“Where came you by the knowledge of the old ones?” Una asked one day, catching Lìli on the way to Glenna’s cottage. The old woman hobbled along beside her with her staff, keeping pace despite her awkward gait.
“Some through a midwife I knew, though much was gleaned through my years—wherever I could come by it, in truth. I had quite a thirst for the knowledge, you might say.”
Unspoken was the reason Lìli had been so driven to learn, for both Lìli and Una understood precisely why she would be compelled. Una’s head bobbled, and for a few paces she said nothing more, then offered, “One day when you are settled, I have a leabhar you may like to see.”
Curiosity, like a famished beast, raised its hungry head. A book was a very rare thing. Lìli had never expected to encounter one here. “A book, ye say?”
The woman winked at her, her white hair blowing in the soft breeze. “A verra auld book!”
“Ach, that would please me immensely,” Lìli confessed.
The old woman smiled and said, “I ken, lass. I do ken. Only tell me... would you take the advice of a doddering auld woman?”
Lìli could not shake the feeling that, in truth, Una was her greatest ally here at Dubhtolargg, even more so than her husband—aye, even despite the burgeoning suspicion that the old woman was also the author of her curse and thus her misery. “Of course,” she said.
“Trust your instincts, Lìli, and whatever ye do, ye do it with your soul.” And having imparted that, they parted ways. Una veered up the hillside path to where she so often disappeared. On many days Lìli simply watched her wander up the hillside, wondering where she went, but she didn’t ask.
As the days passed, one by one she came to know each of the villagers. Some sought her because Una urged them to do so, so she could treat their ailments, and others she came to know because she stopped to inspect their crafts. It seemed naught was sold here, rather they lived as one family, sharing what they had with one another, and everyone played some part—except Aveline, of course. The maid was lost and out of sorts.
Not far from Lìli’s thoughts remained the vial and the ring. She imagined them so often burning a whole in her coffers, but as yet, she had not moved them because it seemed the most natural place to hide them. Still, she wanted to take the ring and toss it into the loch. Thoughts of Kellen were the only thing to stay her hand.
One day while she stood at the window in her room, believing she was alone, she had unshuttered the window and stood looking out over the loch, the ring clutched in her fist, cutting into her flesh—the same way her guilt was cutting into her joy. God's truth, she was ready to toss it… but then she recalled her son holding out his little talisman and lost herself in the memory of Kellen running so excitedly from her garden to show her his newly discovered treasure.
He needed her to remain strong. He believed in her. He'd kept his little talisman because he wanted to believe whatever she told him.
Ach, but he would love the view from this window, she thought.
What she wouldn’t give to kiss the pate of his head while he stood here right alongside her to enjoy the sight.
Despite that summer was gone now and fall was well into its days, the glen never lost its beauty. The surrounding corries were a string of white-tipped pearls, and the loch itself was a multifaceted jewel, reflecting the silver-gray sky.
Aidan approached from behind, slipping his arms about her waist. He kissed the back of her neck. Like a dagger, the ring dug into her palm, and she couldn’t bring herself to turn around and face him. Though he didn’t force her to. He simply embraced her.
“Ye’ve been standing here for nigh on an hour, Lìli. What thoughts occupy your mind?”
Lìli told him the truth—half the truth, at least. “My son,” she said and sighed. “By the time I see him next he may be a man grown.”
“Nay,” he said. “Ye have my word, Lìli. We will bring Kellen home.”
Lìli nodded, the ring in her fist burning like a fiery ember. For once, she hoped he would not attempt to coax her into the bed, because then she would be forced to let the ring drop into the water, and her decision would be made once and for all.
He kissed her once on the cheek, sensing her withdrawn mood, and then he gave her the space she both prayed he would give her, and prayed he would not, for if he took the decision out of her hands, then she would know which path she was destined to take. But, nay, he left her alone with the ring and her dark thoughts, and went along his way, none the wiser.
In very little time, Lìli’s heart had completely softened toward Aidan and his people.
She no longer saw them at all the same. They were a peace-loving clan, and far from being the fearsome, pagan warrior with bloodshed on his mind, she understood now that Aidan only raised his sword to defend his vale. Indeed, her father had likely come into their midst as friends, and must have betrayed their trust, for naught else would explain their coming to blows.
She only wondered how they had survived all these years in the Mounth, living among warmongering tribes … but she knew … she knew it was because they kept themselves apart, defending themselves against outsiders.
Because her husband had embraced her, so too did his kinsmen, and for the first time in her entire life she understood what it truly felt like to be a part of a clan. How ironic was it that it was the one time in her life that she should not be?
She felt like a snake in their grass.
One morning she was tending to Aveline, trying to cheer her. With Glenna’s help, she had found a dress and convinced the lass to rid herself of the faded green samite English gown she seemed to believe was so grand—it was not!—and she was plaiting Aveline’s hair in the fashion the girls in the village wore, when she heard the blast of a horn.
At once her heart stopped. Kellen’s face flashed through her thoughts and she abandoned Aveline’s hair and hurried out of the cottage.
Could it be that Rogan had had a change of heart? Could it be that he was delivering her son? She could not imagine who else might come here. And then her heart twisted, for mayhap there was simply news and something was wrong?
With baited breath, Lìli peered up into the hills, and then she spied the men on horseback coming down the mountain pass. Their colors were not that of Keppenach’s, nor David’s—nor any she recognized. With cloaks flying at their backs, their horses came thundering into the vale.
“Aye! Well take a look at that one!” Keane said proudly, pointing down at the ground. His face was nearly healed now, back to its normal size, but his ego had returned and inflated to twice the size before.
Precisely at this moment, he wasn’t alone. Lang Glen, who was far too old and far too big to be competing with a lad half his age, climbed atop the boulder where Keane had stooped only moments before and peered behind it. “’Tis a puny log,” he told the boy, guffawing. “Mine is full half a foot longer than yours, anyone can see!”
Aidan continued repairing the fissure that had appeared all too suddenly, piling stones atop it, examining the area around it, and he rolled his eyes at the exaggeration. This was a tradition he did not relish, although he could find little harm in tolerating it. Some boys were consecrated to always remain simply boys, and mayhap his brother was one of those. The thought of that displeased him somewhat, but he had begun of late to imagine what sort of child would come of his union with Lìli. He dared to hope his first would be a boy, but couldn’t begin to contemplate what that might mean for the future of his clan or the stone.
Damn, Una, for she had been the one to embroil him in this, and now he was beginning to feel great affection for Lìli, no matter that he had tried to harden his heart. It was soft already, he realized—as soft as Lang Glen’s head.
The land beneath his feet seemed solid enough, and the fissure was not even wide enough to see into so he could better determine the lay of the caverns below. He worried that this spot on the hill might be too close to the vaulted stone. At least he knew his men wou
ld keep an eye on it, for it was right in front of their godforsaken toilet.
“My turn!” exclaimed Hob.
“Nay mine!” called another, and the rest of the daft men all climbed up on the rock beside the two gloating fools, clamoring to peer down at the log of shit his brother had given birth to, vying to see whose was bigger and then to see who was next to try.
Somehow, it had become an agreed upon notion that all the greatest wisdom was gleaned in that instant—that somehow, the rapture of giving birth to a solid load of shit was a religious experience. If anyone asked Aidan, he thought the lot of them were far too preoccupied with defecation and he’d like to shove the silly bunch faces first down into their own dung. He loathed to think of the two-hundred years of shit lying down in that gully behind the rock.
A horn blasted, and he was suddenly grateful for the fact that not all his men were so witless as these. He recognized Fergus’ windy blare the instant he heard it and knew at once they would be receiving guests. Twice the horn sounded, which set Aidan immediately at ease, for he realized these must be friends.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Broc Ceannfhionn, they called him. Broc the blond.
If Aidan had considered Lang Glen a tall man, Broc was taller yet, with legs as strapping as tree trunks and arms the size of Keane’s legs. Aidan was hardly a diminutive man, but he felt dwarfed by Broc’s size height and breadth. But there was little guile in the behemoth’s kindly blue eyes.
To celebrate their arrival, Aidan sent Keane after the uisge and tankards. His sister Lael continued to manage the kitchens, and his wife did not seem to mind, so he continued to make his requests of Lael, bidding her to bring their guests victuals to fill their bellies. Aidan had come to realize his wife was a skilled diplomat, for she had managed to deal fairly with all his siblings and had won herself a sort of truce with Lael—hardly an easy feat.
“To what do we owe the honor?” Aidan asked Broc, slapping him congenially upon the back.
Broc’s face was set in grim lines that seemed at odds with his boyish features and his bonny blond hair. “We come on behalf of The MacKinnon,” he said gravely.
Mulling that over, Aidan saw the men inside and stood before the chieftain’s table as the tables were being filled to the edge with food and drink. Everyone worked together to bring foodstuffs from the pantry—cheese, bread, whatever fruits remained that had not been preserved for the winter, salted fish, honey from their store and a new kind of wine Lìli had spiced using late-blooming flowers. As it was not yet time to sup, they did not assemble the trestle tables, for there was room for all to sit at the long table. Unlike the halls of others’, here space was limited and they did not employ a permanent dais. Neither was Aidan inclined to lord it over his kinsmen so they sat on both sides of one long table, facing one another as equals. Aidan urged the men to sit once the table was completely prepared. “What business has the MacKinnon with us?” he asked Broc, curiosity needling him.
Broc’s entourage, all of them eyeing the spread, beat the giant to their seats but Broc seemed far too troubled to spare the food a glance. “We received word a week ago of a secret council David called.”
A ripple of foreboding swept down Aidan’s spine, though he covered whatever unease he felt and led the way to their seats. “Come, give me the news while you sup... I ken you must be famished after the journey north?”
Acknowledging the truth of that statement with a nod, Broc reluctantly found his seat at the table and began his tale. When he was done, Aidan simply sat, staring at the man, considering everything he had said while Keane poured him another tankard full and another for their guests.
“So David called his banner men the instant I left Chreagach Mhor?”
“So it seems,” Broc acknowledged, nodding soberly. He lifted up his cup and brought it to his lips, taking a hefty sip, and then merely shook his head and cleared his throat. “He didna invite Iain, or we would have come to you long before now,” he continued, as though perfectly accustomed to the burn of the uisge. “We only discovered the meeting by chance.”
Aidan’s reached out for his own tankard. “By chance?”
“Aye,” Broc said, but before he continued, he introduced the men he had ridden with into the vale: his cousin Cameron, and another three strapping young lads—all MacKinnon liegemen.
“’Tis glad I am to know ye,” Aidan offered. “Fàilte.” Welcome.
“Mòran taing,” Cameron replied in the old tongue. Many thanks. Aidan thought he might be a few years older than his sister Lael, though not by overmuch.
He gave Keane a nod as he held the uisge jug over his own cup, asking for permission. Grinning like an idiot, his face stained with the remnants of bruises, Keane took his seat to Aidan’s left, leaving the right-hand seat unoccupied—a subtle nod of respect to Lìli, even in her absence. That pleased Aidan immensely.
But the story Broc came to relay was curious, and indeed it seemed to be a matter of happenstance—or divinity, one, depending upon the view—that he had gleaned the information at all. Apparently, David had ensconced himself in the manor house of one called Alma, who had been the nursemaid and healer for the MacEanraig clan, Broc’s clan by birth. Broc alone from the MacEanraig chieftain’s family had survived a savage raid upon their village, and he had been taken as a boy to be cared for by the old MacKinnon laird. In the meantime, Alma returned to what remained of their village to rebuild their homes. Broc’s loyalties to Ian MacKinnon were unshakable, Aidan knew that from the stories he had heard overall. But it seemed a large part of the warrior was heartsick, even all these years later, over the demise of his bloodline. As a child, Broc had buried his entire family and had watched his village burn, reduced to ash. Now this woman whose years should have ended long ago—a bit like Una—and who by the grace of the gods continued to breathe, had returned to him with a tale—one that made Aidan’s blood run cold.
“I’ve nay clue what David means tae do,” Broc confessed. “But I know he came here to Dubhtolargg, and I know that whatever he has proposed to you comes with treachery at hand.”
Lìli came into the hall then, and Aidan blinked at the sight of her, suddenly hesitant to introduce her to his guest. His heart was tripping over Broc’s forewarning.
Whatever he has proposed to you comes with treachery at hand.
She may betray you at least once before she finds her true path.
His intuition—the first he’d had upon meeting his wife—might yet prove true, though he couldn’t bear it. He called her over nonetheless and introduced her. Aidan smiled at the way his guests all rose to greet her, their eyes widening at the sight of his bonny Scots bride. She had the power to render a man mute, that much was true.
Aidan stood as well.
Broc was the first to speak. “'S mise le meas—yours respectfully, my lady, I wish ye both long life and bairns aplenty. My wife is bearin’ me another in two months hence and this time, we are hoping for another boy.”
Lìli nodded and said, “Congratulations to you and—”
“Elizabet,” Broc provided and his face nearly split in two at the mention of his wife’s name. “She reminds me a wee bit o’ you,” he confessed.
His cousin Cameron laughed. “He’s got himself three daughters—all bonny as ye, my lady—but only one son. Soon he’ll be able to start his own clan of womenfolk, one to rival even Dubhtolargg’s!”
Aidan laughed. No doubt, his indulgence toward his sisters was fodder for much gossip, but few enough witnessed it firsthand. It didn’t bother him.
“Aye, well,” Broc said, his face turning a bright shade of pink that seemed all the darker for the paleness of his hair. “As to that...” He unsheathed his claymore and Aidan straightened, the hairs on his nape suddenly prickling and standing on end. But the blond giant merely laid his sword carefully upon the table, where the etching on his blade was most easily read.
Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich.
Hills and streams and
MacAilpín.
As the legends went, one did not exist without the other, since the beginning of time.
Aidan peered at his wife. Recognition flickered in the depth of her eyes, and he realized she understood what it was she beheld.
But of course she would, for she knew the old tongue, so it stood to reason that she had learned her histories as well. It was the sword of the Righ Art—the High King and Chief of Chiefs. It was the consecrated blade of Kenneth MacAilpín. Lost amidst the Sìol Ailpín—the fractured Highland Clans who claimed blood lineage to the original Ailpín line—it had not been seen in more than a century. The sword, along with the stone, belonged to the rightful heir of the throne of Scotia, come to them by way of the Dalriadic kings, along with the stone called clach-na-cinneamhain, which as legend would also have it, was then blessed by a Pecht priestess. When the two were rightfully united, the chieftain who sat upon the stone and wielded the sword would rule undivided lands. It should have gone exactly so … except that, after the blessing, under a banner of truce, Kenneth MacAilpín murdered a Pecht rival for his throne. Thereafter the stone was cursed, consigning any man who sits upon it without right to war amongst his own kin. Seeing the way of it, after Kenneth’s son Aed was murdered in cold blood, Aidan’s clan removed the stone and secreted it where it now remained.
For a long moment, Aidan merely stared at the sword, and though he considered it, he decided not to send Lìli out of the hall, for without knowledge of the stone, she could not truly comprehend exactly what it meant to have the sword sitting here before her, gleaming upon his table. And yet … if she was to become a true member of his clan, he must begin to trust her.
He pulled out his wife’s chair and sat in his own, considering the sword and its markings—markings he knew intimately because they matched those of the stone hidden within the ben.
Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) Page 21