Scent of a Witch

by Bri Clark

  After Rordan offered a ceremony of thanks and prayers of healing for Maeve, he called a meeting to order for a vote to be placed. Voting was a right every member of the clan had from age eight upward. Fionn remembered raising his hand the first time and shouting Aye. He couldn’t remember the topic or choices offered, only that his opinion had been included.

  Seated to his father’s right, Fionn watched the room and noted the laird looked much older than he remembered.

  “I, Sir Rordan Hughes, Laird of Hughes Place and its clan, knighted under his majesty King Argus Mcloud, hereby reinstate the knighthood of my son, Fionn Hughes, for fulfilling the quest of honor given, and I hereby name him my heir. All in favor say aye.”

  Before Fionn could collect his thoughts, a loud unanimous “aye” resounded through the hall, echoing off the stone walls of the castle’s exterior. To his surprise a chorus of cheers sounded from outside, the response of the people not included in the vote.

  Rordan beat his empty tankard on the table indicating his desire for silence. While the hall quieted, Fionn’s father looked around the long table his expression becoming stern, a sure indication that while the option to say nay to his next proposal was there, he would not be happy to hear it.

  “I propose a three-day fast on behalf of Lady Maeve Sweeney da Paer.”

  No overwhelming aye rose. Instead, deathly quiet ruled the hall.

  Rordan continued to look displeased, took a deep breath, and then grunted as he released it. “The wee lass is all alone, the last honor of two clans…”

  Fionn noticed he got the point across without lying even as he omitted the existence of her brother. “And the Board hunts her.” A gasp rose among the family. “She has retreated into herself; her magic has reacted as a shield and now keeps her trapped in her own mind. If she is to return and face her destiny, she will need the support of a clan. This clan. Her clan. As pledged between the Sweeneys and the Hughes, I call upon the Celtic Knot that represents our bond to aide this child Maeve Sweeney da Paer to awaken strong and well.” A reverent but unanimous “aye” was offered.

  With the business settled, the crowd left to begin their fast.

  “Now son, for your part.” Rordan leaned forward and addressed his heir. His strong features held a touch of the severity seen earlier when addressing the crowd. But his eyes held a sparkle Fionn had never seen.

  “If I know you son, you swore a vow to protect her didn’t ye?”

  “Aye.”

  “Even from herself?” Rordan asked.

  Fionn hesitated before he nodded. “Aye.”

  The laird grunted his approval. “I did the same for my Cordy. It happened to her same as the lass and I had to honor it.” He leaned back in his oversized chair, lost in his thoughts. “You will have to walk her dreams and bring her back here.”

  “Will you show me how?” Fionn asked a question he already suspected his father knew the answer to.

  “Aye son, everything has been prepared. Let us go.”

  Fionn followed his father up the stairs with a feeling that the next time he walked with this man, things would be very different.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maeve raced across the field of wild flowers and untamed grass on her grandparents’ estate as the last rays of a summer sun gave away to a cool night that came much too soon. This was where she was happiest. Clucking her tongue and squeezing her thighs, she urged Biscuit, her favorite mare, forward to the stream for a drink and to rest. Maeve knew that she was putting off going in but didn’t care. The odd feeling that at any moment something bad would happen plagued her relentlessly. She unsaddled the pony then sat by the water, placing her bare feet in the cool depths. Her granny would be livid if she knew she was riding astride in a skirt.

  A flock of geese flew overhead in a precise V, honking their salutations as they passed. Maeve turned her face to the sky, watching them until they were out of sight. A rustle in a thicket of trees caught her attention. She withdrew her dagger, holding it in her left hand, using the angle of her body to hide her intentions. Slowly, she sat up to see what had caused the noise. A stranger, tall and foreboding, loomed in the shadows. Hair so dark it cast a blue hue in the twilight he stayed within framed a hard face. The dagger flew out of her hand on instinct. Only instead of meeting its target, the stranger caught it.

  “Well, it seems we have come full circle lass.”

  The words of the dark stranger, spoken with a deep Scottish brogue, spread like a heavy blanket over her body and left her frozen. Why do I know that voice? The accent was the same as her grandfather’s but there was something else…familiar, comforting, and stirring the way he called her lass, caressing the double-S on the end.

  Danger! had been her first thought. Breathing rapid and heart pounding, she knew she must force calm to return to her body.

  The man inspected her from head to toe. Everything around Maeve disappeared, leaving just the intruder, the stream, and her. Only it wasn’t summer, it was fall. She was wet, angry, and afraid. Damp cold reached out to her. Then pain exploded in her shoulder. She screamed as the flood of reality invaded her mind’s eye, bypassing the protection offered by her blissful innocence.

  She sobbed, and the man enfolded his memorable strong arm around her waist. He tucked her head against his firm chest. Whispery and deep, his voice cooed to her in the language of her ancestors as he offered her comfort.

  “Why Fionn…why did you come?” she asked without looking.

  “Honor lass. I made ye a vow.”

  “Is that all?” She needed to know.

  “No, sweet Maeve, there is more…much more.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Aye I will. As soon as ye wake up,” he promised.

  From inside, Maeve pushed at her heavy lids and opened her eyes.

  ****

  Maeve’s shoulder was sore but the pain wasn’t what she had known in her dreams. She inspected the stone ceiling above, then tilted her head to the side. An ache flamed out of nowhere. She wanted to sound a cry, but her throat and lips were so parched, all that emerged when she opened her mouth was a low moan.

  “Here now lass, would ye like some water?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Maeve nodded once, still unable to speak, and a cup was pressed to her lips. The blessed cool water eased the dryness in her throat.

  Maeve’s mind reminisced over the words her grandmother had used often to cure her aches and pains. “There now, just let that ease down and the herbs will take care of your pain.”

  “Brimbleweed and Signor root?” Maeve whispered.

  The short woman with fair hair and hazel eyes stopped fussing with Maeve’s bedding and pinned her with a knowing stare. “Aye, how did you know that lass?”

  “My granny taught me about healing…magic healing.”

  “Ahhh…Cordy did have a skill for the healing arts. But her real talent was finding the herbs. Of course I’m sure being a Scent Witch helped.”

  “You knew my grandmother?”

  “Aye lass, we trained together in healing at the School of Witchery. Now you must rest and get your strength back. Sleep is the strongest healer.”

  Maeve shook her head. “I need to know . . . your name first.”

  “I am called Neasa.”

  Finally, unable to keep her eyes open, Maeve did as she was told, comforted by the woman’s words and presence.

  ****

  For ten days, Maeve was treated in a way she had never known by the many members of Fionn’s family. While her grandparents were doting and affectionate, it had always just been them. With the Hughes, the warmth she felt sometimes was overwhelming. Neasa tended to her personally. And while she wasn’t allowed to leave her room, the numerous children who came and went always entertained her. One day they even put on a skit complete with wooden swords and maidens dressed in gowns much too big.

  Fionn was near but never visited her without the company of others. It was ironic. One minute he had traveled as f
ar as her dreams, the next he wouldn’t be found within five feet of her. Had she merely been a vow for him to keep? Adding to her confusion, the thought pained her to the core.

  She had yet to personally meet Laird Rordan Hughes. While she had heard him bellow often enough, since the man was quite loud, and she’d caught fleeting glimpses of an older male passing by her door, she still had not fully laid eyes upon him.

  With her body healed and since the laird himself seemed to be avoiding her, she felt it was time to disappear.

  Finally, she was alone. The castle was quiet now, except for the sounds of a burning hearth. Maeve dressed in a skirt and blouse similar to the ones she favored. She pulled her hair back with a ribbon and then, as she reached for the Celtic Knot, she came to another decision. Fionn Hughes and his clan had saved her and helped heal her beyond the physical. For that alone she owed them...but besides all that, she wanted to return to them what was rightfully theirs.

  Maeve had always been good at hiding games. Her Patty had taught her the ways of stealth without using magic and she’d learned them well. Quiet as a jungle cat, she found the great hall, where she intended to leave the talisman. But as she moved to approach the table, she spotted a man sitting in a chair before the fire’s dying embers. He sat unmoving, staring at a watch.

  “Where do you creep to lass?” He spoke softly without looking up.

  For a second Maeve considered not speaking, calling his potential bluff. Instead, she squared her shoulders and walked forward as if it that had been her intention all along. Fixing an emotionless mask on her face, she approached. When she saw him more clearly, she knew for sure it was Laird Rordan Hughes. Her granny had described his hair as being dark as midnight and his eyes so blue they seemed ice cold. Then her granny had shared more, things that still made Maeve blush. That was the sort of relationship they’d shared, very different from most parents and even more special than the normal grandmother-to-granddaughter bond.

  “If ye are well enough to creep around without alerting my best guards, then ye are well enough for a talk.” He extended his hand for her to join him in the opposite seat, but still he wouldn’t look at her. Instead he remained focused on the gold pocket watch. The quick irrational temper she had inherited flared and, instead of sitting down, she placed the Knot in his hand and turned.

  “Thank you for everything,” she said through tight lips, curtsied, then turned and walked away.

  “Wait lass…” Rordan instructed, as she could hear him shift in his seat.

  Maeve kept right on walking.

  “I am the Laird here and said you are to sit, lass.” While he did start out in a normal tone of voice, by the time Rordan finished the windows rattled.

  Maeve stopped at the bottom of the steps, took three deep cleansing breaths before she turned around.

  “That’s a good lass—” Rordan began.

  “My name, sir, is Maeve da Paer, not lass. You would know that if you had taken the time to come and introduce yourself, which is the expected behavior of a laird, as you so quickly remind everyone you are.” As she spoke with a controlled but deadly sweetness, she approached the quietly mesmerized laird. “However, sir, I feel that I must correct you, since everyone else in this keep is obviously too afraid to.”

  “And you are unafraid?” he asked.

  “You, Laird Hughes, don’t frighten me.” She stood directly in front of him. Like Fionn, he was much taller than Maeve, and she was, indeed, intimidated, contrary to her strong words. But Irish pride refused to let her show it.

  “Then tell me what my people are afraid to say,” he goaded, fighting to hide a smile.

  “You, Laird Rordan Hughes are a loud, obnoxious man with the manners that equal a swine,” she responded, struggling to maintain her controlled sweetness.

  Once again, Maeve experienced the satisfaction of knowing she’d astonished the great Laird Hughes into silence. This wasn’t a man who was ever contradicted, much less disobeyed. She had no doubt she brought her grandmother to his mind. Maeve was so sure of it, she felt the time to leave was long past. With a smile that would melt the top of a Highland mountain, she curtsied again and turned to leave.

  “Highland Magic. Scottish Power. I command thee. Enclose this room. That this lass may not leave. As laird I order it. And so it shall be.”

  Maeve recognized Rordan was summoning his own binding spell, and knew she’d left it too long. She watched as every door to the great hall slammed shut. Pride wouldn’t let her run and try each one, nor would it allow her to cry out in frustration. Instead she forced herself to wear a mask of impassivity as she came and stood before the pompous man again.

  “I know as laird over this keep and because of your years of experience, I can’t overthrow your spell. But heed me, Sir Hughes, you don’t want to keep me caged against my will. More importantly, I must leave this place now. At this time, I ask you kindly to open the door.” She finished and waited for her request to be granted.

  Instead, Rordan sat down in his chair. “Ye are an impertinent wench, just like your grandmother,” he grumbled, reaching for his tankard. But instead of grasping the cup a dagger with an ornate pearl studded handle restrained his hand through the sleeve of his shirt against the arm of his chair.

  “I’ll offer you another suggestion. Don’t speak of my grandmother in such a way if you want to keep the use of your hand,” Maeve instructed him.

  Rordan freed his sleeve of the dagger, inspected it thoroughly, and then stood and bowed as he offered it back to her, hilt first. “Aye, ye’ve her mannerisms just as ye carry the look of her.” He leaned closer and smiled sadly, as though seeing her clearly for the first time. “Except for the eyes—yer eyes are Sweeney…all Sweeney.”

  Maeve raised an eyebrow. “Do you think to woo me by telling me what I already know as truth?”

  Hughes heaved a sigh. “Please, my lady, forgive an old laird’s bad habits. Come sit and speak with me.”

  The change in the man’s demeanor was so sudden, such a stark contrast to his previous behavior, it distracted her from her anger. Maeve accepted not only the dagger but also the invitation, and sat in the chair opposite his. Rordan threw a log in the fireplace then spoke a few words and the flames jumped up. He took his seat beside her.

  “Cordy gave you that dagger,” he pointed out, finally drinking deeply of his ale.

  “Aye, you should know, as you gave it to her,” responded Maeve.

  The old laird choked and spit out his drink. The liquid spewed through the air to land on his shirt.

  ****

  “So yer grandmother spoke of me some?” he asked when he’d recovered.

  “Aye, I know of you. But if this is all you wish to discuss, then I shall have to take my leave.”

  “Why are you so anxious to depart lass? Scared of my lad, Fionn, are ye?” Rordan attempted to goad her, tried to see if she would respond as Cordy would have.

  “No sir, it’s not of him I fear, it’s for him. For all of you.” She responded completely opposite to what he’d expected.

  There was such a fearful sadness in her eyes, Hughes sat up and took her hand into his own. “Rordan is my name lass. There will be no more sir or laird when ye speak to me, in anyone’s presence.”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “That doesn’t make me feel much better.” Without warning, tears filled her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks.

  Rordan hated it when lasses cried. He would rather face down the vilest magical beast than deal with a woman’s tears. They tore at his heart and rendered him helpless. But no one else was about to assist Maeve, so he drew her close, setting his hand on her shoulder with an awkwardness he hoped she couldn’t sense.

  ****

  “You even speak to me like you did to her. I don’t know of you Rordan, I know all about you. If Cordy knew it, then I do as well.” She explained over the lump in her throat. “I will not stay here and resurrect memories of hurt. But more importantly, I will not draw the darkness tha
t trails me upon your clan.” Then she stood, leaving the knot on the table beside her chair, and moved toward the door, determined to leave.

  “Aren’t ye forgetting your necklace, lass?”

  “Nay, tis not mine. The gold is to the right,” she responded then flinched.

  “Ye do know everything.”

  Instead of responding, Maeve kept walking.

  “You won’t fulfill your granny’s last wish croi?” The word almost brought her to her knees. Only two people knew Cordelia’s nickname for her. Croi was Gaelic for essence, or the heart of. Patty and Granny always said she was their core that brought them the joy of life. Their heart.

  “And what was her final request?” she asked, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. Knowing full well her honor and love would make her fulfill it.

  “Ye are to officially be a part of this clan, by marrying my son, Fionn.”

  The tears bathing her cheeks made their way to the corner of her mouth and the salty drops assaulted her taste buds. A myriad of emotions welled through her. How had Cordy known? The joy as she thought of being Fionn’s wife was instant, honest delight. There was no denying it because it was automatic. Nevertheless, too much uncertainty loomed. She didn’t know the right path. After finally understanding her death was not in fate’s design, every decision made would have to be evaluated and studied.

  “What will you do?” Rordan inquired, his voice soft and quiet.