Chosen by Fire

by Harriet Locksley

  She ran, weaving around the carts, wheelbarrows, stones and timbers, slipping on the muddy ground which sank towards the building where the foundations were being worked on. She looked back. The man’s great size became more apparent as he gained on her, puffing and sweating as he thundered closer. She saw the corner of the kirk building. The monks were bound to be at prayer. She sprinted, desperate to make it there where she’d be safe.

  Pain gripped her arm and, with a jolt she was pulled back, thudding into the wall of muscle that was Murdo’s clansman.

  “Chieftain has plans for you,” he growled. “And perhaps I have a few of my own.” She felt his hot breath and a hand slid across her thigh. She struggled. With her free hand, she grabbed her knife, slashing at the hand on her thigh, not caring that she cut herself too. Then she went for his other hand. In that heartbeat of his shock, she darted free. I can’t outrun him, she thought, but I can climb.

  Hoping it would buy time, that someone would come and help her, she skidded across the damp, upturned earth and reached the wooden scaffolding attached to the ancient stone wall of the building. It was built for people much taller than herself but she had climbed trees since the age of five and was soon stretching, grasping, hauling herself up, finding her footing, swift as a cat.

  When she could climb no further, she picked up a large, loose stone and prepared to defend herself, expecting to hear the thud of boots on timber. It was too quiet. She peered down. The man wasn’t on the scaffolding. Clinging onto the framework of wood, she leant out. When she saw him, her breath caught in her throat. The man was lying sprawled in the mud. She stared at him, waiting for a sign of movement. There was none.

  Brother Gillespie approached and, upon seeing the man, ran towards him. Kaetha slunk back against the building, realising she still held the huge stone in her hands.

  “What are you doing up there, lass? Come down,” he called.

  Kaetha descended, only realising then how much her arm hurt where the man had grabbed it. She knew she’d have a ring of bruising. Brother Gillespie rolled the man’s limp body over so that his face could be seen. Dead. The corpse’s pale eyes glared at her. There was a long knife at his belt. Would he have used it on her? She wished she could know what his orders had been and how Murdo thought he could get away with coming after her with no evidence of witchcraft, no witnesses, nothing.

  “What happened here?” Brother Gillespie’s voice was gentle but firm.

  “He was after me,” she said. “I didn’t kill him. I don’t understand why he’s dead.”

  “The lass speaks the truth. I saw it happen.”

  “Nannie!” Kaetha threw her arms around the woman. “I thought you’d been taken.”

  “Well, of course she speaks the truth, Nannie. Did you think I’d doubt her?” said Brother Gillespie. “He’s clearly one of Murdo’s men. But why would the new thane behave in such an underhand way?”

  “Murdo,” breathed Kaetha through clenched teeth.

  It will soon be done. An image came to her of the two stones beside the memorial cairn. She felt an itching to take a stone back. I will win. More of Murdo’s thoughts shocked her as they gripped her mind, swelling so that they overwhelmed her own thoughts. Brother Gillespie gave her a strange look.

  “Because he has no evidence and he’s too impatient to wait for it,” she said. “And he thinks arresting people openly without proof could lead to rebellion. He doesn’t care about what’s right. This is a game to him. Once he’s captured those he wants, he’ll fabricate whatever evidence he needs. While we’re alone, we’re vulnerable,” she said, clasping Nannie’s hand.

  “You must come and live here, Nannie,” said Brother Gillespie.

  “It’s a bit late to ask me to share your roof, Gippie,” said Nannie. “Or are you having second thoughts about certain vows you were once so keen on taking?” She gave him a wicked smile and he turned a deep shade of red.”

  “Be serious, Nannie,” he said. “There’s nowhere safer. Please.”

  Nannie sighed.

  “I’ll take that as agreement,” he said. “So, do we know how this man died? You said you saw it happen?”

  “I saw a stone in his hand,” said Nannie. “Pick it up with cloth but don’t let it touch your skin or you’ll be food for maggots too.”

  Kaetha saw the stone at the man’s fingertips. It looked like an arrowhead of black, polished stone, flecked with white. She felt a hum in the air around it and didn’t need telling it was powerful.

  Covering her hand with her cloak, Kaetha retrieved the stone. “What is it?”

  “If they find that in the possession of either of you—” said Brother Gillespie.

  “They won’t,” said Nannie.

  Just then, builders and stonemasons trudged into the building site, gathering into a circle of shocked faces around the dead man.

  “What happened here?” said a stocky man who carried a hammer and an air of authority.

  “This poor man fell, Jack,” said Brother Gillespie, “from the scaffolding. Why he was trying to climb so high, I don’t know. Drunk, it seems.”

  Kaetha stared at the monk. Several men took off their hats.

  “These women were nearby and I asked them to help attend to his injuries,” continued Brother Gillespie, “but by then it was too late.”

  “Poor fool,” said the man called Jack.

  “What are those cuts on his hands from?” someone muttered.

  They took the path beside the common, Kaetha clutching her bundled cloak with the stone tucked inside it.

  “What is this, Nannie?” she said. “Why did it kill him?”

  “Whether by chance or fate, he touched an elf-shot. Bad fortune for him that the builders unearthed such a thing.”

  “Good for me, though. But how could someone be killed by touching a stone?”

  “Elf-shot is an ancient thing and there are different tales surrounding it. But I’ll tell you what my old healer, Bess Hardy, told me. It comes from ancient times when all that men and women ate was what they found growing in the forests, their only meat such prey as they scavenged like carrion birds, from the kills of other animals. At this time, they befriended the Fiadhain of Earth—”

  “Baukans?” Kaetha thought of the rock at Cannasay. If a Fiadhain was trapped there, surely it’s element would be earth.

  “Aye,” said Nannie. “As guardians of beasts and the land, they taught man what they were permitted to hunt and how to make a clean kill. They gifted man with stones, imbued with power and shaped into arrowheads or spearheads that would always reach their targets, killing prey quickly and without pain. We fashioned similar weapons for ourselves out of flint but the magic of the Baukan stones was much prized and sought after, leading to wars between the first clans of this land.

  “But the Calliack,” continued Nannie, “the ruler of the Fiadhain, grew to despise man and his ways and cursed the Baukan-made weapons so that they killed any mortal who touched them. Such stones are extremely rare to find now, yet whenever a story is told of one being unearthed, it is followed by tales of death.”

  Kaetha uncovered the point of the elf-shot and looked at it in the sunlight. It was the size and shape of an arrow head, black with spidery threads of white but it gleamed green and purple in the sunlight, like the sheen of a starling’s feathers. She found it hard to take her eyes from it. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Cover it up!” shouted Nannie.

  “I was being careful,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “For now, I’ll hide it in the cottage. Bess once borrowed an elf-shot from a family of Tyrrosian travellers or Wayfarers as they call themselves. She kept it in water from sunset to sunrise, turning the water into a healing potion to kill cankers of the flesh. The treatment is risky, potentially fatal. Though, as when we use hemlock or belladonna, when there’s nothing else to be done, it can be a risk worth taking.” Nannie took her cloak from her shoulders and covered her hands. “G
ive the stone to me, lass. You should go home. And stay away from me for a time. Tell Cailean too.”

  Kaetha gave Nannie the elf-shot. “Will you be alright?”

  “I’ll be fine. You make sure you don’t go roaming about on your own. I’ll make sure that Brother Gillespie keeps an eye on you when he can, as I will when the gift allows. Remember, if you need it, there’s the sanctuary of the monastery. Murdo cannot arrest you there.”

  “It’s alright. I’ll have Pa and Mairi both acting the protective parents soon enough.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They’re getting married.”

  “Well, they got there in the end.”

  “You’re not surprised?”

  “They’re a good match. Mairi’s loved him longer than she’ll let anyone know. And it’ll be good for you to have a stepmother.”

  Kaetha made a noncommittal sound. She was spared thinking what to say by a shrill scream which rent the air.

  “What the—”

  “Sounds like it came from the High Street.” She pressed Nannie’s hand. “I must go.”

  “No, Kaetha—”

  She ignored Nannie’s protest, running towards the scream.

  A mass of people swarmed around the stable on the corner where the High Street met Curing Street. As she forced her way through to the front of the crowd, panic rang through her. Finola MacFarland was tied to a post, her face red, her gown torn and gaping at the back. Finola screamed again, a piercing sound which shook through her.

  “Finola!” she cried. And for a split second, her friend’s thoughts crashed into her mind like a gust of wind. Incoherent fragments, though they were, the thread that tied them together was terror. In that heartbeat, she knew Finola’s hurts as if they were her own – hot, searing pain slashed across her back, stinging with fire. Only then did she see the figure standing behind Finola holding the whip, eyes glinting, lips curled at the corners. Murdo was enjoying every moment of this.

  FOURTEEN

  Fire and Stone

  “Stop!” yelled Kaetha. Another’s thoughts had never caused such a visceral reaction in her before and the memory of Finola’s pain and fear lingered in her flesh as she staggered to her feet, flinging herself between Murdo’s whip and Finola’s red striped back. Then strong hands pulled her back. It was Rorie. His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared. She struggled in his grip but he was too strong, holding her so close that she felt the warmth of his body against hers. “You can’t do this, Murdo!”

  Murdo drew back the whip, eyes fixed on his target. “I will not be commanded by a bastard.”

  Kaetha’s face grew hot as she sensed many eyes turn to her. How did he know that about her? How much else did he know?

  Finola’s back was struck again. Another slash of red. And another. And another. Some faces in the gathering crowd registered fear, others anger. The hands of several townsfolk were poised at the hilts of knives but no one made a move to draw. The six Macomrag clansmen who flanked Murdo were trained fighters with intimidating weapons. Murdo raised the whip again.

  Rorie let Kaetha go. “That’s enough!” he cried, rushing forward, holding back Murdo’s arm. The largest of Murdo’s men shoved him to the ground, pointing his sword at Rorie’s throat.

  “No,” she breathed in disbelief. Murdo’s smile, cold as flint, sparked a surge of burning rage within her. Heat roared through her skin and then there was a sharp scream. She didn’t realise at first that it had come from Murdo. He dropped the whip and clutched his hand to his chest. A scattering of sparks trailed the whip, dying with a breath of smoke. All eyes were on Murdo’s shocked face and Rorie managed to make his escape.

  “See?” Murdo held up his reddened palm. “She tried to stop me. This proves she’s a witch.”

  Kaetha’s eyes locked onto Donnan’s as he stood in the crowd across from her.

  “How do we know anything happened?” said Donnan. “You might have burned your hand earlier. If not, there’s still no proof that Finola did it.”

  “We all know Finola,” said Rorie. “She wouldn’t hurt anyone.” There were mutterings of agreement and many moved to stand between Finola and Murdo. Kaetha saw Mairi then. She was one of the few who didn’t move. She just stood there, face pale, a hand pressed up against her throat.

  “No punishment without evidence, thane,” said Aedan who had just reached the gathering, pushing his way to stand right in front of Murdo.

  “Bring her to me.” Murdo was staring at Aedan as he issued his command to his clansmen. They pushed through the crowd, dragging Finola, and threw her down at Murdo’s feet. He knelt before her. Hair was stuck to her face where tears had flowed and Murdo softly brushed it aside. Finola looked up at him with a flicker of hope that her punishment was over. Then, with the swiftness of a bear striking with its claw, Murdo unsheathed his knife and sliced it across her cheek. Finola shrieked. “As the king commanded, a ‘cut above the breath’. It is the Dalrathan way.” With that, he rose and mounted his horse, casting Kaetha a steely look before he turned and left, his men following behind him.

  Kaetha wanted to catch up with Murdo, to snatch his whip and cut into his flesh, to make him live that pain, feel that terror, but she simply watched, dumbstruck, as blood trickled down Finola’s cheek.

  Donnan’s hand found her arm and he led her back towards the house.

  She struggled. “I have to go to her.”

  “Others will help her. Kaetha. I saw his face. He knows.”

  “Then why did he hurt Finola and not me?”

  “He wants you to fear him, Kaetha.” He closed the door, shutting them in from the outside world. “And perhaps it would be best if you did.”

  That night, she dreamt of being trapped in absolute darkness – no air to breathe – sharp cold pushing hard against her skin. Help me, she tried to shout. Free me. But she made no sound. All she could hear was water lapping against rock, the tide creeping in. She woke up gasping for breath. In her dream, she’d been the Baukan, trapped in the rock at Cannasay. Did I dream of it for a reason? Do I have the power to free it? Things were only going to get worse for those with magic. What if now was her only chance?

  She sat up. Donnan and Aedan were breathing heavily. She chewed her lip as she deliberated. How long had the Baukan, or whatever it was, been trapped there? Why had it reached out to her? It was the memory of that suffocating feeling she’d had in her dream that decided it for her. She slid off her bed and moulded her straw sack and blanket to make it look like she might be curled up there. She gathered kindling, rushes and strewing herbs into a basket, freezing when Donnan stirred. When he’d settled again, she eased the door open and crept out, quiet as a shadow, a sliver of moon giving her all the light she needed.

  She climbed up to the rock at Cannasay. A bursting nervousness made her hands tremble as she arranged the kindling and rushes around it. The scraping of sea against rocks shushed her, warning her to be careful. However, the beach was empty. No sign of danger. Amongst the kindling, she added tansy leaves and flowers – for bringing forth, for new life, for resurrection – and bruised sprigs of rosemary – for remembrance, for recalling the form you once took, for purging the power that curses you.

  She took a deep breath. “Fire,” she said aloud, “for releasing your energy – body and soul – from your prison of stone into the free air.” She held out her hands, compassion and desperation rising within her. Strands of heat stretched through her, down her arms. Come on, she closed her eyes, concentrating, Fire take my strength, use the powers in the herbs. Break the curse.

  Her limbs shook, a faintness coming over her just as flames leapt from the ring of kindling, licking the sides of the rock. She collapsed to her knees, her face warm in the glow of the fire, her palms cold against stone. A shiver in the rock grew to a trembling, then a quaking, a wave of rumbling crashing through her. She wanted to use her gift to hear what the Baukan was saying, if indeed the shaking of the rock carried words as it had before, but s
he knew she didn’t have strength left for that.

  The flames died, swamping her in darkness, and the rock stilled. She shielded her stinging eyes from the wind which swirled with smoke and ash.

  “I failed,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She shivered, weeping as she knelt on the rock until she summoned the strength to get up. The road felt like a mountainside as she trudged back home empty, defeated, burnt out like ash in the wind. She knew it was irrational, but it seemed to her that this defeat meant more than just the continued suffering of the Baukan. It felt like an ill omen for all the healers, charm makers and gifted ones whose freedom was under threat.

  Hopelessness rolled over her like a storm cloud and it was temptingly easy to give in to it but she made herself hold her head high. No, she told herself, I won’t give up just yet. She’d been close to freeing the Baukan, she was sure of it, and it was because of her Fire magic. If anyone could do it, surely it was her. There must be a way.

  Turning onto Curing Street and nearing the house, she froze. An indistinct whisper reached her ears, followed by a low murmur. She pressed herself against a wall, hoping that she hadn’t been seen. Squinting, she could make out two people. She crept closer.

  She recognised her father’s profile in the moonlight. He put a hand on the other person’s arm. Though she couldn’t hear the words that were spoken, Kaetha made out the feminine tones of his companion’s voice. At first, she thought the woman must be Mairi but her hooded head barely reached Aedan’s shoulder. Mairi was taller. Something white caught the light. The woman put a letter or a package into Aedan’s hands before disappearing into the darkness.

  FIFTEEN

  The Merry Dancers