More than once, Rhona had seen her own face in the mist, and Grieve's, too. She fancied she'd seen the mirror show that blissful night she and Grieve had spent together in Sanctuary, once or twice, but the witch shouted at it that such things were an abomination before storming out. Without the witch present, all the mist did was swirl, without showing pictures.
Rhona barely saw Grieve, who wasn't even allowed to sleep in the same cavern as her any more. Only when the witch was fast asleep did Grieve dare to approach the door to Rhona's prison. His hands were too big to fit through the bars, so she had to shove her fingers through to feel his touch again.
"Kill her in her sleep, and let's leave together," Rhona begged on the first night.
But Grieve had shaken his head. "I gave my word, and I will not break it. If she dishonours our deal, then I will have no mercy, but for now, stay here where you will be safe. There is no way off this island – there are no boats at all. Unless I can build one or persuade one to land here, the witch is our best chance of finding a way home. I'm working as fast as I can, but I cannot build a house in a day, so you must have patience. I swear to you, I will get you home."
The witch had awoken then, putting an end to any further conversation. "Get away from her!" she'd shouted, swatting at Grieve with a broom.
So Rhona fought her frustration, finding reserves of patience she didn't know she had. Most of her days, she spent sitting in the corner of her cell, wondering what her sisters were doing at home. Whether her father had arrived home yet. And what had happened to Doireann.
Finally, one night Grieve came in so exhausted, he flopped right down on his pallet and didn't seem to want to get up again. "Tomorrow, I shall finish my work, and you can move your things from here to your new home," he told the witch. Lifting his head so that he might meet Rhona's eyes, he added, "And then tomorrow, we shall go free."
"Yes. Good," the witch said, intent on stirring the pot over the fire. It undoubtedly contained something intended to burn through the roof of Rhona's mouth. What she wouldn't give for some normal bread, or a piece of roast pork, but the only animals the witch had were deer, or at least that's all the meat she used.
The next morning, Rhona washed with the small bucket of water in her cell, and attempted to re-braid her hair. Today, she would be free.
The witch wandered in and out of the cave, as usual, muttering to herself or the misty mirror. Rhona paid her little attention until the woman dropped the pot she'd been holding with a clang.
"It will not happen! Incest is against nature!" she shouted at the mirror.
Rhona peered through the bars of her prison. The mirror showed her and Grieve, locked in a lovers' embrace. The image brought a blush to her cheeks as she watched her own image arch her back and cry out in joy. What she wouldn't give to do that with Grieve again. When they were home, and wed, she promised herself.
"Better to kill them than let him defile her so. Now, before it is too late!" The witch seized a knife and raced out of the cave.
Rhona shouted for the witch to come back, but the woman never heard.
She was headed out to kill Grieve.
She would have to get through Rhona first.
Rhona threw her weight against the bars, trying to pry them apart wide enough to let her through. To no avail – the latticework was too firmly fixed to come apart in her hands.
But it was wood, and wood burned.
Would it matter if the witch knew about Rhona's magic? By day's end, one of them would be dead. As long as the witch didn't get to Grieve before Rhona could warn him.
Her hands were already bleeding from her fruitless attack on the door, so the spell was barely a thought away. She pressed her bloodied hands to the wood, leaving two handprints as she backed away.
Rhona pressed her back against the wall, as far from the door as she could get, and commanded the wood to burn.
The handprints ignited, leaving blackened holes in the lattice, as flames licked hungrily at the edges. Within moments, the whole door was ablaze, and it only took a few minutes before the whole thing was reduced to ashes.
Rhona hitched up her skirts above the embers, and marched through the still-smoking remains of her prison.
"I'm coming for you, bitch," she said.
And if the witch had hurt Grieve, her death was going to be slow and painful.
Thirty-Three
Grieve heard the approaching footsteps, but he didn't look up until he'd finished hammering the shingle into place.
"Almost done!" he called. "Three more to go, and then I'll climb down to show you around!"
He'd be done already if one of the shingles hadn't split overnight, bringing down part of the roof. But that was the thing about wood. It might look perfect at first, and fit just fine with all the rest, but weeks or months or sometimes even years later, the fault deep inside would start to show, and it would crack, to the detriment of all around it. Much like people, really.
He shot a furtive glance at the witch. She was barely more than a girl herself, of an age with Rhona and Bedelia, which meant he had to tread carefully lest his clumsy tongue land him in trouble again. His care seemed to have paid off, for the witch appeared pleased with his progress on her house. Well, she had, until now. The frown on her face sent out silent alarm bells, warning him to rethink his every word before he spoke.
He hammered the last shingle into place. "Would you like to see inside your new palace, mistress?" he called from his perch on the roof. Out of reach, he thought, then wondered just how far she could cast a spell. If it was like an archer firing arrows, then he was well in range, and nowhere he stood would be safe.
Grieve climbed down the ladder and rounded the cottage. She stood in the same spot, her frown even deeper.
Grieve strode past her and opened the door. He bowed extravagantly. "Your new palace, Your Majesty."
She almost smiled, lifting her head regally as she stepped forward.
"Get away from her! She means to kill you!"
Rhona raced into view, shouting at him and the witch.
"What?" Grieve stared at the witch, as she stared at him. He took a step back, just in case.
Rhona slowed to a halt, panting. "She said she was going to kill you." Her eyes widened in panic. "Oh, no, you don’t!"
A gust of wind blew Grieve almost off his feet, it was so powerful. The same gale had pinned the witch against the door, though she struggled against it. In her hand was a curved knife with a green stone blade, like nothing Grieve had ever seen before.
The witch's hands glowed blue.
"Don't you dare touch him, you bitch!" For a moment, it looked like Rhona held a handful of flames, before she drew her hand back and threw the missile. Whatever it was, it splashed at the witch's feet, engulfing her boots in roaring flame.
She screamed and ran inside the house, slamming the door behind her.
Rhona followed, raising her arms.
"Move, Grieve," she said. She waved her hand in his direction, and this time it seemed the very air lifted him up and deposited him at her feet. "Now, burn, bitch," she said, gritting her teeth. She turned her hands palm up, lifting them as though raising an imaginary host to heaven. But what she raised was more hellish than divine, as the house he'd painstakingly built went up in a whoosh of flame.
"Rhona!" He couldn't seem to say anything else. Couldn't think. Rhona, a witch? How?
A burst of blue light erupted from the house as the roof collapsed, so blinding they both had to turn away. It took a moment for Grieve to regain his sight, and when he did, half the house was gone, collapsed in on itself and the witch's body, no doubt, for the woman's screaming had stopped.
Rhona's breast heaved. She bent down to pick up the knife, which had magically landed at her feet.
Grieve's blood ran cold. Magically, indeed. She'd just killed a woman. What else could Rhona do?
Perhaps the witch wasn't the one he had to fear after all.
He rose onto unsteady
feet. If he'd been frightened of her before…she terrified him now. A woman who could command fire didn't need him to protect her. She didn't need anyone's protection – she was a force of nature all by herself.
Rhona threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. It took him a stunned moment before he could force his mouth open to return her kiss.
It wasn't enough. She sensed that something was wrong, and pulled away.
Tears glimmered in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I couldn't let her kill you."
Grieve didn't know what to say. It didn't seem right to accept her apology, not when she was sorry for saving his life, but thanking her didn't seem right, either. Instead, he said, "How will we get home now?"
She turned and surveyed the water. "We'll need a boat." She closed her eyes and bit her lip.
Grieve felt a breeze spring up, nowhere near as powerful as the one that had carried him, but he knew it came from the same source. Rhona. A witch so powerful she commanded the elements.
Fire, air…would she part the sea so that they might walk home? Anything seemed possible.
Never in his life had he felt so small, so insignificant. Not even when Bedelia rejected him.
He was nothing next to Rhona. No one. For she deserved some great hero, a man of power and wealth and courage, while what was he? Some lord's younger son, who owned little more than his clothes and weapons, which he was competent with, but no more than that. He worked wood, but she could turn a week's work into ash with a wave of her hand.
Grieve fancied he heard voices.
"We should try in the lee of Nimbanmore. Good fishing there."
Fishermen? He glanced around, but saw no one but themselves.
"There's a curse on Nimbanmore, my grandmother says. No one who goes there ever comes back."
This voice was softer, as though whispered on the wind.
"We're not going to land there, just fish offshore. Hey, what's that smoke? Seems there's someone on the island."
That's how she was doing it, Grieve realised. Stealing the sound of their words somehow.
"Where are they?" Grieve asked.
Rhona opened her eyes and pointed. "In the lee of this island. Nimbanmore, which explains why we are the only ones here. There is a curse here, an ancient one, laid on the lake at the top of the mountain. I can feel it faintly now, but it won't hurt us. Not if we can get off this island soon." She waved her hand. "They will have no choice but to come to us. The wind in every other direction will send them onto the rocks."
Grieve couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're going to kill some innocent fishermen?"
She tilted her head to the side and smiled. "They are hardly innocent. What man is? But no, I do not intend to kill them. If they cannot sail in this wind, they may wreck their boat, but they are Islanders and fisherman. The fishermen of Rum Isle survive gales far worse than this. They will come to the beach here, and take us home. You'll see."
It seemed to take forever before the boat landed on the beach, and the men aboard hailed them. Rhona explained who they were and how they needed a ride home, for which she would happily pay the men to make up for their lost catch.
This was Lady Rhona, Ronin's daughter, not the frightened girl she'd been for the last week in the witch's prison. How much of that had been real, and how much a pretence? Grieve truly didn't know the woman at his side at all. Witch, woman, wonder…but she could never be his wife. He wanted to worship her, not ask her what was for dinner.
Exactly as Rhona had foretold, Grieve found himself beside her on the fishing boat, headed home to Rum Isle. Standing beside the woman who held his heart, when he would never have hers.
Thirty-Four
Lord Ronin wept when he saw Rhona, and he couldn't seem to stop thanking Grieve for bringing her home. He either didn't hear or chose to ignore Grieve's protestations that he'd done nothing, and embraced him like a son.
Doireann was dead, murdered by the Albans, and Ronin had feared Rhona had suffered a similar fate.
"If not for you, I would have lost everything," Lord Ronin said with an enormous sniffle.
He still had his house, all the supplies in Sanctuary, and three of his daughters unharmed because of their early retreat to the caves, Grieve thought but didn't say as the three girls lined up to hug Rhona and drop an awkward curtsey each in his direction, at their father's command.
Grieve wanted to turn and run right out of the house, then maybe take up an axe and vent his frustration on a dozen trees, but Rhona would not approve. So he stayed and tried his best to look the part of the hero, though he felt like the opposite.
"And I would like to say that Rum Isle will always be home to the man who saved my daughter. May you always be here to keep her safe, for I am sure Rhona will want to marry you as soon as possible, and I give my hearty blessing to you both!" Ronin said with a watery smile.
"Father…" The warning in her tone made Grieve want to run more than ever.
The one woman he wanted for his wife, who could never be his.
"There's my boy! They say you've saved one girl, and I could ask no less than a hero for the quest I have in mind." Father entered the hall, arms spread wide to embrace his son.
"Father, I need to speak to you," Grieve muttered as his father hugged him.
Lord Lewis clapped him on the back. "Let's leave them to their family reunion, so we can have one of our own." He led the way into the yard.
Grieve went further, walking all the way down to the river. He knew Rhona would hear him if she wished it, but perhaps her father might not.
"Father, I saved no one. Lady Rhona saved herself. She is…" Grieve lowered his voice to a whisper. "She is a witch. She has power over the elements of fire and air. I saw her reduce a house to ashes in minutes. Surely her father must know, for how could she keep that hidden from her own family? Yet he seems to believe I saved her, instead of the other way around!"
Father scratched his chin. "It always was a mystery that Lady Blanid fell pregnant so quickly after her wedding, for she was not one to take her husband to bed earlier than needs must. Especially after…well, Lord Ronin nearly lost her to Alban raiders, too. Her sister saved her, or so 'tis said. I always wondered how a slip of a girl could take on a whole party of raiders like that. If what you say is true, then your girl must be the sister's daughter. But still Ronin's, for he would not have acknowledged her if she were not."
"I don't care whose daughter she is!" Grieve exploded, struggling to keep his voice quiet. "She's a witch. A sorceress. A woman who can burn me where I stand with a wave of her hand. I cannot marry her!"
Father stared. "She seems a lovely enough girl. If you can but keep from provoking her, there is little to worry about on that account."
"I'm not worried for me! I'm worried for her! What do I have to give her? I'm not fit to lick the ash from her boots! I'm no hero – I'm no one. She deserves far more than anything I can give her." Grieve gazed at his father, begging him to understand. "You should have sent me to war first, not here, so I might be a war hero, at least. Someone with something to offer her."
"So you like the girl, but she thinks you're not good enough, hmm?"
Grieve shook his head. "I do not know what she thinks. I…she…when she kissed me, it seemed like she liked me…but I…"
"You will not be the first man who did not feel ready for marriage. Even I hesitated once…but the right lady will have her own way of making her heart known. Perhaps it is best to take you away from here for a while, until you are ready." Lord Lewis held Grieve's gaze, so he could not look away. "The Alban king has sent a letter that is tantamount to a declaration of war. He demands Lord Angus' eldest daughter and heir, Lady Portia, as bride to one of his sons."
Grieve spluttered. "We can't give her to Alba. Handing over Isla to them is tantamount to giving them all the Southern Isles."
Father grinned. "So you do understand a bit of strategy, after all. Yes. Giving them the girl is to give them everything. But there's mo
re. The Council sent an envoy to the Viken king, asking for him to honour our alliance and send troops to fight the Albans when they come. Lady Portia…will be the price of that alliance. A marriage bargain between her and the Viken prince, when he lands on our shores." He cleared his throat. "But she must be kept safe, never be without a bodyguard at all times. Lady Portia is no witch. She needs protection, and the Council agrees. That's why we all had to send a member of our family to form her bodyguard. I need Mahon on Myroy, so I must send you."
Leave Rhona? The very thought cleaved Grieve's heart in two. "Father…"
"Fools like Calum are sending suitors for her hand, seeing this as a chance to take Isla for their own. But any man who marries her is doomed to die, if he is not either the Alban prince or the Viken one. The alliance will be written in her maiden's blood, or her husband's lifeblood. I need one man among them who can lead them, forge them into the bodyguard the girl needs. Before she shoots the lot of them. She's a keen archer, I've heard." Once again, Father's eyes captured Grieve's. "You are the only man I trust. That is why I sent you here first. If your heart is here, then there is no way you will lose it to Lady Portia. And when you return, you will be a war hero – Lady Portia's valiant protector. Surely Lady Rhona cannot turn her nose up at that."
Grieve closed his eyes. "What sort of girl is Lady Portia?"
"She is her father's daughter, and her mother's, too. Passionate to a fault, but she knows her duty. Catriona married for love, but she also married the only man who could lead us. Angus says Portia will do the same. Your job is to make sure she gets a choice, though my money's on her picking the Viken prince."
"Very well, Father. I shall go to Isla. For how long?"
Father shrugged. "Until the war is over, and the girl marries her prince. War is a messy business. No one can be sure how long it will last."
Grieve bowed his head. "Then we must tell Lord Ronin, and Rhona."
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