“The sound is most pleasing to the ear,” Percival said in a whispery tone that might placate a child but did nothing but irritate Magnus. A soft, gentle clang, like a perfectly weighted blade tapping against the curve of a copper shield filled the room. Sadly, it was nothing like the ethereal piano of Lyla’s reality of origin. It was nothing more than metal hitting metal.
Magnus bowed his head, closing his eyes against the cruel hopelessness of his craftsmen’s failure. Kcirred's curse had foiled them yet again. “Ye may leave.”
Merriweather squeaked as though he’d been poked with a sword tip. “But, mighty chief?—”
“Come,” Inuk ordered with a toss of his long, silvery mane. “Yer audience is at an end.”
Magnus didn’t bother to pull his focus away from the deceptively serene view of the Highlands cloaked in the vibrantoranges and reds of early autumn. The shuffling of the Twanes’ small feet and the thump of the door made it known when they were gone.
The brass hinges of the heavy door groaned anew. “The Weaver now?” Inuk quietly asked.
“Aye. Might as well get it behind me.” If it was anything like the audience with the Twanes, it would prove just as disappointing.
Mairwen’s entrance made no sound, but her unmistakable scent, her fragrance of the crisp cleanness of freshly hewn pines announced she was there. “She will learn to play it because she must, my chief.”
“The sickness attacks the young now. Before they are even hatched.”
“The Goddess Bride bade me warn ye that Kcirred is a danger to yer lady, yerself, all of dragonkind, and to the Highland Veil. He must be stopped at all costs.”
Magnus kept his gaze locked on the view of the glen sprawling out on the east side of the fortress. To look at the old one now could render him powerless to control his temper. “I am well aware that Kcirred must be stopped. If that is yer reason for this visit, to warn me of something I already know, then ye waste yer time and mine.”
“I also brought these through the portal,” Mairwen said. “The Veil allowed it, making the concession since the circumstances demanded it.”
He turned and faced her, noting the odd black cases she’d placed on top of the boxy apinlyre. “And what arethose?”
“A violin, a guitar, and a flute.” She primly folded her hands in front of her as she eyed the many teeth of the apinlyre. Lifting her gaze to his, she arched a silvery brow. “How does it sound?”
“Like the blade of a sword striking a shield. Kcirred's curse, ye ken?”
She made a face that confirmed she thought that as useless as he did. “Aye, well…perhaps yer lady can coax a more pleasant sound from it. Her magic is strong. She simply must discover her goddess-given ability.”
“I have told Lyla everything.” Magnus lifted the lid of the smaller of the black cases and eyed the shining silver stick within it. “I dinna think she will stay,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a ragged, defeated whisper. “She says she feels the pull of the mate bond, but it is not enough. I will not be her choice.”
“Ye canna possibly know that. She has only just arrived.” The urgency, the fear in Mairwen’s tone, betrayed her. The Divine Weaver didn’t think Lyra would stay either. An unmistakable stench of defeat clung to her.
He pulled in a deep breath, then released it in a heavy sigh. “I can only keep her here a fortnight. That is the only power allowed me.” He closed the lid of the box containing the silver stick and flattened his hand upon it. “Will the Veil honor it and close the portal till then?” He’d not had an answer from the blessed weave. It had remained silent to the call he’d sent through the Scale of Rurik.
“Yer right to fourteen days and fourteen nights will be honored, mighty one.” Mairwen cleared her throat, glanced all around, then moved closer and lowered her voice. “Yer lady possesses the spirit of a protector. Her tender heart canna bear the sight of a vulnerable trapped in suffering.” She nodded wisely. “Use that, mighty chieftain. That is part of what pulls at her to return to her time. She worries about those whom she took care of when she left.” She wet her lips and tapped a finger on top of the stack of black cases. “After a few days, I will visit her and assure her that we, the Divine Weavers, will see to her charges so she may rest easy and know they are not suffering. We already watch over them.” She nodded again andsmiled. “The young one, her Jake that she taught her music to, is thriving.”
“Hopefully, that will bring her comfort.” He just wished some comfort existed for himself, but under the current circumstances, he doubted it. “Is there anything else, old one?”
“No, mighty chief.” The Weaver stood there staring at him, her expression one of sadness and sympathy. “As I said, I will return in a few days.” Barely shaking her head, she went to the door, then paused with it partially open and looked back at him. “I know we, the Divine Weavers, are not looked upon kindly here, mighty chief, but we do wish for yer every happiness. Not just for the blessed weave or to please the goddesses, but because the healing of a soul is a beautiful thing.”
He acknowledged the sentiment with a single nod. This endeavor that should have been nothing but ecstasy had turned into nothing but pain.
It wasthe strongest coffee she’d ever tasted, but Lyla wasn’t about to complain. Taking another sip, she closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar, nutty aroma of the brew that made the world, or at leastthisworld, seem a little more normal. Normal? Ha! Never would she ever classify what she’d seen so far of the Thirteenth Realm as normal. She held the hot, ceramic mug closer, soaking in the steam of its caffeinated facial.
“My lady?”
She opened her eyes to discover the maid who had introduced herself as Martha, standing there wringing her hands. “You can call me Lyla, if you like.”
The young girl’s eyes flew open wider, her expression horrified. “I could never, my lady. It would nay be proper.” Shelowered her gaze to the cup in Lyla’s hands. “Be it to yer liking as it was last night? Mistress Tern feared getting it wrong.”
“It’s perfect. Exactly what I needed.” She took another sip to make her point. “My head is feeling even better today. Another doozy of a migraine has been successfully averted.”
Martha cringed as though in pain. “Migraine?”
“Terrible headaches. Makes your head feel like someone’s taking a sledgehammer to it. Sometimes they blind me, make me puke, and mess up my balance so I can’t even walk a straight line. Thankfully, I don’t get them very often. Usually when I’m stressed—or if it’s that time of the month. You know, a hormone-kind of thing.” Lyla could tell that the poor girl really wanted to understand and be helpful, but was only catching and processing about half of what was said. The difference in centuries and realities made communicating as difficult as speaking in another language. Probably best to simplify all answers. “The coffee is wonderful, and so is the tea. Please tell Mistress Tern, thank you—again.”
