She gradually realized that the flow of memory images and thoughts ran both ways. Even as Brenna was inundated by a flood of images—a high cliff with a fortress of dark, rough stone at the summit, glinting in the slanted light of late afternoon above her horse's weary, forward-pricked ears; the smell of venison stew rising thick with savory herbs from a vast iron cauldron suspended over a hearth in a stone hall; a lingering, unpleasant impression of some deeply disturbing nightmare filled with blood and the screams of dying men—even as these images and impressions sank into Brenna's awareness, her host's mind was getting the gist of what had happened to Brenna in a twenty-first-century research laboratory at the base of a Scottish mountain.
And images of Northern Ireland's violence were seeping through, as well, memories Brenna would have given half her soul to forget: her sister and niece lying on the pavement at broken, blasted angles; her father, dead and cold in his grave at the end of a prison hunger strike; the bloodied victims of IRA bombings and shootings; the whole, hideous patchwork of terror that was her homeland...
To Brenna's vast surprise, the mind she now shared space with did not recoil in horror and disgust. A moment later, she understood why, as memory images flooded into her awareness: villages burning in the snow, women and children butchered alongside the menfolk; the clash of steel and the scream of men and horses as battle raged while she struggled to lead a whimpering line of children to safety; her father lying cold and still, pierced in a dozen fatal places, her mother shrieking and tearing at her hair in a wild excess of grief...
They understood one another, even before they were aware of one another's names.
Brenna, she thought slowly and carefully, Brenna McEgan is my name.
Abrupt, flaring suspicion arrowed into her awareness. Irish! The word came as a snarl. Brenna was accustomed to such hatred, having grown up in Londonderry, but it jolted her badly all the same. Then she caught another undercurrent of memory, which showed her warships of a very ancient design against a backdrop of grey ocean and what looked suspiciously like the western coast of the Isle of Man, jutting like a sharp knife blade at the not-so-distant shore of Northern Ireland. Invasion, she realized, an invasion fleet, threatening the homeland of her host—or, rather, hostess.
Brenna tried to get across the idea that she was from the future, far in the future, and braced herself, but met with much less incredulity than she'd expected. After a moment's puzzlement, she understood why. As strange as the ancient sailing ships had looked to her, Brenna's memories of cars and lorries, electric lights, telephones, and the explosive detonations of car bombs were utterly alien to her hostess, alien and powerful arguments that Brenna was, in fact, telling the truth. She also began to get a sense that her hostess' religious beliefs somehow supported Brenna's claim. The soul, being immortal and moving between this world and the Otherworld, dying here to be born there, dying there to be born here, was capable of crossing great barriers, and was not time itself merely another form of barrier which the soul transcended?
Brenna had to blink several times before that sank in fully.
She had landed in the mind of a philosopher... .
I'm no threat to you or yours, Brenna tried to get across, but the one who attacked me and sent me here is a very great threat. He's quite mad, utterly ruthless. I don't know what he plans, but it will be a very great disaster, whatever it is. I must stop him, whatever the cost to myself.
After a long moment of silence, a reply came arrowing back. Then we must find and kill this enemy we share, Brenna McEgan of the Irish. After a moment's pause, the voice inside her head added, very formally, I am called Morgana, Queen of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, Queen of Gododdin and the Northgales, stepsister to Artorius, the Dux Bellorum, and a healer born to an ancient family of Druidic caste, trained by the Nine Ladies of Ynys Manaw. You Irish call it by the name Ablach, for it is a land rich in apples, symbol of the soul and potent for use in healing medicines. You will not find me an inconsiderable ally. Are you and your enemy the only soul-travelers from your world?
Brenna hardly took the question in, for the room had begun to spin as more and more clues fell sickeningly into place. Morgana of the Apple Isle, Artorius the Dux Bellorum of Britain, who was Morgana's stepbrother, war with invading Irish clans...
Cedric Banning, the devious, mad bastard! He'd brought her to the time of Arthur's cataclysmic war against Saxon, Pict, and Irish invasions. Banning had laughed at the notion of King Arthur, last night in the pub, with Indrani Bhaskar and the SAS captain comparing notes on the real Artorius. Banning had put everyone at ease with that laughter, pulling a monstrously successful cloak of misdirection across everyone's eyes. Her own included. She was furious with herself, for being so utterly, stupidly blind. Within two hours of publicly and carefully making fun of the notion, Banning had sent himself straight to Artorius' Britain—and Brenna with him, the perfect scapegoat, unable to testify on her own behalf with her mind trapped in the sixth century a.d. Banning was intent on destroying only God knew how much history. A vengeful blow at the most famous British commander in history, in retaliation for what the Orangeman saw as British betrayal of his entire culture...
And a chance to destroy the Irish utterly, by helping his own Anglo-Saxon ancestors smash and grab far more than they should have been able to, years too early and with who knew how many lives lost that should have been spared? The destruction of those lives would smash British and Irish cultures to flinders and fracture history to shards. How long had Banning been planning this moment? Long before the elections, certainly. She'd been activated by Cumann Na Mbann and put onto his trail months previously, which meant the Orangeman had realized well in advance that a Catholic majority population—the first such majority in centuries—would sweep Sinn Fein candidates into office across the breadth of Northern Ireland. Had known it, had laid his plans for retaliation, and set out to take the ultimate revenge, willing to sacrifice everything rather than see a Catholic state take away his power and his culture of hatred.
It was exactly what she had come to expect of the Orange terror machine.
And Brenna had not the faintest idea how to stop him.
Speaking very gently indeed, Morgana repeated her question, helping Brenna gather her scattered wits. Are you and your enemy the only soul-travelers from your world, Brenna McEgan?
Brenna struggled to answer that calm question. I think not. One other will come, at the very least. A soldier who believes I am his enemy. Worse, he will believe that Cedric Banning, a murdering madman, is his ally.
Morgana, calm and practical, said, Tell me more of this soldier, Brenna McEgan.
How to explain the British SAS? She took a deep, metaphorical breath. He and many like him were sent to my homeland to keep the peace. It didn't work, she added bitterly, for the Irish have memories that stretch back centuries and we never forgive or forget a wrong. From what little I've seen of this man, he is honorable, intelligent, dedicated to his mission. He's an officer, used to command, a formidable ally and dangerous enemy.
Morgana gave a slight nod, startling Brenna with the sensation of having someone else move her body without her conscious volition. How is he called, this man we must ensure becomes our ally?
Brenna's lips twitched into a fleeting smile, encouraged by the cool competence of that response. Trevor Stirling, Captain in the SAS. Ah, Special Air Service is what that means. When Morgana evinced an understandable confusion over the meaning of that name, she added, They are an elite group of men with advanced training in the art of warfare.