by Hazel Hunter
“No room for more,” she assured him. “That was delicious, thank you.”
He sat back in his chair, his bulk making it creak a little. “You hold your wheesht, Jenna Cameron. You’re quiet, and calm,” he added when she frowned.
“Everyone here seems to be that way,” she pointed out. “Except your headman.”
“For all that you’ve endured you’ve no’ wept nor shouted. I’ve seen caution in you, but no anger or fear.” Domnall gestured at her arms, which she’d tucked loosely around her waist. “Even here alone with me, you’re at your ease.”
She couldn’t deny that. “Should I not be?”
“Some moons back I met a lass who spoke words strangely, as you do. Emeline McAra.” He paused and watched her closely. “She came here with a shaman from the Skaraven Clan. Galan’s son, Ruadri, as it happens.”
Jenna realized he was expecting her to react to the names. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know them, or if I did, I’ve forgotten them. Could they help with finding out who I am?”
“Galan wouldnae welcome them back. Indeed, he ordered me to kill his son.” Domnall’s mouth thinned. “I refused.”
“That’s horrible.” Suddenly she didn’t want to go anywhere near the headman. “Why would he want you to murder him?”
“This forest, ’tis warded against intruders. No outsider may trespass on Moss Dapple land. Except Galan’s son, and his lady.” He nodded at her. “And now you, lass.”
Watching Jenna’s face yielded no clue to her thoughts, Domnall decided. The lass had more than the gift of quiet. Her self-control rivaled his own and that of his men. Yet when he spoke of the vicious order Galan had given him, he sensed her surprise and dismay even before she spoke. He also guessed her to be quick enough to understand his meaning for confiding in her.
“Will Galan order you to kill me, too?” she asked, confirming that.
“I cannae tell you,” he admitted, “but ’tis possible. Only ken that should he command me thus, you and I shall leave the tribe’s lands.”
“Or I could go now.” She got to her feet and looked at the cottage door. “I’m ready. You just have to point me in the right direction.”
Again, she spoke without fear, but decisive determination. If she had been a man Domnall would have called it tapachd. He’d never known a female to have that particular kind of courage.
“’Tis but one passage to the outside of the forest, and ’tis guarded.” He rose from his chair. “Galan hasnae bid me harm you. Until he does—if he does—then I’m obliged to follow his commands.”
“Why?” Her expression grew bewildered. “Domnall, I’m fairly sure that I didn’t choose to come here. I have no reason to trespass. All I’ve done is wake up in the wrong place. I’m willing to leave, right now. Wouldn’t that make your headman happy?”
“’Tis more to it than you ken.” Without thinking he reached out to her. “Forgive me, lass. ’Tis a wretched–”
The moment he took hold of her hand they both went still and stared at each other. Every thought drained from Domnall’s head as a darkness enclosed them. All around them storm clouds swelled and flashed white from jags of lightning. Jenna’s body glowed as if she had been wrapped in sunlight. His own half-naked body bore streaks of red blood and black gore. They floated together in that space, like two birds riding a strong wind current.
Don’t make me go.
You cannae stay.
Domnall swept her into his arms, the light enveloping him as he held her close. In that moment to release her seemed unbearable, impossible. He’d rather gouge his own heart from his chest. He felt Jenna yanked from his embrace, and then he stood back in his cottage with her, as if none of it had been real.
“What did you, lass?” he demanded.
“No,” she whispered, pale and shaking. Jenna stumbled back from him as she pressed her hands to her temples. “I can’t. Don’t make…me go…”
Domnall lunged forward as her eyes rolled back in her head, and caught her just before her head struck the stone floor. He lifted her limp body against his chest and carried her over to his hearthside chair, sitting down with her. Her skin had gone cold and damp, and her breathing shallow. The suspicions that Broden had planted in his thoughts abruptly faded. Anyone could deceive by word or deed, but the lass couldnae feign such a swoon.
She’d also used the same words as he’d heard in the vision.
He felt none too settled by it. The Mag Raith had dwelled among the Moss Dapple since awakening in the ash grove. Whatever had been done to take away his memories, he recalled every day he’d abided with the tribe, and his life among his own people before the last hunt. He’d never before seen Jenna until this day. The vision felt so real it had to be true, but it could not be.
Unless ’twas taken from us.
Domnall touched her brow and then her throat, feeling the soft throb of her heart in her veins. During their hunting days Edane had ever served as their healer, but he’d sent the archer to patrol the tribe’s boundaries with Mael. Keeping her warm until she awoke was all he could do for now, unless she grew worse.
Settling her so that she lay against more of his chest, he watched the flames in the hearth. He never indulged in such idleness or much pondering. Long ago he’d given up trying to fathom what had happened to him and his hunters before Galan had rescued them.
Unlike Jenna he remembered his life before the darkness had swallowed him. Being the only son of Nectan mag Raith, his tribe’s headman, had never been easy or especially pleasant. His sire had expected him to take his place someday, and had trained him ruthlessly in the countless responsibilities of ruling their large, affluent tribe.
Ye’ll no’ bring shame to this house, stripling.
Nectan expected his son to be first among all Mag Raith boys in strength, speed, and agility. On those rare times that Domnall had failed to please his sire, the headman would punish him harshly. He’d been forced to carry stones twice his weight up the slopes, or swim from one end of the loch to the other while bearing another lad on his back.
A man doesnae complain. We leave that to the females.
At first his sire’s sternness had bewildered Domnall, especially when he saw the affection other men openly showed for their sons. Nectan had never once uttered a word to him in kindness or praise. If Domnall spoke out of turn his sire would answer with a sharp clout. Being subjected to Nectan’s harsh demands had gradually hardened Domnall. In time he became the strongest, fastest warrior among the Mag Raith, and first choice as the tribe’s next headman.
That he despised Nectan as much as the heavy yoke of prospective leadership had been known only to Domnall’s hunting companions: Mael, Edane, Broden and Kiaran.
After boyhood the five of them had begun hunting together to escape the village and their troubles. Mael, whose cruel, drunken sire wielded a heavy hand with his mate as well as his offspring, had been the first to join Domnall. Edane they had found one day practicing the bow in secret, a skill forbidden him, as he’d been in training to become the next shaman. During their hunts they also discovered Kiaran taming wild kestrels in the woods. He had been taken in by the Mag Raith after his own tribe had been slaughtered by Norsemen.
Kiaran had brought to their party another outcast he had befriended: Broden, the surly, silent son of a neighboring tribe’s headman. Grim whispers abounded about the handsome lad, who had been sent as an infant to be fostered by the Mag Raith. This after his sire’s wife had tried to garrote him, some said, but no one knew why. The deep scar around his neck bore mute testimony to the rumor, but his harsh, unfriendly nature kept anyone from confirming the facts. Even Domnall felt curious about Broden, whom he’d never seen speak to anyone.
“My sire got me on his bed wench,” Broden said suddenly one day after they’d made camp, his belligerent expression daring a response. He had the rough, rasping voice of a much older man. “She bled out after my birthing, and his mate didnae care to coddle a slave’s pretty whel
p. Thus.” He flicked his fingers at the scar.
All of them had gazed back at him, unsure of how to reply until Domnall said, “’Ye’re the best trapper I’ve ever ken, but pretty?” He shook his head.
“He’s no’ so hard on the eyes,” Edane added, tossing another split onto their fire, “yet I reckon I’m far comelier.”
Mael nodded. “’Tis a sad truth. All the young lasses tag-tail after our archer, sighing and wishing to stroke his fine braids.”
“When they’re no’ simpering over yer great wall of a chest,” Kiaran put in, and pressed his hand to his chest as he let his voice rise to a feminine pitch. “Oh, Tracker, ye’re so manly. Bond with me and sire my ten bairns.”
“I’d sooner mate with one of yer wee screechers,” Mael told him.
Broden had said nothing more, but after that day he no longer dwelled in dour silence when among them.
Despite the trapper’s blunt confession, they never again spoke of his luckless parentage. All of them carried their own pain and loneliness, and recognizing that in each other bonded them closer than blood ever might have. Hunting became their passion, and soon they devoted every spare minute to riding out together to chase game. In time they became the finest hunters among the tribe, and provided such bounty for their people that even in the cold, dark season no one went hungry anymore.
All of that changed when invaders came marching up from the south, hunting the magic folk and slaughtering any Pritani who crossed their path.
On the day they’d left the village for the last time Domnall had seen the distant storm heading for the highlands. For his own reasons he decided to chance it. Then Mael had spotted a bachelor herd of red stags, which had led them a merry chase. The herd had vanished in the thick woods surrounding a small, sturdy fortress. The storm broke over them, and hail had driven them to take shelter. Leaving the horses where they stood, Domnall had led his men inside the fortress…and had woken up in the Moss Dapple’s ash grove.
“You’re the Mag Raith hunters,” Galan had said later that night, after Domnall had related what he could remember. “The five of you became legends.”
“Became?” Broden asked.
“Before the Pritani died out, they told your story across the highlands.” He met Domnall’s gaze. “’Twas the invaders. The Mag Raith and their allies banded together to fight them, but the enemy didnae cease coming. In the end all of the tribes fell beneath their cursed swords. Thank the Gods my ritual offering in the grove of stars brought you out.”
For the debt they owed the dru-wid, and the dismal prospect of having no tribe to return to, Domnall and his men agreed to abide with the Moss Dapple. Serving as their defenders gave some purpose to the rest of their lives, which passed peacefully. They protected the tribe as the years went by, but with time another strangeness became apparent.
The hunters never grew older.
The five remained young and strong, never growing sick, able to heal from any wound. Galan told them that they had been blessed by the Gods, and the tribe accepted their defenders without question or complaint. Domnall suspected their gifts had not been bestowed as a reward—far from it. For twelve hundred years he’d kept his own counsel, never putting words to what he suspected. The preservation of the brotherhood, the only family they knew, meant all.
But now had come Jenna.
“Don’t make me go,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against Domnall’s chest.
He gazed down at her, relieved to see the flush of color that had returned to her fine skin. With a gentle hand he brushed a sleek dark tress away from her face.
“I darenae make you stay, lass.”
“Overseer, we must speak.” Galan stepped through the door and regarded them both as if he’d caught them naked and facking. “By the Gods, Domnall. Have you gone mad?”
Chapter Six
Huddling in the darkness, Jenna waited for the light. It would come, and soon. Promises had been made. The pact had to be kept. She’d given her word, and no matter how much it cost her she had to keep it. She felt miserable instead of hopeful. She’d found hope. Now she had to toss it away and jump into the abyss.
If she didn’t, none of them would ever escape.
Something cranked, slowly and heavily, and a solid shaft of white light rammed through the blackness. Now she could hear the sounds of fighting, growing louder with every passing moment.
She had to get up. She had to jump.
The clouds parted, their electric dampness crackling over her as she approached the ledge. Every step made her legs shake, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the vague outlines of the others running toward her. They’d been found out.
No more time. She balanced on the edge, looking down at the river of cloudy air funneling beneath her. This could save them all, or kill her. Maybe both.
Jump. Time. Jump. Time.
Jenna woke up in shadows, kicking and thrashing. She hit something that made a heavy thump, and watched as dozens of apples rolled around her feet. She quietly groaned. It was the cider house.
Domnall hadn’t believed her, or didn’t trust her.
Or maybe I never left, and hallucinated the whole thing.
She stood up and righted the basket she’d knocked on its side. Her hands shook as she picked up the apples that had spilled from it. When she felt steadier, she walked over to the door and tried to open it. It didn’t surprise her to find it bolted again. Domnall had picked his side. Taking in a deep breath, she shoved her hand through the wood, groped until she found the latching bar, and turned it.
Not a hallucination.
It felt colder than before and the sky overhead had gone a deep shade of violet. She must have been unconscious for most of the day and still they’d locked her up. She smelled smoke and food cooking, and followed her nose to the center of the settlement.
The tribe had gathered around a huge fire. For a moment doubt flooded her. This would be the second time she’d escaped. But since going back to the ash grove hadn’t helped, she walked into the halo of the firelight. All of the women and some of the men gave her worried looks, but no one tried to grab her or speak to her.
“Where is Domnall?” Jenna asked one gray-haired woman with kind eyes.
“Go back, lass,” the older woman said, keeping her voice low and darting looks toward a large cottage. “’Twill no’ end better for you if you’re found wandering.” The tribeswoman sounded genuinely scared.
“I don’t belong here, I know, but I’ve done nothing to hurt anyone. I wouldn’t.”
“We ken that,” another, younger woman said quickly. “Only Galan–”
“How did you escape the cider house again?” a deep, hard voice demanded, silencing her.
She watched the headman stride out of the shadows. He looked angry, and the sight of him sent low murmurs through the tribe. No one challenged him, however, so Jenna decided she’d have to show them how it was done.
“The door latch was loose,” she lied. “I’d like to speak with your overseer. Where is he?”
“I’m here, lass.”
The big man appeared on Galan’s right side, and he didn’t look happy. He turned his head and let out a sharp, long whistle.
“Domnall,” she said, “it’s time I left.” When he shook his head a little, she eyed the headman. “I didn’t know you’ve forbidden outsiders to come here. I respect that, and I apologize for trespassing. Why don’t you let me go?”
“Why indeed,” Galan said, sounding almost pleased. “Mayhap you’re anxious to report to your masters.”
Since she couldn’t cure the headman of being an ass, she regarded Domnall. “What good does it do to keep me here?”
“Jenna, ’tis too dangerous for you to leave.” People stepped out of his way as the overseer approached her. “Dangers may be waiting for you beyond the…beyond these lands. Something took the Mag Raith from our people, and marked us, and stole our memories of them, just as they did to you. If no’ for the
headman, we might still be trapped in the grove of stars.” He saw her puzzled expression. “’Tis part of the afterlife.”
He was serious, judging by the worry in his eyes. “Galan helped you escape the afterlife? How did he do that?”
“Hold your tongue, wench,” Galan snapped.
“I don’t serve you,” she snapped back at him, but looked up at Domnall. “Did you ever see this grove of stars?” When he shook his head, she regarded the headman. “I wonder if you were there. Maybe it’s just a story to keep you in line.”
What she said sent a rush of mutters and whispers through the tribe. One short, stout man tried to quiet them, but he looked worried now, too. As for the headman, she could see the hatred in his eyes growing from heated to murderous.
Oh, yes, Jenna thought. I believe I just blew the lid off your barrel of crap.
“We carry the proof on our skin.” Domnall touched his tattooed arm. “The Gods marked us, lass.”
“Gods that you never saw, and have no memory of,” Jenna reminded him. “You said that you and your men woke up in the same grove I did. You and I have matching ink. My memories are also gone. Galan had never seen me before you brought me to the settlement, so we know he didn’t rescue me.” She shifted her gaze to the headman. “How did you save these men from the Gods? What did they look like? How many were there? Who else was in this grove of stars? What weapons did you–”
“Silence,” Galan hissed.
The druid came striding at her, and something gleamed as he pulled it out of his robe. Before he could reach her Domnall stepped between them.
“Answer the lass,” he told the headman.
“She lies,” Galan shouted. He stepped back, visibly struggling for control now. “Overseer, ’tis but more evil trickery, meant to turn you against me. ’Twas why they sent the wench here.”
“You still haven’t answered any of my questions,” Jenna said.
The short man with the worried expression stepped between them. “’Tis no harm in revealing your part in saving the Mag Raith, Headman Aedth. We’d all hear it.”