The Adept (26 page)

During the course of this recital, most of the other newly arrived passengers had dispersed, leaving the three of them standing alone at the side of the concourse. Humphrey waited patiently beside their luggage, affecting not to overhear their conversation. McLeod glanced briefly up and down the concourse before going on.

“Anyway, the MacLeod himself has appointed me to act on his behalf,” he said, his blue eyes bright and sharp. “He’s
most
concerned that the perpetrators be tracked down and the Flag recovered, before they get a chance to misuse it or even destroy it; I phoned Strathmourne as soon as he’d rung off, and when Humphrey told me he was just leaving to collect you, I thought it would save time if I passed on this latest development in person, I’m acting in a private capacity, of course, but I’ve arranged for a chartered plane to fly me up to Skye in about an hour. There’s seating room to spare, if you think you might be able to come along. I’ve a feeling that this may all tie into the fun and games last Sunday at Melrose.”

“We’ll come, of course,” Adam said, “though I’m wishing I’d known in time to have Humphrey bring along a few useful accoutrements.”

At the mention of his name, Humphrey cleared his throat and moved a step closer.

“Begging your pardon, Sir Adam, but I believe I may have anticipated this eventuality. After speaking with the inspector earlier this morning, I took the liberty of bringing along some additional items besides what you specifically requested. You know the ones I mean, sir—in that medical bag that you often take on house calls.”

A brief but pleased smile flitted across Adam’s otherwise stern demeanor.

“Humphrey, somehow you always manage to make me look far better than I would on my own accord,” He turned to the waiting McLeod. “And Noel—it appears we’re better prepared than I thought.”

“Is that the royal ‘we,’ or will Mr. Lovat be coming as well?” McLeod inquired blandly.

“Well, of course I’m coming!” Peregrine said indignantly.

“Not so fast, son,” McLeod warned. “It could be dangerous—probably a damned sight more dangerous than you imagine.”

“Oh, bother
that!”
Peregrine declared. “Do you think I can’t handle myself in a pinch, or that I want to miss out on
all the excitement? I’ve put in my time with the books and musty documents, Adam. Please let me come.”

McLeod looked askance at Adam, “You know how hairy it’s apt to get, if this means what I think it does. Do you really think he’s ready for this?”

“Actually, I think we may well need him,” Adam replied, to Peregrine’s unmitigated relief.

“Right then. If you want him along, that’s good enough for me. Humphrey, are those all the bags?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Then I suggest you take them over to the lounge at Hangar B,” McLeod went on, “if that’s all right with you, Adam. They’re gassing up our plane and doing the pre-flight checks. We’ve just about got time for a quick sandwich and cup of coffee before we head over—God knows when we’ll have time to eat again. Meanwhile, Humphrey can bring in your changes of clothes. Our pilot tells me the weather’s blowing up something fierce, over by Skye.”

A few minutes and a short phone call later, to alert Airport Security that Humphrey would be arriving, the three of them were tucked into a booth at the back of the airport cafe, continuing their discussion of the theft at Dunvegan over stale sandwiches and tepid coffee. Adam was frowning as he chewed, his dark eyes fiercely thoughtful.

“I detect an ugly pattern emerging here,” he murmured. “The theft of Francis Hepburn’s sword, the violation of Michael Scot’s grave—and of Scot himself—and now this. It all has to be the work of the same people. And whoever they are, it’s plain they’re quite determined to get what they want.”

“But, what do they want with the Fairy Flag?” Peregrine asked, looking from Adam to McLeod and back again. “Presumably they aren’t MacLeods. No MacLeod would do what they’ve done. So what earthly use would they have for the Fairy Flag, unless—” A look of sudden enlightenment came over his face.

“Of course! It isn’t an earthly use at all. It has to do with fairies. And Scot’s book and his gold are hidden in a fairy cave!”

“Precisely,” Adam agreed. “And just offhand, I would guess that our thieves believe the Flag has power to protect them from the cave’s guardians, just as they intend to use the Hepburn Sword for that purpose.” He glanced at McLeod. “You’re the expert here, Noel.
Have
they the right of it?
Will
the Flag keep the Sidhe at bay?”

McLeod scowled down at the coffee stains left in his styrofoam cup. “That’s going to depend on how they handle it,” he said slowly. “One of our very ancient traditions states that if anyone
not
a MacLeod were to lay hands on the Flag, he’d go up with a bang, in a puff of smoke. It would appear that the thieves left the Flag in its frame when they took it, so
that
legend hasn’t been tested yet. But whether or not they can use it for their own purposes, without actually touching it, is an open question. Maybe they intend to leave it as it is, and use it literally as a shield.”

“What if they were to try unfurling it?” Adam asked.

McLeod shook his head. “It wouldn’t muster up the fairy host to give victory to the summoners, if that’s what you’re thinking. Only a Chief of the MacLeods can do that, and only on behalf of the clan.”

At Peregrine’s look of question, Adam pushed aside his empty cup.

“When the Fairy Flag first came into the possession of Clan MacLeod,” he explained, “the Chief at the time was told that the Flag would guarantee victory in battle to whomever should unfurl it. However, this favor would be limited to three occasions. Since then, the MacLeods have twice unfurled the Flag to save the clan from defeat and destruction—once at the battle of Glendale in 1490, and a second time at the battle of Trumpan Brig In—1530, was it, Noel?”

“Aye. What worries me, on a purely personal level, is that the Flag may be destroyed—whatever else may happen. If they
are
intending to use it as a shield, and its frame gets broken open in the process, that could be tragedy enough, the thing’s that ancient and fragile.”

“Unfortunately, I think they probably
will
use it as a shield,” Adam said. “Even in its frame, if they know what they’re doing, they may be able to harness its power in
another way. It’s a fairy talisman, after all—use fairy power to control fairies. I suspect that’s what they’re banking on.”

Peregrine’s expression had been growing steadily more indignant throughout this recital.

“That’s appalling!” he exclaimed. “Where is this all going to end?”

“At the castle where Scot hid his book and gold,” said McLeod, “and where those who seek that treasure will also use Francis Hepburn’s sword to ward off the treasure’s rightful guardians. God, if we only knew which castle it was!”

“Well, we’re closer than we were, thanks to Peregrine’s work in London,” Adam said. “We think we’ve narrowed down the choices-to four castles in Scot’s old haunts. Perhaps the final clue we need is waiting for us at Dunvegan.” He consulted his watch. “Which reminds me that we’d better be on our way, if you think the plane is ready. Unless I miss my guess, matters may very well come to a head
tonight.”

“Why tonight?” Peregrine asked.

McLeod pulled a mirthless smile as he rose and began gathering up then luncheon debris.

“In case you may have forgotten, tonight’s the last night in October, Halloween, the night before All Hallows. We Christians call it All Souls’ Night. Others might prefer to call it Samhain.”

“Samhain . . .” Peregrine repeated. McLeod had pronounced it in the Highland manner,
Sow-an,
and the younger man savored the name uncertainly on his tongue.

“Samhain, the Witches’ Sabbat,” Adam said. “Perhaps the single most perilous night in the year. The night when the doors that separate the physical world from the worlds of the spirit are thrown wide, and all objects and entities of power are at the height of their influence.”

His dark gaze strayed beyond the confines of their immediate surroundings. “Yes, it would be an appropriate time to hazard a confrontation with the People of the Hills. The Fairy Folk themselves will be powerful enough, but the occult influences of the sword, and the Fairy Flag also will be at their most potent, from the rising of the moon tonight.”

As planned, they made a-brief detour to the Hangar B lounge, so that Adam and Peregrine could don the more serviceable outdoor clothing Humphrey had brought: tweed trousers, stout walking shoes, and a tough, thorn-proof hacking jacket over a good Arran sweater for Adam; and cords, a turtleneck sweater, and a quilted shooting vest for Peregrine. Outer wear had been provided as well: Peregrine’s navy duffel coat and the green waxed jacket that Adam wore riding when it was wet. As Peregrine was lacing up a stout pair of hiking boots, he glanced up just in time to glimpse Adam slipping something long and narrow and shiny black into the inside breast pocket of his hacking jacket.

“Necessities of the hunt,” Adam remarked, seeing Peregrine’s interest, though he made no move to show Peregrine what it was or to offer any further explanation.

Pretending he had not really seen, Peregrine hastily averted his gaze and finished with his boots, wondering if this might be one of the items from the mysterious black medical bag Humphrey had mentioned. Now that he thought to look for it, he noticed it sitting at Adam’s feet, closed, but with the latch unsnapped. Whatever it might contain, Adam’s manner suggested that it was something to be kept private, at least for the present.

They left their extra luggage with Humphrey, taking only a shaving kit apiece, Peregrine’s sketchbox, and Adam’s black bag before going outside to join McLeod. He was pacing the tarmac beside a trim Cessna six-seater whose starboard engine was already warming up. Their gear fit easily with his in the plane’s small tail hold, and he gestured impatiently for them to board.

As Adam settled into the seat behind the pilot, Peregrine stuffed their coats into one of the rear seats and buckled in beside him. McLeod closed the cabin door and came forward to take the copilot’s seat as the port engine roared to life. The craft’s twin propellers spun whirring ghost-circles in the air as they moved out along the taxi strip and
headed toward an active runway. Within a matter of minutes, they were in the air and on their way.

The flight took nearly two hours. In the smaller plane, the turbulence Adam and Peregrine had experienced on the approach to Edinburgh was more pronounced, and increased as the Cessna winged its way north-northwest amid buffeting crosswinds. Very quickly, the green, rolling hills around the Firth of Forth gave way to the higher, darker slopes of Strathclyde. The rugged highland landscape beneath them showed plum-brown and grey-green through the tears in the clouds.

North they flew along Loch Linnhe, heading westward between Loch Eil and Loch Arkaig, and then picking up Loch Hourn as it led up toward the Sound of Sleat. Beyond loomed the Isle of Skye, its stony headlands overshadowed by a lilac pall of mingled cloud and rain. They curved right to parallel the sound, then followed the curving coastline around to the seaward side. Looking down, Peregrine caught sight of the island ferry ploughing its way unevenly across the channel through a choppy expanse of white-capped waves. Very, shortly, the Cessna banked sharply left again and started to descend.

“Airstrip ahead, gents,” the pilot called back over his shoulder. “Check your seat belts and brace yourselves. It’s going to be a bit bumpy coming down.”

The Island’s airfield turned out to be little more than a windswept expanse of grey-black tarmac overlooking the white-capped water. No other planes were on the ground, and the place looked utterly deserted. Their pilot taxied the plane in front of a small hangar with white plastic siding, just inside the barbed wire perimeter fence, and cut the engines. They could feel the wind buffeting the plane as he made his way to the rear and opened, the door, jumping down to offer a steadying hand as his passengers also began to disembark.

“Not much of a place, is it?” the pilot remarked, pitching his voice loud into the spanking breeze. “There
is
a control tower, over in that portable building, but they don’t man it except on special occasions—mostly in the summer. Here, I’ll get your gear.”

Opening the hatch to the Cessna’s small cargo bay, he began handing out what little personal baggage his passengers had brought with them. Peregrine shrugged on his duffel coat and buttoned it, turning up the collar against the gusting wind. As he picked up his shaving kit and portable sketchbox, he noticed that both Adam and McLeod had bundled woolen scarves around their necks, and he dug into his own pockets for a pair of fingerless woolen gloves.

The pilot closed the cargo hatch and clamped his cap more firmly to his head, his freckled face puckering with concern as he peered up at the thickening clouds.

“I hope you’re planning either a very short visit or quite a long one,” he said, “because I’m going to have to get out of here pretty sharpish. The Highland weather service started handing out storm warnings on the way here. It’s gonna get a whole lot worse before it gets better.”

He pointed across the airstrip to where a bright orange windsock was flapping wildly against its moorings. “You can see for yourselves how the wind’s freshening. If I hang around, I’m likely to find myself grounded.”

“Go ahead, then, while you still can,” McLeod said. “You’ve done your bit, getting us this far. We’ll make our own arrangements from here.”

“If you say so,” the pilot said with an amiable grin. “I’m off, then. Cheerio . . .”

He climbed back aboard the Cessna and closed the door, waiting until the three had moved a few yards away before starting up the engines. As the little aircraft trundled down the runway and again became airborne, side-slipping as gusts buffeted it, the men left on the landing strip turned their backs to the wind and drew closer together. Blowing on his exposed fingertips, Peregrine cast a dismal eye over their surroundings.