by Ken Hood
Rory nodded. "Ah!"
Toby said, "Oreste?"
"We are worried about Baron Oreste." We meant all the rebels, presumably. "He is one of Nevil's closest cronies and a notorious hexer, a most evil man. He arrived in Scotland a couple of weeks ago and is still lurking around Edinburgh, as far as we know. We have been wondering what could be so important as to require his attention here."
"Could he be hunting for King Fergan, sir?" Hamish said, looking as worried as if the Oreste problem were all his fault.
"We thought that," Father Lachlan murmured. "Now the timing suggests he may have come in search of the lady. As to what happened... apparently she tried some sort of conjuration involving Master Strangerson, but I don't know what. It seems to have failed, or produced unexpected results—that's my guess. She may pursue him, and it is up to all of us to keep him out of her clutches. I do not believe he is possessed—if he were, you would be dead by now."
"I would, certainly," Rory said cheerfully, rubbing his chest. "I baited him a little this morning. He displayed remarkable self-control for one of such tender years—almost bovine."
That was what Rory had been up to—testing.
Hamish gulped. "Oh! You thought he might... Wasn't that rash of you, sir?"
The rebel shrugged. "As a mortal, he presented an interesting challenge. As a demon... Well, my father is always telling me I am destined to be roasted with hellfire or ripped to pieces. I thought I could find out if he was correct."
Father Lachlan frowned disapprovingly. "You don't know what fear is, do you?"
Rory looked modest. Toby gritted his teeth and wished he could teach him.
"So how did our oversized friend escape from the castle, Father?"
"You must ask him. Anything he told me was in confidence."
Toby had been watching Meg's horrified eyes growing wider and wider. "Tell them, Father—I don't care. If I am a danger to them, they should be aware of it. They know about the Sassenachs, they should hear of Lady Valda, too. Won't her powers enable her to track me down?"
"Powers?" the acolyte said disapprovingly. "I told you. She has no powers, my son, only evil skills that enable her to command demons. She herself has only knowledge—evil knowledge, and evil designs." The little man began to move away. "Pray that one day one of her demonic minions will turn on her."
Toby raised his voice. "Can her demons track me down for her, then?"
Father Lachlan stopped and looked around and adjusted his eyeglasses. "Well, yes. Of course they can. From what you told me, two of them are probably in poor condition at the moment, but one would be enough."
With a macabre chuckle, Rory slapped Toby on the back. "If they get within range, Longdirk, they'll nail your feet to the rocks. We must move."
"What is their range?"
"Good question! Father?"
"Impossible to say, my son. Some demons are more powerful than others, or more biddable, perhaps—it depends on their training. A bottled demon... Well, I am sure that Baron Oreste in Edinburgh can communicate with King Nevil in London, if that is where he is. Demons incarnate, as Lady Valda's are presently, are much more restricted—but I don't think we should let them get any closer than we have to."
CHAPTER FOUR
Rory called a halt for lunch in the lee of a dry-stone dike. If those were dry stones, Hamish remarked, then he had forgotten what the word meant. The five fugitives hunkered down to pool their remaining supplies. There were no trees to provide better shelter from the downpour, but why not a haystack or a cattle barn? Rory insisted on the wall. He wanted to keep an eye on the road.
He seemed oddly concerned about crossing the road. Some of the locals, he admitted, were unreliable, and Sassenach patrols had been sighted. The road itself, running from Glen Lochy to Dalmally, barely deserved to be called a track. It wandered from house to house, fording burns, detouring around bogs and peat cuts, frequently offering the traveler a choice of several ways, none of them appealing. Strath of Orchy was wide, flat, and marshy, but it was inhabited. No one could cross it by day unobserved.
"The rain helps, though, doesn't it?" Hamish demanded, wolfing the last of Annie Bridge's blood sausage—he had freely handed out his mother's stale baps in exchange. Rain was marching gray armies along the glen, ghostly giants.
"It helps blind the Sassenachs. I doubt it will stop demons."
Hamish gulped on a mouthful.
"So what are you planning, Master MacDonald?" Meg asked attentively.
"I've got patrols of my own out." He did not elaborate.
Just who was Rory MacDonald of Glencoe? Father Lachlan knew him by some other name, and although the younger man treated the older with diffidence, there was no question that the younger was the leader. The cottagers had doffed their bonnets to him, and Highlanders did that for few men.
What motivated these two? Meg and Hamish were here by necessity, but Rory and Father Lachlan would be far better off indoors, sharpening swords by the fireside, than struggling through storm-racked hills for no evident advantage. It was Strangerson whom Valda pursued, so why not just give the young bastard a head start and let him lead the hexer into someone else's shire?
The road—or the nearest branch of it—was only a few hundred paces away, and no one had come along it in the last quarter hour. Beyond it flowed the Lochy, which they would have to ford.
"That's where we're going, isn't it?" Hamish asked, peering into the murk. "That gap? The valley of the Eas a Ghail?"
"And the magnificent mountain to the left of it is Ben Lui," Meg snapped. "You can't see that, either."
"I can see the bottom of it. Going to be steep going, sir?" As Eas a Ghail meant "White Waterfall," he was making a reasonable assumption.
"Steep enough," Rory said. "Ah!"
Three men were approaching from the east, leading a pony loaded with broom, winter fuel. A few minutes later, two others came into sight from the west, with another pony similarly laden. The two groups paused for a brief word, almost opposite the watchers. Then they continued on their respective ways—having unobtrusively exchanged ponies.
"That's it!" Rory said with obvious satisfaction. "The all-clear signal. No patrols. Let's go."
Leaving only some crushed grass and not a single crust to mark where they had been, the travelers scrambled over the dike and hurried toward the road. The men with the ponies never looked around.
Toby found Hamish at his side.
"You don't mind if I use you as a windbreak?" His plaid was already sodden. His lips were blue, his fingers bone-white, but he was grinning happily. He was an outlaw and wore a black feather. Incredibly, the kid was actually enjoying himself!
"Be my guest." Toby suspected that the rain was starting to show signs of whiteness. "When we get higher, we're going to be in snow, and then we'll leave a trail."
"I d-d-don't think demons need snow to t-t-track people."
"Perhaps not."
After a moment, Hamish said, "Who do you think Rory really is?" He was shouting over the wind, but his manner implied that he was whispering. His dark eyes gleamed conspiratorially.
"I have no idea."
"He speaks the Gaelic like a Sassenach."
"Yes he does."
"You think he might have lived in England when he was a kid? Prince Fergan was a hostage in England during the Taming, after the Battle of Leethoul."
Toby shrugged, feeling the wet plaid rubbing his skin under the weight of his sword. "You think Rory is King Fergan?"
"No," Hamish said reluctantly, obviously wishing that he did. "He's too young. A lot of chiefs' sons were taken, too. He may be a chief's son, or even... No, he mentioned his father, so he's not a chief yet. He may be a chief's son!"
"What if he is?" He probably was.
Hamish stumbled along in silence for a while. They crossed the muddy trail, then waded across the foamy brown Lochy, following Rory and Father Lachlan and Meg, who was chattering as if they were all old friends.
&
nbsp; "Toby... do you like Meg?"
Toby looked down coldly—which was not difficult under the circumstances. "She's a nice kid."
The boy grinned impishly. "She's madly in love with you!"
"No, she's... Well, she may think she is, but she's not old enough to be really in love."
"She's older than I am!" Hamish said indignantly. "Girls grow up faster than boys do, and she's only a few months younger than you are."
"She is? But..." Toby thought for a moment and then said, "Oh." School memories were no help, because boys were taught in the morning and girls in the afternoon. Meg had been around for as far back as he could remember. She might not be much younger than he was, after all.
Maybe that did make a difference.
Hamish grinned triumphantly. "She's in love with you!"
"How do you know?"
"Everyone knows. The other girls all tease her about it, because she's so little and you're so big."
Did that explain some of her brother's enmity? "I'm also an outlaw, and I'm probably bewitched. She ought to find a better prospect."
"Tell her that!"
"You tell her, if you think it's any of your business."
Hamish shot Toby a wary look. "Father Lachlan's a Galilean, did you know? He was telling me some of their teachings and he says they don't contradict what Pa taught in school, which is mostly Stoic, because there's more Stoics in Scotland than any others—Pa uses some of their tracts—but I know the Socratics have a chapter in Glasgow, and of course the Tartars favor the Arabic..."
Toby listened to the prattle with less than half an ear and mulled over the implications of what he had been told about Meg. The idea was oddly worrying. He liked little Meg. He did not want to hurt her feelings, and he had probably done so already. A man could tell a woman that he loved her and risk being rejected—that was part of the burden of being male. A woman must be more careful, lest she seem brazen. If she dropped a few hints and the man was too stupid to notice, what more could she do? That must make things very difficult for her. He had never really thought of that before.
He certainly couldn't start falling in love now—not with Meg, not with anyone. Until he had been purged of his demon, or hex, or whatever Valda had done to him, he was not fit for human society. And even after that, he would still be an outlaw, and a homeless wanderer with no trade, no money, no prospects. Love would have to wait a long time.
Besides, he had promised Kenneth Tanner that he would treat Meg as a sister.
"Down!" Rory shouted. "Down, you big oaf!"
Hamish grabbed Toby's plaid and tugged. Hamish was already down—they all were. He had been daydreaming. He dropped to the wet moss.
They had come about half a mile from the road. A band of riders had emerged from the mist, heading east, coming fast.
"Toby!" Hamish squealed. "It's them! It's Valda!"
They were too far off to be certain, of course, but horses like those were rare. It was not a military patrol, certainly. Six... the lady, her maid, four demons...? If Valda had used Toby's dreams to locate him, then she would have had no need to detour around by Bridge of Orchy. She could cut him off by taking the Glen Lochy road.
Then what? What could demons do? Could they smell his tracks like bloodhounds? With sick apprehension he watched the sinister cavalcade draw near the point where he had crossed, expecting any minute to see the horses reined in, the hunt turn south in pursuit.
It seemed unfair that demons could travel the world while benevolent spirits like tutelaries remained in one place. Why should forces of evil have such an advantage over the good?
But the riders kept going, onward to the west, and in a few more minutes the rain hid them from sight. Hamish released a loud gasp of relief, speaking for all of them. He scrambled to his knees.
"What happens when she gets to Pass of Brander and finds out Toby can't have gone that way? She'll turn back!"
"Come on!" Rory shouted, jumping up. "We're easy meat on the flats. Let's get into the hills."
CHAPTER FIVE
The land steepened into pasture, then bare hillside. A faint trail climbed the valley of the chattering, frothing Eas a Ghail. Toby discovered that he was alone with Meg for the first time. He wasn't sure if she had arranged this, or he had. It didn't matter. Hamish had gone scurrying on ahead. Father Lachlan and Rory were deep in conversation at the rear.
Her cheeks were bright red; her braids dangled from under a brown bonnet. She looked up expectantly, blinking as the rain blew into her eyes. He smiled. She smiled back—so if she blamed him for her present troubles, she was not going to say so.
Smiling was fine. Talk... he felt totally tongue-tied. Meg had never affected him like that before. He could recall the nights she had turned up at the castle and he had walked her home... he could remember himself chattering like a flock of magpies—like Hamish, even—but now he had no idea what about.
"Er... Um... How're you managing?"
"Fine."
"Cold?"
"Yes."
Oh.
Pause.
"Meg... I'm sorry. I mean, I'm sorry to have dragged you into all this danger."
Her slender eyebrows almost disappeared into her cap. "It wasn't your fault, Master Strangerson. It was my fault for being so stupid, remember?"
"I'm sorry about that."
"You're sorry I was stupid?"
"No! I'm sorry I said that."
"But if a person is stupid, it must be a kindness to tell her so, so that she won't be stupid in future."
Why was talking with women so much harder than talking with men? Why did words seem to change their meanings and simple sentences turn around to bite the tongue that spoke them? Why did humor always become insult and criticism poison?
"You weren't stupid. I was stupid to say you were stupid."
"Then you didn't mean what you said when you said I will soon be a woman and men will start to lust after me?"
Demons! "Did I say that?"
"Indeed you did, sir."
"Then I was wrong."
"Oh?" Danger crackled somewhere in that monosyllable. Bonfires blazing on the mountain...
"I mean, men lust after you already."
"Such as who?"
"Any man!" Toby dearly wished Lady Valda and her demons would descend on him immediately and carry him off. Since that did not happen and he was already in over his head, he snapped, "Me, for instance."
Meg's eyes opened wider than normal. "Truly?" Then she tossed her head so that her braids danced. "I mean... Toby Strangerson, that's a terrible thing to say! How dare you say such a thing! What does she look like?"
"Who?"
"Lady Valda. Describe her!"
What had Toby Strangerson ever done to deserve this? He described Lady Valda. Having totally taken leave of his senses, he went on to relate how she had bared her breast in the dungeon. Then the wind felt icy on his heated face, but it was warm compared with Meg Campbell's expression.
"And you dream of her now, I understand?"
Oh, demons! "Never mind about that!" he said hastily.
Fortunately, they had caught up with Hamish, who had reached a fork in the river and was sheltering against a boulder, waiting for directions. Toby had never been more pleased to see anyone.
He grinned at them with chattering teeth. "Having fun?"
"Fun?" Meg said. "Hamish Campbell, you haven't got the brains of a peewit! Freezing in a storm on a mountain, being hunted by Sassenach soldiers and Sassenach demons, and why would you think we're having fun?"
"Why else would you be holding hands? Helping Big Toby up the hill?"
Meg snapped that she would clip his ear. Toby wondered how long he'd been holding her hand and why he hadn't been aware that he was. He realized, too, that Meg regarded Hamish as he did—as just a kid. That meant she was more than a kid, didn't it? How long had he been holding her hand? Helping her up a steep bit, then not letting go... Had he ever held her hand walking home from Lochy
Castle? If this was the first time, why hadn't he been more aware of it? Because he had always thought of her as a child?
"Right fork," Rory said, coming up behind. "I do wish you'd tell me what you're going to do with that sword, boy. How are you faring, Miss Campbell? I wish we did not have to subject a lady to such uncongenial circumstance."
Meg simpered, but she had not released Toby's hand. "Oh, I fare well, thank you, sir! Are we not like the mother plover, who feigns a broken wing and so leads the foe away from her nestlings? We have drawn the hexer away from Fillan!"
"So you have! A very poetic allusion!"
"The plover runs toward danger, not away from it!" Toby said.
Meg looked up at him with disgust.
Rory laughed.
The track soon disappeared altogether. The entire world disappeared behind walls of sleet and draperies of rain. Reality was reduced to rocks, grass, patches of heather, fading swiftly to gray in all directions. It moved underfoot, but never arrived anywhere or changed significantly. The journey had become an endurance test. The only hints of excitement came from the little stream, whose peaty brown waters already frothed at the lip of the banks. The wind buffeted, snatching away breath, trying to freeze any flesh it could reach, turning even raindrops into needles. Rory decreed the way with undiminished confidence, although Toby was hard put to believe he could possibly know where he was.
Hamish lost some of his enthusiasm, no longer questing ahead like a hound. He was the most agile, with Meg a close second, hampered by her long dress. Father Lachlan kept up a steady pace. Toby cursed his outrageous sword and himself for being such a fool. He could not admit defeat and discard it now, of course. A man had pride.
The way grew steeper. Snow swirled in the air now, starting to coat the ground. Only Rory had shoes. Toby had never worn such sissy things in his life, although he had kept a couple of leathers he would wrap around his feet when he attended to the chores in winter. In really bad weather he just stayed home. True Highlanders prided themselves on being hardy, but even true Highlanders had to make concessions to the rigors of their climate sometimes. With a regular job at the castle and his feet grown to full size—they couldn't be going to get any bigger!—he had been reconciling himself to acquiring a pair of shoes and probably a leather cape. He could use them now...