Page 7 of Luthias

“The healer went with her family to Skye, my lord, to bury her sire,” Duine said, rubbing his brow. “’Tis a pity she’ll be gone for a month or more, for I’m now in need of one of her headache brews.”

As the sage slowly rose to his feet Luthias said, “When you next gather with your brothers, advise them say naught of that or the lady to the household, or any of our allies. I dinnae wish anyone but those I trust to ken why this lass came to Dun Lasair.”

“Aye, ’twould be wisest, my lord.” The sage looked down at Emery. “She’s so young and small. Why should the sain bring back a wee lass like her? How can she...?” He didn’t finish his thought, but shook his head and bowed before he left the chamber.

Luthias carefully released the strange clip in Emery’s hair, and tucked it in his pocket before he smoothed out the rest of her thick, fine hair, which smelled of flowers. The long layers of it fell below her shoulders, and the ends curled around his fingers. The wee pearls in her ear lobes stayed in place thanks to clasps at the back so small and fine they might have been fashioned by the hand of the Fae.

That scent left behind by the Fire Sword’s magic had finally begun to fade, leaving her own womanly fragrance. The warmth of her little body felt good atop his. He would not mind spending the day holding her in his bed, although with the way she made him feel he doubted he’d be satisfied with a simple embrace.

You’re playing at lover when you’ve a clan facing death.

Gently he shifted Emery over onto her back, gazing upon her face. He rubbed his thumb over her pretty lips to remove a trace of Duine’s elixir, and felt an urge to kiss her brow.

“’Tis the Fae magic, my lady,” Luthias murmured to her, wishing that were true.

He slipped out of the bed without disturbing her, and then walked out of his chamber and closed the door before he spoke to the two guards waiting outside.

“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.”