She shook off the melancholy thoughts. She was good at what she did and that was enough. ‘Twould do no good to wish for things that could not be.
She returned to the herbs, adding a little more dried raspberry leaf to the mortar to help with the swelling all pregnant women seemed to suffer from, and efficiently ground it into power. She took a square of linen and laid it on the worktable, then carefully poured the ground herbs into the center of it. With the deftness of long habit, she pulled the corners of the linen up to form a small pouch, then wound a strand of thread about it to close it off, leaving a long tail to make it easier to remove it from the pot when ’twas finished steeping.
When she was satisfied with that one, she began again, moving faster now that she wasn’t trying to teach Mairi how ’twas done. As she finished each pouch of herbs, worry tried to overcome Fia, as it always did when Elena was pregnant. Elena’s pregnancies never failed to bring back Fia’s memory of losing her own mum in childbirth, creating a sharp loneliness and longing deep within her heart. She could not bear the thought that she might also lose her foster-mum the same way, anymore than she could bear the thought of Mairi and her sisters suffering the same loss.
So she kept busy doing the only thing she could—preparing every brew, tincture, and salve she could think of that might ease the pregnancy and delivery of Elena’s bairn. And she would train Mairi as best she could, at least that would keep the two of them busy, keeping worry at bay at least some of the time. And if something should happen to Elena…She swallowed hard. If something should happen, then she would do whatever she could for Mairi, her da, and her sisters.
Quickly Fia assembled another brew recipe, crushed the herbs efficiently, and was reaching for another square of linen when shouts from the bailey filtered into her quiet stillroom. Curious, and in need of something more distracting than her preparations, she wiped her herb-dusty hands on her barmcloth, then untied the apron from her waist and quickly folded it. She tossed it on the end of the worktable as she made her way out of the dark undercroft and into the cloud filtered midmorning light of the bailey.
Kieron MacAlister rolled the Winter Stone in his hand. It was a smooth orb of milky crystal just small enough to conceal in his large palm. He fidgeted with it, as he often did in uncertain circumstances, as a crowd slowly gathered in the bailey of Kilmartin Castle. His cousin Tavish stood next to him, with a contingent of MacAlister warriors behind them.
A large, blond-haired, Highlander stood before the group, mute and unbudging, holding them just barely within the bailey, as if he wished to push them back through the gate tunnel and out of the castle altogether. He’d sent a lad off to find the chief while he stubbornly stood guard, even though the MacAlisters’ kinship with the Lady of the castle had been established.
He could hear his kinsmen shifting behind him and knew they chafed at this delay, as did he. They had traveled hard for a day and a half to get here from their village to the south and as soon as they collected the Lamont healer, Elena, they would travel just as hard home, for their chief sorely needed her legendary healing ability.
Kieron continued rolling the stone, now warmed by his body heat, in his hand, his own conflict gnawing at him as much as the wait did. He knew gaining the services of the Lamont healer should be his only goal, but it wasn’t. Fia MacLachlan had once lived here. He hadn’t seen her in seven years or more but he had given thanks every day since for her brief friendship all those years ago. She was probably married with a fat bairn upon her hip by now, but still he would like to see her again, to thank her. He’d like to know that she was as content in her life as he was in his.
He also knew ’twasn’t likely he’d even see her, much less have the opportunity to speak to her, but he could hope.
Tavish took a half step toward the silent MacLachlan warrior. Kieron could see the tension, tight in his cousin’s shoulders. He knew the familiar sharp temper was building in Tavish by the slight cock of his head to the right. Tavish had reason to be agitated, but now was not the time to give it free rein. Kieron cleared his throat just loud enough to capture his cousin’s attention at the same time that another large man, this one with dark hair shot through with silver, approached them. Authority wrapped about the newcomer like a royal mantle. The Highlander who held them there stepped back.
As the man drew near, Kieron recognized Symon, chief of the MacLachlans, husband to Elena, the healer they had come to fetch. The healer who had rid Symon of the madness that had plagued him so many years ago, the madness that had once caused him to be named the Devil of Kilmartin. He was older than the last time Kieron had seen him, but the years had not bowed him, nor dimmed the intellect so clear in his eyes. This was not a man who would risk his wife’s life. He would not allow his wife to travel with the MacAlisters, even though they were cousins of hers, without surety of her safety, which was why they had brought ten warriors to fetch her.
Tavish stepped forward and greeted the chief with as much reserve and respect as Kieron could expect of him. Reserve did not come naturally to Tavish—action, especially the action of battle, was more to his liking. But over the last few years he had come to listen to Kieron’s council when a softer touch was required, at least he often did, which was something Kieron still shook his head over now and again. The two of them had planned this meeting carefully, weighing their need for Elena’s gift, her still strong connection to the Lamonts and their cousins the MacAlisters, and Symon’s protective nature, in their plan.
Tavish started well, quietly and almost calmly explaining the illness that had taken their chief—the illness that no one seemed able to treat. Symon’s posture was hard—his feet spread and arms crossed over his broad chest—and he was already shaking his head when a door opened at the top of a stairway and a heavily pregnant woman with auburn hair caught in a loose braid stepped out. Her face and hair were familiar, though Kieron had only met Elena, Lady of Kilmartin Castle, and the fabled Lamont healer, once before.
Elena stopped at the top of the stair and took in the gathering in the bailey, then slowly made her way down. It was only when she reached the bottom of the stair that Kieron noticed the petite blonde awaiting her there.
His breath caught. Instantly, he knew it was Fia. She slipped her arm around Elena’s waist, as if to support her, and they walked slowly toward the gathered men.
“Symon, who are these good people?” Elena called when she was halfway across the bailey. She stopped and took a deep breath, as if that were not something that came easily to her, and Kieron realized that they would not be taking Elena home with them to heal their chief. She was too far gone in her pregnancy and no man in his right mind, which Symon had been for years now, would allow his wife to travel in such a condition.
“Tavish,” Kieron said, but his friend seemed frozen looking at the women approaching, as did Symon.
Elena slowly joined them. Fia released her as Elena hooked her hand through her husband’s arm and leaned heavily against him. Her other hand rested on her belly as if to safeguard the bairn that grew within. But it was Fia, taking up a spot next to and a little behind Elena, that Kieron could not keep his eyes from.
She was only a little taller than she had been when they first met, but she had gently softened from a slight, wisp of a girl into a lovely young woman. Her hair was still the palest of blonds, though no longer the white blond of a youth, and her eyes—how had he forgotten they were the crystalline blue of a spring sky? Her glance skated over him as she seemed to assess the gathering before her, but no recognition showed. He could still see that she was the bright, curious girl he had met, from the way she quietly observed his kinsmen, but he also found a hint of worry pinching her mouth.
He could only hope it was but worry for Elena, for pregnancy was always a risk for any woman, and not something more. If he discovered it was anything more, anything he could fix, he could not stand by and let it continue, not when he owed his own happy position in life to Fia.
&n
bsp; “They come to try to take you away from here, my love,” Symon said, his voice gruff, and every muscle poised to fight.
“And why would you wish to do that?” This she directed at Tavish with a lift of her eyebrows, but Kieron also noticed that as she rested her head against Symon’s shoulder the man relaxed, at least a little.
“My father, your cousin, chief of the MacAlisters of Kilglashan,” Tavish said, “is very ill and none have been able to help him. He will not eat, and does not sleep. He requires your gift of healing, Lady Elena.”
Kieron winced at the edge of anger that sharpened Tavish’s words, and he was not the only one to notice. Symon stiffened again, and even Fia stepped up beside Elena as if to protect her from Tavish.
“Forgive him,” Kieron said, stepping forward, carefully not looking at his cousin. He knew if any of them spoke against his wishes right now, Tavish’s fear for his father would only fuel his quick temper. But years of experience, and the plan they had put in place, told Kieron now was the time for him to act as diplomat. He and Tavish had accomplished much since they had laid the past to rest and become friends, combining their respective strengths—one a gifted warrior, the other a gifted diplomat. “His father is gravely ill,” he continued, “and we are all worried for his survival. ’Tis no death for a chief or a warrior, wasting away from pain and fever.” He looked Symon in the eye. “But we can easily see that ’tis no time for Lady Elena to be traveling.” Now he turned his attention to Elena. Fighting the urge to glance at Fia distracted him for a moment, but he persevered. “Perhaps you can provide some guidance for us? Our healer died not long ago and though we have several women in our village well versed in simples none have been able to help our chief.”
“Fia can go with you,” Elena said.
Fia’s breath hitched. “Nay, I am needed here, at least until after the bairn is born and you are recovered.”
Elena took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I shall be fine. The midwife can look after me.”
Fia wanted to shake her head, but she nodded instead, swallowing all of her arguments for why she should stay. ’Twas her duty to do as the chief and the lady required. “I will go.”
“Do you share the Lamont gift?” Tavish snapped, jerking Fia’s attention back to the two men who stood closest to her and spoke for their clan.
“Nay,” Fia answered with a lift of her chin, “but I am well trained as a healer.”
“Fia is expert with herbs, far more than I am,” Elena said. “She has a canny way of knowing which will best serve those she treats, such as I have never seen before.” Elena reached out and pulled Fia close, wrapping her arm over Fia’s shoulder in a gesture that had always made Fia feel safe, while at the same time Elena skewered first Tavish, then the other man, with that same motherly glare that made even grown men cower. “She is more than capable of tending your chief in his illness.”
Elena’s words of praise eased some of Fia’s concern over leaving her foster mother when the bairn could come at any time.
“Aye, I will do all that I can for your chief, but I have one condition.”
Elena tightened her grip and Symon turned to face her, irritation and concern filling his eyes. Fia wiggled free of Elena’s grip and took her hand again. She smiled at Symon, knowing he could not glower at her when she did that, and indeed his gaze softened.
“I will need to return to Kilmartin within a ten day. If you cannot promise me that, then I will not go with you.” She took a deep breath, unused to going against Symon or Elena’s wishes, but she hoped this was enough of a compromise to keep everyone happy. Fia could feel the knots in her shoulders loosening now that she had set her own requirements on the deal.
“But she does not have your gift.” The words came out as a growl from between Tavish’s gritted teeth.
Fia could see the man next to him tense, as if ready to do battle, though he had not so much as gestured toward his dirk or his sword. That was when she noticed that he held something in his hand, rolling it in his palm as if he calmed himself with it. She looked up at his face carefully for the first time and realized he was familiar to her, though she could not remember from where she might know him. There was something about his eyes…nay, she could not place him.
Elena tilted her head and smiled, glancing at Fia and drawing Fia’s attention back to the conversation.
“Nay, she does not have the Lamont gift,” Elena agreed, “but she is very talented in her own way, and you do not have a choice. Fia can go with you to tend your chief—your father—” she added pointedly, “and be returned here within a ten day, or you can leave here with a tincture that may or may not be what your father requires.”
Tavish started to respond, when the other man simultaneously reached out and gripped his shoulder, as if to stop him from speaking, and dropped the thing in his hand. Fia watched as a perfectly round, milky stone rolled to rest near Elena’s feet. Fia scooped it up, for Elena could not even bend over these days. She dusted the pretty stone off on her skirt, then held it out for the man but he did not take it from her.
“Do you think you can heal him, Fia?” he asked, saying her name as if he, too, remembered her, though she still could not remember why she knew him.
She looked at Tavish, holding the stone out for him to take as his companion did not seem interested in it anymore. “I do not ken,” she said, needing to be truthful with him and herself, “but I will do my best.” The palest pink whispered along the milky white ribbons within the stone, surprising her even as she heard the other man let out his breath. “But you must promise to have me back here before Elena’s time,” she said, though her eyes were still on the stone that was once again milky white, “whether your father is better or not.”
Elena plucked the stone from Fia’s hand and held it up to the pale sunlight, gazing into it with a bemused look upon her face.
“I believe she can heal him,” Elena said, still gazing into the stone, while pink once more whispered through it. Fia gasped. Elena looked at her for a moment and quirked an eyebrow as if asking if Fia had seen what Elena had. Elena lowered her hand and held the stone out to its owner with a mysterious sort of smile playing over her lips. “’Tis a beautiful stone. It reminds me of a tale I once heard about the Cailleach Bheur, the mother of winter, and a frozen tear that held the truth of her heartache. You should not be so uncareful with it.”
“Aye, my lady,” he said quietly. “I have heard that story, too.” He swallowed and smiled. “I am afraid I have a bad habit of fiddling with it and dropping it betimes,” he added, tucking the stone into a pouch at his belt. “Fia’s skills will be most appreciated.”
Tavish sucked in a loud breath.
“She will do as she says,” the other man said to him, “I am sure of it.”
Tavish said nothing for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. If we cannot have the skill of Lady Elena, we will take Fia with us to tend my da.”
Fia and the other man winced at Tavish’s less than grateful tone.
“And return me in a ten day.” Fia narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together. She had no intention of budging from Elena’s side without this assurance.
“We promise,” the other man said when Tavish did not. “We are grateful for your help, Fia.”
“We must away immediately,” Tavish said. “There is no time to waste.”
“Not immediately,” Fia said. “Who among you is most likely to be of use in describing your chief’s ailment? I must gather whatever I might need to treat him from my stillroom.”
Tavish and the other man looked at each other. “’Twould likely be me,” the other one said. “Tavish has been occupied with the chief’s tasks since his father took ill. If we’d known you would not be able to come with us, Lady Elena, we would have brought one of the women who has been tending him.”
“Very well,” Elena said. “I shall have Annis pack some things for you, Fia. You shall need an assistant so she shall travel with you.
’Twill be good experience for her.”
Fia almost groaned aloud. Annis was competent, but she was almost as distracted by the lads as Mairi was and she seemed to think she deserved more than the life of a healer, though she took pains to conceal that particular idea from Elena. But Fia knew she could not travel alone, and at least Annis understood what Fia needed, even if she didn’t like the work.
“Make sure Mairi knows how to make the brews for me and take…” Elena looked at the man next to Tavish and for a moment he did not appear to understand what Elena waited for.
“Kieron,” Tavish said for him. “Kieron MacAlister of Kilglashan village.”
“Take Kieron,” Elena said, “with you to the stillroom.”
At his name another tendril of memory tried to open for Fia, but it was not enough. “Come with me,” she said to him as she looked about and found Mairi standing behind her. Fia took her hand and hurried toward the dark opening of the undercroft that sheltered her stillroom, leaving Kieron to follow in their wake.
Chapter Two
That night, after a long afternoon of hard traveling, Kieron watched the women as they arranged their sleeping pallets on the far side of the fire, in the small clearing where Tavish had finally agreed to stop for the night. Their kinsman, Brodie of Kilmartin, made no attempt at subtlety, when he set his own saddle and belongings between the women’s sleeping area and that of the MacAlister men.
Fortunately, they had pushed hard and made good time, so they would arrive at Kilglashan midday tomorrow. The chief needed Fia’s help as quickly as possible, but Kieron worried, too, about his grandmother. He was her only living family and he did not like to leave her alone.
But he could do naught about that tonight.
He pulled his attention back to the clearing, assessing where any threat might come from so they would not be taken unawares. They traveled through the territories of friendly clans, but the fickle winds of politics could change an ally to an enemy in an instant and with no notice, so the MacAlisters did not take any chances. The men would sleep in shifts so someone would always be on watch.
The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas Page 11