Crystal Dreams Page 11

  The summons came again, a familiar, feather-soft caress. “Liandra?"

  “Father!"

  Connal turned her in his arms to look at her. “What is it?”

  “My father sends for me.” She struggled to her feet and probed far out into the dream landscape. “Where are you?” No answer, just swirling dark mist.

  “Can I help you, witch?"

  “Give me your strength."

  “You have it,” Connal said, holding out his hand to her.

  She smiled and cupped his hand between her palms. “I mean mind to mind. It's the only way."

  “I cannot do..."

  “Connal, please. Oh... No!” She took a step backwards. “Who are you? Don't!"

  A green-black cloud swirled around her. It severed her mental shield, and plunging inwards, raped her consciousness. Hatred coiled itself around her. She fought against the psychic invasion. In response, relentless malice pierced her every cell. She dropped to her knees, holding her head, trying not to cry. The assault intensified. She heard screaming. Her screaming. Dimly she felt Connal raise her into his arms.

  “Damn it, whatever you be!” Connal shouted at the cloud. “Fight me if you will, leave her alone. By Arran you shall pay for every hurt done to her! End the dream, Liandra. End it now!"

  Liandra sent out her command to the bed, and the mist swirled with a shimmering oscillation of colors. Her mind touched the familiar crystal emanations. Almost she could reach the source. She cast out as strongly as she could, trying to follow the rainbow-hued path home. She caught a glimpse of her real-world self and Connal lying on the bed, bodies entwined. Fianna sat beside them, monitoring.

  Liandra felt herself wrenched back into darkness. Something was there beside her. Again, like electrified tentacles, it attached itself to her aura, sucking out her life force. She flung up her strongest mental barrier. “No! Get out!” she screamed.

  A triumphant, chiming sound, like perverted laughter, echoed in the darkness as she collapsed on the ground at Connal's feet.

  Crouching protectively over her, he addressed the void. “'Tis a fight you want then, is it? Then come to me and get it!"

  Through her tears of pain, Liandra watched as his image blurred, then solidified. Still dressed in his linen shirt and kilt, over all he wore a silver-studded leather tabard, at his side a long dagger and in his hand a claymore. He brandished it in the mist.

  “It's useless, Connal, you can't fight that way."

  “Have you given up, then?"

  “No, dammit, I haven't. I never give up. You should know that!"

  “Aye.” He hunkered down beside her, his sword across his knees. Gently, he reached out to caress her cheek. “Just who, or what, do we fight, Liandra?"

  “I'm not certain. I only sense its terrible hatred."

  “If it can feel, then ’tis alive, our enemy?"

  “I..."

  “L—iandraaa...” A male voice echoed about them, and the dreamscape pulsed.

  “What be that?” Connal demanded.

  Even as he spoke, he spun around, sword gracefully arcing through the air. Liandra marveled at his fluid speed.

  “Liiianndraa."

  “Father. Here. Over here."

  She reached out and touched her father's consciousness. Other Asarian minds added strength to his sending. The colors of his aura eddied around her, caressing, energizing, before it was wrenched away, to be replaced by darkness and distress.

  “Liandra?” Connal frowned at her. She raised her eyes to meet his. He felt something. A fleeting touch. Definitely not his imagination, he sensed her fear and fatigue.

  “Connal, the dream-dimension has been corrupted. We're trapped here!"

  As he went to take her into his arms, to comfort her, to give her strength and courage, he hesitated. She did not enjoy his touch. He must try other means to rally her.

  “Try again, damn you! You said you are a professional—then prove it! So far all I have seen from you is a lot of wailing. You are ready to admit defeat before the battle's even begun. I told you no member of the League has the stomach for a good fight. I have the right of it, witch!"

  “Why... You!"

  Her anger burst forth in a blinding surge that she directed through the haze. It slowly parted. She felt the emanations of her real-world body. Just a little further and she would be able to merge. The searing touch exploded into her every nerve. She suppressed her cry as she struggled against the force that pulled her back.

  She must fight—must!

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself in Connal's arms. His cheek rested against her head.

  “Sorry, Liandra,” he said. “For causing you hurt. That last attack touched even me.” He lifted her into his arms.

  “What are you doing?"

  “Taking you to safety."

  Liandra watched as he concentrated on the dark mists. Slowly it gave way to reveal a cave in the side of a heather-clad hill. He gently deposited her at the entrance and moments later a small fire sprang into life.

  She glanced down at it, then up at him. “You dream-image very clearly."

  “Thank you for the compliment.” He reached out and cupped her cheek, his fingers gently caressing. “We need to marshal our strength. I do not know about you My Lady Witch, but I am famished. I am going to conjure up some food. And you?"

  “I'm not hungry."

  “Suit yourself."

  Connal sat cross-legged by the cave entrance and ate. She watched him for a time, the hollowness within her growing every minute. She thought about nourishment, and a long glass of blue liquid solidified in her hand. She drank it down in one gulp. It did little to ease the emptiness inside.

  Connal eyed her shrewdly. Again, he could sense her foreboding. It matched his own. He kept a tight rein on his thoughts, in case she picked up his concern. She had more than enough to worry about, without his fears adding to hers. “Try a little of this,” Connal said, holding out some of his food.

  “What is it?"

  “Blueberry tart.” He grinned ruefully. “My favorite. I will become as fat as Dougall. ‘Twill be my undoing. Unless, of course, a green-haired alien gets me first."

  “My hair is now silver,” she retorted.

  “Aye, ‘tis, though doubtless if you had your way it would soon again be green."

  She tentatively, took a piece of the tart and bit into it.

  Connal watched her, a brow raised in silent enquiry as she finished.

  “It has a certain ... appeal,” she said.

  He laughed. “High praise from you, indeed! It would not hurt you to say you enjoyed it."

  “Very well, I enjoyed it. Are you satisfied?"

  “And I thought your acid tongue might be improved by the sweetness from the tart. Tsk!"

  Liandra smiled. Connal's teasing had dispelled her melancholy, at least for a moment. Now, as she glanced around, the gloom descended upon her, again. She paced up and down, probing the darkness, finding that everywhere she quested, the barriers were erected so that no thought could reach her, nor could she escape. She shivered. “It's getting cold."

  The wind began to howl around them, and they retreated further into the cave. Heavy rain pelted down, before turning to hail. Great chunks of green ice crashed against the cave's entrance.

  Connal imaged a thick fur-lined cloak, which he wrapped around himself. He drew Liandra back against his body, enfolding them both in the warm mantle.

  “Let it alone, Liandra,” he said, as he felt her summoning her strength to counteract the dreamscape. “Whatever it is that produced this tempest, if we ignore it, maybe it will go away."

  “But..."

  “Let it be, I say!"

  “If that's what you want,” she said.

  “Aye, ‘tis."

  Liandra waited, but the storm did not lessen with the passage of time, if anything it became worse. The noise grated on her nerves. How she needed some peace and quiet, or something to take her mind from the vi
olence outside. Connal's arms around her were comforting, but it wasn't enough.

  “Connal?"

  “Aye?"

  “May I ask you something?"

  “If you wish."

  “The oaths you use, by Arran, Arran's Mercy. Who is this Arran?"

  “Why so curious, now?"

  Because I need to hear your voice. It's soothing and melodic. But she couldn't tell such an insufferably conceited barbarian that. “Please, I'd like to know."

  “Arran was the first Caledonian. It was he who gave us our laws, our way of life."

  Liandra nodded. Every world had its creation mythology. “He's a god then?"

  Connal chuckled. “No, a true man. I am from his line, in direct descent; hence I have the right to be called MacArran. MacArran means Son of Arran. I am his only living heir. Dougall..."

  At his silence, Liandra turned to look up at him. “Yes, you were going to tell me more."

  Connal grinned ruefully. “Dougall gets nervous. ’Tis his age, I tell him. He berates me for my tardiness in taking a wife and producing an heir, or heirs more like. As the last MacArran if something should happen to me, the line ends. He, like the rest of my people, is afraid I will not do my duty."

  “And why are you so remiss in your responsibilities?"

  Connal laughed. “I have yet to find the right woman. Arran's Mercy! If I have to wed, at least let me find a wife I can tolerate. To join solely for the sake of producing an heir is monstrous. Though in the past, it was so. Blood-lines were considered of paramount importance."

  “You have Jenna.” Her own words caused her heart to turn in her breast.

  “Aye, I have Mistress MacLeod. That is pleasure and..."

  “Yes?"

  “No, witch. ’Tis my business and I do not ever speak so freely with any as I have done with you. Let a man keep some secrets."

  “Of course.”

  “And what about you, Liandra? No husband to keep you at home and stop you plying your trade across the galaxy?"

  “No life-mate would ever consider imposing their will on their partner. Is that how it is on Caledonia? A partner is not free to pursue their calling?"

  “It would depend upon the profession. Most women are content to be wives and mothers."

  “So, on your world a man may have a career, a woman may not. How typical!”

  “There is nothing more important than caring for a husband and family."

  “I've never met anyone so intractable.”

  Connal laughed. “'Tis the pot calling the kettle black!"

  She smiled to herself and began the ritual to purge her mind and body of all thought. Thanks to Connal, she was feeling better. Now, she needed to rest. She'd relax for a few moments...

  * * * *

  How long she slept, she did not know. She came slowly awake finding herself pressed against Connal's body. He lay asleep, one of his legs thrown casually across her knees, his body wedged intimately into her. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and stroked his cheek.

  How much gentler he looked, and younger, now that sleep softened his features. She brushed back the wild array of hair from his face and shoulders. Running her fingers through the raven mane, she marveled at its soft texture. She traced a thumb over his cheek, over his lips. He was beautiful, this arrogant barbarian. If only—she snatched back the thought as it touched her consciousness. Too late, though, for the blood began to thrum in her body in an exhilarating tide which she had never wanted nor ever experienced until Connal MacArran had entered her life.

  His eyelids snapped open.

  Liandra smiled as his gaze focused on her, at first steel-harsh, then softer gray, tender, once he realized it was she. He made no move to extricate his body from hers, and as Liandra snuggled even closer against him, letting his warmth flow into her, his arms tightened about her. His fingers stroked her bare back.

  “My Lady Witch."

  “Yes?"

  He sighed. “'Tis nothing."

  He wanted to tell her something. She could feel it. Perhaps it was her turn to humor him. “Garris called you Con. I haven't heard it used before."

  Connal smiled. Mentally and physically attuned in the dream-state, Liandra felt his reactions as keenly as if he had spoken them aloud. Not for her, she knew, but for Garris, Connal's aura glowed blue, the color of love. It nuzzled against her own body-field in lapping strokes. Then it receded, but the remnants of it left her whole being alight. Did Connal know what he had just done? She fought against the urge to return his intimate caress.

  “You haven't answered me, Connal,” she reminded him.

  When he spoke his voice was husky. “Only Garris has the right to use my shortened name. He and I grew up together. I was fosterling in his father's house."

  “You lived apart from your parents?"

  “'Tis often the way for the son of a chieftain. Besides which, my father and I were not close."

  “Why?"

  His thoughts and emotions surged through her. Bitterness—sorrow—hurt—a boy's confusion at the rejection by a father whom he idolized. Such treatment must have tempered him, his independence coming at a very young age. Sorrow coursed through her, her desire very real to cosset this man whom love had not touched.

  Connal laughed gently. “Spare me your sympathy, Liandra. My foster-father loved me truly. And as I grew older, I had affection from other quarters."

  She caught images from his memory. Faces of girls and women flashed before her eyes. He had sampled many sweet moments in his youth, and as a man. In response there was a sharp pang of envy, a reminder of her own life spent without a partner. No Asarian love-call to inflame her.

  “And what of your parents? Where are they now?” Liandra asked.

  “My mother died when I was five. My father never recovered from it. When I came to manhood, I finally understood his rejection of me. I was very much like my mother, so ever I reminded him of his loss.” Connal smiled grimly. “My father and I had just started to heal the rift between us when he was killed in an accident ten years ago. At the age of twenty-three, I did not want the burden of clan leader. Fate decreed otherwise."

  “Fate does have a way of going against one's wishes,” she said wistfully, running a finger over his cheek.

  Connal smiled, and placed his hand over hers. He kissed her knuckles. “Now, if you will, there are other things we must do besides talk. Because I have a feeling that if we lie here much longer, this dream-search may end like our first. Neither of us want that."

  “No,” she replied. Though if it was the case, why did she feel the severing so keenly when he lifted her gently, but firmly away?

  Connal struggled to his feet. “The wind has died down,” he said looking out across the bleak landscape.

  Liandra joined his side, smoothing down her crumpled gown. She felt terrible, and no doubt looked just as bad. Her flesh itched and her hair—it must be in hundreds of tangles. She could rectify her appearance in the blink of an eye, except that would be a waste of energy. She needed every iota of strength for what lay ahead.

  “What must we do to escape this prison?” Connal asked.

  “Alone, I'm powerless."

  “What about your father? Can you reach him?"

  Liandra concentrated. “No,” she said, finally. “It's as if he doesn't exist."

  Connal raised a dark brow. “There must be something we can do?"

  “There is a way. You won't like it."

  “Go on."

  “To reach Fianna, I must supplement my strength with yours. However, I'm not going to be able to help Garris."

  “First things first. Garris will not be thanking us if we become ensnared in this place. How can you gain my strength?"

  “Mind to mind."

  Liandra saw the tightening of his jaw, the harshness of his eyes. He tried to hide his dismay from her.

  “I do not have the skill to do what you ask."

  “You don't have to, I can take what I need. It's the
only way."

  “I like it not!"

  “It'll be nothing worse than a dream-sharing. I know what I'm doing."

  “The thought of something—someone touching my mind—'tis disgusting."

  “Is it the idea you find disgusting, or me?” she whispered.

  Connal frowned at her and stroked the back of her hand. “No, Liandra! How can I explain? To you such skills are second nature, to me...” He shook his head. “'Tis abhorrent to any Caledonian."

  “You don't have to be afraid, I won't try to read your mind. It's only your mental strength I need."

  “I prefer a good, honest fight, rather than all this! You be certain ’tis the only way?"

  Liandra nodded.

  “Then get on with it, witch."

  She made Connal sit before her. Reaching out, she cupped his face between her hands and concentrated. Deeper and deeper she went. She felt Connal's strength, the outer limits of his mind, and retreated from that powerful masculinity. Tentatively she returned, and drawing on his strength, she propelled her thoughts outwards, probing the darkness for time uncounted.

  Connal heard music like the tinkling of crystals. Like a sultry mantle, purple, silver and gold lights swirled in and around him. Her musky scent permeated his every cell. He breathed in deeply. Gently, so very gently, he felt her touch his mind. He gasped in dismay, forcing himself not to pull away. Perspiration trickled down his spine. Her mind caressed, then retreated. Carefully, she drew strength from him. His gift flowed to her in the colors of the MacArran tartan.

  This is not so bad. Enjoyable, almost—Connal gasped at his own thoughts.

  Liandra's laughter flowed over him, like warm honey.

  Minutes passed. Slowly, the mists parted. The ghostly silhouette of Castle MacArran loomed up ahead. Together they plunged through the structure, coming at last to Liandra's chamber. They saw the real-life Liandra and Connal upon the bed. Fianna was leaning over them, trying to rouse them from their sleep.

  “Fianna! Bring us back! Remove the crystals. Now!”

  She did not respond.

  As Liandra tried to send a more powerful summons, a bolt of pure agony sliced through her. Instantly their link was severed. Both she and Connal cried out in agony as they found themselves, once more, back in the dream dimension.