Into the Dreaming

  Castle, indeed.

  Even nearly dead on her feet, she wasn’t immune to the centuries-old stone structure’s beauty. Towering above her, the sprawling wings stretched east and west from the central hall, disappearing into the darkness. She pivoted in a slow circle, taking it all in. Majestic snow-covered hills shimmered like pearls beneath a round, white moon. The road she’d taken up to the castle was already covered with fresh snow, concealing her tracks. A few more inches of drift, and a person wouldn’t even know a road was there. Not a single man-made noise could be heard, not one car engine or horn honking, no stereo blasting from a nearby apartment complex.

  Eerie. But soothing.

  She was stricken by a sudden chill and quickly tugged the zipper of her parka up to her neck, but the chill seemed a deeper thing, in her bones, as if Scotland might somehow change her before she managed to find her way out again.

  “Och, dearie, we’re so sorry!” Maeve Jameson exclaimed for the third time, wringing her ring-bedecked hands.

  “Sure as the sun sets, we forgot,” Nigel Jameson, Maeve’s husband, added sheepishly, whisking off Elisabeth’s parka and pushing her into a deep armchair near a blazing fire.

  The couple, both gray-haired and in their early sixties, had been fussing and fretting and apologizing since the moment she’d stepped out of the blustery wind and into the honest-to-goodness Greathall. Into the honest-to-goodness sprawling castle that had corridors shooting off in all direction and must have had a hundred rooms or more.

  Within moments she was clutching a steaming cup of cocoa, courtesy of Nigel, while Maeve bustled back and forth between hall and kitchen, laying cold cuts and cheese, thick, gold-crusted bread, a creamy potato salad, and a tray of condiments on the small table beside her.

  “Forgive us, dearie, but it’s been such a day. You have no idea. What with the terrible accident on our minds—”

  “And then with the sheep gettin’ oot, and us busy trying to round ’em up again—” Nigel said.

  “And with Gwen being pregnant and all—”

  “And the laird having a concussion—”

  “Concussion? Pregnant? Did you say accident?” Elisabeth exclaimed, struggling to digest the bits of conversation that were alarmingly vague. “Can you start at the beginning?”

  “Well, we plumb forgot to meet you at the airport,” Nigel said, as if that explained everything.

  “What accident?” Elisabeth asked, hoping she hadn’t just invited another mad rush of vague half sentences.

  Maeve sank into a chair beside her, fussing nervously with her short, curly hair. “The laird and lady were in Edinburgh yesterday when some biddle-brained American—sorry, not meaning any offense, dearie—was driving on the wrong side of the road and hit the MacKeltars head on. And being as Gwen’s six months pregnant—”

  “She is? She didn’t tell me that when we spoke on the phone.” Nor had Gwen bothered to mention that she’d married a bona fide lord and lived in a castle. Heavens, they had a lot of catching up to do! Gwen had also been reticent to discuss her brother-in-law’s condition, promising they’d speak about it when Elisabeth arrived.

  “Aye,” Nigel said, beaming. “Twins.”

  “Is Gwen all right?” Elisabeth worried. “The babies?”

  Nigel nodded. “No broken bones and the wee bairns are fine, but she got knocked about a bit, so they’re after keeping her for a time to be certain all’s well.”

  “And Drustan’s concussed, with no few scrapes and bruises.”

  “So it seems they may not be back ’til the end of the week and then when the sheep got oot—”

  “What with the boys being off to London for a wee holiday—”

  “Well, as you can see we’ve had our hands full—”

  “Which is no excuse, but—”

  “Begging your forgiveness, we are,” Nigel said earnestly, and Maeve nodded.

  Elisabeth took a slow, deep breath. “I see,” she said, waiting cautiously to see if they were going to burst into another simultaneous conversation.

  But they didn’t. Merely sat, regarding her expectantly.

  “Oh,” she said hastily, realizing they were waiting for her to accept their apology. “Don’t worry about it. I got here just fine,” she lied. “No problem at all.”

  They beamed.

  “That’s a fine thing, then,” Maeve said. “Drink up, drink up, ’tis a brisk night for the bones. Once you have a bite to eat, we’ll settle you in your chambers.”

  Elisabeth took a few sips of her cocoa, trying to gather her wits, but they’d long since trundled off to sleep without her consent. “My patient?” she managed to ask. She’d like to know something about him before she went to bed, so she’d be better prepared to meet him in the morning. She hoped he wasn’t expecting to meet her this evening. She was far too exhausted to make a professional impression.

  Maeve and Nigel exchanged a long glance. “You mean the laird’s brother, Dageus?” Nigel asked carefully.

  Elisabeth nodded.

  “No need to fash yourself o’er him for the now,” Nigel said. “When the laird returns, he’ll take you to meet him.”

  “You mean he’s not here? He doesn’t live in the castle?” Elisabeth asked, surprised.

  They shook their heads in tandem.

  “Well, where is he?”

  Another long glance was exchanged. “In a cottage,” Nigel said.

  “North of the castle,” Maeve added.

  “By himself?” Elisabeth asked, mildly shocked. It wasn’t good for a person suffering mental problems, even if only a case of depression, to live alone. Isolation was never conducive to recovery.

  “Aye.”

  “And he’s, er … fine living by himself?” she pressed, hoping they’d volunteer a useful bit of information. Though she wouldn’t sink to interrogating Gwen’s hired help, she certainly would like to know something about the man before she met him.

  “Aye.”

  “S’ppose so.”

  Elisabeth cocked her head, studying the Jamesons curiously. The loquacious couple had dwindled down to one- and two-word answers. Most peculiar. “I’ll just go introduce myself in the morning.”

  “No!” they both shouted.

  Elisabeth blinked.

  “I mean, that is to say the laird bid you wait until he returned,” Nigel said hastily. “Then he’ll be taking you to meet him proper-like.”

  “All right,” Elisabeth said warily, puzzled by their reaction. Then, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, it occurred to her that if the Jamesons and “the boys” were the sole caretakers of the vast estate, and the boys were away, the elderly couple probably didn’t have time to take on a single extra responsibility. Likely, they were worrying about just how they might keep her occupied until Gwen and Drustan returned. Well, she wouldn’t be a bother to them, she resolved sleepily. She could find north just fine by herself.

  Maeve smiled uncertainly. “There you are, then. Eat up and we’ll see about tucking you in for the night. You must be fair weary from traveling.”

  You have no idea, Elisabeth thought.

  So bone-weary in fact, that when she stumbled into bed thirty minutes later, she’d didn’t even pause to undress, but fell asleep with her parka and boots still on.

  4

  DAGEUS MACKELTAR WAS DREAMING.

  In his dream, he stood in the circle of the powerful Ban Drochaid stones beneath a vast and velvety night sky. Gàidhlig for “white bridge,” the Ban Drochaid was just that—a bridge through time for a man privy to the arcane and dangerous knowledge.

  He’d already etched the thirteen complex formulas on the thirteen stones. Now he need but complete the final three on the center slab to open a gate through time.

  It was five minutes to midnight on Yule, the winter solstice, the year 1521. It was one of the final times that he’d been in his beloved sixteenth-century Highlands.

  His brother, Drustan, was dead. And grief and guilt were ea
ting him alive.

  Three years earlier, Dageus had made a pledge to Gwen; that he would protect her and all those she loved. Protect them with his life if necessary.

  He’d failed. And now Drustan would never be reunited with his wife in the twenty-first century. Gwen would never see her husband again. Would she wait and grieve and die a little inside each day? he brooded. Should he send her a message down through the centuries? We tried, but I failed and he died.

  Nay, Dageus knew what action he must take. It was his fault that Drustan had died. He’d not been home the night the fire had taken Drustan’s life. If he had, he would have stopped the fire before it had gutted the tower in which his brother lay slumbering.

  But he’d not been there because he’d been in the bed of a lass whose name he couldn’t even recall, sick to death of watching Silvan and Nell, so in love and busy with their new babes. Sick to death of imagining Gwen and Drustan’s joy when at long last they reunited. Sick to death of being alone. Of having his twin brother who’d been his best friend since the moment they’d drawn breath, sleeping in the next room, where he would sleep until long after Dageus had died.

  Seeking the bed of a lass so he could pretend for a time that he had a place and a woman of his own.

  Drustan had always known exactly who he was and where he fit. When he chose a course, he never faltered. But Dageus faltered. He’d faltered when he’d wanted to marry his fair Brea, and he was faltering now.

  ’Tis an old custom, he’d promised Gwen. I shall always protect you and yours … I owe you my life.

  By Amergin, the least he could do was keep his word! He had mere minutes to sketch the final symbols. He could go back in time to the day of the fire and prevent it from happening. Keep Drustan from dying. Ascertain that he and his wife were reunited. Eyes narrowed, he studied the night sky. Two minutes.

  But the legend …

  He shook his head, rejecting the notion. ’Twas but a fae tale told to strike fear into the hearts of those who kept the coveted secret of the stones. There were no evil druids trapped in some in-between place, waiting to claim a Keltar who broke his oath. Nor was there any record of a MacKeltar having so much as glimpsed a Tuatha Dé Danann for millennia. The ancient tomes that mentioned them referred in vague terms to a vaguer race. Who knew if they still existed, if indeed they had?

  Likely as not, he told himself, the legend was naught more than a myth told and retold—and getting taller in the telling—to prevent a Keltar from using the stones indiscriminately.

  He had no intention of using them indiscriminately.

  He’d thought his decision through long and hard. He wasn’t using the stones for personal motive. Love had to be singularly the most selfless motive in the world. Beyond all Druid powers, beyond the mysterious and fascinating heavens, beyond death, was not love the purest and most precious thing?

  Mayhap he was destined never to know the kind of love Drustan shared with Gwen, but it was in his power to ascertain that his brother shared a long life of loving with his wife.

  He must have etched the final symbols while lost in thought, for he had little memory of it, dreaming or waking. But the white bridge opened, and then it was too late for regret.

  Dageus’s mind shattered as dimensions altered. Time unfurled into a thing of strange symmetry and exhilarating beauty, stretching, bending, and curving. He felt free and as immense as the universe. Understanding crashed over him, an understanding of the laws of nature that had always danced just beyond his reach. He was awed. He was humbled. He was filled with an incredible feeling of connectedness, a flawless perception of his place in the world …

  Until everything went terribly wrong.

  Screeching and howling like a pack of banshees, they fell on him.

  A storm ripped open the night, lightning stabbed at the earth, and hail rained down in bruising torrents. But the storm without his body was naught compared to the storm within: They surrounded him, they clawed at him. They became him.

  He howled mindlessly as, shrieking their ancient names and ancient demands, they filled his head with a deafening cacophony.

  Then there was darkness so complete he doubted he would ever find his way out again.

  Dageus woke with a violent start. He’d had the dream again, and by Amergin, he’d relived that choice a thousand times, yet had only to see Gwen and Drustan together to know that he’d made the right one. But sometimes, in the wee hours of the morn when his cottage in the vale was cloaked in utter silence and he felt like the only man alive, he lay awake and wondered what his life might have been otherwise.

  What it still can be … the eldest of the thirteen, Droghda reminded. You speak as if life is o’er when yours has but begun. Let us teach you our ways. We have power, power you’ve ne’er dreamed of. Let us make you invincible …

  Then twelve other voices joined in, making threats and promises. Insisting that the Tuatha Dé Danann had lied to the Keltar, had cheated them of their full powers. The noise inside his head swiftly grew deafening.

  Cursing, he pushed himself up from the tangled bed linens, but collapsed to the floor. He clamped his hands to his ears in a wholly instinctive and wholly futile gesture. The attack had come quickly this time, and it took him several long moments before he managed to force himself up from the floor. He collapsed again, but slowly managed to turn the battle into push-ups. He pumped up and down, again and again, until his body ran with sweat. Until his heart hammered, until he could hear naught but the blood pounding in his veins. Then he started on stomach crunches.

  When at last the voices faded and his mind was calm again, Dageus fell back on the floor, sweating and breathing hard. He smiled bitterly. It was ironic that he’d be at his strongest, in peak physical condition, when he died.

  Thus far, he’d discovered three ways to control the voices inside his head: tupping, his personal favorite; performing Druid magic, large or small, as all things Druid pleased his tormentors; and prolonged, strenuous physical exertion.

  It was the former and the latter that were of great use. He’d discovered that tupping helped while he’d passed a bewildering month in twenty-first-century Edinburgh waiting for Drustan to awaken. There, he’d also discovered that women had much greater freedom to take lovers than had lasses in the sixteenth century, where a missing maidenhead might topple the succession of a clan.

  The second method of silencing the thirteen, performing Druid magic, was dangerous. When he’d first come through the stones, confounded by the new century, he’d used the Druid voice of power to procure food and shelter until he’d bartered gold coins and two of his blades for modern currency. Aye, magic stilled the thirteen, yet the few times he’d used it, they’d been stronger when they’d surfaced again. Louder, clearer of mind. How he was loath to use even the tiniest spell.

  Exercise and tupping silenced them completely, and sometimes the blessed silence lasted as long as a day. It was Gwen who’d suggested exercise. Gwen believed that mayhap tupping and exercise released a chemical combination in his body that had a sedating effect on the ancient beings.

  Tupping was no longer an option, since he was trapped in the valley, and naught but bleating sheep ever trundled by, so exercise had become his salvation. Dageus didn’t pretend to understand the how or why of it, he merely knew that for now it worked.

  He also knew that the thirteen learned swiftly, adapted at an alarming rate. He fully expected they would, in time, find a way to overcome his methods of silencing them. Dageus hoped he didn’t live to see that day.

  Of late, he wearied of living to see any day. On the rare occasions he managed to sleep through the night, the morn brought only the sure knowledge that the blackness within him had grown whilst he slumbered.

  And, och, but the blackness was becoming seductive, offering an end to the guilt and despair and self-recrimination. He wondered what it might be like to plunge headlong into it. To exult in the power and freedom they offered.

  And he knew
that meant time was running out. When the thirteen had first entered him, they’d been crazed from thousands of years of imprisonment. They’d been unfocused, seeming unaware that they’d regained a measure of freedom, and uncertain what to do with it.

  But that uncertainty hadn’t lasted long. The night Drustan had brought him back to MacKeltar land, the Ban Drochaid stones had called out to him, singing with an energy that hummed throughout his body. Places of power and magic beckoned him as never before. He’d tried to walk past the stones, into the castle, but had been unable to take a single step, for he’d known if he had, he would have walked straight into the center of the circle and grown drunk on power.

  That very night Christopher and Drustan had trapped him in the cottage. In his vale he was far enough from the stones that they were but a soft fire in his blood, not a consuming blaze.

  Day by day the thirteen grew stronger, urging him to go back to their time, back further than he could fathom. Back to the time of the legendary Tuatha Dé Danann, and to a fateful battle hinted at only vaguely in Keltar myth. Although the thirteen were inside him, he was not privy to their thoughts—unless they chose to communicate them—any more than they were to his. Yet, of late, in dreams, the boundaries between he and the thirteen were blurring, and he feared that he might one day awaken and be unable to subdue them. That he might awaken irrevocably changed. He’d confided this fear to Drustan, but Drustan had refused to hear it, refused to admit even the possibility of it.

  It was the bitter thought that he might disappoint his brother again that gave him strength to fight each day. He need only hold them at bay long enough that Drustan and Christopher could find a way to end his life without releasing the dark Druids into the world, or worse, into someone else. The problem was they didn’t know what laws governed the non-corporeal beings and, to date, had found naught of use in the ancient tomes.