Page 34 of Darach

You must never open the vault, Callum’s ghost whispered in his ear.

A waft of icy air came out of the chamber on the other side of the door, so frigid that Struan saw frost crystals forming on his eyelashes. His sire’s magic had always been thus, thanks to his elemental power over ice. The luxury of the pitiless cold pouring over him nearly made him howl with frustration. Why had Callum never told him of the chamber’s qualities? He might have retreated here during what were for him the long, unbearably hot summer days––and then he realized that his brother couldn’t have known. Only the prince had, and kept this secret to protect the sain.

Shall I never suffer enough for you, Sire?

Bitter now, Struan stepped inside. As a lad he’d always wondered what lay behind the bespelled door, and now that mystery would be revealed. He found himself in what appeared to be an empty room, the stone walls of which had been thickly covered in frost and ice. Snow covered the floor everywhere except for an area of crystal inlay in the very center. The temperature hovered so low he could see every breath he released hover like wood smoke in the air.

As he approached the crystallized floor center the glittering circle also became illuminated, and the stone panels inside it sank down and slid back. White and blue sparks of Fae magic floated up as a stele made of blue-streaked white quartz rose slowly from within until it loomed over him, and then turned completely transparent as glass.

Locked within the stele lay a war hammer unlike any Struan had ever seen. Forged from steel, silver and ice-clear crystal, the long handle had been etched with the spell that empowered it along with his sire’s spirit. Seeing the head, which had been carved from a single, enormous chunk of icestone, the rarest of Fae crystals, made his gut knot. The prince had shaped the hammer’s head like a giant fist.

Never should a Carack take up the Ice Hammer, Callum had warned him during their only conversation about the sain. ’Twill destroy all we ken and love.

Struan walked around his father’s weapon to examine it from all sides. Some perverse part of him wanted to reach out and wrap his hand around the wickedly beautiful handle, perhaps because the only other person who had ever held it had been Prince Kaer. Callum had claimed that their sire had forged the hammer in this very vault before stumbling out, enchanting the lock and then falling dead at the feet of his personal guards.

Trust you, Sire, to create the most nightmarish of weapons, Struan thought.

Like the MacRoss Fire sword, the Ice Hammer had also been created to protect a Fae Prince’s sons. Unlike the time-traveling blade, however, the enchantment empowering it did only one thing: shatter anything struck with it. According to the legend a man struck by the sain would literally fall to pieces. So would any other weapon it touched. If wielded against any structure, the entire building would collapse. Stone and steel it would break like glass, as it would villages, forests, curtains walls and strongholds.

If a Carack deliberately struck the Ice Hammer against the ground, it would shatter and crumble away, along with the rest of the mortal realm.

The wintry chamber helped cool Struan’s overheated temper, but beholding his sire’s sain did the same to his emotions. As a lad he had desired the approval and affection his sire had instead lavished on Callum, but he had never understood the price his older brother had paid for his position. Each day the Carack laird had to defend and rule over the clan while knowing that thanks to Prince Kaer’s sain he held the fate of the world in his hands.

Callum had called it lonely, but in truth it seemed unspeakable that one man should have such power.

Now Struan understood why Callum had been so enthralled by Athdara Martin. The jewel-setter had likely seduced his brother only to use him for her own purposes, and perhaps Callum had even known that. After nine centuries of loneliness what man could make himself turn away once he’d fallen in love? That obsession with Athdara had driven his brother to folly, and her death had killed everything but the hate inside him. If Callum had declared war on the MacRoss, he might have taken the Ice Hammer from the vault to assure a Carack victory.

As he left the vault and secured the enchanted lock, Struan knew he had to be smarter than Callum. No love, however much desired, would be worth destroying a world.

* * *

During the evening meal Charlotte considered confiding in Emery about the knife-fighting lessons she’d arranged with Camdyn, but then Darach came and sat across from her, making that discussion ill-advised. He again wore his hooded tunic, which along with his long hair covered most of the marked side of his face. As the maids brought platters of food out to the tables he kept his face turned, she noticed. Still the women avoided looking at the chieftain, except for one who gave him a quick, openly fearful glance. Seeing the way he was treated made Charlotte angry and wretched all at once.

Why can’t they see past the surface to the man beneath the birthmark?

“It’s pretty obvious that every woman from the future isn’t a chatterbox like me,” Emery said, dragging Charlotte’s attention back to her. The laird’s wife eyed the men at the table before letting her gaze settle on the chieftain. “So if you want to know something, you need to ask. That okay with you, Charlotte?”

She smiled back at her. “Of course, please do.”

Darach picked up his mug to drink, but over the rim gave Emery a pointed glare.

“I’m curious, Mistress Walsh. Your blood-kin, they’re from a northern land, mayhap?” Taveon asked.

“My father’s family is from Canada, which is a country in the north,” she said. “My mother and her family are French.”

“Allow me to interpret for you, Tav,” the laird’s wife said, patting the war master’s shoulder before she regarded Charlotte. “What he really wants to know is if your ancestors were Vikings.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she told her. “My father’s great-grandparents were Welsh, but the rest of his family are Québécois. I’m fairly sure there were no French Vikings.”

“Technically speaking, though, the Normans… Well, let’s not go there,” Emery said, and then turned to the war master. “She’s mostly New World Francian, with a dash of Brittani, Tav, so you don’t have to worry about her raiding and pillaging. I’m kidding,” she added when she saw Charlotte’s expression.

Completely bewildered now, she asked, “Why would it matter who my ancestors were?”

“Since the Vikings were driven out of the Western Isles in the last century, just being Scandinavian is a polarizing issue. In this time they’re still regarded as the bogeymen by the Scots. That’s why anyone tall and blonde like you makes them nervous.” Emery patted her hand. “If anyone asks, just say your people are Francian. Simpler.”

“Okay.” Charlotte saw how Darach was watching her. “Can I ask a question about the clan?” When he nodded she said, “The only women I’ve seen at the castle are servants from the village, and there seem to be no children or elderly people here. Where do your families live?”

Three of the men quickly got up from the table and left. Darach suddenly wouldn’t look at her, and the laird grimaced. Only Taveon seemed amused.