The Dark Highlander
Page 75

Silvan frowned at that. “Tell me, lad, did Drustan check beneath the slab?”
“Beneath the slab in the tower? The one on which he slumbered?”
“Aye,” Silvan said. “Though to date I’ve put but two texts there, I’ve been planning to find aught I could that may be of help and seal them away beneath it. In anticipation of that, I left clear instructions for Drustan to look there.”
Dageus closed his eyes and shook his head. Had this trip been unnecessary? Might he have avoided all of it? Probably. In a few more years, it was quite likely that Silvan would have gathered up every tome he’d been searching for and tucked them beneath the slab. They’d been there in the twenty-first century the whole time. “Where were the instructions? In the letter you left for him?”
“Aye.”
“The same letter in which you told him what I’d done?”
Silvan nodded again.
“Did you spell it out, or say something cryptic, Da?” Knowing his father, it had been cryptic.
Silvan scowled. “I said, ‘I left some things for you beneath the slab,’” he replied peevishly. “How much clearer must a man be?”
“Much more, because apparently Drustan never looked. ’Tis my guess he was so distraught by the news your missive contained, that he crumpled the letter and threw it away. From the way you worded it, like as not, he thought you’d left mementos or some such trifles.”
Silvan looked sheepish. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You said you’ve been searching the tomes. Have you discovered anything yet?”
A wary expression flickered across his father’s features. “Aye, I’ve been looking, but ’tis slow work. The older texts are much more difficult to read. There was no uniformity of spelling, and ofttimes they had little grasp of the alphabet.”
“What about—”
“Enough about the texts for now,” Silvan cut him off. “There’ll be time enough on the morrow. Tell me of your lass, son. I must confess, I was surprised to see you’d brought a wee woman with you.”
Dageus’s heartbeat quickened and his veins were filled with that peculiar icy heat. His lass. His.
“Though she seemed to be having a hard time fathoming your use of the stones as a bridge betwixt the centuries, I sensed a strong will and fiery mind. I suspect she’ll come around without too much fuss,” Silvan mused.
“ ’Tis my belief as well.”
“You haven’t told her what’s wrong with you, have you?”
“Nay. And doona be telling her. I’ll tell her when the time is right.” As if there would ever be a “right” time. Time was his enemy now as never before.
A silence fell then. An awkward, ponderous silence filled with questions but too few answers, rife with unspoken worries.
“Och, son,” Silvan said finally, “it was killing me, not knowing what had become of you. ’Tis glad I am you’ve returned. We’ll find a way. I promise.”
Later, Silvan pondered that promise ruefully. He paced, he grumbled, he cursed.
Only after Dageus had retired abovestairs and the wee hours of the morn had filled his weary bones with disenchantment—by Amergin, he was three score and five, too old for such doings—did he admit that by now, he should have something to show for his work. He’d not been entirely forthright with Dageus.
He’d been devouring the old texts since the night Dageus had confessed and fled. Oddly, though he’d damn near torn the castle apart, he couldn’t find any documents predating the first century. And he knew they’d once had many. They were referenced in many of his texts in the tower library.
Yet he couldn’t find the bletherin’ things, and granted the castle was enormous, but one would think one could keep track of one’s own library!
According to the legends, they even had the original Compact that had been sealed betwixt the race of man and fairy. Somewhere. God only knew where. How could they not know?
Because, he answered himself wryly, when so much time passes that a tale becomes far removed from its origination, it loses much of its reality.
Though he’d dutifully told his sons the Keltar legends, he’d privately thought that the tales from millennia past were surely embellished a bit, possibly a fabricated creation-myth of sorts, to explain away the Keltar’s unusual abilities. Though he’d obeyed his oaths, a part of his mind had never fully believed. His daily purposes had been purpose enough: the Druid rituals marking the seasons, the care of the villagers in Balanoch, the education of his sons and his own studies. He hadn’t needed to believe all the rest of it.