That night seemed endless. Stiff, cold, squatting on damp grass on the promontory above the sea, Ruan saw the moon rise in the east, a flat white disc behind fog. Only when its rays began to burn through did he realize it was the morning sun. In front of him, in thinning mist, the growing light gilded a shape suspended in the air. Perched on cloud, not forty strides away, the faint figure of a woman sat, long black hair tumbling down her back. Riveted, struck with awe, he rose slowly to his feet.
‘Bride?’ Or did he see Danu? It was a vision, surely. He stepped forwards to the edge, straining to see more clearly. Below, jagged rocks thrust upwards, washed by the last of the retreating tide. Beyond this gully rose a cliff face, still wreathed in fog, a great stack of rock separated from the land he stood on by a deep ravine. Threads of mist drifted and dispersed. It was no vision he saw. On a grassy mound across what was a narrow strait, Skaaha sat looking north towards the black hills.
The last fog rolled itself up. Morning sun sparkled the water where Loch Eishort and Loch Slapin opened to the sea. Across the bay, beyond the next peninsula, craggy mountain peaks etched charcoal-black. Behind them lay Ullinish, Loch Bracadale, and her childhood homes, Doon Beck and Doon Mor – Mara's domain. Leap only if you trust your wings. Jiya's words, last time they were in the broch. When her feet hit solid ground where she expected air, she landed hard. The smell of soil filled her lungs, not brine. Dazed and winded, she lay a long time on the thick, coarse grass, certain she arrived in the otherworld. Voices echoed from the world she left, calling a name she no longer owned. Who was she now? She had leapt in the dark, trusting only death and the fall into water, and landed in this life, on the earth.
Stones fell. Ruan scrambled over the edge of the rock. ‘No one could make that leap,’ he said, coming towards her across the grass. ‘The gap is easily seven strides. You should be in the sea, with your head broken.’
‘Bride caught me,’ she answered. It was simple, faith, less complicated than despair. Her voice, unused for so long, sounded distant in her ears. ‘She threw this landing up from her forge.’
His eyes shone like that sun on water. ‘Then it's yours.’ He spread his arms to encompass the expanse of it. ‘Doon Skaa, Fort of Shadows. It was right there, in front of me. You were right here. I couldn't see it, or you.’
The rock was imposing enough, with a clear view west across Bride's sea to the outer chain of islands. As a fort, it could watch over the mouths of two sea lochs, guard access by boat to Torrin, protect the sacred grove of Tokavaig nestled behind it. She had leapt into death and landed here.
‘I have something to do,’ she said, rising. ‘We must go.’
*
‘You have a visitor,’ Donal said, poking his head around the curtain of Eefay's chamber.
‘What, this early?’ Eefay struggled in the gloom to come awake. ‘Who?’
‘Go see. They wouldn't come in.’
‘They?’ Eefay muttered. Pushing aside the girl's leg that covered hers, she kicked off the cover, grabbed her shift and staggered out into the great room pulling it on. ‘Now it's “they”.’ Her bare feet slapped down the stone steps between the walls, crossed the earth and rock floor of the stockroom, squelching as she stepped in horse dung. ‘Oh, yes, lucky day,’ she grunted, going through the hall of the great stone doorway of Doon Telve. Blinking in bright morning sun, she stared at the figure standing beyond the outside wall dressed in leggings and tunic, black hair tied in braids down her back. ‘Skaaha!’
‘Blessings on your house, Eefay,’ her sister said. She looked pale and serious.
‘What are you standing out here for?’ Awake now, Eefay saw the druid waiting further back the path. Two travel packs lay at his feet. That explained ‘they’. ‘Why didn't you come in?’
‘I might not be welcome.’
‘Why, do you bring bad news?’
‘I have something to ask.’
‘Anything,’ Eefay offered.
‘Teach me to fight,’ Skaaha said.
There was a hair's breadth of hesitation then Eefay swung her arm. The flat of her hand hit a stinging slap against Skaaha's face, jerking her head to one side.
Skaaha drew breath. Her brown eyes turned to look into Eefay's again. ‘Is that your answer?’
Eefay swung her other arm. Skaaha caught her wrist, held it. The grip was like a vice.
‘Hit me again,’ she said, ‘and I will kill you.’
‘Ha!’ Eefay let out a shriek of joy. ‘So there is some fight left in you.’ She dropped her other hand to grip her sister's wrist, swung their arms up and turned. Skaaha shot over her shoulder. As she slammed on to the ground, Eefay knelt over her. ‘Yield,’ she said, twisting Skaaha's straightened arm, ‘or I'll break it.’
Skaaha's legs swung up, her ankles crossed behind Eefay's neck, yanking her down. ‘Not to you,’ she swore. ‘Never to you.’
As she toppled, Eefay tucked her chin into her chest, drawing her head free. At the same time, hands against Skaaha's backside to help momentum, she rolled her sister over and leapt to sit on Skaaha's back facing her feet. Yanking one ankle up across the back of Skaaha's knee, she pulled the other leg up to trap it there.
‘Now yield,’ she grunted, leaning back and working the leg she held by the ankle like a lever to create pain in her sister's knee.
‘Aaah!’ Skaaha's hands slapped the grass. ‘I yield,’ she yelled.
Eefay released her immediately, rolled over and lay on the grass, looking into Skaaha's face. ‘Took you long enough,’ she said, grinning.
‘So you will teach me?’
‘'Course, can't have my sister defeated by men.’
The girls from the school's second broch arrived. Doon Trodden sat further into the valley, on the lower slope among the trees. Far enough from the sea to be safe from coastal raiders, Doon Telve stood in the river plain, surrounded by vast circles of flat ground suitable for training. Despite excitement about the new arrivals, when Donal appeared lines formed up immediately. The morning routines began. Skaaha and Ruan stripped and joined in. Although discipline didn't falter, it was soon obvious that he attracted more attention than she did.
Warriors began training in their thirteenth sun. Three suns later, they were apprenticed to a warrior chapter, where they matured as full masters of the martial art. The school heaved with pubescent fancies, most of which now targeted the druid. When they jumped in the river after the exercise period, the half-dozen oldest girls gravitated towards him, splashing, giggling and wrestling playfully with him and each other. A redhead with the warrior tattoo of maturity below her ear dived under the water and emerged in front of Skaaha, spouting water.
‘Is he your man?’ she asked, nodding towards the beleaguered Ruan.
‘No.’ Skaaha shook her head. ‘He's my priest.’
‘Then we won't fight over him,’ the girl said. She smiled brightly, reminding Skaaha of Jiya. ‘Luckily for you.’ She began to wade away then turned back, touching the mark of the goddess on Skaaha's neck. ‘Is this why you have a priest of your own?’ she asked.
‘I'm here to find that out,’ Skaaha said. Among so many girls, mostly younger than herself, she was already wondering if she'd made a mistake. They were like puppies, constantly playing, leaping on anyone in reach, man or woman. Even when they talked or lazed around, they lay across each other, held hands, traded punches, linked arms, hugged. Their ease with physical proximity froze her.
At breakfast, the school's druids joined them to eat. Afterwards, Ruan left with them to be given a lodge. Weapon training began. She was handed a wooden shield. The smallest girl in the school opposed her, brandishing a wooden sword.
‘Is this a game?’ Skaaha snapped, annoyed.
‘First you learn to keep that between you and your opponent's weapon,’ Donal said. ‘Then you learn to strike back.’
‘I mean to strike first.’ Skaaha threw down the shield. ‘Give me a sword.’
‘No,’ Donal said.
S
kaaha snatched at her opponent's. The girl swung. The wooden blade smacked the back of Skaaha's hand. The girl spun round behind her. The flat skelped across Skaaha's backside.
‘Pick up your shield,’ Donal said. ‘Misha will keep hitting till you do.’
Skaaha grabbed the shield. She was faster than Misha, but to jump or somersault out of range would look as if she were running away, especially when the little minx was bound to follow. The shield was at least response. Misha landed one more blow, but it was the last. Skaaha parried every stroke and thrust.
‘You're good,’ Misha said, when they broke for midday dinner. ‘Tomorrow you'll get someone better than me.’
‘And a sword?’
‘No,’ Misha giggled. ‘You work up, through everybody, till you can protect against spears and proper swords. Then you get a weapon, with a wooden blade.’
At dinner in the great room of the broch, Skaaha took Eefay aside. ‘I asked you to teach me, not Donal.’
‘Women don't teach women.’
‘It's you I trust.’ She gazed into Eefay's green eyes. If she was wrong, and her sister was the enemy, her life would end here in Glenelg.
‘Donal does what I say now.’ Eefay frowned. ‘I thought you asked admission to the school.’
‘It's yours?’ Something shifted, but Skaaha wasn't sure what. She'd known Eefay was the heir. There were no surviving women on the Glenelg maternal blood-line, only Donal who, being a man, couldn't inherit. ‘Since when?’
‘Beltane.’ Eefay glared at her. ‘Of course, you wouldn't know because everything's about you. Well, not here. I'll train with you if you ever reach my grade. This is a school for warriors. There is no special treatment.’ She went back to join the others round the low table.
Skaaha leant against the warm stone wall, watching her sister recline on furs and cushions to eat. The girl beside her, one of the seniors, stroked her arm in a gesture that spoke of closeness, a touch that Eefay allowed. One thing seemed more certain: her sister was not the enemy. Eefay was too honest in her joys, too open in her hostility. Misha came over with a horn of ale.
‘Don't mind Eefay,’ she said. ‘I like you.’
Frustratingly, the afternoon was spent in lessons from the druids. There were three in the Glenelg cell, one of whom would now move to Kylerhea to take up Ruan's empty post, unless Suli moved them all around again. The students divided into groups, Skahaa again with the youngest, outside under trees, learning to recite.
‘What is the point of this?’ she railed.
The druid, another older, bearded one, had infinite patience. ‘Discipline,’ he said. ‘A warrior must know thirteen books of poetry. It trains the mind.’
Thirteen? It would take for ever, when she must learn fast how to fight. But she did as instructed, choosing a branch of the tree, an ash, repeating the lines after the druid, in paired couplets like the leaves. The music of the words was like the rhythm of movement, smooth and flowing, while the meaning told of battles and heroism. They learned stanza by stanza, reciting together then individually. It was a long work, but when they finished, each of them could speak it faultlessly.
‘I'll never see an ash tree again without that poem running through my head,’ she complained to Ruan as they walked across the field going back to the broch.
‘Not in this season,’ he said.
‘And you are smiling why?’ she asked.
‘Because that's the point,’ he said. ‘But there are four seasons, and more poems than trees.’
‘Oh no,’ she groaned. There was new leaf, summer leaf, autumn leaf, no leaf, maybe even flower and fruit, and the possibility of learning a poem with each, for every kind of tree. ‘Don't even think of telling me how many poems make a book,’ she warned. ‘And I bet you know them all.’
He said nothing, but his smile deepened.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘the sixth poem of the third book.’
‘Out from the land of ice and snow,’ he began, ‘where the white bear stalks when chill winds blow…’
‘You're making it up,’ she interrupted. ‘That's about winter, and I saw you look at that beech tree.’
‘So I imagined it naked.’ He grinned.
She leapt on him, wrapping her legs round his waist, grabbing his hair. ‘You imagined a white bear too.’ She shook his head from side to side. ‘They're brown!’
‘Or red, or black,’ Ruan said. His arms had caught her, one wrapped around her waist, one under her buttocks. She stopped shaking his head. ‘But the bard said white and so must I.’ His voice had changed, quiet, deeper.
‘Let me down,’ she said, realizing what she'd done. He did, at once, her body sliding down his to stand before him. She looked into the darkening blue of his eyes. ‘Don't hope for me to live.’ Turning away, she went in alone to the evening meal.
When he followed, some time later and only after the woman druid went to fetch him, he sat with the other priests. Lana, the woman, sat beside him, talking. She was young, younger than he was, and good to look at. That's where he should go if he needed comfort, if he wanted sex.
‘So you lied.’ It was the redhead from the river, sitting next her.
‘What?’
‘You act like he's your man.’ She carved a chunk of lamb, offering it.
‘No,’ Skaaha refused. ‘And, no, I've no interest in men.’
The girl chuckled. ‘Then you're in the right glen.’ She put the lamb on Skaaha's server just the same, began to cut her own. ‘We're the only place in Alba with too many women. Take your pick. Misha likes you.’
‘She's not of age.’
‘Not for men. But she's a warrior, first sun, so she'll do what she's told. After that, depends, you might have to fight for, or against.’ She chuckled again, began to chew. ‘I'm Terra, by the way, short for terror, because of my temper.’
Skaaha finished her food and ale. It seemed there might be many reasons to keep her strength up. A short rest period followed the meal. Everyone sprawled, chattering or playing board games. Collecting one of the blind iron swords from the door-keeper, Skaaha went outside, practising against trees and shadows till the others came out. Weaponless hand-to-hand followed, so they stripped again. This time she was put with the middle grade, but only due to her height. The other girls complained at having to step out the moves so she could follow.
‘It's good for all of you,’ Donal silenced them, ‘to have to think again about how you move and why.’ To Skaaha, he explained. ‘We fight naked because there's little to grip, apart from hair, and lime paste solves that.’ The advantage of women over men was clear, even before he detailed it. Throwing opponents meant catching by the narrow parts, wrist, ankle, throat, where even oiled skin would not allow slip.
Already confident about rolling as she fell, Skaaha learned fast, blows coming at her from her opponent in slow motion so she could work out the throw. But when Donal upped the speed, she was lost, often winded by a kick or punch, more often slammed down on her back or belly, and trapped there, than on her feet.
‘No contact blows,’ Donal shouted. ‘It's practice not contest.’ Eventually, he intervened, calling her out while the others continued. ‘Work with me,’ he said, miming a punch, which she blocked and returned. ‘Not even close,’ he said. ‘You don't move in. Try the throw.’ He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Right, I've pushed you round to slice your head off. Catch my wrist. Turn your back into me. Into me, Skaaha.’ His other arm pulled her in, buttocks tucked against his groin. ‘Fighting or fucking,’ he said in her ear, ‘you must get close to do it. Bend your knees.’
She froze. ‘I can't.’ His genitals were not strapped, and already reacting.
‘The longer you're tucked against me the more I'm going to like it.’
She bent her knees, pushed her other arm up through his and heaved. Nothing happened. He slapped her shoulder to let go then turned her body through the moves.
‘Knees bend to get in, straighten to tuck your backside into my g
ut and lift my weight off the ground, roll forwards as you pull.’ She tried again. Still he didn't pitch over. ‘Again, faster.’ And he was over her back, down in front, rolling and up on his feet because she forgot to follow through. ‘Much better,’ he said.
‘You let me do it.’
‘Again.’ He grabbed her shoulder. She caught his wrist, turned, tucking into him, arm up behind, heaved, and he was down, and back on his feet. ‘Again.’ After six or seven, he stopped. ‘How does that feel?’
‘Better.’
‘Strong men are slow,’ he said. ‘Speed, dexterity and deviousness are your best weapons. You've got the first two. The deviousness will come. But you won't rip a man's testicles off if you can't put your hands on them. Do something about that.’
Bruised and sore, Skaaha was glad of a final dip in the river. A round of ale and storytelling in the broch ended the day. The students returned to Doon Trodden. Skaaha settled into the chamber she'd been given in Doon Telve.
Too exhausted to unpack, she lay in the warm, smoky air staring at flickering shadows cast by the fire and stairwell lamps. She could hear snoring, murmured words, cries of pleasure, a cough, the sounds of love. It was like coming home, the great stone edifice with its familiar, near-forgotten curves. Her mother trained in this school, before Donal, under – she didn't know who, whoever his mother had engaged.
So much she didn't know, even about Kerrigen, who left Kylerhea to spend her youth in this broch, might even have lain in this chamber. Kerrigen, and Jiya, and… Mara. Someone wanted her dead, for eternity. Was it Mara? Childhood fears were not enough to justify the charge. The warrior queen could have killed her with impunity, asleep in Bride's cavern, and didn't. It might be anyone, for reasons she couldn't guess – someone she crossed or let down, a stranger wanting a trophy. Only one thing was certain, her enemy was a warrior. No one else would ask for the head.
Warrior Daughter Page 25
