Her thoughts were occupied with a far more important question: was she willing to reveal her magic to save Doireann, if that's what it took? For to do so would be to reveal that she wasn't Father's legitimate daughter, but the result of a union between him and a witch. As her father's bastard, she had no claim over Rum Isle, and neither Grieve or his father would want such a union. If she had to use magic to save Doireann, then she would lose Grieve.
But if she let the Albans harm Doireann, then her father would probably disown her, no matter who her husband was. And she couldn't live with herself, knowing she'd sacrificed another woman for her own happiness.
But if her father found out she was a bastard, he'd probably disown her anyway, so no matter what she did, Rhona would lose her home here.
Tears blurred her vision, but Rhona wiped them away. This was not a time for self-pity. She had to do what was right, and damn the consequences. She might not like Doireann, but the woman was still family, albeit by marriage, and no one hurt her family. Least of all a bunch of Alban scum.
She wove through the woods, trusting Grieve to keep up, as they neared her home. As they reached the last of the trees, Rhona dismounted, and tied her horse where it would be out of view of the house. She gestured for Grieve to do the same.
"We'll be too high if we climb the ridge on horseback. On foot, we can creep up on the house unseen. If the raiders have already arrived and we are too late…I do not want to give them any warning of our arrival," she said.
"My weapons are in the house. If I can get them, I will be more use to you than I am now with just a sword," Grieve whispered.
Rhona nodded, not wanting to voice her thoughts. If the Albans had not yet arrived, Grieve would have no need of his weapons, and all that would matter was the speed with which they got Doireann away. If the Albans had arrived before them…then Grieve's weapons were as good as lost, and nothing would save Doireann but a powerful show of magic. And that would cost her everything she held dear.
They crept up the slope, keeping low until they reached the shelter of the stones at the top. As a child, she'd traced the carvings on them and wondered what they meant, but now all her attention was on the beach at the base of the cliffs.
Her heart sank. The Alban boats had already beached themselves on the sand, and aside from a pair of boys they'd left on guard, the men were nowhere to be seen.
They might have gone inland, attacking farms and crofts. But the biggest house closest to the beach was her father's, on the cliffs overlooking the beach. They'd be fools not to go there first.
"They might already be at the house," she told Grieve. "Best we use the cover by the river to get closer."
He nodded, and followed her down the hill to the river. Grieve was quieter on his feet than she thought he'd be – she had to glance behind her more than once to make sure he was still there, but he was, as intent as she was on making this rescue work.
If only they weren't too late.
If Doireann was dead…
Then none of the Albans would leave here alive, Rhona swore.
They'd raped Aunt Blanid, sentenced her mother Brigid to a lifetime taking care of her sister with no chance of marriage, and destroyed Doireann's home and family. She'd be damned before she allowed them to take any more from her family.
Grieve reached the willow trees first, crouching behind a trunk that still bore the marks from his axe. "We're too late," he whispered.
No. They couldn't be. Rhona dropped to her knees and peered through the forked trunk of what had been the first willow on Rum Isle.
In the yard that had always been the heart of her father's household stood perhaps a dozen Albans, clearly recognisable in their piss-yellow tunics. They'd be pissing themselves in fear by the time she was done with them. Rhona rose, careful to keep hidden behind the seaward tree trunk. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, taking her time choosing her target.
"Bring her to me!"
The shouted command had their attention, and Rhona's, too.
Doireann appeared, marched between two men who each had a hold of one of her arms.
Rhona changed her mind about the spell, swapping fire for air, as she sent a breeze through the yard that carried Doireann's words to her.
"Please don't hurt me. I did as I was bid!" she insisted. "All the riches of Rum Isle. I know where they are!"
Maybe a fire spell was called for, after all. A fire spell that turned that treacherous bitch into a ball of flame.
"Where?" A man with fancy armour over his yellow tunic stepped up to her.
"A cave in the woods. They're all there. I can show you…if you promise to let me go." Doireann fell to her knees. "Please, sir. You spared me on Scitis so that I could come here to find out what you wish to know."
The man laughed. "You would betray your new husband so easily?"
Doireann spat on the ground. "Lord Ronin is no husband to me, if he's even a man at all. He would not share my bed, not even on our wedding night. There's no marriage between us, and no love either. He forces me to run after his unruly brats like a servant, but won't give me a child of my own. You can have his island, and all that's on it. All I ask is that you let me go so that I might find a real man to be my husband."
"After you have shown us this cave, woman. Then we shall see."
"Let me…let me get the cart, so it will be easier to bring everything back." Doireann clambered to her feet, then took a tentative step toward the pony cart.
Rhona bit her lip, readying a fireball. The moment Doireann climbed atop that cart, Rhona would set it ablaze.
"Ooh, look, a Viken spy," a voice said behind Rhona. Then something crashed into the back of her head and darkness descended.
Twenty-Nine
Grieve had only a moment to reach for his sword, but he was too slow. One blow felled Rhona, and the second sent him half-stunned to the ground. He tried to fight, but his attacker shouted to his comrades, and soon there were a dozen Albans upon him.
"Tie them up. We always need more slaves," the Alban leader ordered, and Grieve soon found his hands bound to his feet. Another man tied Rhona's hands behind her back, then threw her over his shoulder and carried her off.
"Hey. Hey! You can't take her away. That's Lord Ronin's daughter!" he shouted.
The leather-clad leader strode up to him, leaning down so that he might look Grieve in the eye. "She looks too old to be one of his brats to me. Bring the other one."
Doireann was dragged over and thrown to the ground in front of Grieve.
"Who are these two?" the man demanded.
Doireann glared at Grieve. "The boy is the son of Lord Lewis of Myroy. She's Lord Ronin's eldest, and the most unruly of the lot. Good for ransom and not much else."
Grieve met the woman's eye. "At least I still have some honour. I'm not selling out the only people who would take me in to the enemy who killed my family!"
Doireann's eyes burned. "You're a man. You'd never understand." She jerked her head at Rhona. "She will. You'll see. Once all the Albans have had her, stolen her maidenhead and her virtue, she'll agree to anything to make them stop."
"Enough. A lord's maiden daughter is worth more intact. Nobody touches the girl. Not yet." The leader pointed at Doireann. "Get her up, and follow her to this cave. If she cannot show you, kill her."
Two men seized Doireann, ignoring her screaming protests, and took her away.
The leader turned to Grieve and the man still carrying Rhona. "These two…should be held somewhere they cannot escape from. One of the deserted isles we saw on the way. We can return for them later."
"Don't you hurt her!" Grieve shouted.
"And shut that one up," the leader said wearily.
A boot came out of nowhere, colliding with Grieve's head, and blackness embraced him.
Thirty
Rhona's head hadn't hurt this much since she drank a whole jug of wine at Sive's christening. Only she couldn't remember drinking anything this time. Instead,
her mouth tasted of blood. She rolled over, and encountered another warm body, but this one didn't move.
She'd fallen asleep with Grieve after making love, and everything afterwards was a bad dream, she told herself, but even she couldn't believe the lie.
"Grieve, where are we?" she asked.
He did not respond, and only then did she dare to open her eyes. A swollen lump adorned his forehead, crusted with dark blood. But his breathing was even, and his heartbeat felt strong under her hands. Alive, but unconscious. What she wouldn't give for some willow bark now.
Rhona sat up, wincing as her head gave a warning throb. She ignored it. Better to take stock of her surroundings. The light was dim, but still enough to see. They were in a cave, but not of the same stone as Sanctuary. Rhona knew every habitable cave on Rum Isle, and this wasn't one of them. The entrance to this cavern was blocked by a latticework of thin branches, with holes too small for her to fit more than her hand through, yet large enough to see to the larger cavern beyond.
It might not be Sanctuary, but someone called this place home. A pallet in the corner for a bed, and a fire burning peat that smelled like home. A pot bubbled over the fire, but Rhona could not smell what it contained over the smoke from the fire itself.
Her gaze swept the chamber, landing on the light source. It was no candle or lamp, but something else entirely. A swirling blue mist, trapped in what appeared to be a giant platter set against the wall. The thing glowed faintly, and Rhona fancied she saw her own face in the mist before it vanished. Whatever it was, it was magical, which meant that whoever lived here was a powerful witch.
But Rhona was the only witch in the Southern Isles. If there had been another, surely she'd have heard of her. For magic called to magic, and she would know if someone cast a spell near her. For a witch to hide herself and a powerful magical object like this one, she must be a formidable witch indeed. One Rhona did not dare to challenge by magical means.
"Please let us out. I must go home," Rhona said, drawing herself up to her full height.
"We all want to go home, but not everyone gets what they want. The sea wanted to take you from the beach where I found you, but I rescued you from the waves and brought you here. I must keep you two together. The mirror insists." The woman who stepped into view was nothing like Rhona expected. Young and dark-haired, her eyes seemed to contain the night sky.
Rhona shivered. She buried her magic deep inside, where she hoped the woman would never find it.
"Who are you?" the woman asked.
Lost in the woods and taken prisoner by a witch. It was so like one of the tales she and Grieve had swapped that Rhona answered automatically: "I am Gretel, and that's my brother, Hansel. If you don't let us go, our father, Lord Lewis, will not be pleased. Who are you?"
"Once a queen, now a slave, loved by two men, one of whom is now dead and the other is dead to me. I am Briska, now queen of a rock that boasts little more than fearless deer and this horrible stuff called snow."
She sounded mad, though she did not look it. Maybe the magic had made her so.
"You must let us go," Rhona insisted.
"I must do nothing of the sort. The mirror says…the mirror says you must be together. But if you are brother and sister, as you say…then I am cursed!" Briska's eyes glowed blue, the same as the misty platter on the wall. "Bah, I should have known escape was an illusion. You shall not leave here until you break the curse!"
She stormed out, and no amount of calling brought her back.
Rhona slumped to the floor beside Grieve, wishing he would wake up.
Thirty-One
The first thing Grieve became aware of was something cold and wet touching his forehead. Not cold enough to numb the pain, though.
He reached for his sword, but the scabbard was empty. They must have stolen it from him, along with everything else. And Rhona.
Grieve sat up, and saw the most beautiful sight he could have imagined. Rhona's startled face as the wet cloth dangled from her hand, forgotten.
"Are you all right? Did the Albans…did they hurt you?" he asked. He prayed that the leader's promise could be trusted. Who knew with Albans?
"Someone hit me over the back of the head. But nothing else," she said. "You have a bump on your head, too – much worse than mine. Do you know where we are?"
Grieve looked around. "A cave? They didn't say where they were taking us. Somewhere we could not escape from, waiting for a ransom from my father and yours."
Rhona dropped her voice to a whisper. "I told her our father is one and the same, and that we are brother and sister. Hansel and Gretel. They were the first names I could think of. She's a witch, and names are powerful in spells. If she does not know ours, perhaps she will not be able to cast curses at us."
Grieve laughed, then winced as that made his head throb more. "Held captive by a witch, just like a story. Do you have any clever ideas for escape?"
Rhona shook her head. "She keeps saying things about a mirror, and how she is cursed, and we cannot leave until we break the curse. But I know nothing about curses. What about you?"
"I'm no witch, and nor are you. I can shoot a bow, build a house, and lift a sword to defend what is mine. If she's living in a place like this, perhaps I could make a bargain with her. It's worth a try."
He began shouting for the witch.
Rhona tried to hush him, but Grieve only shouted louder.
"Silence, boy!" the dark-haired woman hissed, stalking into the cave like a cat hunting prey. "Or I shall cast a spell on your tongue that will render it unfit for speech, though it may do other things." She smiled, and her hands glowed blue.
Grieve swallowed back the swear words that leaped to his tongue. So the woman was a witch. He would have to be careful, was all, he told himself. "What will it take for you to let my sister and me go?"
This only seemed to anger her further. "Brother and sister. The mirror lies. It will take an abomination before I can release you, and for the mirror to release me from my curse and my exile here."
None of this made any sense to Grieve, but she evidently believed it. He only knew that curses were not his area of expertise. "How would you like to live somewhere better than this cave? If I can't break your curse, maybe I can make your exile more comfortable."
She sniffed. "I do not need a lover, least of all some boy who is supposed to…never mind. I will not do it!" This last was addressed to what appeared to be a mirror on the wall. An image of Grieve and Rhona's faces appeared on it for a moment, before all it showed was the witch's reflection.
A magic mirror. Just like something in a story. And just like in a story, he must somehow trick the witch into letting them go free.
"The men of Myroy have a reputation for our skill with wood. I can build you a beautiful house where you can live. Walls where you can hang your mirror. A bed to sleep on, instead of a pallet on the floor." Grieve had her attention. Now he needed to sweeten the deal. "Much warmer than this cold cave, I promise. Just ask my sister about the other places I have built."
"Oh, he's quite good with wood," Rhona said. "You should have seen the first barn he built by himself when he was just a boy."
Grieve winced. That first barn had been a disaster. But if the witch did not know that…
"What sort of house?" the witch demanded.
Grieve spread his hands wide. "Whatever you like. Point me at the wood, and I shall build you a palace fit for a queen."
Her eyes narrowed. He had her, Grieve was certain.
"A wooden palace. If that is the best I can hope for now…then I accept. You shall build me a palace, and when I am satisfied, you shall go free." The witch nodded, then pointed at Rhona. "But she stays. I will not have…abomination…here."
"No." Grieve folded his arms across his chest. "When the palace is complete, both of us go free."
She eyed him thoughtfully for a long time. "Very well. I shall set you both free, if you give me your solemn vow that you shall never kiss your sister
, nor share her bed."
Grieve wanted to laugh, but he did not dare. "I swear by all I hold dear, by my sister's own life, that I will never kiss my sister, and I will never share her bed." An empty promise, for the only sisters he had died in infancy, and he would not share their grave, nor kiss a corpse if he could help it.
"Good. Then you may start work." The witch unlocked the door, opening it just wide enough for one person to slip through. "But she stays until your work is done."
Grieve squeezed through the gap, then heard it close behind him. "If any harm comes to her, the deal is off."
The witch inclined her head. "Agreed."
"Grieve, I don't trust her," Rhona said behind him.
Grieve didn't trust her, either, but he didn't dare say it. Instead, he ignored Rhona and followed the witch outside to plan out her new palace.
Thirty-Two
Rhona spat out a mouthful of the strange food that burned her mouth. "You are trying to poison me!"
The witch looked affronted. "I feed you the same as I eat. It is not my fault your delicate stomach will not tolerate it." As if to demonstrate, she snatched Rhona's bowl and began to spoon the contents into her own mouth with evident signs of approval. "It is perfectly good venison. I don't know what you are talking about."
Between the burning food, strange flat sheets of what the witch called bread and the gritty white liquid that the woman called milk but didn't taste like it had come from any kind of cow Rhona had ever met, Rhona wasn't sure how long she would last as the witch's captive. Forcing down every bite of food and then forcing it to stay down was a daily struggle, exacerbated by her need to hide her magic deep inside, too, lest the witch sense it.
Yet the more Rhona saw of this witch, the more she thought the woman was mad. She spent hours talking to the misty platter that looked nothing like the bronze mirrors on the islands, yet the witch insisted on calling a mirror.
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