by Katy Baker
Listen to ye, he thought. Carping on like some old woman! Ye chose exile, remember? And ye did it willingly. It’s nay good crying over what’s done. There’s nay going back.
Yesterday the merchant he’d worked for had packed up and moved south, eager to reach the lowlands before winter closed the passes, and so Camdan had taken his pay, collected his gear from the lodging house, and left. He’d spent last night camped in the woods alone. It was just as well. He’d tarried too long in Cannoch. He could feel his rage beginning to take hold, that simmering fury that could only be soothed by violence. He’d held it in check whilst in the village, succumbing only to a couple of tavern fights that were more bluster than anything serious, but now he could feel it starting to bite. It was one of the reasons he’d gone running this morning.
With a last look down at Cannoch, Camdan turned away, sprinted down the hill and into the untamed countryside to the north. An hour or so later he reached his camp. His horse, Firefly, was cropping grass nearby. War-trained and temperamental, the gelding was the only thing Cam kept from his former life. If anyone wondered why a simple mercenary rode a war horse fit for the nobility, they didn’t comment. Perhaps they assumed the horse was the spoils of war.
He whistled and Firefly came trotting over, sniffing his master’s hand and snorting in greeting.
“Did ye miss me, boy?” Cam asked, scratching the horse behind the ears. “Stand.”
The horse obeyed, waiting patiently whilst Cam examined his hooves, checking the shoes were still snugly fitted. He would not risk laming Firefly through carelessness. Cam’s father, Laird David MacAuley, had impressed the importance of looking after one’s mount onto all three of his sons. In battle a warrior’s mount could mean the difference between life and death. It was a lesson Cam had never forgotten.
Satisfied with his inspection, he gave Firefly a measure of oats from the saddlebag then seated himself on a log. The sweat on his body was starting to dry and the autumn air held a chill so he toweled himself dry and pulled on his spare shirt, tying the sash of his MacAuley plaid over his chest.
When this was done he ate a quick breakfast of dried meat and yesterday’s bread then packed away his camp and saddled Firefly. Taking the reins, he led the big horse across the clearing, heading north. It seemed as good a direction as any.
His thoughts were elsewhere, his mind preoccupied, so he jumped when a figure suddenly stepped out into the sunlit glade in front of him. Startled from his thoughts, Cam reacted instinctively. He drew his sword in one quick sweep. The blade glittered in the sunlight as the point came to rest against the throat of the newcomer. The sudden danger sent the rage coursing through his veins like molten metal. His arm quivered with the effort of restraining himself from driving his blade through the newcomer’s throat.
“Ye have nay need of that,” said a voice. “I am not yer enemy, nor have I come to cause ye harm.”
Only then did Cam realize that it wasn’t some bandit or footpad come to rob him that stood before him. It was an old woman. She was tiny, barely reaching Cam’s chest, and seemed old beyond years. Her weathered skin was creased like old parchment and dark eyes stared out at him, unflinching and unafraid.
Sudden shame washed through him. Was this what he’d become? The mighty Camdan MacAuley, greatest warrior of the MacAuley clan, reduced to threatening defenseless old women? He stepped back, sheathed his sword, then put his arm across his chest and gave the old woman a bow of which any courtier would have been proud.
“My...my... apologies,” he stammered. “I was startled. I meant no offense.”
“And none has been taken, my lad,” the old woman said, her joviality belying the fact she’d had a sword blade pressed against her throat only a moment before.
Camdan frowned. Why was an old woman roving the woods alone? Where were her kin?
“Are ye lost?” he asked carefully. “If ye wish, I will escort ye back to Cannoch. This isnae a place to be wandering alone.”
“Isnae it?” she asked. “Then why are ye out here?”
“I...I....I’m a traveler,” he replied, not liking the way her gaze bored into him.
“Oh? And where are ye traveling to, Camdan MacAuley?”
He took a step back, suddenly startled. “How do ye know who I am?”
She smiled. “Who else would ye be? Who else wanders the wilds wearing the MacAuley plaid? Who else but the cursed brother of Laird MacAuley?”
A shiver walked down Cam’s spine. “What are ye talking about, woman?” he snapped, his heart suddenly thumping. “I dinna know what ye speak of.”
The woman stepped so close she had to crane her head back to look up at him. She was a little over half his height and easily three times his age, but in that moment, her presence seemed to fill the clearing like a thundercloud. “I think ye do, my boy. I think ye know exactly of what I speak. So I ask again: where are ye going, Camdan MacAuley?”
Who was this stranger to question him so? Anger made his tone sharp. “Who are ye? What do ye want with me?”
“My name is Irene MacAskill ,” she replied. “And as for what I want with ye, only what ye want for yerself. Peace. For ye and for the balance. Ye have wandered far, far from the paths of yer destiny.”
“Destiny?” he said bitterly. “I once believed in such a thing. That was a long time ago and I’ve since learned the error of my ways. There isnae any such thing as destiny. There is only duty. And then death.”
Her gaze softened and something like sympathy crossed her face. “Oh, my boy. What has been done to ye?”
Her words stung him to anger. “I neither need nor want yer pity, woman! Now step aside!”
She seemed not in the least daunted by his tone. “It isnae pity I’ve come to offer ye, Camdan MacAuley, but redemption.”
Cam froze. Redemption? For him? After all he’d done? “What do ye mean?”
“Ye made a choice all those years ago, ye and yer brothers,” Irene said. “Ye believe that choice has condemned ye. But there are always other choices, other paths to tread. It isnae too late if ye have the courage to face yer past and change the course of yer future.”
“Bah! Ye speak in riddles, woman!” Cam growled. “I dinna have time for such nonsense.”
He grabbed Firefly’s reins and moved to walk past her but the old woman clasped his wrist with fingers as strong as tree roots.
“Yer choice is coming, Camdan. When it does ye will need all yer courage if ye are to do what needs to be done, if ye are to break yer curse and find a new path to walk, one that leads away from violence and loneliness and back into the light. It is a path that ye canna walk alone. Ye will need to open yer heart. Can ye do that, Camdan MacAuley?”
Cam opened his mouth for an angry retort but the words died in his throat. The expression on her face stilled him. There was a deep sorrow in her eyes, one that seemed to span the ages. His anger drained away.
“I canna,” he whispered at last. “I dinna know how.”
She let go of his wrist and nodded sadly. “Then ye must learn. If ye dinna then the future of yer clan is lost.”
With that she walked away. Cam watched her go, perplexed.
“Wait!” he called after a moment, hurrying after her. “Ye canna just go wandering the woods by yerself! I will take ye back to—”
His words stuttered to a halt as he realized the trail ahead was empty. Spinning around, he scanned the area but detected nothing except the quiet, sunlit woods. Kneeling, he searched the ground for footprints. The soft, damp earth should have shown signs of her passage but there were none.
Camdan straightened, a sudden foreboding tightening his stomach. No old woman could disappear so quickly. And how did she know who he was? How did she know of his bargain?
Fae, a voice whispered in his mind like a warning. He felt suddenly cold, despite the sunlight falling on his skin. He’d hoped the Fae were done with him. It seemed he was wrong.
Crossing to Firefly, he pulled his cloak from
the saddlebag, swung it around his shoulders, and then climbed into the saddle. He set his heels to the horse’s flanks and fled.
Chapter 3
The sat nav on Beth’s dashboard beeped, telling her to take the next left. She obeyed, passing a sign that read Welcome to Banchary in English, with the Gaelic equivalent scrawled underneath. It was a small village that boasted a pub and a post office and lay a few miles outside Edinburgh.
Following the directions on the flyer Irene MacAskill had given her, she drove through the village and pulled up at the Castle View Guesthouse, a large and pretty building that looked Georgian. Turning off the engine, she grabbed her bag and stepped out of the car.
The rain that had fallen incessantly during her drive from the city had finally cleared, leaving a sparkling, fresh afternoon. Beth looked around and sucked in a deep breath of the clean, still air. It settled into her lungs and as she breathed out some of her tension went with it. Yes, this had been a good idea. The stillness of the rural afternoon was a million miles away from the bustling busyness of Edinburgh. It was just what she needed.
Hefting her bag, she made her way into the reception area where she was met by a stout woman by the name of Veronica Hughes, the owner of the guesthouse. She smiled warmly at Beth.
“Ah! Our American guest! Very pleased to meet ye, my dear. I trust yer drive out from the capital wasnae too bad?”
“Not too bad,” Beth agreed. “It’s not far once you get clear of the city traffic. It was just a bit wet.”
Veronica snorted at that. “Aye, well ye get used to it. Still, I reckon we are in for a grand evening. Once the rain has blown through, it makes the hills and loch seem to sparkle in the sunshine. Now, let me show ye up to yer room.”
Beth followed the woman up a set of winding stairs to the first floor where she was escorted to a sumptuous room that was far too big for one person. The king-size bed alone was enough to drown her and on seeing it Beth suddenly wanted nothing more than a long soak in the bath and then to curl up on that bed with a good book.
Mrs Hughes busied herself about the room, straightening bed covers that didn’t need straightening and making sure the towels in the bathroom were arranged perfectly, chattering all the while about the sights Beth might want to visit whilst she was here.
Beth smiled at the woman’s friendly chatter. She wandered to the window and looked out. Her room was at the rear of the building and through the window she had an unspoilt view of the undulating landscape reaching all the way to the horizon. She drew a sharp breath. No wonder Irene had said this was a place to relax. Golden and red woodlands cloaked the hills and the twinkle of a loch glittered under the late afternoon sun. This place might be close to Edinburgh but it felt like another world.
Bringing her gaze closer to home, she spotted something in the field behind the guesthouse. The moss-covered ruins of a building rose out of the ground. She couldn’t tell what it had once been but half-tumbled walls and window casings over-grown with ivy poked from the ground like bones. Despite the afternoon sunlight, the structure remained dark and forbidding as though it resisted the sun’s attempt to illuminate it.
“I’ve left some extra soap in the dispenser and there are more blankets in the wardrobe if ye’d like them. Just ring down if ye need anything else,” Mrs Hughes said.
“Thanks.” Beth pointed at the ruins. “What is that place?”
“Ah, so ye’ve spotted our local attraction. It’s called Fingal’s castle and it’s where Castle View guesthouse gets its name. It isnae a castle really. Nobody really knows what it used to be although it’s very, very old. Legends around here say it was once a dwelling place of the Fae. The stories say never to visit on the dark of the moon or the solstices because that’s when the Fae gather there to dance. They dinna suffer mortals to see such things and will spirit ye away to their world.” She laughed. “Although I canna say we’ve lost too many tourists that way!” She patted Beth on the shoulder. “It’s just an old ruined croft but dinna tell my husband I said that. He reckons these old tales keep the tourists coming in.”
Beth smiled. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“I’ll leave ye to it then. Give me a shout if ye need anything.”
She left Beth alone in the room. Beth stared out of the window. Despite Mrs Hughes’ reassurances, the sight of the ruins made her vaguely uncomfortable. She couldn’t quite determine why.
It’s Irene MacAskill’s talk of destiny and Mrs Hughes going on about the Fae and all that crap, she told herself. It’s got me on edge. Those things are just stones, that’s all. And Irene MacAskill is just some crazy old woman. And maybe I’m a little crazy for taking her advice and coming here in the first place.
“I should have booked a spa weekend,” she muttered to herself. “What was I thinking?”
With a snort of exasperation, Beth turned away from the window, made her way down the stairs and out of the back of the building. The breeze plucked at her clothing, bringing with it the scent of earth and pine needles. Ahead stretched the guesthouse lawn and beyond this was a gate that let out into the field beyond. Beth let herself through the gate. The ruins of Fingal’s Castle lay directly ahead of her. From down here they seemed bigger, more imposing than they had from the bedroom window.
Just stones, she told herself. A bunch of moldy old ruins.
An information board had been placed a few meters away. On it were some artist’s renderings of dancing fairies and the story of Fingal’s Castle—the same story that Mrs Hughes had told her. It looked like something right out of a kid’s fairy tale. Yes, this place was definitely a tacky tourist trap.
She examined the ruins. The outer wall formed a broad rectangle with tumbled walls inside dividing the place into rooms. Snapping some images on her camera phone, Beth did a circuit of the site. This late in the afternoon the tourists had gone and she had the place to herself. In one corner of the site a staircase spiraled up against the wall, ending in mid-air with ivy hanging off the end. In another room she spied the remains of a fireplace big enough for her to stand in. Another room had a circular pit covered with an iron grate that she guessed was a well. The whole place was eerily silent. Even her boots made no noise on the flagstones.
She completed a circuit and returned to where she’d started. Shielding her eyes against the bright afternoon sunlight, she squinted and saw an old archway looming above her. This might once have been the main entrance to the building but no door remained and the walls to either side were half-collapsed, leaving only the archway which yawned like a black, hungry mouth. A sign read: Danger, keep out.
She raised her cell phone to snap a picture, but paused as something odd caught her eye. The dark space beneath the archway looked strangely shimmery and as she watched, images began to form in the air, fuzzy, as though she was looking through frosted glass.
“What the—?” Beth muttered, stepping closer.
The images coalesced until she saw a ring of standing stones on a lonely shoreline. Three men stood inside. They were speaking but Beth couldn’t hear the words. Two were dark-haired, the other strawberry blond. A small, wizened old man stood facing them. With a malicious grin, the old man stepped forward and suddenly the circle blazed with light, blinding her. It winked out and Beth saw another image. The blond man sitting alone by a campfire, surrounded by darkness. She couldn’t make out his face.
“I’m going crazy” she murmured. She reached out as though to touch the images. “I’m seeing things now.”
“Aye, lass,” said a voice suddenly. “Ye are seeing things as they were, as they are, and as they may yet be—if the balance isnae restored.”
Beth whirled to find Irene MacAskill standing behind her. The tiny woman wore a long coat that flapped in the breeze and wisps of gray hair had escaped her bun. She smiled warmly up at Beth.
“You!” Beth cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Where else would I be?”
Beth blinked. “You mean you live he
re? In Banchary?”
“All of Alba is my home, lass. Alba of then, of now, and of yet to come.”
“Okaaay,” Beth said, taking a slow step away. She had a feeling this conversation was going to go about as well as the one in Edinburgh had. I need a stiff drink or five, she thought. I must be more stressed than I thought. I’m hallucinating and talking to crazy old women! Why the hell did I come here?
But the images beneath the archway were still there. They looked pretty real to her. Too real in fact as though she looked through a window into some place...other.
“Aye,” Irene said, moving up beside her. “It isnae easy to escape is it? Destiny, I mean. It pulls us whether we wish it or nay.”
“What’s happening?” Beth asked, a little frightened now. “What am I looking at?”
Irene rolled her eyes. “Dinna I keep telling ye? Yer destiny, lass.
“There’s no such thing,” Beth snapped. “Is this some sort of trick? Or a scam to catch unsuspecting tourists?” She couldn’t hide the edge of anger in her voice. She was tired and had come up here to relax. Now she felt more confused and bewildered than ever.
A sad smile crossed Irene’s face. “Ah, I’m sorry, lass. If I could spare ye this, I would. But it isnae my choice. I am but the keeper of the balance. I do what I must. As ye must.”
Beth stared at the old woman for a long moment and then looked at the archway. The image had changed again and now all she could see were waves lapping against a lonely shore. “What do you mean? What must I do?”
Irene laid a hand on Beth’s wrist. Her skin was warm and dry, like brittle leaves. “Ye must restore the balance. Right a great wrong, fix an injustice. If ye do, there is a chance ye will find yer own path and the thing ye seek most in the world.”
“You don’t know what I seek,” Beth protested.