Scotia’s head was starting to ache. “I do not ken the source of my knowing,” she said. “But if the arrow is for a third Guardian, perhaps air is the source? An arrow flies.” She ran her finger along the Z-shaped broken arrow again. “Except this arrow will not fly.” She sighed. “Can we get on with this?”
“We can. Do you remember the first blessing Mum taught us?” Jeanette asked, her voice pitched low and soothing, almost the same voice their mum had used to calm Scotia when she was little and angry.
“Of course I do.”
“’Tis a good idea to start with that.”
“And then what?”
Jeanette shrugged. “We shall have to wait and see.”
Scotia took a deep breath, glad she could start with something familiar, something known to her. She held the Targe stone up, as she’d seen her mum do many times, moving it to her right, then to her left, then up over her head, and back down to the right. Next she held it in front of her, heart high, and whispered the simple blessing in a long-lost language. And then she tried to know where Jeanette’s healer’s bag was, though she really did not ken how to force the knowledge to her. When that didn’t work, she waited for the knowing to come.
“Well?” Rowan asked.
“Well what?” Scotia replied.
“Can you feel the power of the Targe?”
“Nay. I feel nothing.”
“Close your eyes and concentrate on Jeanette’s healer bag.”
Scotia did as instructed, though she was sure now ’twas a waste of time. The stone did not claim her as a Guardian. Power did not surge through her as she had witnessed when Rowan was made Guardian. Nothing happened. She could imagine where Jeanette might have hidden the bag, but she did not know. She opened her eyes. “Nothing. How does the stone work for you?” she asked, looking to Jeanette for guidance.
Jeanette chewed on her lower lip as she considered Scotia’s question. “When I call my gift, I let my mind go blank as I stare into the water in my cup, and it just . . . comes. How do you do it, Rowan?”
“You mean you two have not figured this part out yet?” Scotia lowered the stone to her lap and glared at her companions.
“’Tis not like we have been at this over long,” Rowan said, squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine. “For me, when I hold the Targe stone I can feel the energy moving up through me. I can pull on it with my thoughts, or push it through the stone the same way. If ’twas not so clear that I am actually doing something, I would think ’twas all in my imagination . . . but it is not. ’Tis very real.”
Scotia pondered what they had said. “So you can feel it and manipulate the energy with your thoughts, aye?” She directed this question to Rowan, who nodded. “And you do nothing but stare into a cup of water and your gift finds you, aye?” she said to Jeanette, who also nodded.
“’Twas like what we could do before we became Guardians, but more so . . . much, much more so, and we do not have to wait for our gifts to come to us anymore, we can call our gifts with the Targe upon need,” Rowan said.
“That is not very helpful,” Scotia mumbled as she once more raised the stone so it was on the level with her heart. She closed her eyes again and tried to quiet her mind, taking long slow breaths as her mum had tried to teach her when she was bristling with anger or frustration, as Duncan had taught her more recently. After a few minutes she gave that up, for her mind was never quiet, and instead she pictured the bag once more and said the words “Jeanette’s bag” in her mind, over and over, as she had done with the child’s name earlier.
Still nothing.
“Jeanette.” Rowan’s voice broke through the drone in Scotia’s mind. She opened her eyes and lowered the stone back to her lap, glaring at her cousin. “Jeanette,” Rowan said, “do you remember how I helped you learn to use the Targe stone? I held it while you touched it and—”
“Aye, and my gift burst through me. And it hurt you.”
“Only a little and not for long,” Rowan said quickly, reaching for the stone in Scotia’s lap. She held it up so it was over the open sack, but face-high this time. “Put your fingers on it,” she said to Scotia, “then close your eyes and see if you can feel your gift. Try to pull it forward with your thoughts. Try to know where Jeanette’s bag is.”
Scotia did as she was bade, though she did not hold out much hope at this point. She felt a tingling in her fingers where they touched the stone, but nothing more.
No knowing.
No Guardian gift.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her palms went sticky with dampness as embarrassment and failure engulfed her. Just as everyone expected, she was not good enough to be a Guardian as her mother had been. She was not good enough to join her sister and cousin in protecting the clan with their gifts, and their barriers, and their proven success in battle. All the fatigue of the long, eventful day suddenly caught up with her, weighing her down, making her feel weak in body and soul.
“’Tis useless,” she said, lurching to her feet and dusting the dirt and grit from her skirts. She would not give in to such feelings, at least not in front of anyone. “I am clearly not meant to be a Guardian.” She notched up her chin and threw her shoulders back, reminding herself of the training Duncan had given her. If she could not be a Guardian, at least she might be able to aid the clan as a warrior. “I just know things from time to time, through no doing on my part. Whatever that broken arrow means, ’tis not for me.”
DUNCAN PACED THE length of the cave site, both excited and anxious to see if Scotia’s knowing was as true this time as it was with the child. He glanced toward the path where Scotia and the other two women had disappeared a few minutes before and couldn’t help but wonder if his raven-haired troublemaker would return a Guardian. It could only help to have a third Guardian in these difficult days, but even if she was not a Guardian, this knowing could be nothing but helpful.
“Mind yersel’,” Peigi snapped at him. “We’ve work to do here if you expect an evening meal, Duncan. You are in the way.” She waved her gnarled hands at the dozen or so women hard at work in and around the cook circle. “Go and join Kenneth and Uilliam!” She pointed at the council circle where the two older men sat facing the direction their visitors would come from. Nicholas and Malcolm leaned against trees just behind the seated men, facing the same part of the clearing.
Duncan did as he was told, but did not sit. Instead he paced back and forth between the council area and the path Scotia had taken with the Guardians.
“Your pacing will not make the news come any faster,” Nicholas said when Duncan drew near him. “’Twould be better to save your energy in case we need it when our visitors get here.”
“I would cease if I could, Nicholas,” he said, turning on his heel and making his way back to the path. A tiny selfish part of him hoped Scotia would not become another Guardian. If she did, their long days together would be done, and Jeanette and Rowan would take over with a completely different sort of training. ’Twould be a shame, in a way. Scotia showed promise with a sword, with strategy. She was lighter on her feet than any other warrior he’d ever met, and her mind was fast, sharp. Of course she’d only had him for an opponent so far, so perhaps she had just become very good at assessing Duncan. ’Twas something he had to address in her training, and he knew, if she were to progress in her fighting skills, they would soon need to reveal her secret—their secret.
But for all he knew, their days of training might be behind them already, and that opened up an unfamiliar melancholy in his chest. Frustrated, he paced toward the path the visitors would come by, friends by the single blast of the horn. He stopped. Listened. Nothing yet. Were they crawling down the ben?
He paced back to the other path and stopped. Listened. If anything was happening with Scotia he could not hear it.
“You are going to make a rut from one end of this clearing to the other, Duncan.” Peigi’s wavering voice came from behind him. He turned and found her settling herself o
n a stump near the cookfire. She beckoned him over and nodded to the log laid out next to her stump. “If you will not sit with the men, sit with me.”
He sighed. Unable to naysay the old woman, he joined her, sitting beside her though his feet itched to keep moving.
“You ken you cannot change Scotia’s fate, aye?” she asked him quietly.
“I ken that.”
“But?”
“But I do not ken what will be better for her or for the clan—to become another Guardian, or to continue as she has with—” He stopped himself, realizing he was about to reveal Scotia’s secret. “As she has.”
“With you, you meant to say.” Peigi patted his knee as if he were a wee fussy bairn. “You are enjoying your time with her. You did not expect to, but she has surprised you, delighted you even.”
“I . . . She . . .” He shook his head a little too adamantly. “Nay.”
“Dinna deny it, laddie. ’Tis clear you and Scotia both enjoy whatever it is ye get up to of a day.” She winked at him, and he wondered what she really knew. “She is glowing when you return to camp, though that mood disappears fast enough, and you”—Peigi patted his knee again—“you sometimes look proud, often bemused, and your familiar scowl is seldom seen of late.”
Duncan did not know how to respond, for that was exactly how he felt at the end of their days together, though he thought he had hidden his feelings better than that.
“Whatever happens,” Peigi said, “you must be strong for her. She depends upon you. She trusts you as she does not anyone else, not even her da since he killed that spy in the bailey.”
“She wanted to do that herself,” he said.
“Aye. She is a bloodthirsty lassie,” Peigi said with a quiet laugh. Duncan could not help but smile at the description.
“Do you think—” At that moment a shout came from the far end of the cave site.
Duncan leapt to his feet and went to stand next to Uilliam, just behind Nicholas, Malcolm, and Kenneth. They watched as a group of thirteen men, escorted by Brodie MacAlpin and surrounded by several other MacAlpin warriors and two of Malcolm’s kin, entered the clearing. Kenneth started to step forward, but checked himself.
“Allies,” Uilliam said, his voice tinged with awe. “Just like Scotia kent.”
Duncan tried not to smile, but he had to admit he felt a bit of awe at Scotia’s gift himself.
“They are MacGregors of Loch Awe,” Kenneth said quietly to Nicholas. “Dermid MacGregor speaks for them.”
Nicholas nodded, but never took his eyes off the new arrivals as he strode to meet them. Malcolm, his new champion, followed one step behind and on his left.
“We welcome you, MacGregors of Loch Awe, and thank you for joining us. We offer you the hospitality of Clan MacAlpin of Dunlairig, such as we can.”
A growl came from Kenneth, and Duncan was surprised when Uilliam’s deep voice came calm and quiet, “Hold, Kenneth. Hold. Let him finish first.”
It was only then that Duncan noticed, first, Kenneth’s clenched fists, and second, a familiar blond lad who liked to dally with Scotia. Duncan must have made a noise of some sort when he recognized Conall, for Uilliam growled at him.
“Dinna move a muscle, lad, or say anything,” Uilliam commanded. “Either of you.” He directed this back at Kenneth. “We shall deal with Conall MacGregor once they show that Nicholas has their respect.”
“Are there others behind you?” Nicholas asked.
“Nay,” the one called Dermid said. “Others chose to engage the English as they came from the coast, harrying them in the hopes of whittling down their numbers before they could get here. There were at least two score of the Sassenach bastards that arrived by ship. They were hard upon our heels for a short while, but their pace has been sorely slowed.” He grinned, clearly pleased that the English were not easily making their way across Scotland.
“You did not lead them here.” It was a command, not something Duncan had heard from Nicholas before.
“We were careful, MacAlpin. I gathered those I could as I journeyed here, as Kenneth bade me do.” He nodded at the old chief. “We are all that could be spared with English crawling across our lands.”
Nicholas’s head bobbed slowly up and down as he surveyed the far smaller contingent of allies than they had hoped would arrive. Just as the silence was drawing taut between Nicholas and Dermid, Nicholas stepped forward and surprised everyone.
“You,” he said, clearly looking at Conall.
The young man looked Nicholas calmly in the eye, though he had noticeably not done the same with Kenneth. “Aye?”
“I have seen you before.” Nicholas stopped, as if he were trying to remember, but Duncan knew the ex-spy well enough now to know ’twas for show, though he knew not where the two might have met. Nicholas forgot nothing, no matter how inconsequential. ’Twas a valuable skill in a spy and a chief. “Ah. I remember. You were below the curtain wall at Dunlairig Castle the day it fell.”
Conall started to deny it, but Nicholas cocked his head and the young man went quiet. Duncan could only imagine the look Nicholas must be giving him, for Conall went even paler than he’d started.
“You were with Scotia MacAlpin, my wife’s cousin. I searched for you in the rubble after the wall came down.”
Kenneth growled this time, his words lost in the sound, but Uilliam had a hand clamped to his shoulder, holding him firmly in place.
Nicholas did not appear to notice Kenneth’s reaction. “’Tis glad I am to see you hale and whole. Rowan was very concerned that you might have been caught in the wreckage.” He cocked his head the other way, and Conall shifted on his feet, as if he could not decide whether to stand his ground or flee. “She also told me your life was forfeit if you were caught with Scotia again.” Conall blanched so much his freckles stood out like spatters of crimson blood. “You were caught, by Rowan, and by me. As I am chief here now, ’tis my duty to take your life.”
Duncan swallowed an oath. What was Nicholas thinking? They needed these men on their side in the coming battle. As much as he did not want Conall here—and the thought of the randy lad chasing after Scotia raised an ire he was not proud of—there were bigger troubles to consider, and Duncan would do as he’d always done, though clearly not always well. He would watch over Scotia like a hawk.
The other MacGregors bristled at Nicholas’s statement, two of them going so far as to draw their dirks.
“Put your blades away,” Nicholas said, though he did not take his eyes off Conall. “I have no intention of carrying out this sentence right now.”
“Never!” one of the MacGregors said.
“That depends upon Conall”—he turned and looked back at Kenneth—“and Kenneth.” He speared the auld chief with a look that shocked Duncan. He knew Nicholas was capable of anything—as a spy in King Edward’s employ he would have had to do many things he might not choose to do in his new life as chief. So far at least. This look said Nicholas was in complete control, that he had stepped fully and confidently into his position as chief of this clan, and that he expected Kenneth to respect whatever Nicholas was up to with Conall. Kenneth glared at Nicholas, but gave him a slight nod and said nothing.
Nicholas returned his glare to Conall. “Do you give your word that you will do as I bid, putting the protection of this clan and indeed, the entire Highlands, first in your thoughts and your actions for as long as you bide here with us?”
To Conall’s credit, he straightened his back, dropped his shoulders, and faced the chief like a warrior. “Of course I do. ’Tis why I am here. The MacAlpins have long been our allies, and we are joined by many common kinfolk. You have my word that I am here as a warrior in the service of the Targe and its Guardians.”
The other allies nodded their agreement, as Nicholas stared into the eyes of each man. “I have the same oath from each of you?”
“Aye!” they all said at once.
“Then I welcome you and thank you for coming to our aid in this
fight. You are invited to partake of our hospitality, as much as we can offer, and in return for your service you have my oath that should you ever require it, you have but to call upon us and we will come to your aid.”
“And Conall’s life?” Dermid demanded.
“Will depend upon his keeping his oath,” Nicholas quickly answered. “If he does, he shall be free to leave here, with his head still upon his shoulders, when this business is done.” Nicholas stared at Conall a long moment, clearly making the lad uncomfortable once more. “If he keeps his oath,” Nicholas repeated.
Duncan forced himself to keep his face neutral, though he wanted to grin at Nicholas’s masterful way of putting the lad on notice. Nicholas suddenly pivoted and led the small group of allies further into the camp. As Conall passed Duncan and the other two men, he put as many people between himself and Kenneth as he could, and only glanced quickly at Duncan, as he followed the other allies into the camp.
As Kenneth, Uilliam, and Duncan fell in behind the newcomers, the scant number of them sank in. Ten and three. Only ten and three had come to their aid, though Dermid said more skirmished with the English as they came, which, Duncan suddenly realized, gave proof to at least that part of what Scotia knew of the English force. The MacAlpins must pray those skirmishes whittled away many of the English soldiers. Fifteen dead would give the MacAlpins a slim advantage. Ten dead English would bring them close to even numbers. Anything less would make the MacAlpins’ success in defending their home and the Highlands an uncertain undertaking at best.
Duncan realized that Nicholas had been about more than just putting Conall on notice that he had not emerged from the falling wall as unscathed as he might think. By making it clear he knew exactly who Conall was and what his position was with this clan, Nicholas had asserted his position as chief with the allies, with Conall, and with Kenneth, effectively telling Kenneth he could not touch the lad without the new chief’s assent.
But Duncan knew, despite Nicholas’s assertion of his position, if Conall so much as thought of breaking his oath, Duncan would make sure the young warrior never broke another one long before Kenneth could even raise a fist.
Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe Book 3) Page 8
