Marcus stepped up beside Clare and, his hand tightening on his sword hilt, spoke directly to Connal. “If you know where Allie is,” he said evenly, “you’re going to take me there. Now.”
Connal was unfazed by the implied threat.
“I do not know where the others have taken your friend,” he said calmly, locking eyes with the young man dressed in the uniform of his people’s enemy. “I know only that they are still on this island.”
“Why?” Clare asked. “Because the storm won’t let them leave?”
Connal shook his head. “Because they don’t leave,” he said. “This is where they exist, when they are in this world.”
Clare and Marcus exchanged a perplexed glance. “But … I thought you told me no one lives on this island.”
“I did not say they live here,” Connal clarified unhelpfully. “I said they exist here.”
Clare blinked at him. Then she remembered what Comorra had told her about the “others,”and the penny dropped.
“Don’t worry, Clare,” she’d said. “Like the scathach, they appear only when called upon. If you don’t call them, they don’t come.”
Well, it seemed someone had called them. The others. The skraeling.
“Tell me about these skinwalkers again,” she said to Marcus. “What can they do, exactly?”
“According to legend,” he said grimly, “they could take the shape of any animal they wanted. All they needed was something from the animal. A tooth, a claw, pelt … feathers …”
“Wait.” Clare held up a hand. “Feathers?”
Marcus’s lips disappeared in a thin line. “Mallora’s cloak. It probably marks Al as kindred.”
“She knew.” Clare swore under her breath. “Mallora knew something like this would happen …”
Marcus told them about the enormous ravens that had perched on the cargo ship when he’d transferred the gold aboard. How they’d been scathach warriors in the guise of birds of prey. Clare suddenly remembered what Morholt had told Al about the Druidess—and what Mallora herself had said about her gifts of prophecy. She’d seen danger approaching and had thrown Al right into its path. A place where she hoped Al could muster some manifestation of the scathach.
“That’s what she wants Al to summon?” Marcus asked. “Air support? For what purpose?”
“Let’s go find out,” Clare muttered grimly.
She turned and stalked out of the cave, ignoring Connal’s call for her to wait.
Marcus was hot on her heels as Clare made her way up the beach toward the cave where the Druid priestess and her scathach bunked. When Clare ducked inside, she saw Mallora sitting cross-legged inside a circle drawn in the sand of the cave floor, her eyes open and staring at nothing in the firelit gloom. The scathach crouched on their haunches in a loose semicircle behind her, heads tilted, black eyes glittering as they watched Clare approach. They shifted and shuffled like a nervous flock, as if readying to spring to their mistress’s defence should the need arise. It didn’t. As angry as Clare was, she just wanted answers.
A long, tense moment passed and then Clare heard the hiss of metal as Marcus unsheathed his sword behind her. Mallora’s eyes flicked in his direction. Clare put a hand up and shot Marcus a warning glare before turning back to the Druidess.
“Why?” she asked without preamble.
Mallora’s eyes drifted closed and then slowly opened again, focusing on Clare’s face. “I have … seen this …” she said, her voice slurry.
“Yeah.” Clare’s voice was sharp. “That’s what you said on the boat. I hadn’t known you were talking about Al’s abduction, or I would have expressed just how uncool I am with that.”
“What the hell is going on?” Marcus asked, his voice a low growl.
Clare didn’t take her eyes off the Druidess and her warrior women. “The skraeling. Comorra said they only come when they’re called. I’m guessing you’re the one who dialed them up.”
Mallora nodded groggily. “We will need them to keep this place safe—”
“You told us you couldn’t summon anymore!” Clare snapped. “That you were too weak from the journey. You lied.”
“I did not. I was. I am …” Mallora tried to stand but her legs crumpled beneath her and she sank back down. “Too drained of my own magic to call forth the guardians on my own. Only a handful heard my cry.”
“Yeah?” Clare crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, your handful was enough to successfully abscond with my best friend. And if she is in any way hurt—”
“That is what I was trying to avoid. I realized it would be asking too much … of her … Allie …” Mallora’s head drooped and her voice dipped to a raw whisper as her eyes rolled back in her head. “I thought I could work the magic. But it was too soon to make the attempt. I should have waited. They will have need of her now because of me,” she said. “To call more guardians to this place. You will have need of her. That, I now know, is the truth of what I saw.”
“What are they?” Marcus asked quietly.
“Ancient,” Mallora said, reverence in her voice. “Like the scathach. Since the beginning of time, they have used the magic of bird and beast to protect these lands.”
Magic of bird and beast, Clare thought. Marcus was right. Those guys were freaking werewolves. Werebears. Werecats …
Behind her, Marcus stirred restlessly and Clare saw the firelight reflect off the edge of his blade as it shifted. But even chock full of righteous Al-saving fury, he was still outnumbered by the scathach. And getting himself dismembered by spectral warrioresses was hardly a viable way to find Al.
“So. You saw this coming. Did you see how it turns out?”
Mallora shook her head. “Not yet. But she is safe. That I know. They will not harm her. They need her.”
Clare turned to leave, but stopped. “If you’re wrong about this … I’ll be back.”
“And I will be here. I can hardly be elsewhere now,” Mallora said. And then her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled sideways in a faint.
Well, that’s worrying, Clare thought as half the scathach surrounded their mistress and the other half silently, menacingly escorted Clare and Marcus from the cave. Although perhaps less worrying than it would have been if Clare hadn’t known that Mallora would, ultimately, be fine. Fine enough to become the start-up matriarch of a long line of Piper Gimble’s ancestors, at least.
Knowing something of how the future unfolded did have its perks.
Back in their own cave, Marcus ignored Connal and Comorra and began rifling through his gear, pulling various items out of the satchel and setting them down. One looked like a small rectangular box, carefully wrapped in cloth. By the light of the fire, Clare caught a glimpse of bright yellow plastic and her heart caught in her throat. Marcus’s Walkman. The one Al had told her about. The one he’d used to play music for her when they’d danced on top of Glastonbury Tor.
“Hey,” she said gently. “Al’s tough and she’s smart. She’ll be okay.”
“I know she will.” There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “She has to be.”
Well, Clare thought, can’t argue with that logic.
She saw his fingers close on the cassette player’s angular shape for a moment. Then he kept digging around in the pack, eventually finding what he was looking for. After re-stowing his stuff, he settled down with a whetstone and went about methodically sharpening his weapons’ already razor-keen blades.
Clare left him to it and turned to her Iceni friends. Connal was heading to the alcove at the back of the cave, saying he had to prepare for something that Mallora, with her seer’s ability, had instructed him to do. Something that in Clare’s brain translated as “the scrying.” Which meant it didn’t translate at all. Also? Under the circumstances, Clare was particularly wary of anything Mallora had “seen.”
With Marcus’s rhythmic, hissing ring of stone grinding against steel echoing through the cave, Clare drew Comorra aside.
“Hey, Comorr
a? Whatever happens, however this whole crazy situation turns out in the end, I just wanted to say I’m really glad to see you again. And I’m really glad things ended up okay for you and Connal. I mean, I wish the reunion circumstances had been a bit less, y’know, Roman and all …”
Comorra grinned. “I could apply that sentiment to a great deal of my life, Clare.” She shook her head, her grin fading a little. “Truthfully, I always feared the Legions might one day find these lands. My people did. It’s not surprising they could as well.”
“Actually it is a little surprising,” Clare said. “Because, you see … they didn’t. Not according to history, anyway. The Romans are kind of archaeological litterbugs. They leave their hobnailed sandal prints all over everything. And nothing like that has ever been found. And if we’re successful, we can keep it that way.”
“I hope you’re right, Clare,” Comorra sighed. After a moment she shook her head and smiled, her blue eyes shining. “No. I know you’re right. Andrasta watches over you and guides you.”
I hope so, Clare thought, doing her best to return the smile. Me and Al both. We’re gonna need all the help we can get.
And more information wouldn’t hurt. At Clare’s urging, Comorra tried to describe what “scrying” was: a common form of magic, like looking into a crystal ball or gazing into a mirror à la Snow White’s nasty stepmom. Any reflective surface, it seemed, could be used to varying success, and within the ranks of the Druiddyn, it was most often a bowl full of still water. Apparently that was how Mallora had gleaned most of her insights into the future.
“She told us there is someone in your time,” Comorra said. “Someone who shares a connection with Connal.”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” Clare bit her lip. “Milo. He’s …” She wasn’t sure how to explain. “Milo was part of the spell that sent me travelling the first time around,” she hedged. “Another part of that spell was your and Connal not remembering some of the things that happened while I was, er, travelling. Because for you those things never really happened. But the whole thing left a link between Connal and Milo. Does that make any sense at all?”
“It does for me,” Connal said, reappearing from the alcove, the bare skin of his chest and arms painted with the nowfamiliar fluid patterns of Druid symbols. A strange expression washed over his face and shadows moved in the depth of his forest-green gaze. “I … have dreams. Vivid ones—as if they were memories—of places I’ve never been. Things I’ve never done. Other things”—he glanced over at Comorra—“that never happened.” His gaze shifted to Clare. “And … feelings. Feelings I shouldn’t have.”
“Oh. Um.”
Clare knew exactly what Connal was talking about, even if he didn’t. In the timeline that existed for him now—the one that had continued forward after Clare’s … minor alterations— Comorra had never died. Connal hadn’t lost his mind because of that, and Clare hadn’t had to pull his spirit forward into the present, whereupon he would inhabit Milo’s consciousness/refuse to vacate those mental premises after Boudicca was vanquished/savagely and with crazy kissing declare passion-fevered intentions toward Clare/attempt to annihilate Milo from the inside.
Clare had already forgiven Connal for all that. There were mitigating circumstances after all, and anyway this Connal hadn’t done any of it. It was probably just the residual traces of that blood magic that had left the shadows of another reality in his mind. Clare watched those shadows chasing through his gaze, fighting the urge to wrap her arms around him in a comforting hug.
Yeah … that would be a bad idea. Even though it made her breath catch in her throat. But it wasn’t really about Connal, and besides, Comorra was standing right there, and—hello— Milo? Right. Even if Milo was somewhere in the future making googly eyes at Goggles and—
Oh would you stop?! He is not.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Connal’s voice jarred Clare from her momentary meltdown and for a second she thought he was talking about Milo and Piper. She shook her head, forcing herself to pay attention to what the handsome Druid prince was saying. His expression was clearing, and as the shadows disappeared from his gaze, Clare’s worries went with them.
“We are here,” he said. “Now. And Mallora was emphatic that we must contact Milo there. Then.”
Connal could reach out through time, he said, through scrying. But only if Milo was open to the attempt, and Connal didn’t know how they could ascertain that before making the attempt. Pushback from an unsuspecting Milo could be dangerous for both of them.
“Wait!” Clare said. “This scrying thing sounds kind of like a mystical Skype session, right? Okay, I think I have an idea.”
The two Iceni stared at her blankly as Clare furiously thought it through. All she had to do was somehow get a message to Milo that he should answer Connal’s “call” when it came through. Like texting someone who screened their calls to let them know to pick up. And Clare could do that via her digital camera. Couldn’t she? It was kind of a whacky idea—and she really wished Al was there to first endorse and then assist in said whackiness—but it was worth a shot, so to speak. With no Al around, Marcus and his inferior understanding of modern technology would have to stand in. Clare would have asked Morholt, but she didn’t trust him enough to hand over her precious digital camera.
Clare crouched down beside her pack and pulled out the camera, passing it to a bemused Marcus. Then she dug around for her Sharpie and another scrap of sailcloth she’d hastily cut from the ship’s stack. With hardly any cloth left, she had to be succinct in her instructions. Finally she looked up. Connal was standing beside the dark mirror of the cave’s spring pool. He would use the surface of the water as his scrying glass.
“I am ready,” he said when he saw Clare looking over at him.
“Oh. Uh. Yeah. Right …”
She was trying not to blush or stare too obviously at Connal’s bare, really very awfully nice chest. But then she thought of Milo—picturing him in a likewise shirtless and symbol-festooned state—and realized that all those drooly sorts of thoughts really were reserved for Milo, and Milo alone.
“Right,” she said again. “Ready. We’re ready. I sure hope he is …”
She sent out a silent mental apology to Milo for what she was about to inflict on him—again—two thousand-ish years in the future, and walked over to stand beside Connal with the scrap of canvas she’d prepared.
Her scrawl read:
Go look in the mirror. Now!
She frowned at it, and then added in parentheses:
(sorry! really sorry!)
The planes of Connal’s face were relaxed in the soft light from the torch Comorra held. Clare stepped beside him and held up the sign. On cue Marcus raised Clare’s camera to one eye, squinting through the tiny viewfinder window.
“No, no,” Clare said. “Use the display screen to frame the shot. It’s much easier.”
“Ah.” Marcus lowered the camera and frowned at the glowing image. He fiddled a bit with the buttons and then raised the camera in front of his face again, holding it further out this time.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Clare asked. “Is the flash on? We have to make sure the patterns show up clearly—”
“Yes. It’s on. I’m doing everything you told me to. I’ll get the shot.”
“Okay … okay,” Clare said and turned to Connal. “This is probably going to be a little weird for you. There’ll be a bright flash—sort of like lightning—but don’t freak out, it’s harmless.”
“I trust you, Clarinet,” he said, looking at her with those deep green eyes.
Clare swallowed and nodded. And held up her sign. “Now, Marcus.”
To his credit, Connal didn’t freak out. Then again, he was a Druid prince and a fearless warrior who’d helped craft powerful blood curses. He’d been perfectly willing to participate in a ritual that would end with him both dead in a bog and mystically travelling the astral planes. On the specialeffects scale, he could ha
ndle something as low-rent as a camera flash.
His only reaction was to squeeze his eyes shut and rock back a step.
In the darkness that followed the magnesium flare, all was silent. Still. Collectively they held their breath as time seemed to spiral out from that one point in the universe.
Okay, Clare thought, so … now what?
Mallora had said they needed a conduit—a connection— between Milo and Connal, but Clare was a little foggy on how that would happen. The last time—when she’d carried the Druid prince’s spirit forward through time, housed in one of Llassar’s magical creations; a silver wrist cuff that, when Milo wore it, transferred Connal’s consciousness to Milo’s brain—it hadn’t been a connection so much as a hostile takeover.
And it wasn’t a situation Clare could duplicate this time around, even if she’d wanted to. So, really, a preliminary conversation between the two boys had seemed in order. But Clare wasn’t sure where Milo would be if/when he got her photo note (assuming he’d even been able to descramble the rest of the digital picture files), or whether he’d have access to a nice quiet bowl of water, or how she’d explain to him why he’d need one. But mirrors were plentiful in the twenty-first century, right? Okay then. So that’s what she’d written.
And now … what?
She and Marcus exchanged a glance. He seemed to be nearing the absolute rope-end of his patience when it came to postponing the Al hunt for the sake of Druid Shenanigans. But suddenly Connal grunted in pain and surprise and dropped like a stone to his hands and knees, leaning over the glassy surface of the pool.
Every muscle in his body was rigid with tension. And the face that stared up at him from the depths of the dark water … wasn’t his.
“Holy smoke!” Clare exclaimed. “Milo …?”
The image spread outward, clarifying and resolving.
It was Milo all right.
With Goggles the antiquarian’s arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace.