She whispered them aloud. “Liadan, Daughter of the Bear, hear me through the mists. Come to me my heart—oh my God,” she finished. Her hands shook.
It was a spell. A magical incantation. The power rippled through her as she whispered the words. And tears pricked her eyes.
Aedan, Aedan. Liadan, Liadan… it was as if she imagined their voices.
She sat back, stunned. Writing a spell or a charm had been forbidden in Druidic ritual except for the most masterful practitioners. She remembered that from research and from discussions with her uncle. Their secret rituals were protected, as they believed that the written word had tremendous power to transfix magic in eternity. So it was used only by the most skilled and experienced Druidic priests.
Yet Prince Aedan had inscribed in his own handwriting a charm to call a lost and wandering soul back again. Perhaps Liadan had been ill or injured, unconscious, on the verge of death—metaphorically sleeping in a briar. Loving her dearly, Aedan mac Brudei had risked his own soul to save her.
And now Christina had read the words he had secretly penned so long ago. She felt their power like a tangible force, flowing through her, stirring her imagination, her heart, her soul. She sat stunned.
Come to me, my heart.
Her heart quickened, her head whirled. Then she remembered the verses from Sir Hugh MacBride’s epic poem about that ancient Aedan and his Liadan.
Journeying upward, come again down
Journeying outward, come again in
No peril shall befall thee on hill or in heather
Come again homeward, safe to me.
Hugh must have seen these pages. He had known. He had the secret of these two lost and loving souls years ago. What effect did Aedan mac Brudei’s summoning spell have on the Dundrennan legend? Had it worked? Did she die—or recover? Ifshe came back, then perhaps the legend of Dundrennan had no power after all.
She sat staring at the page as twilight shadows gathered around her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hearing footsteps, sheglanced up as Amy, Lady Balmossie, and Edgar entered the library to gather by the fireplace, chatting. Amy waved for Christina to join them, but she politely declined. “I want to finish what I’m doing here,” she said.
Now that there were others in the room, the poet’s strange magic faded quickly. But her conclusions had shaken her to her core.
“Something has your attention,” Edgar said, walking over to her table.
She looked up. “I’m just working on some translations.”
He stood to the side and behind her, unsettling her. Across the room, the ladies sat by the fireplace as Amy began to read aloud to her aunt from a book of poetry. They barely glanced at Christina and Edgar, probably assuming they were in a scholarly conversation.
“I must tell you,” Edgar said. “I went up to the excavation today to order the Highland workers to box the vases for shipment tomorrow.” As saidvah-zes,Christina rolled her eyes. “We can transport them to Edinburgh by train, but they must be carefully wrapped first. You will need to go up there first thing in the morning to take care of that. Have a servant gather cloths for wrapping them. The workers will bring wooden crates.”
“I do not think we should move them yet. We must examine them thoroughly in their original setting. The Danish method is quite successful.”
He shrugged. “But I’ve seen all I need to see of that structure. The pots may yield more, but they can be examined at leisure in the museum’s workshop.”
She sighed. “I disagree.”
“I know you want things your way, my dear Christina. But I oversee this now, and it is wise to move them. We are wasting time here. Be there in the morning.”
“It is not a waste of my time.” She felt frustration rising. “If you need to go back to the museum, please feel free, and I will work here.”
He grunted. “What is this?” He changed the subject, pointing to the pages on the table. “Are those from the Dundrennan Folio?” He bent to look more closely.
“They are. Judging by the writing style and some indicators of the age of the ink and parchment, these particular pages could date as early as the sixth century.”
“Interesting! Surprisingly good condition. A military roster of some kind—but with additional notes in the margin. Have you translated much?”
“Some. Not all.” Instinct told her not to reveal what she had found. The lines were too precious, too intimate, to share with anyone before she showed Aedan. “Most of it is in Gaelic. Old Irish, really.”
