According to one of the tales in that grimoire Sorcha carried in her satchel—that same book Una gave her the day before she “died”—every spring, come May Day’s Eve, the Cailleach herself returned to drink from the youth-providing faerie pools on the Isle of Skye, thereby transforming herself into her summer sister.
So, this was where Sorcha was going now—not to Padruig’s, but to the one place no one would ever anticipate, because good God-fearing folk no longer believed in the old tales. They were patsies to a king who’d forsaken the gods of their ancestors. But Sorcha still believed. And that star, up there, it seemed to be leading her straight to Una. Like a beacon. Day and night, it shone—day and night—and Sorcha was convinced it shone only for her … leading her to the Cailleach.
Horse and rider went trotting past, and star-faced wood anemones bowed tiny white heads.
Night sounds played like music in the air. A distant wolf howled. The canopy of green overhead soon gave way to wide, open skies and Sorcha reined in her mount on a small hill overlooking the village of Lochinver. Over the past few days, she’d traveled hill and dale, Mounth to the sea… and now she’d come as far as she could go, without procuring a boat. Tomorrow she would find a way to cross the sea, and sadly, what did she have in her possession to pay the fare?
Certainly, not the keek stane. Nor the book she kept in her satchel. Sorcha had nothing else of value, except her sweet, loyal Liusaidh.
Dismounting, she took in the view. From this vantage, she could see for miles and miles across the sea—mean and green, with frothing waves that churned in warning. “Turn back,” it seemed to say. “This way dare not come.” But Sorcha did dare. And anyone who knew her well enough to say, could attest to the fact that she was not so easily dissuaded. If Una was out there, Sorcha would find her.
As though to reassure her, Liusaidh rubbed her muzzle against the back of Sorcha’s shoulder, moving a little closer, as though to hug her. Regretfully, Sorcha reached up to pat her dear horse, realizing of a certainty that it was soon to be good-bye.
“I. Will. Find. You,” Sorcha whispered again, and she shivered, but not because she was afeared. She was not. Nor was she cold. She wore a burning mantle of fury to warm her to the bone.
An ageless, eternal silence was her answer, and Sorcha leaned into her mare, caressing the lush white mane. Tomorrow, bright and early, she would part ways with Liusaidh to get herself passage on a ship. And by the time anyone anticipated her true destination—if they ever anticipated it—she would be long gone. Sailing across the Minch, to the Isle of Skye.
Her father be damned. Her people be damned. Truth was all she cared about now.
Chapter 3
The sea was a tempest, knocking ships all about the harbor. Unlike others afeared of a bit of gale, the men of Rònaigh were not so easily cowed. It suited them better to weather the storm at sea. But they couldn’t leave as yet…
Not until Sorcha arrived.
And there she appeared… with her long, shining hair in a fat, loose plait, riding into the harbor on a beauteous white mare, unlike any beast Alec had ever seen. Horse and rider held their heads high, and Alec could read the fire in her soul simply by the way she whipped her tail—the horse, of course, not the rider. Auld Biera had told a fantastical tale, but everything was exactly as she foretold.
“Could it be her?”
“What do ye think?”
The two men watched as the girl walked the fine animal to the end of the long dock, and speak softly into its ear. Lovely, she was—and Alec wasn’t just talking about the horse. He had a moment’s pity that she couldn’t be his.
For a long, long time, Sorcha stood caressing the animal’s cheek, and Alec wondered what his kinsmen might say when they spied that sweet filly trotting off his ship. Truth to tell, he wasn’t so sure which excited him most—the auld woman’s promises for the girl, or her horse. So many of Rònaigh’s villagers had never even seen a horse—much less a horse of that caliber. For the most part, they didn’t need horses on their isle, except for plowing. Dunrònaigh’s stable had a few Jacks and a handful of Jennies, but only Caden kept a fine horse.
And the lassie… well, she was hardly a troll. In fact, she had the outward bearing of a queen, and if the auld woman spoke true, Dunrònaigh’s halls would soon ring again with laughter. Their children would romp along the fields. And, more importantly, Caden Mac Swein would be restored to his former glory. Although, first, they must get that girl to Rònaigh, and for this, they’d needed help.
“Should we snatch her?”
“Nay.” Alec frowned at the ship’s captain. “Have patience.”
He’d already paid the fishermen to deny her passage, and they would be better served to allow the lass to come to them of her own accord. For what he had in store, he needed the girl’s trust.
Anyway, he doubted any other ship would set sail today, with the Minch in such bad form. The ocean itself was like a woman, with her raging tempers, and the moon and stars had their sway. That new star up there seemed to have raised a ruckus, and none of these other ships were so well equipped as theirs.
All these centuries later, his people still used the technology of their Viking ancestors—not the once-feared drakkar, with their dragon prows, but the Viking half ships used by merchants to carry cargo. With wider and deeper hulls than war ships, three knörrs could easily evacuate the entirety of their village, and they had four. The Blue Men might rage, but they would weather the sea like a champ. And they would find their way, no matter what bluster the Blue Men gave, for the maids who guided them through the mist were friends of the Fin Folk.
“She’s pretty… what if they should be tempted?”
“They won’t.”
“How can ye be so sure?”
“Because I told them a wee tale.”
“What?”
“I said she was the daughter of the Cailleach, and that they would know her by her mare. I told them all she was a virgin bride, promised to the laird of Dunrònaigh, and if anyone should prevent her from following the destiny star to her beloved, the Cailleach herself would raise up the storm kelpies and visit upon them their doom. With the sea as surly as it be, I warrant there’s no one who’ll test it.”
“Ach, that’s no wee tale. It’s a tall tale, but what if they don’t believe you?”
“Haud yer weesht! How many lassies d’ye think will arrive here on a snow-white steed? And what about that star? Nay, Auld Biera foretold it, and there it be.”
The ship’s captain peered up. “Damnedest thing I ever did see,” he agreed. Though still, he worried, “What if they tell others?”
“Pshaw! Let them say what they will. All’s we care about is getting the lass to Rònaigh. The rest will take care of itself.”
Across the way, the young woman in question turned. She appeared to be assessing the ships in the harbor… only three of which were fit to sail, and none more seaworthy than theirs.
“Look alive,” he said to the ship’s captain. “Ready the men. We’ll be on our way within the hour.” An air of excitement was building. Rònaigh had never been more vulnerable. But if the old woman spoke true, the lass would do far more than restore Caden’s sight, she would restore the Mac Sweins to greatness.
“I’ll ne’er forget ye,” Sorcha said to Liusaidh. “You are my truest friend.”
Her only friend, by the looks of it, because Sorcha’s kinsmen had proven so false. Alas, the grimoire and the keek stane were too valuable to part with, and no one would ken their true worth. Although, if Sorcha had her druthers, she’d give them both to keep her horse. Regrettably, Liusaidh was the only thing of trade value she possessed. Sighing, she patted the animal’s cheek, missing her already. Nevertheless, it wasn’t going to get any easier the longer she delayed. More determined than ever to reach her destination, she removed her satchel with her valuables, flinging it over one shoulder. And then she tied the horse’s reins to a post, turning her back to the question in those
wide brown eyes. Glancing up at the relentless star, she made her way along the pier to the first fisherman whose boat appeared seaworthy. Not one bird braved the blustery skies. Only dark clouds and that long-haired star. A few gulls holed up near a dock house, hiding from the wind. Salt spray alit upon her skin, and Sorcha hesitated, but forced herself to go on. “Pardon sir,” she said, interrupting a man lowering his sails. “I would like to charter your boat.”
The man cast her a wary glance. “D’ y’ see these waves? I’ll not be putting in today, lass. ’Tisna fit for man or beast.” He peered over her shoulder at Liusaidh, and returned to the care of his sails. “Come back tomorrow,” he suggested, though without much interest.
Sorcha couldn’t wait until the morrow. She felt an urgency to press on. Today. Right now. There was no telling how long that star would be along to guide her, and if she waited until the morrow, maybe it would be gone. She furrowed her brow.
His boat was small, she decided, and moved along to the next ship, a far bigger seafaring vessel. “Pardon sir, I would like to buy passage aboard your boat.”
“Ach! D’ye ken the difference between a boat and a ship, lass? This is a ship, not a boat. There’s nay boat what can weather the Minch on a day like today. An’ ye’ll find yourself fodder for the Fin Folk, mayhap in the belly of a beast.”
“Pardon me,” Sorcha corrected. “I would like to buy passage aboard your ship.”
“Nay,” the man said quickly, and without even bothering to ask where Sorcha was going. He had dismissed her out of hand. But then he glanced across the harbor at another ship across the way, and Sorcha sensed a bit of hesitation, so she said, “Please, sir. I will pay you my horse as fare. She’s young and she’s healthy and has good teeth.”
The man stopped what he was doing, glancing over at Liusaidh, perhaps reconsidering, but then he said rather abruptly. “I wadna put my ship in the Minch if ye paid me a rag of stolen horses—not today.”
Stolen!
“Good sir,” Sorcha argued. “Liusaidh is not stolen! She was born and bred in—” she stopped short of revealing whence she’d come. “The Mounth. She’s a fine, strong horse and listens verra well. I’ll ha’e ye know, I raised her myself. I shod her feet. Broke her, as well. An’ I would ne’er attempt to sell ye a stolen mount.”
“Well, in any case, lest ye dinna notice, lass, this here be the Minch, and we dinna need horses, fine-bred or nay. What I need is a ship, and if’n I put mine in the brink, I’ll sign me own death warrant. So, there ye ha’e it, lass. I enjoy breathing too much to serve ye. Go on wi’ ye now. Imeacht gan teacht ort!” Go away and don’t come back!
The wind whipped Sorcha’s hair about her face. It was true: The ocean did look menacing, but these men hardly seemed the type to be afeared of a bit of water and wind. Liusaidh was a precious horse. It wasn’t everyday an opportunity like this would present itself, and in fact, she’d kept to the woodlands as much for Liusaidh’s sake as she had for herself, because a woman alone on a horse of Liusaidh’s worth was tempting bait.
Frustrated, Sorcha studied the harbor, spotting only one other ship that might brave the frothing sea. And, once again, she peered up at the star, wondering if its presence had somehow riled the gods. But, of course, if it be the Cailleach, she’d probably meant to stir the pot. Nevertheless, undaunted, Sorcha made her way around the harbor to where the biggest ship lay moored—a fabulously ornate vessel, wherein a thickset man stood wrapping a length of rope about his hand. “Pardon sir, will you be sailing today?”
The man puffed out his chest. “Well, o’ course!” he said, grinning. “We are born of Viking blood. A wee bit o’ bluster would never keep us.”
Big and burly and very, very blond, the man was nearly as pretty as his boat. By his demeanor, he did not appear to be the sort of man who’d be prone to villainy, but there was something “off” about him nonetheless—something Sorcha couldn’t quite afford to notice, because it wasn’t as though she had any choice. She must find a way to cross the Minch. “Tell me sir… how far away is the Isle of Skye?”
“The man shrugged. “In this weather? A good half-day’s journey, no less.”
Sorcha bit her lip. “So far?”
“Today, we’re at the will of the Minch, lass. If’n ye ne’er had the misfortune of tangling with the Blue Men, ye dinna ken how willful they can be.”
Blue men?
Sorcha hadn’t a clue what he was on about. She had no idea who the blue men were, or why they should tangle with one. Fin folk. Blue Men. She had no clue what any of these ship’s captains were babbling over. But, one glance aboard this ship revealed a crew of pale-haired men, all at work on the sails. None of them happened to be blue. “Well,” Sorcha said, venturing a gamble. “I would like to book passage on your ship. And, please, listen before you deny me. I have a valuable horse for trade.”
The man stopped what he was doing, peering over at Liusaidh, who was still standing precisely where Sorcha had left her by the post, her beautiful mane whipping all about. “That one?”
“Yes, sir. That be the one.”
“Free and clear?”
Sorcha inhaled a breath. “Aye, sir.”
“Is she easily riled?”
“Not so much, sir.”
Unlike the others, he seemed to be considering Sorcha’s offer, and Sorcha held her breath.
“Will she take to the sea, d’ ye think?”
Sorcha turned to peer over at Liusaidh, considering the man’s question, and then she turned back, feeling both titillated and sad. “I canna say why not.”
“So, then, what’s the filly’s name?”
“Liusaidh,” Sorcha replied, smiling, because she was the one who’d named her. “It means warrior.” And, certainly, Liusaidh looked like a warrior maid, standing all alone, ready to brave the world an all its troubles. Sorcha had never had any doubt of her devotion—unlike some feckless folks.
The man swept a forearm across his brow, considering Sorcha’s offer as he appraised Liusaidh. “All her teeth, ye say?” His tone seemed hopeful.
“Yeah sir.”
“And has she been shod?”
“Yeah, sir. Her shoes are new.”
“What about her temper?”
He eyed Sorcha meaningfully, inspecting her up and down, leaving her to wonder whether he was referring to Sorcha or to her horse. Quite fortunately, there didn’t appear to be any lechery in his gaze, but if he wanted a fight, Sorcha would certainly give him one. She and her sisters were not walkovers. And just in case he was considering something untoward, she said, “Fine, sir. Unless she is provoked.”
After a moment, the man shook his head, as though he meant to deny her. “Ach, lass, the sea is mean today, hardly meant for a pleasant journey.”
“Please, sir!”
He tilted her a re-assessing look. “Ha’ ye guid sea legs yourself?”
Sorcha furrowed her brow, unaccustomed to such language. “I dinna ken what ye mean, sir. But, yeah, I’ve two perfectly good legs.”
The man grinned broadly. “What I mean is, are ye prone to spewing your guts o’er the water? I’ve too much to do, and ain’t nobody aboard ready to serve a well-born lass like ye.”
Well-born? Truly, he hadn’t any clue who Sorcha was, and if he did he might have spat on her. For all that she loathed the man who’d sired her, Sorcha wanted to spit on herself. But she felt an instant of relief over the man’s words, because she had a notion she might convince him, after all. “Dinna fash yoursel’, sir, I dinna require anyone to serve me. As for the sea legs, I lived in a house on a loch for most of my days and I have never once spewed my guts for any reason save that I’d drunk too much ale.”
The man chuckled. He rubbed his whiskered jaw. “You and me both, lass, you and me both. So then, ye’re headed to the Isle of Skye, d’ ye say?”
Sorcha’s belly fluttered with excitement. “Yeah, sir.”
The man narrowed his eyes, and then, after a long, suspenseful m
oment, he finally nodded. “Go on, then, grab your horse, bring her down. We’ll coax her into the boat and be on the way.”
Boat, he’d called it. Not a ship. Sorcha couldn’t hide her jubilation. She nearly kissed the man where he stood—if for naught else, for giving her more time with her beloved Liusaidh.
She ran to collect her mare, and never saw the look of satisfaction that passed between the sailors. Once aboard the ship, the man she’d bargained with came over to offer Sorcha a jug. “I warrant the journey will go all the smoother wi’ a bit o’ uisge in your gut.” He drank from it, and made a face as he swallowed, handing Sorcha the jug. He added, “By the by, my name is Alec, and ye’re welcome aboard St. Ronan’s Barque.”
“Thank you,” Sorcha said, accepting the man’s kind offer. She was, indeed, thirsty, and hungry besides. Since leaving the Vale, she’d eaten little more than berries and mushrooms. “St. Ronan’s Barque? ’Tis a fine name, but I dinna ken who it be.”
“The patron saint of my home,” the man said. “For those who love the King’s faith, but for myself, I’ll take the Cailleach any day. Until a few days ago, I found myself astray, but—well, it matters not, sweet lass. Drink up. We’ve hoisted the sails.”
Sorcha had no true knowledge of the King’s faith. Nor did it matter to her who anyone prayed to. But even so, the man had so little notion how close he was to the Mother of Creation. Sorcha would surely introduce them. Excited by the adventure—over the prospect of being one bit closer to reuniting with her mentor—she took the man’s uisge and chugged down a swallow, only to find it worse than the uisge in their larder. One way or another, Sorcha meant to prove, once and for all that she was no softie. He grinned in approval when she swallowed without hesitation, and Sorcha handed back the jug.
“Nah, keep it,” he said. “You’re gonna need it, lass. The journey isna long, but a wee nap’ll do ye. There’s naught better for a wink than a dram.”
The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2) Page 3