by Jules Watson
What Minna said next stopped him in his tracks. ‘But what is the prophecy asking?’
Cahir could only stare at her.
The druids said that when a door opened on the Otherworld, mortals were touched with the light that spilled through. And so this girl’s water eyes revealed not innocence, or even a slave’s fear, but pools of sight shining amid her black hair, filled with a transcendence he had rarely seen even in a druid’s face. His last reservations disintegrated, and he entirely forgot who she was.
‘The prophecy foretold that our line would free Alba of Rome. It was not accomplished at the Hill of a Thousand Spears – the story was not complete because it is my fate to fulfil it.’ The words sounded like someone else’s, as if Cahir were waking from a dream. It could not be true. It was true.
‘No!’
‘No? But a summons has come I cannot ignore. Raise the boar above you. The war banner.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Ruarc was right after all, damn him.’
Minna was hardly listening now, as if caught by something in the shadows. When her eyes glazed over a superstitious shiver ran up his neck. ‘You must follow the flight of the eagle,’ she said quietly.
The shiver turned to a thrill. Of course! He came back to the fire. ‘From what I can make out, that path leads far north and east – into Pictish lands.’ He gazed about the firelit walls, as if he could penetrate them with a clear gaze. ‘And why there?’ he murmured feverishly. There must be something … he dared to hope … could it be that there, at last, he would find an escape from shame, from bitterness? In answer his heart gave a bound. Eremon was bold as well as wise, old Finn had said. Cahir must be even bolder.
‘The Picts …’ Her cheeks paled, as if she were only now waking. ‘But it’s dangerous!’
‘And what have I got to lose?’
‘Well … your life!’
He shook his head bleakly. ‘No, Minna, it isn’t a life.’ He squatted down. ‘The druids train us to recognize signs. I am a king, and I’ve been called by the king of birds to a valley with a rowan tree, in the east. So some answer must lie there for me.’ And my atonement, my release, he added fervently to himself, with a pang of terrible yearning. If that were so, nothing would hold him back.
Minna’s mind ran swiftly ahead. ‘Then I must go, too.’
When he frowned, she burst out, ‘Don’t deny me this, I beg you! I also need to find a reason. The reason … for all this. Some peace, from the dreams. Please.’
Cahir sat on the floor beside her, crooking his arms around his knees. For a moment by the fire they were just two young people seeking answers to the restlessness inside them. ‘You have been ill,’ he said slowly. ‘As a king I owe you my protection – and my heart tells me there is no peace on this absurd journey, only danger. But I am unsure of finding my way without you, since you saw the eagle’s flight.’ He sighed, raising a brow. ‘It is too great a risk for you.’
‘I don’t care.’ Her voice was bleak. ‘I have no life here. I am a slave.’
He was shocked to glimpse the same despair in her he felt in his own heart, every day. An unconscious sense of kinship overcame him in a rush. ‘We are both slaves in our own ways, perhaps; I to my dead father, you to my wife.’
And if I break my shackles, he found himself thinking, surprised at his own mind, can I deny you the breaking of yours?
The room seemed to hold its breath, the flames steady, the wind dying away. At last Cahir nodded. ‘So be it.’ The light in her eyes flared, penetrating him. ‘I cannot refuse anyone the absolution I myself need.’
He got up, his blood already beginning to race. It was all going to change, at last. ‘Minna,’ he said hoarsely, after a moment. ‘Do you know what my name means?’
She hesitated. ‘How could I?’
‘Cahir means battle-lord. Lately I’ve wondered if my father named me that in jest, for he wanted peace with the Romans at any price.’ He turned to her, the fire warm on his cheek, and spoke softly. ‘So it seems I’m supposed to wake up.’
Her fine jaw was outlined by the flames, and her eyes were glowing. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I think I am to wake up, too.’
Chapter 27
Cahir, King of Dalriada watched dawn from the hill, drawing the prickling cold air deep into his throat. The sheltered hollows of the slopes were covered with green shoots, and catkins swung on the hazel trees. Pockets of snow still clung to the far mountains to the north, turning rose in the rising sun.
He filled his lungs again, exhilarated. His soul was already stretching its wings like a bird taking flight, following those who called to him across the sky. He did not know what revelation waited for him: after all, the cold facts of too few warriors and too many enemies were still the same. But he would be released from indecision and inaction, at least. He laughed to himself exultantly, like a boy. How his father would frown at such folly.
But Cahir could not stop this now even if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to. He longed to be free. He needed to glimpse a life where he was not the failed king and lackey of the Romans.
He would be something more. He would be himself.
When he came back to the hut Minna was standing at his stallion’s shoulder, tentatively stroking his arched neck. In the breeze her unbound hair mingled with his black mane, the colours indistinguishable, and her fearful posture had straightened into a grace Cahir sensed with his flesh, rather than his mind. She looked as if she belonged here beneath the spreading oak tree.
Cahir was taken by another stab of desire in his groin, that odd pull towards her, and he sternly curbed it. There were gulfs between them: he was a king and if she wasn’t a slave then she was an enigma, an intrigue, a … he did not know what she was. But he would not make her afraid for something passing, as all desire was. He needed her to get what he wanted. That sounded cooler, better.
She turned when his foot cracked a twig, blood rushing her cheeks. He did not know how he could have once thought her face bony. In the spring sunlight the lines seemed pure and fine now amid her streaming hair, the shape a heart.
‘I want to set off in two days.’ Cahir forced a smile, his pulse throbbing. ‘If I’m going to be damned I should get started as soon as possible.’
She was unsure of him again. They had shared something impossible in the dark, the flames leaping amid the shadows, painting dreams on the walls. But now day had come. ‘So you mean to go north,’ she said quietly. ‘My lord.’ She added the last as an afterthought, but it had disappeared naturally from their conversation the night before, and Cahir was jolted by its return.
‘Of course. I will gather a few men and pick a trail into the mountains.’
She gazed fixedly at the ground. ‘And you will do this because of what I said?’
‘Because of all of it, not just you. Now I see the entire pattern – my pattern.’
Her face changed. ‘And is it not … mine as well?’ The words were deferential, but her eyes flashed fire from under her lashes.
‘Yours as well,’ Cahir said faintly. He wondered if she could see inside him, too; glimpse all his ugliness and guilt. That was not a good thought. ‘Now I’m going back to Dunadd, and I want you to stay here. You should rest two more nights before being out in the cold. I will bring the men back tomorrow. There is enough food.’ He reached to tie his scabbard on the side of his saddle, moving so suddenly that when she tried to step away they bumped against each other. Minna leaped back as if he’d burned her.
Cahir resolutely tightened the thongs. ‘If I gather you firewood and you bar the door, you will not be afraid here on your own?’
Thoughts raced across her pale face. ‘No, I won’t be afraid,’ she said, her voice still hoarse from her fever.
‘And … I trust you will be here when I return.’
She glanced towards the pool, the wind still whispering secrets across it among the overhanging trees. ‘I will have no peace until I find that valley, just as you will not.’ She looked back, spoke fo
rmally as if she had caught herself again. ‘My lord, could you ask Keeva to look after the girls as if they were her own and …’ she coloured again, ‘tell them I am sorry to leave them but will be back for them … when I can.’
‘I will tell them,’ he said warmly.
After Cahir rode away Minna was still for a long moment. Then her arms came out and she turned a circle under the oak tree, its branches furred by buds.
She was alone. Her arms fell to her sides. She could run – she knew that’s what Cahir had meant when he asked if she would be here. She raised her face to the weak sun and, as always, the knowing came to her heart there, as if drifting down in the dust motes. She would be haunted if she left now. Something tied her here, bound her soul, and she must find out what it was, to be free of it for ever.
As a child she had been afraid of the deepest pool in the river, and so one day Mamo stepped into it and held out her arms. Minna hovered on the bank, her toes curling into the mud. Jump, and you will see it for what it is, Mamo gently called. It took some time, but at last Minna jumped. The water went up her nose and she snorted and spluttered, but after a moment she and Mamo were laughing, water streaming from her black hair.
Minna opened her eyes, her throat tight at the memory. But her courage had always been stronger than her fear.
On the ride back, Cahir thought hard. If no one knew where he was going, the safety of Dunadd would not be weakened, but strengthened. He might be gathering an army, treating with the Romans, forming alliances with other tribes. He didn’t trust Maeve and oily Oran, and there were perhaps many others he could not trust either, but fear of what he intended and where he might suddenly reappear would give them all pause for thought. A long enough pause to go and … well, to find his fate.
The ponderous words made him smile, trotting along the road in spring, sun in his face.
At Dunadd, he announced he was undertaking a diplomatic mission, but did not specify where he was going or for how long. At first Maeve wheedled, trying to extract the truth, but when he remained impassive she grew suspicious and then angry. In the end she screeched all manner of hateful things that left him completely unperturbed.
He left Finbar and a band of loyal warriors in charge of Dunadd. That only left the decision of which men to take with him, a small party who could move swiftly. Donal must come, of course, and Gobán, Fergal and Tiernan. But he wanted young men with him, too, the restless ones. It was a gamble, but he’d rather have them where he could see them. So Mellan came, with Ardal and Brogan – and Ruarc.
The attraction of a mystery adventure served to silence their questions. Provisions were packed – trailcakes of fat, berries and dried meat pounded together; strips of dried beef and fish; hard cheese; flasks of ale – along with sleeping hides, furs and winter clothes. Maeve watched these preparations through slitted, furious eyes.
A day later they were back at the hut. Relief swamped Cahir when Minna appeared at the door, her head high and wary on its slim neck, like a deer. Ruarc gaped at her.
‘We will leave tomorrow,’ Cahir said swiftly. Let the young cockerel be surprised for once. ‘Tonight, we talk.’
And what was he to tell them? As night fell, they gathered around the fire. Their damp clothes stank as they dried, their boots and legs and shoulders crowded the hearth, and their spears and swords cluttered the walls. Minna stayed back, crouched on the bed.
Cahir gazed around at his men’s faces, which were suspicious, eager and expectant in turn. Then he met Donal’s gaze, his bulbous nose and lumpen ears defying his sharp, swift skill with a sword. Those mild, blue eyes were encouraging.
Could he really tell them about visions, dreams, prophecies?
‘Some information has come into my hands,’ he began at last. ‘I cannot reveal it all to you now. But this is the heart – I need to cross the mountains into Pict lands. There is something there I must find.’
‘The Picts?’ Ruarc’s voice was eager. ‘Another raid?’
‘No, it is not about fighting the Picts; indeed, I hope we do not have to. I intend to do this without them knowing we are there.’ He met Ruarc’s eyes. ‘It is about the Romans.’
A pregnant silence fell. ‘What about them?’ Mellan asked at last, puzzled.
Cahir’s pulse raced, and he stood up. ‘I am reconsidering my position on our Roman … entanglements.’ He spoke briskly, injecting power into his voice, then gave them the barest of facts: that there was some link to their ancestors and Rome in enemy land. And he had to find it.
The older ones accepted his will, but the younger still looked suspicious, and he had to have them all on side. He realized he must show them who he really was after all – there was no other way. He braced himself.
‘In vision, dream and voice, the gods have been calling me to take a new path for a long time – though they have not revealed their full purpose. Now, they have sent me an undeniable sign, something known only to me and my father, and all the kings before him.’ They were hanging on every word. ‘It is dangerous, though. If you will not come, I will go alone.’
Ruarc spoke up. ‘So you want us to trek through the Pict mountains on the order of the gods, not knowing exactly where to or to what purpose? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I am saying it is what I must do. I am asking you to provide the strength of your sword-arms. But it is your choice.’
‘And this is about the Romans,’ Ruarc persisted. ‘Resisting them.’
Cahir had not voiced that thought so baldly to himself, for it set off an earthquake inside. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Though I do not know how.’
Everyone was surprised. Ruarc’s brows rose, as a smile broke over his face. ‘Well, well. A chance to stretch our legs, skewer some Picts and thumb my nose at Romans is enough of a draw for me.’
The other young ones grinned, and Cahir’s tension began to melt.
‘But what about her?’ Ruarc asked, indicating Minna. ‘What’s she doing here?’ He glanced mockingly at her. ‘Though I have heard she is handy with a blade.’
Cahir had nearly forgotten about Minna, intently listening on the bed, her face growing red at Ruarc’s words. Though there was no way to explain what they had shared, his people were long used to believing such things as sight and foretellings: it was part of their soul, their stories. ‘She is of the old blood, a dreamer. She was sent the greatest vision for me, and I need her for guidance.’ At the uneasy and speculative glances, Cahir added sternly, ‘This is my will: let that be an end of it.’ He took up something from the hearth and squatted in the middle of them. In his hands was a strip of smoothed birch bark, on which he and Minna had scrawled a line map from her recollections, that first night. ‘Here is the great glen, slanted north and east.’
Dour Góban pointed a finger at it. ‘The Picts use the glen all year around.’
‘Yes,’ Cahir agreed. ‘So we cannot take that trail, though it would be easier. This is what I propose instead. We follow the Loch of the Waters east and north towards Cruachan, then the glens to its south that lead over the dead moors, and across to the lochs and mountains on the other side.’
There was a pause. ‘How far?’
‘Where the mountains close in the north there is a particular ridge. Minna saw it; we will find it.’
Tiernan, a bluff, blond man with drooping moustache, sat back and took from his mouth the twig he’d been chewing. ‘That’s right through the most rugged country, Cahir.’
‘I know, but there are advantages in that. One, it’s inhospitable, so there are few Pictish homesteads. And two, this path is harder to travel than others, so we should be able to avoid their warriors on higher ground. The worst weather has passed now. It is possible.’
‘Of course it’s possible,’ Ruarc said forcefully, his head down. ‘I just hope it’s worth it.’
Shivering in the sea-wind, Keeva hurried to keep up with Lonán as he strode into the port, which was propped high above the marsh on its rock.
After the nut cracking she’d certainly landed her fish, she thought, as the smith’s apprentice glanced at her shyly. She wished he’d been a little harder to catch, but no matter. She’d discovered these last few days just how pleasing a smith could be in the bed-furs – strong muscles matched with clever hands.
‘‘I told you it was too cold for you to come,’ Lonán ventured, in his slow, considered way. ‘You’re such a little thing.’
‘Don’t call me little.’ Keeva ducked around a cart tied up by the pier. ‘You know I don’t want you fawning on me like I’ll break at any moment.’
Lonán smiled fondly at her retorts, which made her think she was getting more in him than hard, young arms and, one day, fine dresses and bronze rings. ‘When we are wed, I can fawn all I like,’ he said, with a surprising twinkle in his eye. ‘I can do what I like as well, and you cannot gainsay me. Ever.’
Keeva exclaimed and slapped him. ‘Don’t go getting any such ideas, my lad! That’s not part of any bargain we’ve made.’
Grinning, Lonán rubbed his arm even though Keeva wouldn’t make a dent in it if she used all her force. ‘Then I might have to think again. Elva might be a more compliant wife: I’m sure she said so.’
Keeva went to strike again, and, chuckling, Lonán took off at a run, his blond braids bouncing on his wide shoulders. There weren’t many people out on this bitter day, only a few men carrying sacks and baskets on their shoulders from carts to sheds. It was still too early for ships, for the seas would not be safe for many weeks yet. Fintan the blacksmith had sent Lonán to see if there were any last stores of tin to buy from the overwintering Roman traders.
The tin forgotten, Lonán ducked in and out of the carts with Keeva behind him, both of them screeching like children. She’d just get near enough to grab his tunic when he’d dash down a different path, weaving between the houses.
Keeva had just caught up with him in a quiet backstreet when a door-hide nearby was flung back and two men strode out. Just before Keeva barrelled into them, Lonán whisked her out of the way into a nearby alley. He laughed and pulled Keeva into his arms, his lips lowering to hers, then paused when she paid him no attention. Instead, she was gazing over his shoulder, panting.