Claire Delacroix (2 page)

“Tarsuinn Falconer,” she replied haughtily. “I would know your voice in any land, though the birds have spoken of your pending return.”

This made little sense to Michael, but before he could ask, the crone lifted one hand. She pointed a gnarled finger toward the clouds. Four birds cried and flew overhead as if she had summoned them. Their distinctive silhouette made the company gasp.

“Peregrines!” Tarsuinn whispered in awe, craning his neck to follow the course of the birds.

Another trio followed, crying as they flew. One had a fresh kill and the others tormented it, trying to steal the meat.

They were all snared by the sight and Michael knew his heart was not the sole one to soar with the birds. His forebears had made their fortune by training and selling the finest peregrines in all of Christendom. When his mother had been forced to leave Inverfyre, the peregrines’ numbers had been diminished to scarcity.

But nigh on twenty years had swelled their numbers, just as all had fervently hoped. These birds seemed uncommonly vigorous and he took encouragement at the majesty of their flight.

Tarsuinn, son of the old falconer, smiled and tears shone in his eyes. “How many, Adaira?” he demanded, his words husky with hope. Indeed, he had come to Inverfyre despite his age in the hope that he might see the cliffs thick with his beloved birds. “How many have returned?”

“The falcons are plentiful in numbers at Inverfyre again, Tarsuinn Falconer. They tell me that they await your hand. Long has the alliance betwixt the peregrines and the blood of Magnus Armstrong prospered, after all.”

Tarsuinn’s delight was nigh tangible. “My lord, this is the finest news for which we might have hoped...”

Adaira’s voice hardened. “I have no business with you on this day, Tarsuinn Falconer, and the falcons have not waited so long that they cannot wait longer. It is the boy I have come to greet.”

Michael felt the hair rise on the back of his neck when she pointed a calloused finger at him. How could she know who he was? Tynan, Roland and Rosamunde eased their steeds to his one side, Sebastien and Fernando to the other, but Michael raised his hand to stay them.

“This matter is mine to resolve.” He urged his destrier to step forward alone. It was a magnificent black stallion, granted to him by his father upon his eighteenth birthday—along with the seal of Inverfyre that reposed in his purse. Lucifer was afraid of naught, tall and strong, and just the sight of him made men halt to stare.

But the old woman stood her ground as Michael approached. Strangely, her eyes seemed to glow within the shadows cast by her hood. “Aye, boy, I come to parlay with you and you alone.”

“And I am here. Say what you must.”

When he halted the steed several paces from her, she cackled with laughter. “Are afeared, boy? You will not recapture Inverfyre if you cannot even approach an old woman!”

One of the squires snickered, but Michael was already swinging from his saddle. He cast the reins aside with impatience and doffed his gloves. Tynan said something cautionary but he strode away, making his way directly to the crone. She was smaller than he had guessed, the top of her hood below the middle of his chest. She watched him approach, her eyes gleaming, though he only saw why they shone so oddly when she suddenly cast back her hood.

Her gaze was veiled with the pale blue sheen of cataracts. Her tanned skin was as wrinkled as old leather, her features so shrunken that the flesh was tautly stretched over her bones. Her teeth were gone, her hair as white as fresh snow, her pose defiant. He recoiled and she laughed beneath her breath.

“What is your name, boy?”

“You seem to know as much already.”

“Tell me!”

“I am Michael Lammergeier, son of Gawain Lammergeier and Evangeline Armstrong, Laird of Inverfyre.”

She chuckled. “You are not laird yet.”

“I have the seal and the bloodright...”

“And there are others who occupy your lands, others who are not creatures of the forest.”

Michael had expected as much. His mother had told him a hundred times of the avarice of the MacLaren clan and their lust for Inverfyre. “Do you come to curse me or to warn me?”

Her smile softened, as did her voice. “Not I, Magnus. Not I.”

He shook his head, thinking her wits addled. “I am not Magnus, but Michael, as I just told you...”

Adaira interrupted him. “You are Magnus Armstrong, just as you are the seventh son born in succession from him. Make no mistake, Michael Lammergeier, the spark of Magnus resides within you and his debts sit upon your shoulders.”

“I do not think so.” Michael took a step back from this woman who was obviously mad.

She granted him a look so quelling that he halted against his own will, then she beckoned.

He found myself leaning closer, drawn by some compulsion he could not name, half-certain she would tell him something that would be of merit in his quest.

Instead she caught the back of his neck in her hand, her gesture quick and her grip strong. Before he could protest, she pressed her ancient lips to him in a parody of a kiss. Her tongue was between his teeth, its invasion as skillful and revolting as that of a snake slipping into a lair.

He made to pull away but froze when a curious sense overcame him. He was remembering, remembering events that were not his to remember.

The scene of a richly appointed hall unfurled in his own thoughts. He was within the hide of a man garbed like a king, a man who was him but not him, and a glorious maiden was seated at his left. Her hair was of chestnut hue, her complexion was creamy, her waist narrow and her eyes a fathomless blue. She turned to him, her gaze filled with adoration, and smiled so sweetly that his heart nigh broke. He saw himself raise a hand to her nape, felt the silk of her hair around his fingers as he pulled her closer, tasted the sweet honey of her lips as he kissed her deeply.

That kiss melted into this kiss and Michael realized what he did.

He tore his lips away from the crone’s and felt himself trembling.

“What witchery is this you do?” he demanded, his words hoarse. To his horror, the crone’s smile was tinged with his recollection of the sweet smile of the maiden, the blue of her clouded eyes reminded him all too well of the maiden’s clear loving gaze.

Michael wiped his lips with disgust, then spat out the taste of the crone. He made to step back, but her hands locked again around his neck. “Release me, witch!” he cried, even as he fought against her unholy grip.

“Another,” Adaira whispered, her voice as low and velvety as a ripe maiden’s. Indeed, Michael knew that if he closed his eyes, he would err again, he would think this crone the maiden he remembered loving with all his heart and soul.

But Michael had never loved a woman thus. He had never known a woman who looked like that maiden, he had certainly never loved a damsel with such vigor that his heart ached so at the very sight of her. This was some trick! He fought Adaira’s wickedly strong grasp, but her lips closed over his all the same.

And the witchery worked its darkness again. He tasted the sweetness of honey and the tang of wine on the lips of his damsel, felt the ripeness of her naked breast beneath his hand. He saw that the demoiselle and he had retired to a richly draped bed, a bed unknown to him. Her hair was unbound, hanging thick to her waist, her flesh was fair, her nipples rosy. She was perfection, she was his love, she was his mate.

“Magnus,” she whispered with awe as her playful fingers closed around his erection. She giggled when he caught his breath, as merry a sound as he had ever heard. Michael thought his heart would burst with the fullness of his love for her.

For a woman he had never seen before.

Sorcery!

He broke the embrace with an effort and glared at the old woman. “You are a witch, bent on driving me to madness,” Michael accused in a low voice. “Why? What accusation would you make against me?”

Adaira smiled. “You will remember all, Magnus, in time.”

“I am not Magnus...”

She turned then, her head lifting suddenly like a doe who hears the hunter. Then she seized his hand, her other hand fumbling beneath her cloak. Michael struggled to break free of her merciless grip, but she had an unholy strength.

“It was not my intent to betray you, Magnus, never that,” she declared in a low voice. “Still I love you, with all my heart and soul, as I did centuries past, as I loved you on the night that you betrayed me.”

“I have never...”

“We must seize this chance to make matters come aright...”

“The chance for what? What is this nonsense you utter?”

“Still I love you,” she insisted, then lifted an ancient dagger high in her hand.

“No!” Michael cried out and took a step back, certain the madwoman meant him ill. He heard the consternation of his men behind him. He fought her with renewed vigor, but to no avail. She held fast, her grip as strong as a demon’s.

“What do you fear of me?” she whispered, hurt in her tone. “I offer you aid, no more than that. You will need this.”

She turned her hand, offering him the blade, even as two arrows soared past Michael’s shoulder and tore violently into her chest. Her body jerked as she fell back, her grip upon him loosing only now.

“No!” Michael shouted, appalled that he had misunderstood her, shocked that he had been responsible for such an error. He caught her in his arms as she collapsed and watched helplessly as the blood flowed from her.

He glanced back to find the members of his party pale-faced, their expressions shocked. Sebastien and Fernando both held their bows at the ready.

“She meant me no ill!” Michael shouted in dismay. Later he would marvel at the root of his certainty, but in that moment, he knew without doubt.

He heard footsteps approaching, saw Sebastien lean down beside him. “I am sorry, my lord. I thought...”

“I know, I know. The error was mine,” Michael whispered, unable to explain his sorrow. Sebastien stepped away. Michael saw him raise a hand to halt the others, but he cared solely for Adaira.

Adaira’s wounds were fatal, that much was clear. She knew it, as well, for there was resignation in the set of her lips.

The dagger tumbled from her feeble grip and she raised a trembling hand to his face. Her odd gaze seemed fixed upon him, nay, it seemed she could see directly to his soul.

“Another betrayal,” she murmured with a shake of her head. “Beware, my love, for the treachery wrought must all be repaid.”

“It was an accident...” Michael began, but she shook her head.

“There are no accidents in truth. And in a sense, I am relieved. This life has been long and arduous, each day painful in your absence.” She sighed and smiled, her fingertip shaking as she touched his face. “I have missed you, love.”

Michael did not know what to say. He could not explain the deep well of grief that opened within him.

“Remember me well, Magnus Armstrong,” she whispered. “Remember that it was not my intent to betray you on this day, though I feared matters come to this. I had to see you one last time, despite the price.” She shook her head. “The gods will have their jest, after all.”

Tears began to run from her eyes as Michael watched helplessly. Her fingers traced the lines of his face as if she would know the look of him despite her blindness.

She was mad, that much was clear, and an utter stranger, but still his heart tightened. It seemed to him that he had had many painful partings like this, though he knew he had not.

“I love you, Magnus,” she said, her voice no stronger than a breath. “I love you with all my heart for all time.”

Michael saw her die, he witnessed the moment that life left her being. Indeed, he could have had no doubt of it. Just as the old woman’s eyes closed and her lips stilled, a light seemed to flood her face and he saw again the features of that young beautiful maiden.

On impulse, he bent, compelled by some nameless urge to press his lips to the maiden’s lips one last time. The vision abruptly faded and he found only the dead crone’s lips beneath his own.

Shaken, Michael laid her on the ground and took an unsteady step back. As he stared at her, a tumult of memories loosed in his mind that he was certain were not his own. Throughout them all rode that maiden, her smile tightening his chausses and making his heart pound.

He glanced back to his companions, seeking some hint that he was not the only one affected, but they regarded him with uncertainty.

As rightly they should. He did not know what had possessed him. Michael bent and impulsively claimed the unusual dagger, shoving it into his belt, as he sought the words that would return matters to how they had been.

He did not have long to think. The silence of the forest was rent suddenly with shouts. A tattered army of vagabonds leapt out of the shadows, blades flashing. His party was assaulted on all sides by a nameless and innumerable foe.

Sebastien shouted and loosed another arrow into the throng of attackers. Tynan roared and unsheathed his blade, the horses neighed and reared. Roland’s blade rang out as it met that of one attacker. Rosamunde drove her dagger into the face of another assailant.

Michael was the last to draw his blade, Adaira’s whimsy like cobwebs in his thoughts. He had no doubt that this was but the first of many battles, part of the greater war that would be required to reclaim what was his own.

He bellowed commands and his men formed a circle around him. Blades swung and blood flowed, the watchful peace of the forest shattered by the warfare of men. They were upon the soil of Inverfyre, Michael could feel it in his very feet, and he would either die or triumph upon these lands.

His fate coursed through his very veins.

* * *

And through the years ahead, a maiden smiled benignly in Michael’s newfound memories, encouraging him, loving him, welcoming him home. She buoyed him when his spirit might have faltered and each time he unsheathed his blade, he swore to serve her proudly. He knew he would never forget this beauty, a conjured dream who had claimed his heart without saying a word.

Indeed, had he listened to his heart, he would have recalled that she was his destiny.