Page 5 of Luthias

“Shout as you wish,” Luthias told her. “None shall come to your aid. You’ve no allies in this stronghold, lass.”

“Look, will you quit with the medieval laird act already?” Emery demanded. “I get that you want to mess with me, but really, you can drop it now. Is this some kind of new employee initiation thing? Did that guy Gordon put you up to it?”

He glanced down at the sword she held. Ever since it had been forged by Prince Ross nine centuries ago, the enclave of sages had recounted the legend of why he had created the saining blade, and the clan’s responsibility to keep it safe. Luthias also remembered taking a knee as he and his brothers swore they would protect any mortal who came to the clan with the Fire Sword in hand.

Since that day the blade had remained locked away in its crystal case in the great hall of Dun Lasair. No one had ever touched it, including him.

Luthias had believed the legend to be yet another vexing mystery left behind by the first MacRoss laird. Now he beheld a female dressed in clothes and shoes too finely made to be the work of any weaver or seamstress known to him. Around her throat lay a golden chain with links so thin they might have been fashioned from the web of a gold-spinning spider, and a larger pendant that had an overlarge square of glass suspended from a black ribbon. Two seed-size pearls glowed in her earlobes, and the cuff around her wrist showed the face of a wee sundial etched with tiny numbers. A tiny gold ring gleamed at the base of her smallest finger on one hand. Like a child she wore her dark hair unveiled and only partly pinned up, but it had been cut in many lengths. Somehow she had even painted her fingernails a pearly pink. She might have just arrived from the royal court of Elphyne.

Or mayhap one cast out of Elphyne sent her to me.

“’Tis what day and century for you, lass?” Luthias asked her.

“I told you, you can stop that.” When he didn’t say anything she made an impatient sound. “Fine. It’s Monday, June twenty-seventh. You know it’s the twenty-first century.” As she watched his face Emery frowned. “You do know that, right?”

Luthias picked up a reed and lit it with the lantern’s flame, and then walked about using it to light the braziers in his armory. He then slid to one side the window shutters to reveal the view of the highlands, now set ablaze by the rising sun. As he did Emery came to stand beside him, and stared out at the forest surrounding his stronghold.

“This isn’t the Pelton,” she murmured, and gripped the sill with her free hand until her little knuckles went white. “Where the– How did I get here? Where am I?”

Although he wasn’t sure why, he reached over and covered one of her hands with his. The moment he touched her, he felt her softness and heat, and instantly wanted her wrapped around him. “You’ve come to Dun Lasair, stronghold of Clan MacRoss.”

“Dun Lasair. Is that in Scotland?” When he nodded Emery flinched. “What day and century is it now for you?”

“The end of June.” He glanced down at her, seeing her lips part and her eyes widen. “’Tis the fourteenth century.”

She blinked, and then she uttered a merry laugh.

“I’ve come back seven hundred years in time. Sure.” Emery’s mirth died away as she looked out again. “That’s impossible. I was just in New Hampshire. There’s no way.”

“You’re from a new shire?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t start weeping. He’d rather be beaten than watch a lass cry. “’Tis in Britannia?”

“This is wrong. I couldn’t have ended up… Wait, I get it.” She faced him, looking desperate. “I fell off the table, didn’t I? When Buc came after me.” She touched the side of her head. “I must be hallucinating because of the concussion. Or maybe I’m…” She glanced down between them. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

“You must be what?” Luthias asked softly.

“I saw myself on the floor with a broken neck right before this happened.” Tears streaked down her face as she closed her eyes tightly. “Please go away. I don’t want to be dead. I haven’t finished my diss. I have so much to do. Please let this just be a bad dream. Please.”

He felt a surge of pity. “You yet live, lass.”

It seemed to him that Emery Parker was no thief, and the legend of the Fire Sword was truth. Worried now she would swoon from the shock of what he’d revealed, Luthias carefully took the blade out of her hands. She didn’t even try to hold onto it.

The moment he gripped the amber flame hilt of the blade Luthias felt its magic curling over his hand and pouring into his flesh, and recalled another facet of the sword’s legend: He who finds the one brought by the blade shall become their protector, and shall be sained with a power to aid them.

Quickly he set the blade aside before it could do more to befuddle him, and then saw how unsteady the lass had become.

“Mistress Parker.” As she shook her head he curved his hands around her upper arms. He had to take care what he said to her now. “You’ve no’ died. ’Twould seem destiny brought you to me and my clan.”

She took in a shuddering breath. “Destiny?”

“You’ve come to us for a purpose, lass.” Luthias tightened his grip as she paled and swayed. “I cannae say what ’twill be, or when you must serve the clan. Only ken the MacRoss shall protect you.”

“That’s better than a beating, I suppose. Why is this happening to me?” She pressed her hands against his chest, and looked up at him. “I’m just a summer intern.”

Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed against him.

Luthias held her against his body as he stooped to lift her in his arms. She felt so light he wondered if she’d been starved in her time. She smelled enchanting, like a meadow of tiny new blooms spangled with sun-warmed rain, and her delicate skin caressed his palms like thin silk. Beneath her own natural sweet fragrance something darker, hotter, and not of the mortal realm lingered. His own body’s reaction to it made him realize what it was.

This scent, the final proof of her innocence: she had been saturated with Fae fire magic.