where had she gone wrong? She went over the chant in her mind, hoping to speak the words that would break this spell.
Home. She needed to get back home.
To keep from being sick she closed her eyes and concentrated all her energy on her home, her family. She visualized each of them in her mind. Mum, at her loom, weaving the beautiful cloth that was unlike any seen by mortals. So soft, so fine, it could have been spun by angels. Gram, taking perfectly-browned biscuits from the hearth, and slathering them with freshly-churned butter, and honey fresh from the comb. Old Bessie, a soiled apron tied around her ample middle, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the most fragrant stew in her blackened kettle. And Jeremy, probably running as fast as his little legs could carry him back to their cottage, to relay news of her latest blunder.
Oh dear, she thought. Now they would all know that she had once again failed.
Perhaps, if she concentrated very hard, she could make it back before Mum had time to worry.
As if by magic she could feel herself descending. With a smile she opened her eyes just in time to see the ground coming up toward her. This time, instead of crashing into a meadow of heather, she drifted to earth and landed without mishap.
“Well, that’s better.” She looked around for Jeremy.
But instead of the roseberry bushes, she found herself standing amid the smoldering rubble inside some sort of fortress. The space around her was littered with charred timbers and bits and pieces of furniture and tapestries.
The stench of smoke and death was all around her, filling her lungs until she found herself coughing and retching. When the fit of coughing passed, she straightened. Hearing a footfall she turned.
And found herself looking into the eyes of a man whose features were twisted into a mask of fury.
In his hand was a sword which he lifted until it was pointed directly at her heart.
“So. They left one of their number behind.” His voice was a low rumble of anger. “Prepare to die, woman.”
Chapter Two
Gwenellen struggled to think of a spell. Any spell that might freeze this stranger before he could run her through. But her mind went completely blank. All she could think to do was hold her hands out in front of her, as though they could somehow stop the path of a sword that was nearly as big as she.
He stared in suspicion at the bucket on her arm. “What weapons are you hiding in there?”
“Hi…?” She swallowed and tried again. “Hiding? I hide nothing, sir. I was out picking berries.”
“Here?” He swung a hand to indicate the charred rubble. “You expect me to believe you were picking berries and didn’t realize you’d wandered into my family fortress?”
“This is…yours?”
He nodded, eyes narrowed on her. “If you lived in the village, you would know of this place, for I am Andrew Ross, and this castle is known as Ross Abbey. My ancestors have been here for hundreds of years.” When he saw no flicker of recognition in her eyes he hissed out a breath of impatience. “Tell me quickly who you are and what you do here.”
“My name is Gwenellen, of the clan Drummond. My home is in a land known as the Mystical Kingdom.”
That had him taking a step back. “I’ve heard of such a place. All Highlanders have heard the tale. Of the mortal, Kenneth Drummond, who married a witch, then gave his life to save hers. Of the dragon that guards the Enchanted Loch. Of the Forest of Darkness that lies between it and the rest of the Highlands. But it is no more than a myth.”
“If it be a myth, than I am one, as well.” When she lowered her bucket to show him the berries inside, he seemed unconvinced. She reached out a hand to touch his arm. “I assure you, sir, like these berries, I am real.”
All too real, he thought, as he was forced to absorb a strange rush of heat that nearly seared his flesh. He pulled away as though burned and looked down to see if she’d left a mark on him. Though his skin was without blemish, he could still feel the tingling all the way to his fingertips. “How do you come to be here?”
She shook her head. “I know not. One moment I was picking berries, the next I was standing here before you, as you now see me.”
“Perhaps you’ve been bewitched. Have you brought witchcraft to this place?”
She paused. “In your land it is called witchcraft. In my kingdom we are simply practicing the gifts of the ancient ones. My sisters, my mother and my grandmother have many gifts.”
Again she saw his look of disbelief. “What of you, woma
n? What are your gifts?”
“I fear I’m not much good at the art of mysticism. But I’m very good at falling from the sky. And getting lost, it seems.” She started to laugh, then thought better of it when she saw his frown. “I have no idea what my gifts might be, nor why I’m here.”
“Nor do I.” He abruptly turned away and stared at the smoldering ruins of his home. “Leave me. For I have graves to dig and loved ones to bury.”
“I could help.”
“I doubt one small female could be of much help. Unless you can conjure my enemy and have him kneel before me to face my sword, for he will surely pay for destroying everything I hold dear. Leave me now.” He strode away, leaving her standing alone in the smoke and ashes.
She watched as he began tossing aside charred timbers, unmindful of the burns he was forced to endure to his hands. Like a madman he pawed through the ruins. Suddenly he dropped to his knees and lifted the body of a man whose hand was still clutching a sword.
“Oh, Father.” His voice was a low rasp of pain mingled with fury. “How has it all come to this? I was such a fool. If only I’d stayed.”
“Nay.” The word was little more than a whisper on the wind. But Gwenellen heard it as clearly as though she had her ear pressed to the old man’s lips. “Ye mustn’t blame ye’rself. I was the fool. Such a fool.”
“My fault.” Andrew rocked the lifeless body in his arms. “If I hadn’t been so quick to leave. But how could I stay, knowing what you were about to do? How?”
There was a long moment of silence, followed by a deep sigh.
“Ye must help me help him, lass. Will ye do that?”
Again the whisper, louder this time, and Gwenellen looked over, seeing the look of shock and grief in Andrew’s eyes. Why was he grieving, when his father was still here? Could he not hear what she heard so clearly?
“Don’t ye see, lass? I can no longer speak to him. But I can speak with ye. And ye can be the bridge between my world and his.”
When the realization came, Gwenellen was so startled, she could do nothing more than stare in stunned surprise. Andrew was grieving because his father was no longer here. The old man truly had slipped away to that other world. As her own father had, before she was born. And yet this man, like her father, could communicate with her. Unlike others, she felt no barrier between herself and that other world. His words were as clear, as plain, as the one who held him in his arms.
Her grandmother’s words came to her. Everything in life happens for a reason. Even when things are seen as problems, they are merely lessons which must be learned.
This, then, was one of her true gifts. Hadn’t her grandmother said as much? But because it had seemed so natural to talk to her father, she’d dismissed her grandmother’s words. Now, after all these years of uncertainty, it was being brought back to her more clearly than ever.
“I’ll…do what I can, sir.”
Andrew didn’t hear her as he lifted his father’s lifeless body in his arms and carried it through the rubble to a distant corner of the garden, where he began digging a grave.
Setting aside her bucket, Gwenellen imitated Andrew Ross by digging through the rubble, in search of others who might need her gift.
A short time later she heard Andrew cry out and looked over to see him unrolling a parchment that had been affixed to the center of a table by the blade of a knife. After reading it he gave a snarl of anger and crushed the parchment in his clenched fist.
Gwenellen hurried over to stand beside him. “What is it? What have you found?”
He seemed almost dazed, as though only vaguely aware of her presence beside him. “It’s as I’d suspected. Fergus Logan. There has been enmity between his clan and ours from the time of our ancestors. And now he’s taken his vengeance by not only boasting of killing my father, but of taking his wife as hostage.” His black mood darkened with every word. “This time his vile deeds will not go unpunished.”
“What will you do?”
He turned away without another word.
In silence he returned to the rubble with a renewed sense of urgency.
The setting sun cast the land in deep purple shadows. Gwenellen sat on a log, and watched as Andrew smoothed the dirt over the last grave and knelt to whisper a prayer. Around them were a score of fresh mounds, each of them marking the grave of one of the beloved members of his household.
Each of them had spoken to her. An introduction. A request to carry words to family and friends left behind. Occasionally an apology for some hurt they’d failed to heal before leaving this world.
So many voices calling out to her. Filling her mind. Touching her heart. At first it had seemed a babble of voices, until she’d begun to sort them out, giving each a bit of her time before moving on to the next. She’d listened to all, and had given her word to do what she could to ease the pain of those who were grieving. But the one that had touched her the deepest had been Andrew’s father, who expressed a fear that anger and bitterness would cloud his son’s judgment.
Andrew knelt a moment longer in prayer before getting to his feet. When he turned, he seemed surprised to see her.
“Why are you still here, woman?”
“I thought…” The fierceness of the man frightened her. Still, she couldn’t put aside the wishes expressed so eloquently by his dead father. “I thought I would stay until all were buried.”
“You’ve been here all this time?” Andrew had been so locked in his own grief and anger he’d barely noticed her throughout the day. Now he realized that she, like him, must be beyond exhaustion.
He looked down at her, noting the dirt that stained her fine gown and lovely face. Then he caught sight of the blisters on her hands and his frown deepened as he caught them, holding them up for his inspection. “Little fool. What have you done?”
Embarrassed, she tried to snatch her hands away, but he held them fast and looked into her eyes. “When did you last eat?”
She shrugged, aware of a strange tingling along her arms. Was it because of his touch? Or was it merely the result of the blisters? “I had some berries while still in my homeland.” Had it been hours? Days? Time was so different here in the land of mortals.
“Come with me.” He helped her up and led her to where his horse was tethered.
“Where are we going?”
He lifted her into the saddle and pulled himself up behind her before catching the reins. “There’s a tavern in the village. I’ll see that you’re fed and given shelter until you can be returned to your home.”
She trembled at the feel of his arms around her. There was a strange warmth where his hand, holding the reins, rested at her hip. “And you, sir?”
His breath stung her cheek. “There’ll be no rest for me until the one who did this cruel deed answers to my sword.”
The passion in his tone sent shivers along her spine, but Gwenellen remained silent about the words spoken by his father. It would be best if she waited awhile, and pondered the proper way to tell him of this strange new gift she’d discovered within herself. In truth, she feared his reaction. He seemed a simple, straightforward man of the sword. What if he refused to accept the fact that she had actually spoken with the dead?
They rode through Highland forests, across deep chasms filled with tumbling water, and along narrow winding trails until they reached the village far below. As they approached, the candlelight flickering in windows was a welcoming sight. Outside the tavern, horses blew and stomped in the night air that had cooled considerably.
Andrew slid from the back of his mount and tied the reins before lifting Gwenellen from the saddle. Again she felt the strength in him as he lifted her without effort and led the way inside. As soon as they stepped through the doorway, the chorus of voices in the public room fell silent.
“Andrew. Welcome home.” The tavern owner hurried over to greet him. Seeing Andrew’s charred tunic and blistered hands, he looked alarmed. “What has happened to you?”
“I retur
ned home to find the fortress burned, and all who dwelled within it dead, Duncan.”
At his words, the men were on their feet, gathering around him with a low buzz of speculation.
“Did no one see a roving band of warriors, Duncan?”
The old man shook his head sadly. “I fear not. I confess that I saw smoke in the distance, and suspected it might be the fires of invaders, who’ve been spotted in the hills. But your father had an army of warriors at the keep. I’d have thought them adequate for any threat.”
“As did I.” Andrew nodded. “Alas, I was mistaken, for all have perished.”
“Did no one survive?”
“One.” Andrew removed the rolled parchment from his tunic. “This was left behind.”
Aloud the tavern owner identified the seal. “It is from Fergus Logan, of the north.” In somber tones he read, “We have the mistress of Ross Abbey. You will kneel in submission, or forfeit her life.”
That created an even greater buzz of speculation among the tavern guests.
Duncan’s voice rose above the din. “Your father’s wife is now in the hands of his most hated enemy. How soon will you ride to his stronghold?”
“As quickly as I can raise an army. I’ll need a villager to ride to Edinburgh with a missive to my warriors.”
The tavern owner signaled to a youth, who stepped forward. Andrew scrawled a message on parchment, rolled it and handed it to the youth, along with a coin. “You’re to go directly to Holyroodhouse and ask for Drymen MacLean.”
“Aye.” The lad pocketed the coin and hurried out the door.
Andrew gave a weary sigh. “The lady and I require a meal to refresh ourselves, Duncan.” He glanced down at the soot staining his hands and tunic. “We’ll also need rooms for the night, and water to bathe.”
The innkeeper shouted for a serving wench. Minutes later a pink-cheeked lass hurried over. “Blythe will show you to your sleeping chambers, and will see that you have water for bathing.” He nodded toward a small, private room off to one side. “You’ll find your meal awaiting you there whenever you’re ready.”
Andrew pressed some gold coins into the man’s hand. “Also, if you could provide us with some clean garments, the lady and I would be grateful.”