by Hazel Hunter
Ruadri had never wanted to use his moon power before that moment, but now he felt grateful that the druid had restrained him. “Why would you need a druid among the clan?”
“To prevent disaster,” Galan said flatly. “The elders knew that the Skaraven would be unrivaled warriors. ’Twas feared that someday they might defy their masters and turn on the innocent. If that happened, every tribe in the land would fall beneath their swords.”
That thought had never occurred to him, but then he didn’t have a spider’s web for a mind. “You’re mad. My brothers would never–”
“They arenae your brothers,” Galan said softly. “You are druid kind, Ruadri. You owe your loyalty to us. ’Tis now your sacred duty to stand watch over these killers. If the Skaraven choose to rebel, you shall inform us. If there isnae time, you shall stop them.”
Ruadri hated Galan’s callous scheme, and now knowing they were blood-kin made him feel sick. But as repulsive as the druid’s aims were, he knew better than Galan just how dangerous the Skaraven were. The clan could very well turn on the innocent, and there would be little the Pritani could do to stop them.
“I trust my clan,” he said finally. “They willnae betray the tribes.”
“I dinnae care what you think.” He drew a blade and held it under Ruadri’s chin. “Swear to me that you shall serve as Watcher, my son, or I’ll end you here and–”
“Then do it,” Ruadri said through his teeth. “You may be my sire, but I’m no’ a traitor.”
Galan leaned closer. “When you are dead, I shall go to the training camp and poison their food and water. No one will ken why they suffer, until ’tis too late to save them.”
It was almost worth it to die so that he might reincarnate and return to slit his sire’s throat. His life no longer mattered to him, not after learning he had been born to betray. Yet to know that his death would send his brothers to theirs would torment him for eternity.
“If I am granted one request, I shall be your Watcher.” He met his father’s gaze, and for the first time realized they had the same eyes. “Never do I want to lay eyes on you again.”
“So, we share my fondest wish since the moment of your birth.” Galan gave him a cold smile. “Agreed. Report every new moon to Bhaltair Flen.” He released the spell bindings and walked out of the grove.
In that, the druid had kept his word. After that night Ruadri had never again seen his sire.
The sound of ponies drew him back to the present, and he crushed the white heather in his fist as he saw the druids approaching. Standing and walking down to the village road gave him time to clear his thoughts, although when Bhaltair hailed him he felt the ink on his arms move.
Ruadri clenched his fists and drew in a deep breath before he greeted the old man as civilly as he could. “Fair day, Master Flen.”
“’Tis good to see you, Ruadri lad,” Bhaltair said. The old man waited for his young companion to dismount and accepted her help climbing down from his mount. “We’ve much to discuss. Forgive me, this is Oriana Embry, my new acolyte. My dear one, this is the Skaraven Shaman, Ruadri.”
The lass bobbed nervously. “’Tis a pleasure, Shaman.” She looked fearfully at the old druid. “Might I water the horses, Master?”
“Aye, do.” As she led them off, Bhaltair hobbled over to the rock, and sat down with a wince. “The journey has bedeviled my bad leg, but it cannae be helped. How fares the clan since your return to your stronghold?”
Ruadri tonelessly informed him of their restoration of Dun Mor, and Brennus’s rescue of Althea Jarden. “The chieftain plans to return to the famhairean’s encampment and free the other four females, if they still live. We are purchasing what we may, but we need a hundred battle-trained horses, food, tools, and more clothing enough for the clan.”
“Suggest to your chieftain that he call on Clan McAra in the midlands,” Bhaltair advised. “They breed the finest mounts in the highlands, and their tribe never paid the debt they owed the Skaraven. For the rest I’ve arranged caches to be left for you at these spots on your borders.” He took out a scroll and unrolled it to show him the marked areas. “Will your clan confront the famhairean?”
“We go to take back the females,” Ruadri said. “Naught more.” He took the scroll and tucked it under his chest strap.
“They havenae stopped killing. They murdered my oldest friend, Gwyn Embry,” Bhaltair said and nodded toward Oriana. “Her grandfather. Nor did he go quickly. They stole him from his settlement and tortured him for days.”
Ruadri frowned. “How did the granddaughter escape?”
“The tribe wasnae attacked, but they have taken refuge in the lowlands. Oriana came to me.” The old man went still. “By the Gods. They took Gwyn from his settlement but killed only him.”
“Every druid settlement the famhairean found they always destroyed, just after they slew the entire tribe. They didnae take your friend by chance. They wished to find you through him.” He nodded at the young druidess, who was leading the horses back to them. “Do you reckon they followed her?”
“No. She used the groves. Say naught of this.” Bhaltair mopped some sweat from his brow and forced a smile for Oriana. “My dear one, would you take our mounts across the road to that meadow there? We’ll let them graze a wee bit before we ride back.”
The young druidess gave Ruadri another timid look before she guided the ponies away.
Once the lass was out of earshot, Bhaltair said, “’Tis why they tormented poor Gwyn so long and brutally. To punish me.”
“They desire more than mere grief from you, Master Flen.” The shaman almost felt sorry for the old man. “’Twas your magic that defeated and imprisoned them. If your friend had told them how to find you, you and your people would be now dead. He suffered because he kept his silence. Unhappily, others maynae do the same.”
“I must go into hiding with my tribe,” the old druid said and peered around them. “’Tis but two leagues to the nearest grove. I shall take Oriana there so we may return to my settlement at once.” He paused before he said carefully, “Shaman, you ken that we shall never be safe again until the quislings and the giants are defeated. No mortal or druid shall.”
“Mayhap we should move the Dawn Fire to the Skaraven stronghold, Master.” Oriana stood not a yard away, her small hands folded in front of her. “They’re the mightiest of warriors, and can well protect us.”
Ruadri said “We cannae” at the same time Bhaltair said “No, lass.”
The druidess’s eyes gleamed with tears. “’Tis hopeless, then, for the famhairean will find the tribe, just as they did my grandfather. Master, please, can you no’ persuade the shaman to help us?”
“’Tis one place they can never enter,” Ruadri said, although his idea soured his belly and spread a bitter taste on his tongue. “My sire, Galan, once dwelled in the eastern woodlands. His tribe may yet still.”
“Aye, they do,” the old druid said. “What of it?”
“When Galan was teaching me to cast protective spells over land, he said that his tribe thwarted attack by warding the land from underground with spell stones. They left only one way to enter and leave the woodlands safely.”
Bhaltair thought for a moment. “I remember him teaching you. ’Twas a water trick, by walking in where no man would walk.”
“Through a crooked river to the west, where the white water begins. The rapids and waterfall there are but an illusion.” He pushed the memory of his sire out of his mind. “When you take your tribe in, they shall know you to be a friend of their blood-kin and give you sanctuary.”
“Oriana, fetch our mounts.” The old druid rose and swayed for a moment before he planted his cane. To Ruadri he said, “I’ll return here once I’ve settled my tribe and the lass with your sire’s kin. No, dinnae argue it. I’ve vowed to put things right with the Skaraven.” He sniffed. “I may be old, and hobbled, but I’m no’ ready for the well. Nor will I hide from the famhairean.”
Ruadri accompa
nied him to the pony, and tactfully helped Bhaltair mount. “Think on it again, Master Flen. I cannae promise my clan shall stay here. After we return Althea and the others to the future, the Skaraven may leave Caledonia forever.”
“’Tis called Scotland now, lad,” Bhaltair reminded him. “We’ll see what we see when we see it. Until then, keep watch, and meet me here in sevenday. We cannae wait for the next new moon.”
Chapter Eighteen
THE DAY AFTER the brawl Althea decided to avoid Brennus. Since he was seeing to the final preparations for the rescue mission, she wasn’t too worried about running into him. But after the temptations simmering silently between them had nearly erupted, she needed to stay occupied. She spent the day helping Kelturan pick through and sort the sacks of berries, roots and herbs brought in by the clan’s foragers.
“What are you going to do with all these green juniper berries?” she asked as she lugged another bucket to the kitchen’s enormous stone-slab work table. “You can’t eat them raw, unless you like horribly bitter fruit. Which, given your personality, would not surprise me.”
“I thought to add them to your morning fodder.” When she glared at him, he took a handful of the berries and pressed them between his palms. A sharp, resinous smell spilled into the air. “The green we crush and strew in the lower passages and chambers, to sweeten the air. Mayhap I should stuff your ticking with them.”
“Berry air freshener. Very clever. Don’t you touch my bed.” She nodded and then gestured toward the mature, purple variety. “What about those?”
“I crush and stuff them into boar before roasting, so they may flavor the meat.” His expression became almost dreamy. “’Tis naught better. Well, mayhap frog, but the hunters never catch enough for a meal. I’ll catch one for you to sample.”
“A frog snack. Yum.” She swallowed hard. “You know, I might be allergic. I’ll stick to boar.”
He made a rude sound. “You’ve never been starved. Frog looks grand to a lad’s shriveled belly.”
Her smile slipped a little, and she turned away to fetch another sack. The Skaraven might be huge, scary warriors, but they hadn’t been born that way. As boys they had been trained and treated like livestock instead of children, and now she was learning sometimes they endured even worse. Being forced to fight every day must have been awful, but why subject growing boys to deliberate starvation?
Althea knew she was over-reacting, and why. Until her parents had dumped her on her uncle, she’d been starved of a lot of things: love, nurturing, understanding, acceptance—and food.
“You’re a tetchy wench,” Kelturan said when she brought a bundle of sorrel to the table. “If I spoke out of turn, you might remember I’m a man and no’ freeborn.”
“No one is born to be a slave, Kel.” She dropped the sorrel and turned to him. “Actually I starved quite a bit when I was a little girl. Mostly because my mother forgot to feed me, but sometimes because my parents fighting scared me so much that I couldn’t swallow. Fortunately, I got away from them, and my uncle raised me on his farm. He loved me, at least until he died of an infection that ate him. Literally.” She swiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where all that came from.”
He gave her a long, silent look before he said, “Your heart. I think you starve it now.”
“That’s…probably true.” Feeling deeply shaken, Althea put on her brave face. “So, what do I do about it? Not that I’m going to eat a frog stuffed with anything, you understand.”
The cook tossed her one of the small, hard apples he kept hoarded away somewhere. “Forget your fear, my lady, and feast. And try frog. ’Tis much like rooster.”
Althea smiled and took a bite of the tart fruit before she went back to work.
When it came time to prepare the evening meal, Kelturan chased her out of the kitchen, claiming the other cooks would burn the food while gaping at her. Since he was probably right about that, Althea went out into the great hall to find something else to do. There she found Cadeyrn and a group of the clan’s carpenters putting the final touches on what looked like the world’s biggest picnic table.
“Wow.” She joined the War Master to survey the impressive project. Wide, fresh-sawn oak planks supported by rows of short tree stumps had been fitted together by wedge-shaped dovetailing at the ends. Whoever had finished the wood had rounded the straight edges and polished the top surface to smooth perfection. “This is really nice. What is it for?”
“Eating meals.” Cadeyrn gestured for the carpenters to carry over sections of shorter planked stumps, which they placed like benches on either side of the table. “’Twill seat the entire clan, although the patrols and sentries on duty cannae join us. What made you weep?”
She wiped a stray tear from her lashes. Even when he was busy, the War Master never missed anything. “Some bad old memories. Some really good advice. You know. Life.”
“Once Taran secures the mounts we need, we’ll have all we need to free the others.” Cadeyrn gave her a shrewd look. “Then you shall go home, my lady.”
That almost sounded like a question. “Yes, I will. I have to. I have my research, and well, my research.” She thought of the ferns she had been collecting, and all her hopes for finding new treatments for incurable infections. Since she’d come to the fourteenth century she hadn’t thought about it once. “I really loved my work.”
“’Tis a noble thing you do, finding herbs to make potions for the sick.” He glanced at her. “If ’tis what you still wish.”
She saw the chieftain come in the front entry with Taran, followed by a bunch of clansmen carrying big bundles. “Excuse me.”
Althea couldn’t leave the stronghold without an escort—Brennus’s orders—but she had complete access to the keepe and the lower levels. She slipped into the hall that led to the forge, where she had watched Kanyth hammering out new swords for the men. He was nowhere around, however, and after she admired the rows of shiny blades he’d made, she lit a torch and wandered to the back stairs. Holding the flame in front of her, she walked down until she reached the spring level.
Althea wasn’t sure why she went directly to the carved stone room, but the moment she stepped inside the scars on her back seemed to thrum. Carefully she tucked the torch in a bracket before she made her way through the slabs to the black crystal raven stone.
Dark, menacing and beautiful, Althea thought as she stood before the carved morion. Just like him.
“I’m not sure how this works, but here goes,” she said, and dropped down on one knee. “I’ve got a raven on my back. Not the one you put there, the other one. I know he’s the chieftain, and I’m just the annoying house guest. Seriously, I know we’ve both got jobs to do. Mine is waiting for me in the future. I don’t belong here, but he does. These men need him. This world needs him but…so do I.”
The room remained still and silent, but Althea’s back rippled with a sweeping warmth that made her sigh.
“Brennus and I…” She paused but then plunged on. “All we’ve got is right now. Maybe a couple more days.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to starve anymore. I want the feast. I can’t be his mate, or his wife, but for as long as we’re together I can be his. If that’s enough, if that’s what I should do, please let me know. Send me a raven.”
A sound echoed in the outer passage, making Althea jump to her feet. A long, wide shadow stretched into the chamber, and then Brennus appeared in the doorway.
“My lady.” He smiled a little. “Will you come and share the evening meal with us?”
And then she knew. “Sure. I’m starving.”
Up in the great hall the clan had gathered around Cadeyrn’s new table, which was covered with platters and bowls of food from Kelturan’s kitchen. Big oval trenchers made of dark bread served as plates, and while there were no utensils nearly every man in the clan had new daggers, which they used to pick up and slice the meat from the platters.
“Where is Kanyth?” Althea asked as the chieft
ain guided her to sit by him at the head of the table.
“I sent him to bed,” Brennus told her as he filled her goblet with an amber beverage. “He’s been awake for threeday working in the forge, and his hands need rest.”
Althea tried the drink, which was a very sweet fruit cider, and then tried to focus on the food the men passed around the table. Nothing interested her as much as the chieftain, however, so she nibbled and sipped while she watched him eat.
Brennus usually put away enough food to fill three other men, but he didn’t seem very interested in the roast boar, either. Instead he listened to the men talking about the lakes and rivers they’d been using to travel to distant towns and villages, and how building a new smokehouse would allow them to preserve the bountiful game the hunters had been bringing in every day.
Finally the meal came to an end, and like the rest of the clan Althea cleared her place and drained her goblet.
“I’ve something for you,” Brennus said, as he helped her to her feet. “Come and see.”
Althea’s heart hopped like a kangaroo in the bush as she walked with the chieftain to his chamber. She’d settled her own conflicting feelings and had gotten the all-clear from the raven spirit. Since Brennus had never been with a woman without being chained, he’d be nervous, maybe even frightened. No matter how excited she got she’d have to go slow and be gentle with him.
Inside the chamber Brennus added a split log to the fireplace and lit some candles Althea hadn’t before seen. The scent of warm honey and beeswax spread through the air, blending with the heat from the hearth. They must have come from the hive the hunters had found. The clan never wasted anything.
She, on the other hand, had wasted too much time.