He had wild hair of ashen brown, cropped unevenly and looking rough to the touch, though Barta just knew if she buried her fingers there it would prove soft and beguiling. A foreign slant lay in the elegant sculpting of his narrow face, but it was strangely familiar for all that. He moved with inexplicable grace, his long limbs, even covered with clothing, like music in motion.
His eyes…
But after the merest flicker of a glance, Barta could not look there, even though he continued that most intent stare. Whatever lay in his eyes, she felt unready to encounter it.
Magic, as the others said or something else darker, more sinister?
Yet the emotions she felt coming from him contained more reassurance than threat. That seemed familiar too, almost comforting. How could it be?
“Did something happen that caused you to forget your name?”
“Something most profound happened to me.” His voice had a low pitch and a gravely sound that sent a delicate shiver up Barta’s spine. He went on, “A battle. It affected my mind. I was sent here into your service to take the place of another.”
Loyal. The name appeared unbidden in Barta’s head. Well, it had not been far from her mind ever since she’d left him sprawled on the ground. To be sure, she had prayed for his return. But she wanted him, not some human substitution.
“Still, I do not think it my place to name you.”
“But I am born anew here with you, my lady, and will be forever true to you.” He hesitated. “Why will you not look at me?”
“I have. I will.” She turned her face to him, her gaze slipping from his hair to his lips to the skin visible at the open neck of his tunic. “Can you not tell me, at least, who sent you?”
“I cannot.”
“What do you remember of your past life?”
“I was a warrior and fought fiercely. I will do the same on your behalf.”
Barta did not doubt that. Everything about him argued he would make a potent weapon in a battle.
“Here we are engaged in a desperate struggle to hold our land. The Gaels moving east from Dal Riada want this territory—they are greedy for it. So it is in the north also, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“This particular struggle has been going on most of my life, and yours, yes?”
He nodded. Slowly, as if struggling to remember, he said, “I cannot recall a time when there were not battles. The purpose of my life has been to fight, to defend.”
“And whoever sent you—your tribeschief? How did he know we were in need of warriors?”
“Magic.” The word came from behind Barta, uttered by her mother. Essa had come from her sleeping alcove and now stood regarding the two of them, her hair hanging loose down her back.
Standing so, she didn’t appear old enough to have grown children. Indeed, at that moment Barta could not help but wonder how Essa must appear to the stranger, with her thick mane of russet hair and wide, gray eyes. Did she look like Barta’s sister rather than her mother?
Essa sat down beside them and folded her hands gracefully. “Daughter, do not search for explanations that do not exist.”
Barta stole another uneasy look at their guest before she said, “But his appearance here might be suspect, as Father says.”
“Somehow I do not think so.” Essa switched her gaze to the visitor. “If you are to remain with us, and near my daughter, you must prove yourself. Are you willing to do that?”
He inclined his head; the rough hair fell forward across his shoulders. “I am, Lady.”
“If I set a trial, will you undergo it?”
“I will, Lady—anything you ask.”
Barta spoke softly. “What kind of trial? Ma, what would you ask of him?”
Essa did not speak at once. “That,” she said at last, “is just what your father and I have been discussing.”
“But you are the one who said he’s been sent by magic.”
Essa smiled. “I need no convincing, Daughter. Others of the tribe will. We have only his word as to how or why he has been sent. And trust must be won, if he is to be accepted.” Again she looked at the young man in question, meeting his gaze even as Barta avoided it. “I believe you do wish to stay?”
“Yes, Lady.”
“But,” Barta protested yet again, “to undergo a trial…it seems so hard.” And why did she suddenly feel protective of the stranger? Certainly he appeared more than capable of looking after himself.
“Barta, many, like your father, suspect deception. I cannot say I blame them. Nor,” she told their guest, “should you, young…man.”
Again he bowed his head with almost regal grace. “I will undergo whatever trial you ask.”
“Wait.” Again protectiveness flared in Barta’s heart. “Do not agree before you hear what you’ll be asked to undertake. Ma?”
“That has yet to be determined. I must consult with those among us most likely to complain about his presence. Meanwhile, young man, I suggest you get what rest you can. I regret to say you must sleep outside until your loyalty is proven.”
For the first time, protest touched the man’s handsome features. An instant later he nodded yet again. “As you ask, Lady.”
“But,” Barta spoke despite herself, “it is cold outside.”
“And he has journeyed far,” Essa agreed. “Yet your father has asked the question, should we all lie down so he might slit our throats in our sleep? Would you, Barta, like to go and argue it with him?”
Barta shook her head. Why should it bother her so, the thought of the stranger lying in the cold? She did not know him. How could she care what happened to him?
The young man got to his feet. He spoke to Barta rather than to her mother. “It is all right. I do not mind.”
“Wait.” Barta hurried to her own sleeping bench, where she gathered up one of her rugs. She returned and pressed it into his hands. “To help ward off the cold.”
He smiled, and it lit his face with wild beauty. He lifted the rug, pressed it to his face as if testing its warmth, and inhaled deeply. “Thank you. This will be a comfort.”
Barta stood where she was as her mother led him to the door. Why should it hurt physically to watch him go? He would not be far away; she would see him come morning.
With that sustaining thought lodged in her head she went to her sleeping bench. Morning could not come soon enough.
****
The moon had narrowed to a sharp crescent, a mere fingernail hanging low in the sky. From where he lay he could just see it through the trees that screened the Epidii settlement. Mostly hazel they were, and possessed of potent magic.
Before his transformation at the Lady’s will, he’d been able to sense magic clearly, just as he could smell the passing of a badger or hare. Now that ability had faded, yet it seemed he kept the awareness of where magic existed, gathered like a cloak around Essa and trailing everywhere throughout the camp. These folk lived by whispering prayers whenever they undertook any action. They wove spells of protection as easily as they breathed. He used to be able to see the magic clearly. Though he no longer could, its shadows gathered before his eyes.
In the past he had not prayed, at least not consciously. He’d merely spoken to the Lady when he felt the need.
As when Barta had left him lying on the bloodied ground.
Did he need to begin praying now? Must he mutter words and cast spells using this strange new medium of language that he found so difficult? Could he no longer speak to the Lady, or to Barta, with his mind?
No matter—it did not make too great a price to pay, if he could be near Barta. Nothing would make too high a price. Even if he must lie here outside the door, separated from her by wattle and leather, he could feel her nearness. And her scent lay in the rug she’d given him from her own bed.
He buried his face in it again and inhaled. How many times had he lain with her in that bed? Only from puppyhood. He remembered how she’d laughed when he grew yet still strove to push his great limbs in with her, leaving
her less and less space.
Contentment lay in that memory. And longing. But she was just inside—he could endure this night.
He wondered what Lady Essa would propose as a trial for him. He suspected he should pray about that. But he merely lay with his eyes on the sliver of moon and breathed Barta’s scent.
He wished she’d given him a name. For he could no longer use the one by which she had first called him.
Chapter Six
Rain began to fall before morning, clouds preceding the dawn and obscuring the new sun. He awoke from a brief, fitful sleep, drenched to the skin and with a row of children staring at him, their shaggy heads in a line.
He knew them all, though of course they did not recognize him. He, along with his canine brothers and sisters, had played with them in the past, frolicked and chased. Now he dared not let on.
They looked far too solemn and wary, and behind them, keeping a careful eye, stood their fathers and elder brothers.
He roused himself, trying to gather his wits and control these strange new senses—the severely limited ability to capture scent, the overload of touch.
He sat up, and one of the children said to another, “He sleeps across the doorway like a hound.”
So he did.
He risked a smile at the children, and they scattered like mist, wild as puppies. Their elders, farther back, lingered. What did they expect he might do? Fly at his hosts and slit their throats?
Consulting this odd new body of his, he found conflicting impulses. The Lady had healed his battle wounds when she transformed him; he felt only residual pain. But hunger competed fiercely with the need to piss. Which call should he satisfy first?
He did not suppose it would be acceptable to lift his leg on the nearest tree as he had in the past. If he made a dash for the surrounding forest, he suspected he might come under attack.
He got to his feet, testing that supposition, and the watching Epidii tensed.
Just then, a hound came strolling by, one of those belonging to Gede, who was friend to Wick. The dog, named Mighty, checked and looked at him, hackles rising. Pure, baffled consternation shone from Mighty’s eyes, and a growl of puzzlement issued from his jaws.
The door of the dwelling opened abruptly; Barta peered out, and relief flooded him.
“Oh, you are awake,” she whispered. “Mother said to let you in.”
He gestured to himself. “Thank you, but first I need—”
“Yes, very well. I will show you the midden.”
To be sure, he knew where that lay. He wrinkled his nose involuntarily at the prospect of going near that stinking place. But he would follow her anywhere and did so now, as if commanded.
How strange it felt to be moving at her side as he always had, to adjust his stride to match hers once again, yet to be taller than she!
He measured every movement of her arms and legs—slender, strong, and long for those of a female person—and concentrated on catching her delectable scent. That became more difficult when they neared the pit near the edge of the trees, where folk came to relieve themselves and the night pots got emptied.
Still, the place did not smell as bad as he remembered. Could there be advantages to this new, stunted form he occupied?
Barta turned her back, while he did as he must, and waited to accompany him back again. The rain continued to fall, pelting down softly. When he returned to her side, he saw it caressed her cheeks like tears.
However hampered his senses might be, it seemed he had no trouble reading her emotions, which came to him as easily as ever. He could almost taste her grief and uncertainty.
At least she seemed more willing to look at him this morning. In fact, her gaze inspected his face as if she searched him for something, though her eyes still had trouble meeting his for more than an instant.
“Come along,” she bade.
“Mistress, have you chosen for me a name?”
Her uncertainty flared, edged with distress. “I still do not see why I should. It does not seem appropriate.”
“If I had a name, I have forgotten it.” A lie. Loyal. He ached to hear it from her lips, but it seemed this new tongue of his lent itself to deception.
She gave him a rebellious look. Indeed, he knew his mistress for rebellious at the best of times. Now she said, “Perhaps you will recall the name you had.”
He slowed his steps to a halt. She paused with him. Earnestly, he said, “Whatever name I may have had is mine no more. For me, that life is done. I begin anew here, with you. And I promise you, I will prove true to you every day we spend together.”
Light flared in her eyes for an instant, obscuring her sorrow. “Is it so?” She tossed her head, recapturing some of the spirit he loved to see. “Then perhaps I should call you ‘True’ and be done.”
He stared at her compellingly. The name “True” would please him very well. “I will go by that name, and happily.”
But she concluded, “And what kind of name is that for a man? Let us see how you prove yourself in this trial my mother has in mind before I go naming you, eh?”
He only stared at her. True he was, from that moment.
They entered Radoc’s dwelling—Barta first, with him on her heels—and the familiar scents of the place assailed him, though not as strongly as they used to. Mistress Essa had a meal prepared; she looked up at them sharply.
“There you are. I’d begun to wonder if our new arrival had flown.”
“I needed to show him around the encampment.”
“Of course. Sit down, young man. You are welcome to share our breakfast.”
Was he welcome, though? He felt a measure of that emotion flowing from Essa and in a lesser amount from Tally. The others stared at him with suspicion.
Chief Radoc, as he very well knew suffered greatly from his afflictions upon rising. He groaned now as he struggled to shift his bulk and glared at everyone impartially. But his glare at the newcomer seemed fiercest. Bright, who lay at the side of Radoc’s bed, came to greet him with a touch of her nose to his hand, her eyes matching her name. Ah, and at least his mother still knew him.
“Sit here beside me,” Barta said softly and brushed his arm with her hand. His entire body leaped to attention. Used as he was to her touch, he’d never before experienced it skin on skin. His overloaded senses made him flush.
But they settled beside the hearth, and Tally took the place on his other side. Mistress Essa passed out food; True ate ravenously, shoving in the barley mash, using the strange appendages of his fingers.
He paused when he noticed the others eyeing him askance. He wondered if he broke some misunderstood rule of hospitality.
Mistress Essa spoke. “Forgive me, young man. We were remiss in failing to offer you a repast last evening. You journeyed far and were clearly famished.”
He gazed at her. “I am content, Mistress, with whatever you are willing to offer me.”
“Starve him then,” Wick muttered, not quite under his breath.
Essa filled a bowl for Radoc, who cleared his throat and eyed Wick.
“Your mother has persuaded me we owe our guest a full measure of hospitality—at least until he proves himself unworthy.”
“That, Master, I will never do.”
Radoc fixed him with a fierce eye, offering a glimpse of the spirit that survived his dire injuries. “We shall see. Are you prepared to accept today’s challenge?”
“How can he be prepared?” asked Tally. “He knows not what you will ask of him.”
“I am prepared—no matter what it may be.”
He felt more than saw Barta look at him. All at once he longed for her touch once again, reinforcing their sense of connection.
Tally handed over his breakfast. “Here—you need this more than I do.”
“I would not deprive you, young Master.”
Tally gave him a crooked smile. “If I know my mother, you will need all your strength. And I would rather skip my breakfast and see you succeed.”
>
Essa exclaimed in disapproval. “Keep your breakfast, son. Are we so poor we cannot provide our guest all he asks?”
Content, Tally settled back to eat even as Essa offered more food around the hearth.
True ate his second portion as ravenously as the first, wondering why Barta eyed him so strangely all the while. The drink offered—a strange, bitter brew—tasted vile, and he had difficulty sipping it from the rim of the cup as the others did. He wished he had water instead.
When finished, Radoc emitted a great belch and said, “There now. You had better tell the young man what you have in mind for him, my love, so he may better prepare himself.”
Essa got to her feet. Barta arose also, and True stumbled up at her side, gaze fixed on Essa.
He had always seen so much in Mistress Essa’s eyes which, like Barta’s and Tally’s, were a dark, smoky gray.
Now they glowed with wisdom. “We”—she gestured at herself and Radoc—“have decided to place your proving in the hands of the gods. You will undergo a threefold trial. If you pass all three parts, we will accept you into the tribe as one of our own. Should you fail any part, we will have to ask you to leave. Do you understand?”
Dismay flooded him. He did not want to risk leaving Barta for any reason. But surely the goddess, having transformed him, would not allow him to fail?
He nodded.
Barta spoke swiftly. “What are these trials just?”
“He will be asked to prove his endurance, his determination, and his valor. Young man, in what order would you face these challenges?”
He thought about it. Used to employing sheer instinct rather than reason, he found the process difficult. Impulse made him say, “As spoken, mistress.”
“Wait.” Barta reached out and once more touched his arm lightly. He stiffened as if brushed by flame. “Is that the best order? Endurance, taken first, may tire you for the other challenges.”
“Yet valor,” Tally put in, “if that’s combat, might wound him for the others.”
Barta looked at her mother. “Why must he face this ordeal at all?”
His heart bounded. Did his mistress champion him? Like him, could she feel their connection?
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