Return of the Legacy Read online

  Bri accepted the basket of fresh bark soaked in sharp-scented, minty oil. She motioned Logan aside and when he’d lifted the child away, she focused on the steamer pot. At her command, the top bevy of steaming snakes rose into the air and exposed the water in the pot. The basket floated to her and she placed Grainne’s bark in the cast iron basket with a fresh bundle of herbs. The middle section returned as a perfect fit between the two layers.

  “Handy,” Robert laughed. “You’d be a big help changing tires.”

  Bri didn’t get the joke, but he’d surprised her with his unexpected, lighthearted banter, and she smiled.

  His mouth lifted on one side, then he exhaled, as if catching himself. “How about Diana or Elizabeth?”

  “Hardly original,” Logan said with an eye roll.

  “They are for this world,” Robert persisted. “Fine. You pick a name.”

  Grainne settled beside Logan and the child, folding a fresh stack of clothes she’d brought in from drying in the sun. “My mother’s name was Fiona.”

  The words held such a wishful quality. Bri ached, realizing how tightly this sweet woman kept her pain of childlessness hidden. She didn’t need Logan’s power to sense the emotion of lost dreams, family long gone, and children never born. She laid her hand on Grainne’s frail shoulder. Her elder mentor’s sadness fled, leaving only a lingering smile. “Fiona is a lovely name.”

  “Fiona it is.” Logan stroked his fingers across the child’s fine hair. “Bri, can you manipulate other things?”

  She frowned as he lifted a handful of the brown strands.

  “I turned my brother’s hair green once. Took a while for it to grow out.”

  Robert snorted and the corner of Logan’s mouth twitched. She bit her lip to keep in her own laughter. “I can’t change her features, though.”

  “We just need changes that won’t wash away.”

  “Hair color, marks, all will remain until they grow out or wear away.” She sat beside him. “I can’t imagine this will really fool anyone who knows her.”

  His gaze bore into hers. “Either her sickness frightened the crew—or maybe her power. But I doubt they got close to her.” He looked at Grainne. “Can I ask how long you have lived on this island?”

  “I came here as a bride. My husband’s family is from these isles.”

  “You have a lot of freckles,” Logan said. “Hefin as well.”

  At the annoyed grunt in the background, Grainne smiled. “We both had bright-red hair before the white.”

  “We’ll create the illusion she’s related to them, so red hair and freckles?”

  Bri nodded and placed her hands on Fiona’s head, closing her eyes. A brief curse erupted behind her—likely Hefin’s reaction. “It will grow out.”

  She opened her eyes as Logan stroked the strawberry-red hair. “We need enough time to figure out a safe place for her. We can only handle so many blood oaths, so taking her through a portal with us isn’t an option.” He lifted a strand of Fiona’s hair. “It’ll take a year or two to grow out and she’ll have aged. With the sun and sea, it’ll look natural.”

  “Close enough. She’ll also blend with the other kids her age,” Robert added. When Bri gave him a puzzled look, he shrugged. “Saw a few redheads from a distance. Along Hefin’s path to the village. Any of the boys could pass as her brother.”

  “Aye, she looks like one of my own kin.”

  At Grainne’s whisper, Bri looked up. “I’m sorry if this is too painful.”

  Grainne held up a hand. “It is a blessing to give of one’s past to save a life.”

  7

  “Not natural.” Hefin sat beside Robert, a dozen feet away from the cottage door, and eyed the stone gliding along the crewman’s knife blade. “Magic is faster.”

  Logan laughed at Hefin’s scowl.

  Legs stretched out on the ground, Robert leaned back against a tree and stroked down one edge of the blade and then the next, hilt to point. “Crafting a sharp edge is an art form.”

  Hefin harrumphed, unconvinced. “Blades are for blood, not art.”

  Logan moved across from Hefin and Robert and sat on a heavily scored tree stump. Hefin’s chopping block, no doubt. “Any word yet on the men from the ship?”

  “Malcolm’s men are keeping watch.”

  “And if the survivors don’t pass through Malcolm’s village? What lies to the east of your cottage?”

  “A ravine divides the forest beyond from the mage towers protecting the laird’s keep. To the north is Agnes’s land.”

  From Hefin’s tone the woman’s land sounded impenetrable. Logan drew several slashes in the dirt at his feet with his own knife. “So Malcolm covers the south.” He added hash marks over the slash. “The other two borders are protected. The last border is the sea with the tower shield.”

  With the point of his knife, Hefin dug points along Logan’s makeshift map. “Should they get within the shield and hug the coastline we’ve little defense at the water’s edge. There are crags and caves aplenty for hiding places. If only two or three find us”—he gestured around the cottage—“we can hold them off. But more…” He shrugged.

  Logan glanced up. “We can handle more.”

  A deep scowl bridged Hefin’s brows. He muttered and rose, motioning both of them to follow him. At the cottage doorway, he retrieved his sword and pounded the tip into the dirt several times. A line of wooden practice swords, wasters, appeared on the ground in various lengths and widths. The practice weapons mimicked the lines of Hefin’s sword. Logan tried for no reaction, but couldn’t help but be offended he considered them inept.

  Robert scoffed from behind Logan. “The old guy doubts our abilities.”

  “We should ease his mind,” Logan said with a smirk as he grabbed a handful of the wasters.

  Hefin ambled to the clearing at the side of the cottage. “I’ll arm you in case events go poorly. But I’ll be damned if I’ll get skewered for your lack of skill.”

  “Fine. Take your best shot.” Logan leaned on his practice sword like a cane and waited for the old man’s advance. Hefin’s posture was difficult to read. The old man was wiry and agile, with skills honed over a lifetime. No magic accounted for his confident swagger and relaxed grip on his sword’s pommel. Logan expected to win. But he’d have to work for it.

  Hefin jerked his head toward Logan, then raised his sword, though he remained planted in his stance. “Defend yourself.”

  Logan balanced the wood he’d chosen in one palm, glanced at Hefin’s sword, then tossed it to the ground and selected a longer, thicker, staff-like rod.

  “The Heavens help us.” Hefin rolled his eyes in obvious disappointment. Evidently, real men didn’t sharpen their knives without magic, or use staves in fights against swords. “I can take both of you at this rate. Let’s get started.”

  Logan advanced on Hefin, staff held before him, with both hands placed shoulder-width apart.

  With a growl of exasperation, Hefin swung his sword arm without effort, intending to catch Logan off guard and land him on his tail. Logan dove to the side, spun the staff around his body, Hefin’s sword glancing off the wood as Logan maneuvered behind him.

  Hefin’s eyes narrowed as he advanced with two heartier swings, both deflected by Logan’s twists and turns. With a growl, the older man let loose. Wide arcing swings and quick precision steps made Logan work to keep his footing.

  After a brisk nod, Hefin gestured Logan aside and motioned Robert forward. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Face impassive, Robert stepped forward with two slender, forearm-length wasters, imitations of the blades he’d been sharpening.

  Hefin eyed the two-fisted approach with a small shake of his head, but said nothing. He walked around Robert in a tight circle and then sprang toward him with a violent slash of his sword.

  The wasters spun, the blades protecting Robert’s forearms as he turned in a circle. He repelled Hefin’s attacks until his two practice weapons wedged against
Hefin’s pommel. With a quick wrench, he sent it flying from the old man’s grasp. The blade landed with a slight jiggle, tip first, in the dirt at Logan’s feet.

  Logan looked from the sword to Hefin. The first sat immobile. The old man’s grin cracked his previous dour expression with something resembling satisfaction. And after taking on both of them, he wasn’t even winded.

  “We’ll see, yet. Wooden sticks are one thing. A true blade is another.” Hefin turned to Bri, standing in front of the cottage with several long rolls of cloth in her arms. He handed her his sword, retrieved the cloths, and brought the bundles back to the clearing, unrolling them to reveal their contents. Swords resembling Hefin’s in length and weight clattered to the ground.

  Logan picked up one. The grip was long and wrapped in corded leather, accommodating a two-handed grip.

  “Let’s see how you do against each other.” The old man chose a seat on a log at the edge of the clearing. Bri moved behind him.

  Robert gripped his sword and rotated it for inspection. “Could do permanent damage with this thing.”

  Logan lunged with a test swing, first to the left, then to the right. The weight of the sword pulled the weapon in a wider arc than he expected, but the length was workable and he adjusted his grip. His bandage pulled over his skin, but the pain was nearly gone after Grainne’s treatments, the wound only a minor discomfort.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve trained together. Have you picked up a sword since you left the service?”

  Robert hefted the sword in his grip and bounced it, catching the blade flat on his open palm to test for weight and balance. “Too busy staying alive. I’d forgotten how heavy these suckers are. I like the idea of finding death with one of these instead of an unseen bullet. More honorable standing eye to eye with your enemy.”

  “Morbid much?” Logan said as a chill inched up his spine.

  “Just getting in the mood.” Robert laughed off the moment and raised his sword. He dropped the tip to Logan in challenge, then advanced.

  Logan lunged forward and blocked Robert’s stroke. A hard push sent him toward the edge of the clearing. A little too cocky. He sidestepped Robert’s second attack. With each stroke, he memorized the play of his weapon, using its momentum to expend less of his energy.

  Finding an opening with Robert’s uneven step, Logan pressed with fiercer swings. He calculated each swing, advancing on his cousin with speed instead of deadly force. But his tactic kept Robert off balance and so busy repelling attacks he didn’t account for their surroundings.

  With one final swing, Logan forced Robert backward. He stumbled and disappeared, arms thrown out in surprise and feet up, over a fallen tree trunk.

  Logan planted a foot on the trunk and glanced down at Robert. His cousin didn’t bother sitting up but raised his sword with a laugh. “I demand a rematch.”

  Sleep refused to come. Logan lay on thick blankets and watched the fire twinkle through strands of Fiona’s hair and the way Bri’s dark hair outlined her waist and hips in a sensual S as she slept beside the child. Neither of them had problems giving in to their exhaustion.

  Even Robert abandoned his vigil in the chair for the comfort of his own pallet.

  Logan rolled his shoulder. The stiffness from the earlier exercise had eased, but the twinges from his wound grew sharper. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, anticipating a vision. With a heavy exhale, he gave into the pull tugging at his muscles and the thick pressure beneath his skull.

  From within dreamspace, Logan squinted, trying for a clear image. He didn’t recognize the man standing beside a produce cart. Squeezed together into the tiny cart were melons, baskets of oranges and grapes, and boxes overflowing with fruits and vegetables Logan didn’t recognize. The fading sunset was too close to the horizon for clear details of the narrow street, but the white spires and the marble wall at his back clued Logan in to his location.

  Slender fingers from his body accepted the vendor’s bundle of purple, spiked fruit and clutched it against a soft, pale dress with—breasts. Yeah, this was disorienting.

  “I also have pepper fruits for the Lady Sorcha. They’re freshly picked. You’d best remind her they should sit and ripen for a few days.”

  “I’ll remember, Yates. Are you delivering goods for the festival this year?”

  The man pushed back his cap and scratched at thinning brown hair giving way to baldness. He shook his head and waved away a flutter of wings hovering above the grapes. “Pesky glen bells. It’s not like I don’t give the damn fairies their fill in the gardens.” A high, light ripple of laughter flickered with a zap of light. The wings flitted about Yates’s head and dove under the cart.

  “They’ve chosen you. A great honor these days.”

  “Aye, Mistress Rhiamon, and despite the distraction of my pesky companions I know you want information on the festival. Your obsession with the world beyond the city’s wall will only cause you trouble, child.”

  “I want to know what it’s like. I’ve only seen the people and the places through your stories. Please, Yates, just one more tale.”

  He gave a quick look up, perhaps expecting a peeping tom listening above. Logan did too, but the marble reflected only a rising line of shadows as the sun dipped below the city’s great wall. “You think all is rosy there, but the people across the lands have their troubles. Even the mighty king and queen.”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me a tale of the king’s festival. Not a tale of warning.”

  “I feel the need to temper all my tales of adventure and splendor with a note of caution. You’ve glorified the world outside in that pretty, powerful mind of yours. Acolytes should focus on their instruction, prepare for their vows, not dream of the world.” He gave her a stern look that didn’t fit his soft, round face.

  Yates’s compassion stood out more clearly than any lecture based on a sense of obligation. But Logan suspected Rhiamon was young at heart, and these city walls seemed prison-like.

  “Not fair. I’m preparing for service. But the more I understand the people and their problems, the better priestess I will become.”

  “I’m sure you would see it that way, child. Yet, I see the sparkle in your eyes. The life of these dear ladies is not all solutions and protection. Aye, they ensure our good crops, our fair seasons, and the healthy delivery of our next generations. But their choices are hard, and not always well met,” Yates said. “Those are the lessons you must prepare for.”

  “Poorly met by whom? None would openly defy the priestesses.”

  “Not with the mages at their backs. But the testing of the infants takes a toll. None is spared. When the child of royal blood tests true for magic, the rules become increasingly unpopular.”

  “How could the king give up a child?” Rhiamon asked.

  “This was many years back, mind you. It’s uncertain what the king would have done, had he known. But his new queen decided not to take the risk. For the testing, she replaced her child with a babe of her handmaiden. The child passed the test and the priestesses prepared to leave the castle grounds and return home.”

  He patted a melon and looked aside, his mouth pulled down at the edges. A sense of unease settled into his expression. “People lined the streets for the priestesses’ last blessings, the handmaiden among them. Her child’s displeasure at cutting a new tooth rang out loud over the din, and the wagons halted. The child was soothed and treated, but recognized by the priestesses as well.”

  “They went back to find the royal child?” Rhiamon asked in a whisper.

  “Aye, it’s their job, mistress. To ensure the well-being of our people they must find and secure every last child of magic. The way it’s always been.”

  Logan swallowed hard and felt the dread shiver across Rhiamon’s arms and shoulders.

  “They took the child from the queen’s arms and when the signs exploded with his potential, they left the city with the royal babe. The king returned from battle on the seas to find his babe
gone.”

  “And the queen?”

  “She went mad. She never forgave her husband and took her own life. The king never remarried. He had sons enough already, but most believed he couldn’t deal with the loss either.” He tapped the melon and pursed his lips. “The festival is a beauty to behold: games, entertainers, dancing, and food. The priestesses don’t take part. Neither does the king. I don’t tell you the story to kill your joy, only to show you there are many sides, many hard choices. Knowing the pain and hardships doesn’t make it easier.”

  “Thank you for the tale.” She patted the man’s arm. “Farewell and blessings, Master Yates.”

  “And you, Mistress Rhiamon.”

  Logan turned and entered the gate behind him. The darkness and the shifting illumination of sparkling lights in the trees of the garden he’d entered distracted him. Enough that he almost ran into a man before he noticed him.

  “Rhiamon? Mixing with the servants again?”

  The young man was tall and slender, his face a contrast in angles, none severe enough to mar his features. But the blade nose, sculpted cheekbones, and fine, dark brows framed with skin a touch too pale and hair a shade too dark sent a visceral warning through Logan.

  Rhiamon, however, seemed unaffected.

  “Finishing last-minute chores. I suppose you have none of those, Owain.”

  “There are ways around…chores.” His tone implied disgust. “I’m too busy with preparations for our evaluations to be bothered.”

  “The council wouldn’t evaluate us now if we weren’t already prepared for our vows and ascension.”

  He laughed. The severe lines of his face twisted and mocked her. “I wouldn’t waste my breath on the evaluation. It’s the assessment for top placement, selection for succession that’s important. Don’t you wonder who will succeed after Hiereward? He’s old enough to turn to dust. The Lady Edythe won’t be far behind.”