“I will get her out.”
They traveled along in strained silence; the Weavers in their crystal orbs, floating along on either side of him. Mathison ignored them, doing his damnedest to recall anything and everything he’d ever heard said about his grandsire. An ill-tempered drunkard, the ladies had still loved the man, and he’d loved them in return—much to the horror of his council, who’d had their hands full when it came to deciding which of the many bastards he’d sired had the strongest claim to the grand chieftainship.
In the end, the magic had chosen the heir by testing which of the lads controlled the energies the best. Mathison still couldn’t believe his father had reigned supreme among all of Grandsire’s offspring. Father disliked relying on magic to rule the Realm and avoided its use if at all possible. Mathison snorted. Father hadn’t disliked magic as much as he’d feared it. Father feared everything. For what reason, Mathison had never known. His father had been a bloody coward, and it was a wonder he’d held the grand chieftainship for as long as he did.
“Where did yer grandsire and the clan sorcerer do their work when they were getting along?” Mairwen asked. “Did they have a place within the keep or elsewhere? Considering the extent of its creation, I would have thought they would have worked somewhere other than the fortress itself to preserve the secrecy of their plotting. ’Twas rumored yer grandsire never trusted his advisors.”
“I dinna ken. All I know for certain is that Father ordered their writings destroyed.”
“Yer advisors would know.”
“My Legion was put to death in the Pit, remember?” He hated that his loyal council had met with such a fate. It gave him yet another reason to destroy Bansys. “And I’m sure the witch trapped their souls there. She knew they would escape and find me, even with the curse.”
“Glennis could attempt to contact yer grandsire,” Mairwen said. “If ye are willing.”
“Necromancy is a dangerous thing, old one.” Mathison rolled his shoulders, not afraid but chilled by the concept. Evil was never very far away when the mists between the living and the dead were swept aside. “And surely his soul has moved on to the next life by now.”
“As the Master Dream Weaver, Glennis could bring him to yer consciousness in the Dreaming, regardless of whether or not he’s moved on. ’Tis safer than contacting the dead through spells or seances. Malevolent spirits cannot follow where Glennis creates a path.”
It was worth a try, even though Mathison had his doubts that old Cain Shadowmist would cooperate. The irascible chieftain had reportedly been impossible to get along with in life. Death had probably not improved his temperament.
He reined in Horse, sucked in a deep breath, then nodded. “I am willing to try anything to save my Calia.”
Mairwen stretched out both hands and waved the Weavers closer. “We will surround ye with our light as Glennis works with ye.” Then she pointed at an enormous tree up ahead, nodding at its roots that jutted up from the ground like massive, gnarled fingers clutching the dirt. The knobby protrusions created a semicircle at the base of the tree. “Sit there. Within the great oak’s circle and lean back against its trunk. It will protect ye as well.”
Mathison dismounted and made his way over to the tree, breathing in deep cleansing breaths to prepare for whatever the Master Dream Weaver intended. After he’d seated himself at the tree’s base, he unsheathed his sword and laid it across his lap. The weapon had belonged to his grandsire when the formidable old wolf had ruled the Ninth Realm.
“I am Glennis,” said the whisper-thin female approaching him. She looked more like a winged sprite of the woodlands than an immortal Master Dream Weaver of Seven Cairns. She offered him a reassuring smile, her shining hair, as silvery and delicate as dew on a spider’s web, gleaming from the light of her crystal orb. “There is nothing to fear, grand chieftain. The Dreaming is whatever ye make of it. Just remember, ye must maintain control, and I will be there to assist ye.”
Mathison assented with a curt nod, rather than arguing that the Dreaming was an ever-changing plane of chaos that he’d hated the one time he’d gone there. He stiffened his spine, sitting up straighter until he remembered Mairwen’s instructions to lean back against the sacred oak to draw from its strength, wisdom, and endurance. He forced himself to rest against it, then allowed himself to sink into the silvery eyes of the Master Dream Weaver. “I am ready.”
Glennis reached through the wall of her glass orb as if it were liquid and touched his hand. “Come with me, grand chieftain.”
A fierce, angry wind roared in his ears, threatening to shove him down into the dense gray mist swirling around his legs. It appeared the Dreaming was as displeased with his return as he was. Mathison fought to shift his thoughts to those of a visiting royal rather than a warrior wolf, but failed. Dubh hated this place as much as he did.
“Do better, grand chieftain, or this will all be for naught.” Glennis hovered beside him, her orb floating atop the mist’s waves and swirls. “Yer powers are great. The Dreaming will listen if ye but choose to take control.”
He rolled his shoulders, then forced himself to stand taller. Her gentle scolding stung his pride. Time to stop acting like an untrained lad and take control. No sooner had the thought come to him than the wind died, and the level of the mist sank to just above his ankles rather than the depth of his knees.
“Better,” Glennis said. “Now, to find yer grandsire. Follow me.” As graceful as a swan skimming across the water, she took the lead, drawing him deeper into the pale gray nothingness.
Mathison followed, keeping his thoughts focused on everything he had ever been told about his father’s father, including the look in his own father’s eyes whenever he had spoken about the larger-than-life man. Then he halted. Blocking his path was a smirking mirror image of himself. “What the devil is this, Glennis? I know myself. ’Tis my grandsire I wish to meet.”
The man facing him slapped both his knees and cut loose with a thundering laugh. “So none of my portraits survived yer sniveling father’s reign, did they?”
“Grandsire?”
“Aye, lad.” The broad-shouldered Scot grinned. “Cain Shadowmist—not in the flesh but as close as ye’ll ever hope to get since I’m sure the worms feasted on me well enough by now. Nothing left but me bones, I’m sure.” He circled Mathison, giving him a critical up and down study while idly scratching his beard. “Thank the goddesses, ye took after me rather than yer father. I nearly rolled in me tomb when the energies named him my rightful heir.” He shook his head. “His mother was a damn fine woman. I canna fathom what happened to the boy to make him afraid of his own shadow.” He resettled his stance and folded his muscular arms across his chest. “But I’m thinking yer father’s shortcomings are nay the reason ye had that Weaver summon me to the Dreaming.”
“A witch cast my wife, my fated mate, into the Pit of Pinnacles, and I mean to get her out.” Mathison couldn’t shake the feeling that he was talking to himself in a mirror. “Tell me its secrets since yer cowardly son ordered all yer texts burned.”
Grandsire’s smirk darkened to a furious scowl. “He canna have destroyed them all. No one but that pompous Larofess and me knew the location of our cave where we planned that fine piece of work meant to loosen prisoners’ tongues.”
“What cave?”
“In the Munro overlooking the keep. The north face of Shadowmist Crag. There, that sorcerer and I mapped out every detail of construction and spellwork for each trap and blind tunnel of the Pit.” Grandsire jutted his chin higher. “Fated mate, ye say?”
“Aye.” Mathison swallowed hard, the anxious tightening in his chest making it difficult to breathe. “If I have to destroy the entire clan to save her, I will.”
