Claire Delacroix (33 page)

“I’ll come with you,” Morgaine declared with quiet determination.

The offer surprised Alasdair, though no less than the enchantress’s resolve. “My lady, there is no need.”

“Of course there is. You can’t go alone.”

Alasdair frowned and lowered his voice to reason with her as she came to stand beside him. “But should we pass into the land of mortals, you could well share the fate I have just survived. You could be lost from your home.”

She smiled sadly and tapped a fingertip in his chest. “Surely Morgaine le Fee will only have to click the heels of her ruby slippers together to come back?”

There was a skepticism in her tone, but Alasdair refused to think again about her fantastical tale. She spoke aright about the extent of her powers, as well he knew, and truth be told, he welcomed the promise of her companionship.

For when the moment stood before him, Alasdair was not so eager to be rid of Morgaine le Fee’s enchanting company. He would miss the tiny sorceress, with her intriguing blend of softness and strength, her determination and her vulnerability. Aye, he would continue in her presence for but a few moments longer before leaving her side for all time.

’Twas a weakness, no doubt of that, but one she seemed to share.

Alasdair nodded assent and folded Morgaine’s hand within his own, marveling that she permitted him to touch her thus. Morgaine nodded to Justine and Blake, and the Micra hummed once more.

“We’ll find a bed-and-breakfast,” Blake called cheerfully. “Meet you back here in an hour?”

An hour. Alasdair had one hour left with the enchantress before their ways parted for all time. Clearly, they believed ’twould be more than time enough for her to see him home. Alasdair’s heart began to hammer in his chest.

But one hour and he would be before his very own hearth. Never would he have believed that fate would hold such allure. It seemed a distant dream to recall his impatience to shake the dirt of Lewis from his boots. Morgaine waved and the Micra backed down the road, spewing gravel in every direction.

Within a matter of moments, the silence Alasdair so loved pressed against his ears. The gravel faded to naught and Lewis’s low grass was springy beneath his boots. He took a deep breath of the salt-laden air, caught the scent of sheep and freshly turned earth beyond the swirling curtain of fog.

Home.

And Morgaine had insisted upon not only returning him but on sharing the moment with him. Alasdair was determined to show her the fullness of both his hospitality and his gratitude. He squeezed her fingers and smiled down at the uncertainty lingering in her wondrous eyes.

“Come, Morgaine,” he invited with all the grace of a courtier. “Come with me and meet my son.”

And with a spring in his step, Alasdair strode into the swirling mist, confident of what lay ahead.

* * *

They walked through the mist, the silence surrounding them enough to make Morgan lose what little sense of time she had. The fog was thick and white, and a faint shimmer of tiny raindrops gradually gathered on her anorak. Morgan felt as though she were walking in the clouds.

An occasional sheep appeared before them, then fled in a panic once it glimpsed them. Their footsteps made the only sound, until Morgan caught the steady rhythm of the sea crashing on the coast far, far ahead.

Alasdair strode with confidence, the road obviously familiar to him and the fog no obstacle to navigation at all. Morgan watched him out of the corner of her eye and caught the bright gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

If she hadn’t ben dreading what Alasdair would find, she might have enjoyed the walk. It felt as though they had left the world she knew and wandered in some magical realm.

Clearly Alasdair had come to the same conclusion. There was a definite lightness to his step. She hoped they had a long way to go before he was disappointed, then called herself a chicken.

“I shall tell you a story, my lady,” he offered, and Morgan was glad of a way to keep from thinking too much about what lay ahead.

“That would be wonderful.”

“Aye, ’tis not a ditty, this one, but a fair tale nonetheless. Once upon a time, there was a smith of fair talent, who worked long and hard at his craft. He had a son, a tall young lad, who had a good interest in the smithy, and all was good within his world.

“Until one day, his son took ill. At first the smith thought little of it, for children oft catch a chill and recover with speed. But this sickness lingered on and on. The boy faded to a shadow of his former self, and the smith grew increasingly worried. He sought counsel from those in the town, without success, until the elder came and looked within his cottage with wise, wise eyes.

“The elder took the smith aside once he had had a good look at the lad and shook his head with dismay. ‘I fear to tell you the truth, but ’twill out in the end. ’Tis not your son lying in his own bed, but a Faerie changeling. The fair folk have stolen your boy for their own.’

“Now the smith was skeptical of this tale, for the lad looked exactly like his own blood, even though his flesh turned more yellow every day. So, the elder described a test to the smith that would prove the Faerie’s identity. Eager to dismiss this whimsy, the smith gathered the materials bidden.

“Within his cottage, the smith laid out the dozens of broken eggshells he had brought and greeted the one who appeared to be his son as though naught was amiss. Then, with great solemnity, he filled the eggshells from the water bucket, two at a time, and carried them as though they were fearsomely heavy to set before the fire. The boy watched with fascination.

“The smith continued thus, two shells by two, until the one he thought to be his son shouted with laughter. ‘Never in all my eight hundred years have I seen the like of that. Are you mad, father smith?’

“And a great fear seized the smith’s heart, for now he knew the elder had spoken aright. The next morn, he raced to the elder with the news and demanded to know what he must do to rid himself of the changeling and retrieve his own son.

“The elder thought long and hard, then he counseled the smith. ‘Go to your home and light a large fire immediately beside the lad’s bed. Make the fire burn bright and high, and when he asks you what the blaze is for, seize him and cast him into the flames. The changeling will flee screaming through the cottage roof, as surely as a wisp of smoke.’

“The smith went home and followed the elder’s dictate. He lit the fire, he made it burn bright and high. The changeling asked what the blaze was for and the smith immediately seized him and cast him into the flames. And with an eerie scream, the Faerie changed to its own dark self and fled the cottage through the roof.

“Now, although this was all well and good, the smith yet wanted his own son back. He returned to the elder to ask advice, and after some thought, the elder presented him with a plan. ‘On the night of the full moon,’ the elder said solemnly, ‘the Faerie folk do gather at that round green hill for their dancing. The barriers are thin between their world and ours at such times and ’tis then that you must seek your son.

“‘Take a Bible with yourself, a dirk and a crowing cock, and do exactly as I bid you, lest you never be seen on this earth again. There will be much dancing and merriment, but do not be distracted from your course. Hold the Bible high to protect yourself and go to the opening in the side of the hill from which the light will spill. Before you enter, stick your dirk into the threshold that you will not be trapped inside.’

“The old man gripped the smith’s arm. ‘When first you enter, you will see your son. You will be asked why you are there: say simply that you will not leave without your son. Keep your wits about you, master smith, and you will be safely home at the dawn with your very own son.’

“Well, the smith took this counsel quite seriously and was determined not to fail. On the night of the next full moon, he gathered up his Bible, his dirk and a cock that crowed louder than most, and made his way to the hill.

“True to the elder’s words, there was a tremendous celebration there. A golden light spilled through a doorway in the side of the hill where the smith knew there usually was none. He could hear laughter within, as well as fey music, but he held his Bible high and approached the door. Before entering, he stuck his dirk in the threshold, then stepped over its hilt.

“He had only a glimpse of the Faeries’ wild dance before he saw his own son, working at a golden forge. The smith caught his breath in the same moment that the Faerie folk spied him. The festivities halted suddenly and all manner of eyes turned upon him. ‘What do you want here, master smith?’ they called mockingly. ‘I want my son,’ the smith replied. ‘And I will not go without him.’

“The Faeries laughed merrily at this bold assertion, for they knew well enough that both smith and son were on the Faeries’ own soil. ’Twas they who would decide who might stay and who might leave.

“But their laughter awakened the slumbering cock, who mistook the bright Faerie lights for the sun. The cock leapt to the smith’s shoulder, flapped his wings, and set to crowing. The sound was overloud beneath the hill, but naught would silence the cock. The Faeries grew agitated, but the cock crowed on and on.

“Finally, and with much gnashing of teeth, the angry Faeries cast the smith and his son and their cock out of the hill. They flung his dirk after him – the iron of the blade being as poison to them – and the doorway in the hill closed as if it had never been.

“And when father and son crossed the threshold of their own humble cottage, the dawn was just breaking over the horizon. They lived long and happily together, the son having learned much in the Faerie smithy that he shared with his sire, and they prospered in their trade as few others do.”

* * *

The mist lifted ever so slightly once Alasdair finished his tale, and Morgan could see the silhouettes of hills on either side of them. Alasdair began to walk more quickly, his excitement obvious.

She knew it hadn’t been an accident that his story had been about man and son reunited, and she ached at what she knew he would find ahead. The sound of the sea became louder as they rounded a corner, and the wind off the ocean dispersed the fog.

A verdant valley spread before them, spilling from the hills high to the right and flowing into the sea to Morgan’s left. It was touched by dew, and a sparkling brook cut through the pasture on its merry dance to the sea. The fields were vivid green and spotted with hundreds of wandering sheep. It was a scene of pastoral perfection.

Much to Morgan’s surprise after their walk, a glossy paved road snaked over the crest of the hills high above and wound its way to a carefully maintained gabled house. A hedge of roses grew all around the dwelling and a sign creaked in the wind before it.

Adaira Macleod’s Rose Cottage Bed-and-Breakfast.

The house had a porch all across the front and wrapped around the sides, a deep porch with plenty of room to sit even when it rained. The view of the ocean would be spectacular, Morgan guessed, even as her gaze danced over the lace-adorned windows.

It was only after admiring the house that Morgan noticed the ruined walls of a single crofter’s cottage beyond it to the left. She has seen these small cottages throughout Scotland, their heavy walls made of mortared stone, their thatched roofs slightly curved, smoke coiling from the chimney. But this one had almost crumbled into the earth.

It was clearly abandoned.

Before Morgan could say anything, Alasdair was running across the pasture. She suddenly knew who had abandoned this cottage.

“Alasdair! Wait!”

But he wasn’t waiting for anything. To Morgan’s astonishment, he continued to climb higher, ignoring the ruined cottage. He fell to his knees behind the bed-and-breakfast, where the sparkling stream burst out of the hills to meander across the valley. As Morgan watched, he pushed aside the vegetation with increasing anxiety.

He was looking for some vestige of his home. Of course, it would have eroded to nothing in seven hundred years. Even though Morgan had known all along that he wouldn’t find his cottage, watching Alasdair claw in the dirt tore her heart out.

The ruins of the other cottage were grayed and broken, all but the last foot of the outer walls gone. The remaining stones were rounded and worn by the weather, choked with moss, nearly swallowed by long waving grass.

A single purple foxglove bloomed in one corner, sheltered from the wind and in colorful contrast to the ruins around it. The house would have been dark inside, Morgan guessed, with few windows. But the walls would have been painted white and the peat fire would have made it cozy and warm. Now, the sunlight played on what would have been the floor, and where that flower grew, a stool or chest might have sat.

But it was all reverting to dust.

As Alasdair’s home already had.

Morgan slowly followed the highlander, knowing that this would not be an easy truth for him to accept. As she watched, Alasdair spun wildly where he stood. He scanned the hills, the valley, the view of the sea.

The color drained from his face, and Morgan knew that this was precisely where his home had stood.

“Gone,” he murmured when Morgan reached his side, as though he couldn’t comprehend the fact. Then Alasdair turned his tormented gaze upon her, and his usual bold tone faltered.

“Morgaine, I have lost my son.”

And the tears Morgan had glimpsed earlier spilled down his cheeks. He sank to the ground and stared across the valley, oblivious to his own tears, consumed by the magnitude of his loss.

Morgan didn’t know what to do. Alasdair’s grief was tangible, and nothing she could say would ease the sting of the truth.

She couldn’t do a single thing to fix this.

Or could she?

“I left him when I should never have done so,” Alasdair admitted, the words obviously not coming easily to his lips. “In my zeal to protect our honor, in my quest to set to rest the lies told of me, I failed my only son.”

He looked at Morgan and her chest tightened at his despair. “I lost him as surely as if I had denied that he was blood of my blood.”