A jolt surged from her hand into Arianna’s arm the instant the strange woman touched her. Just the way it had at Nicodimus’s touch. Arianna’s eyes widened. Nidaba paused, met her gaze, and seemed to will her to keep silent. Aloud, she said, “I have no need of you two men. You may go, take refreshment. I will bring her along to you when we’ve finished.”
Arianna sought Nicodimus’s eyes, her own pleading. She didn’t know this woman. Nidaba frightened her, when she’d long prided herself on fearing nothing; not man, nor beast nor death itself.
“I’ll stay,” Nicodimus said, very softly. “She’s been through a shock, and you’re a stranger to her, Nidaba.”
Nidaba’s dark, probing gaze never left Arianna. “I am a stranger to most of the clan Lachlan. But few look at me with such wide eyes as these.” Her hand clasped Arianna’s chin as she studied her face, and Arianna fought to hide her inexplicable fear of the woman. “You are right to be afraid, young one, of those you do not know. However, I mean you no harm . . . just now.” As she unwrapped the wound, she whispered, “I am not one of the Dark Ones.”
Arianna only frowned, puzzled.
And when Nidaba saw that she hadn’t understood, the woman sent Nicodimus a questioning look, to which he responded with a quick subtle shake of his head. There was another long gaze between them, but it broke off when Nicodimus came to the other side of the bed to watch over her as the dark woman worked. The laird himself, not some servant, fetched water and a cloth, and brought fine whiskey for her to sip, while Nidaba cleansed and then stitched the wound, and Arianna clutched Nicodimus’s forearm in pain.
Twice, Arianna saw Nidaba move one hand over the cut in a circular motion; saw her lips moving as she whispered some words too soft to hear. Almost as if . . . as if she were casting a spell.
But nay. She couldn’t be. Could she?
When the laird left the three of them alone in the room, Arianna cleared her throat, gathered her courage, and blurted the question on her mind. “Are you a witch, Nidaba?”
Nidaba’s hands stilled. Then she lifted one forefinger, and taking the needle, pricked it. A ruby-red droplet welled from the tiny puncture, and Nidaba met Arianna’s eyes. “I bleed. Therefore, I cannot be, can I?”
Silent for a moment, looking from Nidaba to Nicodimus and back again, Arianna realized it was meant to be a joke. Though the strange woman never smiled.
“I am serious,” Arianna insisted. “Is it only when I touch the hand of another witch that I feel that . . . that surge of . . . of whatever it is that I felt when I touched you just now, Nidaba? Or when I touch Nicodimus?”
Nidaba met Nicodimus’s eyes, her eyebrows raised.
“But it canna be that,” Arianna continued, shaking her head. “I feel nothing when I touch Celia’s hand, nor Leandra’s nor Mary’s.”
Nidaba tilted her head. “And who are they?”
“The Crones,” Nicodimus explained.
“Ahhh,” she said. “The mortal village Witches.”
Arianna frowned at them both while Nidaba bent to her work once again. “Mortal? What do you mean, Nidaba?” But Nidaba didn’t answer. “Nicodimus, what did she mean?”
Nicodimus cleared his throat. “Nidaba is not quite fluent in our language, Arianna. It is not her native tongue.”
“Do you think I dinna ken as much?” Arianna said with a toss of her head. “The entire clan kens she’s a foreigner.” Arianna looked at her. “Where do you come from, Nidaba?”
“I believe you know it as Sumeria,” Nidaba answered without looking up. Her hair hung over her face like a black satin curtain.
Arianna blinked. She was uncertain, but she thought Sumeria to be the name of some long ago desert land; a place that no longer existed. She must be mistaken. She certainly didn’t want to show the two of them her ignorance by asking.
“And, how do you two know each other?” she went on, burningly curious about the nature of their relationship.
“Why do you ask?” Nicodimus asked her.
She shrugged. “You seem . . . well acquainted.”
“We are.”
Nidaba’s head was still bent over Arianna’s wrist, but not so much that Arianna missed the slight smile at Nicodimus’s answer. “Nicodimus and I have been . . . acquainted . . . for a very long time. Longer than you could even begin to guess.”
Then . . . you are close. Close . . . as friends are close?” Arianna pressed.
The needle jabbed her, and while up to now she hadn’t felt a hint of unnecessary pain under the woman’s ministrations, this time it hurt. “The curious rabbit who pries into the scorpion’s lair,” Nidaba said softly, “gets stung.”
“You did that apurpose!” Arianna all but shouted.
Nidaba said nothing more as she wrapped Arianna’s arm in a clean, soft cloth. When that was done, she straightened, and began putting her things away. “Finish the whiskey,” she told Arianna. “The pain will ease soon.”
The door opened and the laird peered inside. “How is she?”
“She will be fine,” Nidaba replied. “But it could have been far more serious, had Nicodimus not been nearby.”
“Aye, I thought as much. Rest awhile there, lass,” the laird bade Arianna. “You’ll take dinner here in the keep. An’ I’ll have no argument about that. Fear not, I’ll send word to your mother with the same two men I’m sendin’ to bring young Angus back here. A night in the dungeon might give the lad somethin’ to think about ‘ere next he harms a lassie. We dinna tolerate such behavior in the clan.”
“No,” Nicodimus said, almost under his breath. “No, we never have.” And he exchanged yet another secretive glance with Nidaba.
Arianna forced herself to exercise the manners her mam had taught her. “I’m very grateful to you, Laird, and to you, Nidaba.” It galled her to thank a woman she sensed might be closer to Nicodimus than she was. But she had no choice. The strange woman had helped her.
“Then you’ll repay us by saying nothing of Nidaba’s healing skills to those vicious gossips in the village,” the laird responded. And as Arianna frowned at him, he explained, “If they persecute you for your strange ways, child, think what they’d make of her, did they learn she was a gifted practitioner of the healing arts. Nidaba is an old and valued friend, an’ I’ll nay subject her to such gossip.”
Those words, and the truth behind them, made Arianna’s chin raise. Women who practiced healing with any degree of success would soon raise the same suspicions in the superstitious members of the clan that Arianna herself had raised among them. “Aye,” she said softly. “If ‘tis my silence you want, you have my word on it, Laird. But were I you, Mistress Nidaba, I would march among the crofters proudly, and challenge anyone to say an unkind word and survive my wrath. Those ignorant fools need a lesson. ‘Tis high time they had one, in fact, an’ I–”
“And you’re just the one to deliver it,” Nicodimus finished for her. “Have you not learned a thing from all of this, Arianna?”
Nidaba looked from Nicodimus to Arianna, a worried glint in her strange eyes. “I approve of your spirit, child. And, if it is your own destruction you seek, you are going about it very well.”
“My own . . . ?” Arianna shook her head. “That’s not it at all.”
“If that is true, then perhaps you will listen to someone a great deal older than you, Arianna. Sometimes it is better to wait in silence–to choose one’s battles with wisdom rather than to rush headlong into each and every fight because of foolish pride.”
Arianna blinked at the soft, poetic cadence of Nidaba’s voice. She spoke slowly, deliberately, her tones deep and musical and hypnotic.
“I come here,” she went on, “to rest from strife and conflict, Arianna. Lachlan Keep is a haven to me, as it is to Nicodimus. I have no wish to stir up trouble here, among Joseph’s clan. There will be enough awaiting me when I leave these walls.”
Arianna frowned, tilting her head to one side. “If your life is so filled with trouble, p
erhaps you ought to stay here for good.”
“My troubles would find me soon enough,” she said, and there was a sadness in her eyes that made Arianna think perhaps she’d jumped to the wrong conclusions when she’d judged the woman to be her rival and her enemy.
“What sorts of troubles do you—”
“No, child. You know nothing of these things. Not yet.”
“Rest until dinner, lass,” the laird said again. “Come, Nidaba. I could use some of that wisdom of yours myself as I ponder what to do with the lass. I’ve spoken to some of the clansmen, and the talk Angus has already spread will no doubt make matters far worse. Decisions will need be made regarding the lassie’s safety.”
Nidaba nodded as Arianna frowned, and the two left the room, the laird’s head gleaming as much as Nidaba’s nose ring did in the flickering lamplight. Turning her puzzled gaze on Nicodimus, Arianna asked, “What did the laird mean by that?”
Nicodimus sighed deeply, and sat down upon the edge of the bed. “Arianna . . .” He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “It is fairly obvious now that you cannot simply return to the village. Not when the talk about you has reached such a crucial point that people are out to cut your pretty flesh just to see whether you bleed. It is too dangerous.”
“But I did bleed. Surely that should prove something to them.”
“You said yourself that it meant nothing, and I fear you were right. If Angus is spreading more wild tales already . . . . You’re in danger here, Arianna.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Danger,” she spat. “If my own clan is ignorant enough to come for me, let them. Next time I’ll be ready.”
“No, child, you’re not nearly ready for such as that.”
“Why will everyone nay stop callin’ me child’? I am nay a child!”
His lips crooked as if he battled a grin.
Sitting up in the bed, Arianna frowned at him. “Nor am I ready to allow the laird to decide my feae! Nicodimus, I’ll nay stand for it!” She swung her legs to the floor, went to stand, but Nicodimus gripped her arms in his, his touch tender, but firm enough to still her.
“All the laird has done up to now is show you his kindness, care for your wounds and invite you to dine here, Arianna. I’d suggest you try gratitude instead of rebellion, just this once. Wait to see what your chieftain has to say before you decide to flay him alive for it.”
She blinked, released all her breath at once, and lowered her head. “You’re right. I . . . I’m sorry. I’ll try to behave better. Some things . . . just dinna sit well with me, Nicodimus.”
“I know. And persecution of those whose ways are different is one of those things. Being told what to do is another. I’m aware of it. You wear your principles wrapped about you the way a knight wears his master’s colors. What you don’t understand is that Joseph shares those same concerns with you. It is why I come here when I need a rest from the . . . from the battles I fight. And why Nidaba has taken refuge here as well. Because he’s not like the others out there.”
She hung her head, a bit ashamed. “I suppose you think I’m actin’ like a child.”
“No. Like a warrior in search of a war. But you’ve no battle to fight here, not with me, nor with Nidaba, nor with Joseph. I promise you that.”
She nodded slowly. “I suppose . . . you’re right.” Although she thought she might disagree about Nidaba.
“Of course I’m right.”
“So what do you think he’ll decide should be done with me?”
“I imagine you’d best wait and see.”
“If I dinna like it, I will refuse. I . . . I will leave the clan if I must. I willna be forced into anything, Nicodimus. Not even by my own laird.”
“Wild horses couldn’t force you into anything, Arianna.”
She looked at him, and he smiled. “You may take it as a compliment, if you wish.”
She smiled back at him, just a little. She liked the way he made her feel. But she hated his secrets. Still, she supposed it would take him some time to come to trust her, to see her as a friend, the way he did Nidaba. But it would happen. She would see to that.
There was a sound outside the door, and then Nidaba stepped back inside. “I’ve come to tell you we eat in an hour, and to ask you, Arianna, if you would like to borrow a clean dress to wear.”
Glancing down at her attire, Arianna sighed in relief. “I . . . would like that very much. Though your gowns will likely drag ‘round the rushes on me. I thank you, Nidaba.”
Nidaba nodded, her face expressionless, then sent Nicodimus a look that told him his welcome here was over. As soon as they were alone, she opened an ornately carved chest and pulled out gown upon richly hued gown, none conventional or even fashionable. They were all simply cut, many daringly so, with no sleeves to cover the arms, and only one strap to attach atop one shoulder. Nidaba chose just such a gown, in a shimmering amber-colored material. “This one is shorter. I made it so, for ease in riding.”
“‘Tis very beautiful.”
Nidaba handed it to her, folded her arms across her chest and watched with an unblinking gaze as Arianna undressed, and donned the gown. Arianna felt like a wanton when she put it on, but Nidaba only nodded her approval and reached for a silver comb.
“Sit,” she commanded.
Arianna sat upon a stool, staring into a polished silver mirror that must be worth a fortune. And to her surprise, Nidaba began to run the comb through her hair. Arianna stared at her reflection, and that of the dark woman behind her, and she sighed. “My mam used to comb my hair this way.”
“Why has she stopped?”
Arianna shrugged. “Nothing is the same since my sister died.”
“And why should it be the same?” Nidaba asked. “There is grief now, where there once was joy. You miss her. Your mother misses her. Why do you not comfort one another?”
Arianna lowered her head, not saying what she felt. That it was her fault, and she felt too guilty to look her mother in the eye, much less try to comfort her, or allow herself to be comforted.
“No one knows the hour of their death, Arianna. You could not have known your sister would drown that day. You nearly drowned yourself.”
“You know about Raven?” Arianna asked, meeting Nidaba’s eyes in the mirror.
She nodded. “Nicodimus . . . has spoken of it.”
Arianna swallowed hard. “Do . . . do you love him, Nidaba?”
Nidaba held her gaze in the mirror. “I have loved him for all of his life,” she said. “And protected him, as well. I sense you are dangerous to him, young one.”
Blinking, Arianna shook her head. “I would never hurt Nicodimus!”
Nidaba’s gaze met and held Arianna’s, and they narrowed very slightly. “Then you have nothing to fear from me. But if you do hurt him . . . I warn you, child, my wrath will know no bounds.”
A cold chill rushed down Arianna’s spine at those words.
Nidaba ran a slender hand over Arianna’s hair, then gently pulled the strands back from her face and secured the tresses with a jewelled comb. She nodded. “There now. I believe you are ready for the meal.”
* * * *
Arianna stepped into the great hall feeling as if she were caught in a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. The gown she wore felt foreign and strange, made of what Nidaba called “silk,” spun by special worms in the Orient. Fit for a goddess, it was, dyed an amber hue that reminded Arianna of Nicodimus’s golden hair. The gown hung from one shoulder, where it was caught with a brooch of glittering gemstones, leaving the other shoulder and both arms sinfully bare. One wrist bore the white bandages, but other than that, her arms were fully exposed, and it felt scandalous, but good. While the gown did drag through the rushes on the floor a bit, it was not nearly as long as she had feared it would be. She looked beautiful, and she knew it.
The moment she stepped into the hall, a hush gradually fell across the room as conversation ceased. Soon all eyes were turned to where she stood near the doorway. She s
eemed to have captured the attention of all those who had gathered in the hall for the evening meal. Even the laird himself stopped his talk to stare at Arianna. Was she so different then? Nidaba had arranged her hair in a most becoming fashion, with soft tendrils curling all around her face. And her eyes had been touched with some mystical powder to enhance their shade.
The laird stood near the hearth speaking with his two sons, Kenyon, who was just her age, and Lud, two years her senior. But it was not their eyes she sought as she scanned the huge room. There . . . Nicodimus sat in an oversized wooden chair with a heavy brass goblet in his hand, but he’d paused with the drink halfway to his mouth and sat motionless, staring at her.
She licked her lips and boldly returned his stare, secretly wondering what to do next. Then the laird cleared his throat and Nicodimus blinked and quickly got to his feet. “Arianna. You look–”
“You look fit to take a man’s breath away,” Lud cut in, rushing to her side to offer an arm. He was a big lad of twenty years, with a belly that already bulged from too much ale. His face was ruddy, his hair, thick and uncombed.
“Nay, she looks better than that,” Kenyon exclaimed. “She looks like an angel.” And he came to her other side, also offering an arm. Kenyon was Lud’s opposite, small and slight, fair of coloring, and always well groomed.
She glanced back at Nidaba, who only watched, her face expressionless. Not knowing what else to do, Arianna let the lads escort her to the laird’s table, which sat on a raised dais at one end of the hall, where pitchers of mead surrounded platters piled high with steaming food. It looked to Arianna as though the laird’s cook had been expecting a great many more mouths to feed tonight. There were several other tables on the floor nearby, just as laden with fare.
“Lovely as a sunrise,” Laird Lachlan boomed, and headed for the high table. Nicodimus’s approach was slower, his gaze unreadable, as it slid from Lud to Kenyon, and back to Arianna again and lingering there. Nidaba watched him with her black almond eyes and expressionless face.
Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series Page 39
