Laird of the Wind (15 page)

James began to move his hand once again in languid passes over the bird's head. Isobel watched, standing behind him.

An easy peace existed in the little clearing, apart from conflicts of will and temper, of prize and captor. She wanted to preserve that, even if she had to stand here unmoving, just watching the man and the hawk until the sun sank.

"Astolat sounds a remarkable bird," she said. "You must be a gifted falconer to have trained her so well."

"Hawks differ in mood and nature, like people. Astolat was a perfect hawk, intelligent, with an almost human loyalty. I have never known a better tempered hawk." He waved his hand, and the goshawk stared upward, looking enraptured and slightly dimwitted.

"What happened to her?" Watching his fingers glide, Isobel felt as beguiled as the tiercel.

"She caught a Southron arrow meant for me," he said quietly.

"I am sorry," she whispered. He nodded. His hand tipped and spiraled like a hawk in flight.

Isobel kept her gaze on the hand that moved in endless, gentle loops over the tiercel's head. All else began to fade from her awareness. Somewhere a bird trilled and a soft wind rushed through the trees.

The restrained grace and power of his hand swept her along in its flight. She listened to his murmuring voice as he spoke to the bird, the same low phrases, over and over.

In a rush of awareness, she suddenly understood what the goshawk knew of the man: a soothing presence, a safe presence, a presence to be trusted.

She wanted to feel that for James Lindsay again, but could not. The thoughts drifted out as quickly as they entered her mind. She watched his hand, listened to his murmurs.

A remembered image came to her suddenly, like a dream recalled, of a man holding a goshawk on his gloved fist, standing beside a hawthorn tree in the rain.

This man.

Isobel's heart began to thump. Months ago, in a vision forgotten until this moment, she had seen James Lindsay with a goshawk. She drew in a breath, and wanted to tell him, and could not. She wanted to take her gaze from his sweeping, gliding hand in the air, and could not.

The sunlit clearing around her began to fade. His hand was all that she saw now. Lights sparkled and glistened at the newborn edges of the field. Isobel felt the darkness slide in, filling her head, replacing the world her eyes saw with another world.

She wanted to cry out, but could not. She wanted him to pull her back, but she could not reach out. Darkness and light mingled swept in with the power of an ocean wave. She dimly felt herself fall to her knees.

Light swirled into her then, brighter and finer than the glow of fire or sun. It pulsed and shimmered and danced within her mind, brilliant, enthralling, loving, magical.

The images began.

* * *

She saw swirling clouds of mist. The veils parted to reveal a green mound and a hawthorn tree. Beyond it rose the soaring walls of a church, its stones dark with rain.

James Lindsay stood beside the tree. He was cloaked and hooded, and held the goshawk on his gloved fist. Isobel felt herself there, too, gliding over the damp grass to stand beside him. He turned to look at her, and she felt his sorrow, deep and dark and endless.

He stepped away. Isobel moved after him, floating on the misted air. But he turned and walked into the mist.

She wanted to follow him, but could not. She felt trapped somehow, as if she wore a chain. She swirled away, and saw another man standing beside the tree.

He was a large man, an armored knight, handsome in a bold way, broad in bone and muscle, taller than any man she had ever seen. His body was powerful beneath a chain mail hauberk and a green cloak. He held a long broadsword upright, his hands folded on the high hilt, as he watched her. His eyes were gray and somehow filled with light.

"Jamie seeks peace," he told her. His voice was deep and kind. "And he seeks forgiveness. But he must grant them to himself, though he resists that."

"Who are you?" she asked.

"A friend," he said. "Be patient with him, Isobel. He will find what he seeks."

She nodded, and looked in the direction that James had gone. But the mist swirled, empty, lonely. She turned back. The huge, handsome knight had vanished.

The mist shifted into darkness again. This time it was a brown murk, cold and filthy, with a vile odor. In the dank shadows, she saw stone walls, and a man crouched in a corner.

Her father. His hair was long and straggling, gray and filthy; his beard hid his face, his flesh sagged on the jutting bones of his large frame, but she knew him. She recognized his blue eyes, dulled to a slate color. He covered his head in his shaking hands and curled forward.

She cried out to him, and he looked up. Hope lit up his features—and then the image was gone.

"Father!" she screamed, reaching out. "Father!"

But the darkness flooded into her, sparkling with colored stars, sweeping her away. As it faded to a velvet black depth, she fell forward.

* * *

The ground was firm and cool beneath her cheek. She felt the dewy grass between her fingers, smelled its fresh scent and the pungency of wild onion somewhere nearby. The wind and the sun were soft on her face and hands. She heard a lark singing overhead, and heard the soft chirr of the jessed goshawk, a few feet in front of her. She pushed up to prop herself on hands and knees.

"Isobel?" His voice was gentle with concern. She turned toward it. "Isobel, what is it? Are you ill?" James crouched beside her. She felt warmth radiate from him. His hand rested on her shoulder, strong and firm.

"I am fine," she said, a little breathless. "I am fine."

She began to stand, rising slowly. His hands supported her as she came up. The breeze pushed her skirt against her legs and the sunlight felt warm and gentle on her face.

"Can you walk?" he asked. She nodded. "Come over here and sit down." His fingers gripped hers, warm, caring, strong. She felt the weight of his other hand at her waist.

She stepped forward, and stumbled when her toe caught something, a root, a stone. His hands steadied her.

"Isobel, what is it?" he asked.

She hesitated. "I am blind," she said.

Chapter 10

"Blind?" he whispered.

"Aye." Isobel gave a trembling nod.

James stared at her. Bright sunlight lent her irises a pristine delicacy, but her gaze was flat and unfocused. He lifted a hand and waved it slowly, letting the shadow of his fingers pass over her face. She did not blink.

"Isobel," he said, his voice hushed with shock. "What is it? What is wrong?" He wondered anxiously if she had been injured when the horse ran off with her; he knew head wounds could cause odd effects. "Did you hit your head yesterday?"

She tilted her head slightly as she listened to him. Her eyes stared, their dull gaze aimed somewhere beyond his shoulder.

"Nay. The blindess comes over me whenever I have a vision. 'Twill pass."

"When you fell to your knees and cried out, and spoke aloud, you saw a vision?" he asked.

She nodded. "And the blindness always follows."

He raked his fingers through his hair, looked away, looked back at her, trying to piece together cogent understanding in the midst of his alarm and astonishment. "Blind?" he repeated.

"The blindness will pass," she said calmly. She reached out and found his arm, rested her hand there. He gripped her elbow. "I have learned to expect this," she said.

"How long does it last?"

She shrugged. "An hour, an afternoon, sometimes through a full day. It passes each time. I pray 'twill always be so."

"Is there aught wrong with your vision otherwise?"

"Only a little blurring of distances, but that is common enough. My father once had a physician examine my eyes, and he said they were healthy. This only happens during and after the prophecies, and then it goes away of its own will. Father Hugh says 'tis my burden to bear for the gift of the prophecies."

"Mother of God," James said softly. "I did not know."

"Few do," she answered.

He watched her, thinking. Then he realized that she waited for him to speak. "What vision did you see?"

Her brow furrowed. "I saw you."

"Me," he said, suddenly wary. He frowned deeply.

"Aye, and the goshawk," she said. "Beside a hawthorn tree. I am trying to remember—I forget them so quickly. There was another man—a knight—who spoke to me. I was there, too." She shook her head as if confused. "The rest is gone. 'Tis like forgetting a dream upon waking." She bit her lip, looking intensely frustrated. "I am sorry. I try to recall them, but—" She shrugged, shook her head again. Her hair slipped down over her shoulders. Her blank blue eyes were somehow innocent.

James felt a curious softening sensation in his heart. Logic told him to doubt all of this. But he could not, watching her. He was greatly concerned, and wholly shocked.

"You remember only that much?" he asked.

"Aye. After a vision, I barely remember anything of what I have seen or heard. My father or the priest are often with me to write down what I say. They question me about what I see and what I hear while the vision is upon me, and I can answer them. Father Hugh has recorded all my prophecies, and he understands them better than I do myself. I remember so little of them, and they are often puzzles to me, full of symbols." She sighed, moved her fingers on his arm. "I wish I could remember. Once I did try to make myself recall, and—" She stopped, bit her lip. "Perhaps 'tis the shock of the blindness that drives all else away," James said.

"That could be. The blindness used to frighten me greatly, although I am more used to it now."

She did not look used to it, James thought. She looked vulnerable, like a frightened child pretending to be brave. Her fingers flexed anxiously on his arm. He pressed her elbow with his own hand to reassure her with touch.

"How long has this been happening?" he asked.

"Since I was thirteen winters, a few times each year," she said. "I have learned to call the prophecies forth by gazing into a bowl of water, or into a fire. But just now, it came upon me strangely—so suddenly. That hasna happened since I was young. James—can you recall what I said? Sometimes the images come back to me if I can hear the words I said."

He rubbed his brow, thinking. "You said `peace and forgiveness,' and something about a friend."

"Ah!" she said. "I saw a knight. He said he was a friend." "Who was he?"

She shook her head. "I do not know. I can hardly recall already... he was a large man, tall. Was there aught else?"

"You called out `Father!'. I thought you were calling for a priest."

She gasped. "I remember—I saw my father!" Her fingers tightened on his forearm. "He was in a dungeon. He was... ill, weakened." She bowed her head. "What if he is hurt, or dead?" "He is alive," James said quickly. "You saw him alive. Remember that, Isobel."

She nodded. Her face was pale cream in the strong sunlight, and her eyes were transparent blue glass, perfect yet sightless. "Dear God, Isobel," he murmured. "Dear God." He felt stunned, dizzy, as if he had whirled about blindfolded and faced an unknown direction—a bit like she must feel, he thought. "Tell me what you need of me."

She paused. "For now, I must ask safekeeping of you."

"Aye," he said gruffly.
Anything
, he thought. Suddenly he keenly missed the bond of their gazes, and wanted more contact with her. He touched his fingers to the curve of her cheek. She tipped her face into the cup of his palm for an instant, and her eyes drifted shut.

"I promise," he said.

"Thank you," she said. "But then, James Lindsay, you must let me go." Her tone was light, a mock scold.

Suddenly he did not think that he could ever let her go. The force and certainty of the feeling astounded him. Sympathy, he told himself; pity, perhaps. Just that, and no more.

"Come with me, Isobel," he said gently, and took her arm to lead her, step by careful step, toward the horses.

* * *

Isobel tilted her head as they rode along the forest track. Sounds seemed louder to her in the blinded state, scents and tastes were stronger, and her fingers told her more of texture and shape. The effort needed to sort through so many sensations at once, without sight to tell her what she heard or felt or tasted, could be exhausting and overwhelming. But there were moments when she exhilirated in her awareness of the commonplace.