Kat Bastion - Forged in Dreams and Magick

“Does he have a name?” I felt such a magnificent creature should.

“Aye. Dubhar .” He spoke the name with respect.

I smiled at the Gaelic word. “Shadow.”

Iain nodded, passing the wineskin to me. I quenched my thirst, listening as he continued.

“They’re taught from verra young to be in the thick of trainin’ fields without spookin’. They grow accustomed to the clamor of swordplay. We instruct them in voice and pressure commands before they’re ever mounted. A great warhorse will know when its rider is endangered, pullin’ him from harm’s way. It happened once with me . . .” He trailed off, staring into the darkness.

Iain began to pull apart pieces of the crusty loaf of bread. I left unasked what he kept private. The topic seemed less important than the tender bonds forming between us, and I found great comfort in talking with Iain about anything.

The enormity of the bigger picture captivated me: we sat on a plaid, over moss-covered ground, in the Highlands of Scotland mere years before the reign of Robert the Bruce; I existed in a time and place that I’d only dreamed about, wanted by a man cast straight from my fantasies.

A sense of wholeness washed through me. I no longer drifted, lost in a world not of my choosing. I’d been found. I belonged. For the first time in my life, my career took a backseat. I’d found another purpose in life—a reason to live.

The wayward storm had swept me away against my will, carelessly tossing a marooned passenger upon the rocks, but the survivor in me had scrambled for purchase. I stretched across the newly discovered beach, basking in the seductive moonlight.

Iain might have had a good-fortune epiphany, but I’d become the lucky one.

This shipwrecked soul has found home.

A piercing racket clattered into my brain. I dragged a feather pillow over my head, groaning, but the intrusive sound persisted. I grumbled incoherent expletives, adding a second pillow, my irritation growing at being robbed of decadent dreams in a Highland warrior’s arms on a moonlit picnic. With a growl, I tossed the pillows off my head, gearing up to pound on Mrs. Edmonton’s door and beg her to turn the TV down again.

I opened my five-hundred-pound eyelids.

Shut them.

Opened them.

I inhaled deeply, absorbing the extremely dated surroundings. No amount of blinking eradicated reality. I’d forgotten where I was. My tempting dream had been extrapolated from a wondrous night based firmly in my new reality—in the past.

I shot upright which, after the night’s wine consumption, proved to be a mistake. I’d gotten drunk off more than romantic moments with Iain; clearly, the wine he’d brought had been deadly. Grateful for the darkness of the room, I gingerly lowered my body back down as the delightful sounds of swordplay hammered incessantly into my brain, the recurring, disconcerting feeling of being lost somewhere in time and space dissipating as I sank against the pillows.

Suddenly, the door burst open on a loud crack of wood separating from the frame. A torturous high-pitched squeal stabbed into my ears as my peaceful bed was attacked by a flying leap.

Brigid.

Helpless, unable to defend my dream-filled place of solace, I groaned.

“Hurry, Isobel. You doona want to be late.” Her excitement crackled into the air.

“Ah, the games,” I grumbled, struggling to find the motivation to sit up again. My exhausted body wanted to bury deep under the covers for hours longer. My mind agreed, and I pulled the sheet and blanket over my head.

“Nay, you’ve slept long enough.” Brigid yanked every stitch of material from my fingers, stripped it all from the bed, and threw it onto the chair by the hearth. “Come, you’ll miss all the excitement.”

“Are you sure it isn’t already all in here ?” I quipped, rolling over to block the sun.

Brigid’s tenacity prevailed, rejecting my morning sluggishness as she grabbed my arm, nearly pulling it out of the socket, and forcibly evicted me from my warm, feathered heaven. She mercifully left me at the foot of the bed instead of dropping me face-first onto the floor.

I hoped her enthusiasm would rub off on me at some point . . . and came with hot coffee. Light spilled in as she peeled back the window’s thick tapestry, fastening a corner tassel to a protruding wall hook.

I dragged myself off the bed and stood at a washbasin on the bedside table. Thankfully, Iain’s castle provided the finer things in medieval life, including toothpowders; the brush was a clean linen square with a dampened corner. I lifted the lid to a ceramic vessel, pressing the cloth into the rosemary ash. After rubbing the surface of every tooth, I splashed cold water on my face and into my mouth, rinsing away the ash. The routine helped banish the last traces of sleepiness while I listened to a very animated Brigid. I turned around to face her, tuning back into her long-winded exposition.

She chattered on, “. . . favorite event and see who’s best this year at turnin’ the kaber.”

Caber Tossing. The events she outlined in the day’s itinerary sounded like the Highland games in California . . . only those in Brigid’s world were the pinnacle of lifelong battle training and a means for the men to compete for advancement within their ranks. A few outstanding soldiers were chosen for rare, coveted spots in Iain’s personal guard, which comprised a dozen or so men.

“. . . Fingall made guard last year,” Brigid said.

I glanced at the bed. Brigid leaned back on her arms, gazing out the window all starry-eyed. I snorted.

“He’s a fine warrior,” she defended.

I absently lifted a cornflower-blue dress from the pile of clothing on a side chair and pulled it over my chemise. “Brigid, I have no doubt of his abilities. You are lovesick.” I imitated her in breathless perfection, “ Fiiiiingall made guard last year . . .” I finished with a sigh. My mocking performance was applauded with a pillow in my face. We burst into fits of laughter as she pulled me out the bedroom door.

We walked into a courtyard overrun by ordered chaos, and it took me a moment to get my bearings. Children squealed, running wild in every direction. Women hustled around the event area carrying baskets filled with wooden trinkets, colored streamers, and various other wares. Young men milled about on the field, many lining up before the imposing Robert, Iain’s commander of the guard. Additional tents had been erected on each side of the rectangular arena, transforming the space into a true medieval arts and crafts fair. The clan had multiplied tenfold. I glanced left, noticing the drawbridge had been lowered.

“Do other clans attend the events?” I asked, lifting my skirt and rushing to follow Brigid before she disappeared into the crowd.

She shook her head. “Not entire clans. Select families are invited from surroundin’ clans, but only if they’ve daughters of marryin’ age. No other men compete. Ours is a celebration for the Brodie.”

Clan Brodie had more people within her family than I’d realized. Preoccupied with my crazy situation, I’d failed to notice the size of their vibrant community. My new kin bustled all around. No one worked gardens, tended ovens, sewed gowns, or fashioned weapons. Everyone stood present and accounted for, partaking in the day’s events or managing them.

Brigid stopped abruptly. My momentum bumped me into her. I hugged my friend, laughing, thankful we hadn’t tumbled to the ground again. We stood in front of a table covered with brightly colored ribbons. Some dangled from the sides of saucer-sized, woven circles while others were braided at one end with free-flowing streamers at the other.