Torquil of Katanes, laird of the MacDowylt, chosen son of Odin, looked out on the sparkling stars dotted across an inky night sky and roared in frustration.
At his feet, his half sister, Christiana, lay on a bed of cushions, lost in the visions that even now danced across her face in shadows he was at a loss to interpret.
That power had been denied him.
Delicate and fragile, she was the exact image of the dark-haired Tinkler whore his father had married after his mother’s death. That the blood of his ancestors, the mighty Gods of Asgard, ran through her tainted body sickened him. That the power of the ancientseid,the magic of their ancestors, lay in her hands infuriated him. It was a power that should have been his.
The half-breed abominations his father had spawned with the Tinkler were a stain on the world, an insult to the purity of their bloodline, for which he would never forgive his father. He had no doubt that Odin had never forgiven the old man, either, as evidenced by Alfor’s recent death. It was Odin’s punishment, as much as the potions he personally had prepared for his father, that had been to blame for Alfor’s final days of suffering.
Now, as it should, it fell to him and him alone to redeem the family line and reclaim the greatness of their destiny. Before he was finished, the world would answer to him as it once had to his mighty ancestor.
Christiana moaned, tossing her head from side to side as if attempting to escape the hold of the gods’ visions, and he nudged her side with the toe of his boot.
Another moan and her eyes fluttered open, a blue so darkly vivid, they were almost violet. Framed in a thick lace of black, the eyes of the old gods stared out at him.
Perhaps when she reached the end of her usefulness, before he tossed her body to its final indignity in the ground, he would carve out those eyes and give them the honor of the pyre their bloodline deserved.
“What did you see?” he demanded, stepping away from her. “Does Dermid yet return with the tribute from my southern holdings?”
She pushed herself up to sit, every movement a study of grace and fluidity, belying her filthy heritage.
“You haven’t long to wait, Torquil. Even now I see my brother making preparations for his return to Tordenet Castle.”
“Are his pack animals laden heavy with the MacGahan silver?”
He wanted every coin in Malcolm’s possession. He wanted his prideful half brother broken in spirit and, one day, in body. Oh, he knew of his father’s wish to give the MacGahan holdings to Malcolm to possess for his own; he simply didn’t choose to honor that wish. He and he alone deserved it all.
“My brother travels with no silver.”
“What?” he yelled, pleased to see her flinch.
Pleased with her fear. She should fear him. And obey him. As long as she shared her gift of vision with him, he would allow her to live. Though he trusted her not, he knew that in the matter of relaying the visions, she was incapable of speaking anything but the truth, and therein lay her value.
“Why does he not carry my tribute with him?”
“The visions have not shown me this, my laird. Only that my brother makes preparations this very night for travel to Tordenet Castle.”
“Without any silver,” he added.
“Without any silver,” she confirmed.
“Leave me,” he ordered, turning his back when she lifted a hand for his assistance.
When she had gone from his tower, he leaned against the open window, hands fisted against the cold stone ledge, staring sightlessly into the black night.
Though she claimed Dermid only now prepared for his trip home, he wanted to see for himself. To know that his envoy had not yet set foot on his lands. Only by verifying with his own eyes could he reassure himself that Christiana was incapable of trickery.
He stripped out of his clothing, folding each piece into a neat square and placing it carefully on the table beside him before stretching out on the cushions Christiana had vacated. A fleeting impression of heat left behind by his half sister’s body skated over his skin, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Breathing slowly, deeply, he closed his eyes and called on one of the powers of Odin that he did possess. It was necessary to concentrate on the attributes he required for his task. Accurate vision in the dark of night. Speed of travel to cover his land and view it from above.
A shape began to form in his mind.
The trance that had once taken him hours to accomplish was as child’s play now, settling upon him in mere minutes. That which was the essence of him floated from his body, up, hovering near the ceiling to look down on himself where he lay. From here it was easy to admire the beauty and strength that housed his essence in the form of the body that lay below him, naked, open to his inspection.
Only a few hours until dawn.
Great wings flapped, stretching his muscles and propelling him forward to dive through the open window. The air caressed his feathers in an almost sensual experience, boosting him like a helping hand into the night sky. Soundlessly, he circled and dove, instinctively finding the currents to speed him on his way.