Pol nodded knowingly and sat back down, pausing to hold Colin’s gaze for a long moment before he spoke. “Describe the change in the dreams to me.”
Describe the change?
The new dream tore at his gut like something reaching deep inside him, stripping away little pieces of his very being. But disclosing the full extent of what he felt? Absolutely not. That would be worse than acknowledging the pain of training, or the fear before battle. A warrior did not admit such weakness.
“I feel Abby’s presence more . . .” He paused, struggling to find an honorable description. “More vividly. She is upset. Upset with me.” An adequate compromise of terms. “I believe I should go to her.”
“No,” Pol rejected, turning his attention to his general. “The Coryells still have her under surveillance for us, do they not? Have we learned any more of this man who is responsible for her presence in Scotland?”
Colin felt as if the air had been sucked from the room. It was the first he’d heard of Abby’s traveling to Scotland and definitely the first he’d heard of any man. He focused his attention on Dallyn, waiting to hear more.
“She is still being watched, Highness, but we’ve yet to learn much more about Jonathan Flynn. What records they’ve found seem to indicate a wealthy, eccentric recluse.”
“Yet not only is he behind the expedition for which he personally chose Miss Porter, he’s also participating, accompanying those he has hired. An eccentric recluse,out in the open, freely associating with the masses.” Pol paused, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Nuadian, do you suppose?”
“Unknown,” Dallyn replied. “But the layers of secrecy around him make it a distinct possibility. Is it time, do you think, that we send in a Guardian? To verify and neutralize?”
“Send me.” Colin could not contain himself any longer. He was a Guardian. He wore their mark on his arm as proof. Besides, the idea of some stranger spying on Abby didn’t set well at all. Nor did the idea that some man traveled with her. Especially some man that might well be a Nuadian. His education in the evils of the Nuadian Fae had been most thorough.
“No.” Pol turned his gaze back to Colin. “You’re not ready. Your training is not yet complete.”
“No ready? I’m a warrior. I was born to it. It flows in my very blood. I’ve learned the way to recognize yer Nuadians. I ken the danger they represent.” He had, after all, faced them as a young man when they’d tried to take his sister. “What more is there?”
“You’ve barely scratched the surface of how to blend into this time.” Dallyn shook his head as if he were saying something he considered obvious. “You’ll need to learn much more to enable you to fit comfortably into your new life.”
Pol rose from his seat and in two steps reached Colin’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Patience, my son. You will leave here when the time is right. For now”—he turned his gaze toward his High General—“let us hold off on sending a Guardian. Give Coryell Enterprises time to learn what they can.”
Colin ground his teeth to refrain from making comment, managing enough self-control for a brief nod of his head before he made his way from Pol’s quarters.
They dared counsel him on patience? On fitting into his new life?
Patience and a new life were luxuries he could ill afford. Though he’d yet to read the whole of the wondrous book he’d taken from his cousin’s library, he had made his way through enough of it to know that even should his friends survive the carnage of Methven, they’d have precious little time to recover before they’d be set upon at Dalrigh. Their lives depended upon his return and here he sat in Wyddecol, spending his days in practice of swords and playing at being a school lad with daily lessons.
Patience!He’d bide his time well enough, but for his own purposes, not theirs. Certainly not for learning to fit into a new life in this time. He didn’t belong here and he had no intention of remaining. His plan was to go home. To his own time. Home, where he was needed. And nothing—nothing!—would keep him from that goal.
Not even the wounded voice of Abigail Porter, still echoing in his head.
“Do we err in pushing him too hard?” Dallyn at last moved to take a seat, perching on the edge of the chair as if even in sitting he somehow managed to remain at attention.
“No, my friend. We do what is necessary.” Pol walked to the window overlooking the courtyard. “Heis a strong one. Strong enough to face what is already inside him. The blood of the Royal line of the House of Fae courses through his body.”
“Tempered by the blood of Mortals,” the High General reminded.
Pol lifted a hand, waving away Dallyn’s suggestion. It was too late to worry about that now. His own mother had seen to that when she’d chosen to enchant Colin, drawing out his Fae powers and enhancing them.
It had been bittersweet knowledge to learn the old queen yet lived. He’d known only that she’d been exiled somewhere within Wyddecol after the Great War when the Earth Mother had seized power. That she’d retained the power to move between the worlds had come as a complete surprise. Like as not, the High Council and the Earth Mother would find it equally surprising.
If they knew.
As surprising as they’d likely find Colin’s powers to be.
If they knew.
But they’d not learn any of it from him. He didn’t serve them. The Royal family had always served Wyddecol. They’d served the Magic.
The Magic itself had chosen Colin and nothing in their power could change that. It fell to him now to do his best to prepare the young man for whatever lay ahead.
Behind him, Dallyn cleared his throat. “The Porter woman, she’s a Fae descendant, do you think?”
