by Hazel Hunter
“Reserves, mayhap,” Kanyth said. “If one dies, another takes her place.”
Before Althea could ask him to elaborate Brennus said, “’Tis growing late. We shall begin preparations on the morrow.” As the men rose he gestured to Ruadri. “The lady requires your attendance.”
Aside from the sensitive spots on her back Althea felt fine, but she was curious about the clan’s healer, so she accompanied him and Brennus to another chamber adjoining the great hall.
As Ruadri lit some greasy plant stalks that served as candles, Althea discreetly inspected the room. Like the great hall it had been sparsely furnished, but rows of chiseled symbols and pictographs covered the stone walls. Ancient-looking stone vessels and pots had been carefully collected in one corner of the floor. Rendered fat, probably for making salves, quivered white on a curved plank of newly-cut wood. Bundles of plants and flowers hung to dry from a rack made of tree branches tied together with vines. She recognized heather, self-heal and yarrow, and smelled the distinct scent of cyclamen coming from a cluster of unfamiliar, broad green leaves.
“What is this, Shaman?” she asked Ruadri, and pointed to the bunch.
“One-bloom mint,” the shaman told her, and showed her a large, white flower he had dried. “’Tis good for clouded eyes.” He gestured toward the long, wide table covered with sacking. “Will you sit, my lady?”
Althea perched on the edge. “The herbal poultice you used on my legs worked almost as well as the raven spirit.”
“Aye, ’tis better than staunch weed. If I may look?” When she nodded Ruadri eased up the end of the trousers Brennus had given her.
The only sign that she had been wounded were some flecks of dried blood that still clung to her skin. When the shaman brushed them away her flesh looked completely unmarked.
“As I reckoned,” the shaman told her after checking the other leg. “Spirit healings dinnae close the wounds as much as scour them away.”
“So no scars,” she said and leaned down, and then jumped as Ruadri jerked away from her. “It’s all right. I just wanted to take a better look myself. Is there some kind of clan taboo about touching a shaman?”
“None, my lady.” He turned away from her and fussed with some of his herbs while he gave Brennus a direct look. “Chieftain, if you would raise the back of her tunic.”
“I can do that,” Althea said and pulled up the chunky hem and folded it over her shoulders before she presented her back to the men. “How does it look? The same as my legs?” When neither man said anything she glanced over her shoulder. “It feels almost like I have a sunburn, but it doesn’t hurt… Why are you two staring at me like that?”
“Your back wounds are healed, my lady,” the shaman said slowly. He started to say more, stopped and shook his head. “Chieftain.”
“I ken. ’Tis for me.” Brennus nodded at the entry to the chamber, and Ruadri abruptly departed.
Althea dropped the tunic and turned around to face the chieftain. “What’s wrong? Why did you send him away?” Her eyes widened as he pulled off his tunic. “Brennus, wait.”
“Only to be sure,” he said, and drew her to her feet. He took hold of her hand, and pressed it over the raven tattoo on his shoulder.
The tingling on Althea’s back vanished, replaced by a sweet warmth that slowly seeped through her skin and wrapped around her torso. Heat flooded her breasts and her face, and she could feel her cheeks reddening from it. At the same time she felt something move under her palm.
“My lady,” Brennus said and tightened his hand over hers.
“I feel it.” She shifted closer to him, unable to bear even the small gap between their bodies. “It’s like when we kissed…just so much stronger. Will you stop calling me ‘my lady’, please? I want to hear you say my name.”
“I shouldnae.” He cradled her cheek with his other hand. “But I will.” He tilted her head back to look into her eyes. “Althea.”
No one had ever said her name with such soft, deep pleasure.
“I’m actually named after a flowering plant,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his palm. “Althaea officinalis. The common marshmallow.” A chuckle slipped from her lips. “The ancient Egyptians boiled the plant’s root pulp with honey to soothe sore throats. Two thousand years later, we roast the candy version over campfires.” She paused and looked into his eyes. “Brennus.”
Gentle heat warmed her cheek where his palm caressed it.
“’Twill pass,” he said, though he didn’t sound too certain.
“This is coming from you,” she murmured, her eyelids drooping. “Some kind of magic again? God, it feels so good.”
“’Tis no’ my doing, my lady.” He released her hand, and some of the heat ebbed away. “The raven did heal the wounds on your back, but there are scars. They form the shape of my battle spirit.” He touched his ink. “The same as my skinwork does.”
“So I have a scar version of your tattoo on my back?” When he nodded she felt weirdly elated. “Why would it completely heal my legs but not my back?”
Brennus put his tunic on before he replied. “The raven has chosen you, my lady. It marked you as its own.”
Whatever he was feeling seemed to be rolling off him in dark waves, and it wasn’t the sleepy desire she felt. Was he angry? Offended? Had she somehow blown the chance to free the others? That last thought acted like a bucket of icy water on her head, clearing her mind of the somnolent longing.
“I don’t understand,” Althea said carefully. “Why would it do that? I’m not one of you. I don’t even belong in this time.” When he didn’t respond she said, “If this is inappropriate, then maybe I should talk to one of the women in your clan.”
“The Skaraven have none,” the chieftain said. “Females were forbidden to us.”
“What?” Her jaw dropped. “My God, why?”
“The tribes who sired us did so to use us as warrior-slaves. We were property, not free men.” His voice grew bitter. “They kept us secluded, away from all others. They didnae wish us to breed, and they believed us too dangerous to be trusted with females, so we were forbidden to take wives or even be near females.”
Suddenly she understood, and it appalled her. “That’s why the men stared at me like that. Why Ruadri was so afraid to touch me. You and your clan have never known any women?”
“Before you came,” Brennus said, almost sadly. “We had never spoken to one.”
Chapter Thirteen
IN THE REMOTE ridges of the northern highlands, Bhaltair Flen stood in the small garden behind his cottage to watch the moon rise. Contemplating the night sky bejeweled by stars that twinkled their welcome to that lovely pearl of the Gods had always calmed him. His heaviest cloak warded off most of the night wind’s bite, and the comforting brew he’d sipped earlier still warmed his belly and soothed the aches of age.
But nothing could dispel the chill of knowing that somewhere out in the darkness the famhairean hunted mortal kind.
Spurred on by their endless rage, and the two thousand years they had spent imprisoned, they had grown even more vicious. The innocents slain now numbered in the hundreds. Their watchers to the west had reported finding corpses so mercilessly tortured that to look upon them made the strongest stomach empty.
Awakening the Skaraven had been the only solution. No other clan knew the giants as they did, and none possessed the savage skills with which to fight them. From the time Bhaltair had agreed to help train the indentured lads, he’d sensed they would someday sorely need the warriors they became to protect mortal and druid kind. Now his faith in the Skaraven had become his punishment. Even the constant, miserable throbbing of his bad leg did not hurt as much as seeing their only hope turn their backs on him. The last, scathing reply from their chieftain still rang in Bhaltair’s ears.
We’re no’ your slaves anymore. Clean up your own cac.
Feeling his leg tremble, Bhaltair leaned heavily on his cane as he limped over to his garden bench. Tomorrow he w
ould have to go before the conclave and confess his failure. Whatever unpleasantness and punishment came from it, he would accept without protest. Perhaps the elders would be kind enough to imprison him in a henge for all eternity.
“Master Flen,” a low voice called. “Forgive my intrusion, but I bring news.”
He looked up to see one of the conclave’s acolytes hovering at his back gate. His youth reminded him too much of Ovate Lusk, now gone to the Gordon stronghold to protect his very important, half-druid son and the mortal family that nurtured the bairn.
Gods, how he missed Cailean. “Come and deliver it, lad.”
The young druid entered and hurried over to him, bowing before he handed him a small, stained message scroll. “’Twas found on the body of a murdered elder.”
Bhaltair unrolled it and read.
Brother Flen, you must move the Dawn Fire to the islands or they shall soon perish. Those who walk the path of vengeance seek you and yours now.
He stared at the precise handwriting, which he had seen in countless messages and letters from the west. On his back, a faded spell ward had been written by the same hand. “No. No’ Gwyn Embry.”
“’Twas he they found killed.” The young druid sat down beside him. “He went missing from his settlement threeday past.”
“Why was I no’ told of this?” Bhaltair demanded.
“Word reached us only now, Master.” He looked down at his hands. “The watchers say he must have been taken by the giants. Only they could make him suffer for so long before he disincarnated. They kept him two days–”
“No more.” Bhaltair crumpled the message in his shaking fist. “Leave me.” When the boy didn’t move he shouted, “Begone with you.”
The young druid murmured an apology before he hurried off. A moment later a light rain began to fall.
This wretched incarnation had become too much to bear, Bhaltair thought, leaning back and closing his eyes as the cold droplets pelted him. To think he’d prided himself on how much he’d accomplished since returning from the well of stars to begin this lifetime.
Sharing the wisdom gained from his many incarnations with the young among his tribe, he’d assured that they would serve druid kind with devotion and vigor. Countless times he’d intervened to assure that their mortal and immortal allies remained closely bound. He’d trained Cailean, a promising ovate who had become a treasured companion as well as a fearless champion for good. From a distant future the Gods had brought to Bhaltair the last of his blood kin, whom he had grown to love as a daughter born to him. At great personal risk he’d fought monstrous, abiding evil again and again. For his efforts he’d risen to a position of respect among druid kind unmatched by any other elder of his stature.
But how could he abide knowing that his oldest, most beloved friend had left this world so cruelly? Tears mixed with rain and fell from his blurry eyes as he stared once more at the crumpled message. So easy it would be to blame the Skaraven for this, but the fault lay with him. How could he live with the knowledge that but for his pride he might have prevented Gwyn’s horrific death?
Footsteps approached on the garden stone path, and Bhaltair pressed his sleeve over his wet face. “You neednae worry on me, lad. Send the watcher who brought the scroll to me on the morrow. I must have time to grieve for my old friend tonight.”
“I’m no’ a lad or a watcher, Master,” a sweet voice said.
A very young druidess appeared in front of him. Short and plump, the lass had a childlike face framed by bedraggled, dripping brown hair. Her big dark eyes reminded him of a curious doe staring out of the woods.
She bobbed, her wet boots squishing as she said, “I brought the message found on my grandfather’s body. I ken that he would wish you to have it.”
Bhaltair knew from Gwyn’s many letters that he had but one grandchild. “You’re Oriana Embry?”
She ducked her head as the shower grew heavier. “That ’tis my name, Master.”
“Gwyn wrote of you with much affection.” His cane wobbled as he rose. “Come in out of the rain, dear one.”
“Permit me, Master.” Oriana took his other arm and helped him through the back door. Once inside she took his cloak and had him sit at his dining table.
“You’re very young to be making such a journey, lass,” Bhaltair said as he watched her hang their cloaks to dry by the hearth.
He knew that her parents had died of the sweating sickness just after her birth. They’d had no siblings, nor had she. Her grandfather and his tribe had raised her.
She went into the kitchen, fetched a goblet of water, and placed the drink in front of him. He took a sip and gestured for her to sit. “You ken that your headman will attend to your training and place you with a good family.”
“Grandfather already arranged it. I’m to dwell with two sisters who take in the tribe’s orphans.” She started to bite the nail of her thumb, stopped herself, and tucked her hands in the ends of her sleeves. “Master, my grandfather asked me to come to you if he died. He directed me to speak for him.”
Bhaltair frowned. “I dinnae ken your meaning.”
“I must first open my heart as passage.” She placed her hands flat on the table, bowing her head and murmuring under her breath.
He reached out to touch her hand, which she snatched away from him. “Oriana?”
The table rocked as her body shook uncontrollably, and then went still. When she raised her face her eyes had gone white, and her sweet, trusting expression had turned sharp and knowing.
“She’s no’ sick, you old curmudgeon,” she said in a much deeper, hauntingly familiar voice. “You’ll be, if you dinnae put on a dry robe.”
I’ve gone mad, Bhaltair thought, pressing his fingers over his mouth.
“You’ve naught to say to your brother initiate?” the eerie voice coming from the girl’s mouth demanded. “’Twas no silencing you when we were lads. I recall you swearing you’d never become the conclave’s creature on the night we pledged ourselves before the elders. You’d more to do with your magics than caper to their tune, you vowed. And now look at you. You’ve but to whistle, and they dance for you.”
“Oh, Gods.” He dropped his hand. “’Tis you, Gwyn.”
“Aye, you great lassie’s skirt.” Her grandfather’s raspy laugh ruffled the air. “I told Oriana that if I died badly to come to you, and thus summon me. Poorly isnae the word for what I suffered.” Her lower lip trembled. “’Twas monstrous, what they did to me, Bhaltair. But I never spoke a word to them. You may be sure of that.”
Fear iced over his shame. “Gwyn, never tell me that you’ve possessed your own blood kin.”
“Fie, the spew you wretch,” his dead friend scolded. “Oriana channels spirits from the well of stars. Dinnae gape at me. I wrote to you of her gift no’ three months past. The lass may prove to be the most powerful speak-seers among druid kind.”
“So you shall release her and return to the well when we’ve done speaking.” As she nodded Bhaltair let out a long breath. “I’m to blame for your murder, old friend. ’Twas my duty to awaken the Skaraven and convince them to again protect us against the famhairean. I brought them back but failed to persuade them to join our cause. In truth, I reckon I drove them away.”
“I dinnae fault you, pledge-brother.” Oriana’s expression turned shrewd. “And as long as the Skaraven still walk your world you havenae failed. You must seek them out and convince them to take up this new quest. Only through them can my killing be avenged, and mortal and druid kind be made safe.”
Bhaltair didn’t relish the thought of bracing the Skaraven again. “You’ve more faith in me than is wise. I cannae–”
“You must.” Hot color flooded into Oriana’s face while Gwyn’s voice went from a shout to a cold murmur. “Unless you find the Skaraven, we are doomed. All of mortal and druid kind shall be exterminated. Without bairns for our rebirth, we shall be trapped in the well of stars until the end of time.”
Oriana suddenly s
lumped over and went limp, only to push herself up a moment later. Her soft doe eyes met his worried gaze.
“He’s gone away,” she whispered in her own, sweet voice as she pressed a trembling hand to her brow. “Oh, my poor grandfather. He’s so frightened, Master.”
Bhaltair offered her the water, which she refused. He fetched some uisge beatha from his cabinet. She drank a small measure of the whiskey, coughing a little as she stared at her hands.
“Did you ken what was said while you channeled Gwyn’s spirit?” He felt relieved when she shook her head. “You havenae used your gift often, have you, lass?”
“No, Master Flen. ’Twas no one among the tribe to train me but Grandfather, and he wished me first to pledge myself as a novice and learn more control. Sometimes I couldnae help speaking for the dead.” Her lips twisted. “Like him, they can be very determined.”
“’Twas Gwyn who kept me on the path when we were initiates,” Bhaltair told her. “I sometimes think he taught me more than even the wisest of our masters. You should be very proud to carry on his bloodline, my dear one.”
“Aye. I loved him so.” She choked on the words, and then summoned a tremulous smile. “I must return to my settlement, so I will leave you now. I shallnae forget your kindness, Master Flen.”
“Stay the night here.” He surprised himself by blurting out the offer, and grimaced. “’Tis late, and I have a spare bed.” He gestured toward his small guest room. “’Twould ease my thoughts to ken you safe under my roof until daylight.”
“And mine.” Oriana looked relieved. “’Tis always tiring to use my gift. My thanks, Master.”
Once she had settled down to sleep Bhaltair changed into a dry robe and went into his spell chamber. At first he meant only to meditate on what Gwyn had urged him to do, but his thoughts kept straying back to the past they had shared. In his first lifetime Bhaltair had been an impatient boy, gripped by the untapped power inside him and anxious to wield it. When the short, pudgy Gwyn Embry had joined his initiate circle, Bhaltair had barely noticed, so focused had he been on the druids teaching them.