Before long, the sea comes into view. At first it is just an odd glimpse behind the flowing hills, and then it spreads majestically into its full glimmering expanse. Duilleag gallops straight for it, toward a mass of hazy dots that reveal themselves to be the whole herd of Highland cows and bulls, grazing on the luscious green near the cliff edge. Once we’re close, Duilleag slows a little and weaves in between the other animals. Some lift their heads and huff a greeting at us as we pass; others barely turn their sleepy eyes.
Duilleag comes to a halt at the top of the cliff, and Mór and I dismount. I peer over the edge, where the land plummets into the sea. A strong smell of salt and burning wood drifts up from below. I’m guessing the Bó Riders’ cavern must be beneath us somewhere, but the way the edge veers sharply inward makes it impossible to see. The wind tugs at me in a frenzy, desperate to pull me off balance.
“I wouldn’t stand that close if I were you,” says Mór. “Come on, this way.”
I allow the wind to pummel me for a few more moments, as if taunting it, challenging it to push me over. Eventually, I force myself to turn away from the edge and follow Mór.
We make our way down — Mór hopping from rock to rock with ease, me slipping and grazing myself at least twice — until we arrive on a sandy beach. The sea laps at it with languid strokes, and the sand is soft beneath my bandaged feet.
“The best thing about sand?” says Mór, pointing at the footprints we’re creating. “There’s no way the imitators can cross it without us noticing.”
We approach two Bó Riders standing side by side, presumably doing just that: watching for errant footprints.
“You remember Jaime?” Mór says to them as we pass.
They hold up their hands in respect, and I give them a sheepish wave.
We follow the curve of the shoreline for a short while, and then the Bó Riders’ new home opens up before us. The cavern is enormous, much bigger than I’d imagined it to be from above. Even though the location is completely different from their last camp, their new home feels reassuringly familiar; their animal-skin tents have been erected in two neat semicircles, with communal fires in front of each. An ethereal light streaks in from the sea, making the tents glow with a soft golden hue.
Inside, the cavern is a hive of activity, with people cooking, cleaning, fixing things, chatting. Adults laugh while children play around them. Some of the Bó Riders I recognize, others I don’t. The ones who see me hold up their hands, coupled with curious smiles.
“Well, look who it is!” Finn — the young healer who helped Agatha recover after the wildwolf attack — jogs toward us. “What are you doing here?” Before I know it, he has the back of my head in his hand and pulls my forehead into his. We breathe together, in and out, and then he lets go.
I start to explain but am interrupted by Murdina and Hendry. They’re the Bó Riders’ leaders, I think, although they don’t seem to have leaders in the same way we do.
“You’re back,” Murdina says to Mór. “We were worried.” They touch their foreheads together in the same way Finn did to me.
“I got held up,” says Mór, glancing in my direction, “but I’m fine.”
“Well, this is a surprise,” says Hendry.
“Nice to see you again, Jaime-Iasgair,” says Murdina. “Although we didn’t think it would happen so soon.”
“Is Agatha not with you?” Hendry asks. “I trust she’s well?”
I give them a brief account of everything that’s happened and why I’m here, all the while scanning the faces around me for any sign of Cray.
“My goodness,” says Hendry once I’ve finished speaking.
“Is Cray here?” I ask. “I need the diary I gave him in Dunnottar. The one that belonged to the Badhbh.”
Murdina shakes her head. “He didn’t come back last night either. Still out looking for imitators, I presume.”
My heart drops. “Oh,” I say.
“I can fetch you the diary, though,” says Mór. “If he still has it, it’ll be with his things in his tent. This way.”
She leads me deeper into the cavern. Its sides have been lined with crisscrossed spears that jut out at awkward angles, preventing anyone from entering by any route other than the beach. Between what nature’s offered them and what they’ve done to it since, the cavern is the perfect location to hide away from potential enemies.
“Are you worried about Cray?” I ask Mór, realizing as I say it that I’m worried about Cray. We sidestep a small group of children throwing pebbles at a piece of broken spear that’s been fashioned into a target.
“He’ll be fine,” Mór replies.
“Is it normal for him not to come back at night?”
“No, but it’s not normal for me either, and I stayed out last night as well. Sometimes unexpected things happen.” She pokes me on the top of my arm. “He’ll be back soon. For food, as much as anything else. That boy loves to eat.”
It becomes darker and colder toward the rear of the cavern. Strange rock fingers drip down from its roof, which shine with dampness. The occasional drip echoes loudly against the hard ground.
Mór stops outside one of the tents and flips open the entrance. Inside there are six sets of blankets arranged in a neat circle, marking the individual areas of the six people who must sleep in here.
“This is Cray’s,” says Mór, pointing to a pile on the far side. She starts rummaging through the blankets and discovers a leather pouch buried within their folds.
“Are you sure he won’t mind us touching his things?” I ask.
“Oh, he’ll definitely mind, but he’s not here to stop us, so . . .” She delves into the pouch and pulls out a handful of stuff, including — to my surprise — a candle from Dunnottar Castle, crudely cut into the shape of a heron. I carved it on our final night there but didn’t realize he’d seen me do it, or that he’d decided to keep it. Seeing it now, among his other possessions, gives me a strange stab of happiness. Mór slings it onto the blankets and reaches back into the pouch for a second handful.
“Buinnig!” she says, pulling out a collection of papers bound together by a slim green cover. “I knew he would’ve kept it. Read it in here if you want. I’ll bring some food and find you some boots; as good as my feet-wrapping skills are, you’ll probably be better off with something a little more robust.”
“That’d be great,” I say as she slips out of the tent.
I sit on top of Cray’s blankets and open the Badhbh’s diary. I’ve already read it multiple times, but right now I’m looking for something new, some clue as to his current whereabouts.
By the time Mór returns, I’ve read it from cover to cover and am still no wiser as to where I might find the Badhbh. The vast majority of it is about his experimentations with King Balfour, the former Scotian king, describing all their failed attempts at creating sgàilean. It’s only right at the end that he mentions the plague that swept across the country and killed everyone in the castle. Everyone except him and the princess, Nathara. He writes that he’s going west, to the coast, as far away from the sgàilean as he can reach, presumably because he knew if Nathara was to die, the sgàilean would turn on him, just like they turned on us. None of this is helpful to me, though. It’s not as if I can just scour the whole west coast looking for signs of him; the coastline of Scotia is so jagged that it’d take months to search it all.
“Anything?” asks Mór. She hands me a bowl of something warm and plonks a worn pair of boots near my feet.
“No,” I say. I sling the diary to one side and start slurping down the stew. It’s nutty and a little sweet, with big chunks of sinewy vegetable.
“Slow down; you’ll make yourself sick. And if you’re sick on Cray’s blankets, he’ll never forgive you.”
I rest the bowl between my legs and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Also, I don’t believe you’ve thanked me for finding the diary for you yet,” Mór says.
“Thank you,” I say, but my
mind is elsewhere. The Badhbh’s book is lying askew where I tossed it, with its final page open. There’s nothing on the page itself, but across the green of the inside back cover there’s a line of ink. I’ve seen it before and always assumed it was a spillage of some sort, but looking at it now I’m beginning to wonder if it might be something else.
“What do you see here?” I ask Mór, holding up the cover to show her.
“A line of ink . . .”
“But look at the shape of it — does it look like anything to you?”
“Not really. Maybe a crack or a piece of hair?”
“I was thinking more that it might be a line from a map, like part of the Scotian coast.”
“I wouldn’t know. We don’t make maps, so I’ve never seen one. Hendry’s good with landscapes, though, so you could ask him.”
I don’t waste any time. We find Hendry sitting on a flat rock near the entrance to the cavern, sewing two pieces of animal skin together into some sort of over-garment. He balances the clothing on his large belly and hums to himself as he works. When I show him the mark in the Badhbh’s diary, he nods a couple of times before agreeing that it could well depict a coastline. He takes the book from me and turns it first one way and then the other.
“It’s quite a distinctive shape. . . .” he says. “My best guess would be that it’s the Famhair peninsula, a little north of here. Yes, looking at it again, I’m almost certain of it.”
“Good. Great. Then I have to go there. How do I get there?”
“On foot? It’s a hard day’s walk, possibly two. If you could convince someone to take you by bull, however . . .” He tilts his head to look at Mór, and I do the same.
“What, am I a free ride all of a sudden?” asks Mór.
“I don’t have anything to offer you in return . . .” I say, my face expressing both awkwardness and remorse in what I’m sure is an unattractive combination.
“It’s fine; you can entertain me with your witty company,” she says, giving me a wry smile. “Once a friend of the Bó Riders, always a friend of the Bó Riders. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
I’m still holdin the metal file in my sweaty hams. I haven’t let go of it since Lady Beatrice sneaked it to me. It takes hek slogs for Konge Grímr to finish his chewin and get into bed. Even then, I gotta wait until he’s sunk deep before startin.
Soon as his snores are rattlin the bed frame, I put the file to the chain and start grindin it back and forth. My workin’s makin the chain rattle, and its clinkin sounds awful loud all of a sudden. Jarg! There’s no way Konge Grímr’s not gunna hear that. I move the wrist what’s got the chain on it between my legs, hopin my trousers will stop the sound some. It’s better, but still louder than I want. I go slow and hard, keepin as quiet as I can. It’s not easy, and before long I’m sweatin seas. It’s workin, though. Little by little, it’s cuttin through the chain.
I don’t know how long I do it for. A hek long time. I’m speedin up now cuz I’m nearly done. It’s gettin louder, but I don’t care, I’m nearly through and —
“What?” ses Konge Grímr.
I stay still, not darin to breathe. My heart is speedin so fast I swear it’s gunna leap straight outta my mouth. Konge Grímr doesn’t say nothin else. How much did he hear? Keepin my back to him, I turn my head, slow as I can. He’s on his back, breathin deep. Asleep. He musta spoken in his sleep is all. A thousand horns to Øden, that was lucky. I gotta be more careful. I start my filin again, bein more careful of keepin quiet this time. Just a little more, a little more, a little more, and then —
The clank of the chain breakin is almost silent. The links slip away and I’ve done it; I’m not attached to him no more. There’s still the part of the chain what’s around my wrist, but that don’t bother me none.
I stand up, keepin hold of the file. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s better than nothin. I can’t believe I’m free. On my way to the door I pass the remains of Konge Grímr’s food. It sure don’t matter if he notices I ate some now. I grab a hamful of meat and shove it in my mouth. It’s so rich my taste buds are poppin. I take another fat wodge and bury it in my pocket for later. My breathin is snortin loud outta my nose cuz my mouth’s so full of chewin. Slow down, I tell myself. Quiet, quiet, quiet.
I step over to the door. The bolt what keeps it locked is stiff as bones. It clunks open. I look back at the sleepin skapfiend one last time. He’s gunna be hek fiery when he wakes up and finds me gone. If I get caught, it’s the end of me — I’m straightaways dead and no mistakin. Well, there isn’t nothin I can do about that. I made my decision the moment I started filin. I sneak out, closin the door behind me.
Now I’m outta the room, I’m thinkin breakin free was the easy part. Where the cowcrap do I go now? It’s dark in the palace hallway — darker than inside the room was — and quiet. I can’t hear no wind or nothin. I turn left and creep down the hall, down some steps, then down some more. If I’m gunna get out, I gotta get to the ground level first, so down is as good a way to go as any. Couple of times I hear people talkin or walkin, so not evryone’s sleepin. I’m careful not to get too close to none of them. I’m sneakin around, hidin behind corners, scamperin this way and that. Lost, basically, but tryin not to think that word. Then I turn a corner and recognize where I am. I’m by the long room where we ate. Well, I didn’t do no eatin — the room where evryone else stuffed their faceholes. The memory of food makes my hand reach for the pocket where I stashed the extra hamful of chew, but I stop myself. I’ll need it more later.
I know where I’m goin from here, down one more hall, right and right again and then —
I stop quickspit. I’m on the edge of the first room now, the big entrance with the soft floor and the door leadin outside. Only trouble is, there’s two guards standin by the door, one on each side, and another two guards on the other side of the room. There isn’t no way I’m gettin past them. I need a new plan.
“Trying to escape, I presume?”
A hand on my shoulder.
I spin, holdin the file out in fronta me, my teeth gnashin.
“You won’t be needing that,” Lady Beatrice ses, noddin at the file. She’s in the same stupid clothes she was wearin when she came into Konge Grímr’s room earlier, like she’s not gone to bed yet, even though it’s hek near the middle of the night. We stand there gawpin at each other. I’m breathin fast; she’s breathin normal.
“Follow me,” she ses. She’s speakin in the foreign tongue, but I don’t have no problems understandin.
I’m thinkin since she’s the one what helped me break free, it can’t be too foolin to follow her now. She walks, not fast, not slow. She doesn’t look back to check I’m comin. We go down some narrow steps what curve as they go down. It’s hek grimy here, not like the rest of the palace, and hek dark too. The air dust clings to the inside of my throat. I swallow a cough before it can come out. At the bottom of the steps there’s a door. Lady Beatrice pulls out a key from inside her clothes.
“Why you help?” I ask her. It’s the first time I’ve tried speakin the foreign tongue since arrivin in Ingland and it doesn’t come out good, but Lady Beatrice gets my meanin.
“Because no one deserves to be chained to a man, nor treated the way that man treats you,” she says. She fiddles with the key in her hands. “Have you noticed how few women there are in this castle? They have no place here except as the lowest servants. It makes me sick to see it, every day. And I’m the one who’s supposed to inspire their obedience — ‘Her Royal Modesty’ they call me. . . . Pah! You are part of my rebellion, one of the few small changes I am able to make.” She puts the key in the lock but doesn’t turn it. We both stand there starin at it. “What’s your name?” she asks me.
“Sigrid,” I say. No one’s cared what my name is in a long time.
“Well, Sigrid, I have one more thing to ask you. . . . A request. It will not be easy, so you don’t have to agree, but hear me out. I’d like you to go north, to the Isle o
f Skye.”
What’s she want me to go there for? That’s hek trompin; I saw how far it was on King Edmund’s map.
“Why?” I ask.
“To warn the people there of the invasion the kings are planning.”
But that doesn’t make no sense. “You Inglish,” I say. “You King Edmund wife.”
“Yes, and you’ve spent the last few days in his company, so you know exactly what he’s like. He’s constantly making destructive choices, and I see it as my duty to amend as many of them as possible. It’s the only way I can tolerate being here, in this palace, by his side. I try to make a difference. You can make a difference too.”
“Why me?” I ask. She doesn’t hardly know me. Hasn’t she got some other person she can send, someone who knows this skittin country a hek lot better than I do?
“I’ve been watching you. You’re strong and resourceful and you have a kind heart. If I were to send one of my own people, King Edmund would be suspicious; greater people than I have been executed for less. . . . But you . . . No one would imagine it was me who set you free, nor that Skye is where you would choose to go. Please. There are children on Skye. I can’t bear to think of it. If someone were to warn them — if you were to warn them — they would at least have a chance.”
What am I sposed to say to that? What she says about the kidlins is true enough. It’s one thing killin grown-up people, but killin children is stale as rot. But can I really make it all the way to Skye on my own?
Lady Beatrice is watchin my thinkin, sunken hope burstin outta her eyes. Then she ses to me, “Everyone deserves the chance to live a life of safety and happiness.”
I’m gawpin at that, cuz it sounds a hek lot like somethin Mal-Rakki would say. It makes me think of Granpa Halvor, since he’s the one always talkin on about Mal-Rakki and how great he is. My hand hovers over my pocket, the one what’s still got the plum stone in it. If I go, I don’t have no clue when I’ll see Granpa Halvor again — if I’ll ever see him again. But what else am I gunna do? I haven’t got no boat, so it’s not lookin like I’m goin home anytime soon. I owe Lady Beatrice and all, since she was the one what freed me from Konge Grímr. Praps if I warn the Skye people, they’ll help me get back to Norveg. They know where it is, after all. Warnin them is the right thing to do; it’s what Granpa Halvor would want me to do.
The Broken Raven Page 14