Highland Dragon Warrior

by Isabel Cooper

  “Moiread MacAlasdair, wherever she is.” If William Wallace and John De Soules were still at large, as Bayard had said they were the night before, then Moiread would not be returning soon. She’d been eager to fight. Cathal had joked that she’d have stabbed him herself, had she waited too many months longer. She’d also believed far more strongly than Cathal had and hoped a great deal more.

  In the fall of Stirling Castle, Cathal himself had seen only the last convulsion of a slow death, a final blind struggle against a wound that allowed for no more recovery than a slit throat or an opened gut. Before Falkirk, when Philip of France had turned his back, winning had begun to look to Cathal like a child’s dream.

  He had been wrong before. That didn’t look like the case this time.

  One spirit waited, the other two having vanished to whatever road they walked. The spirits didn’t reach their destinations instantly: sending messages this way took a few days most of the time, weeks when Cathal had been in the Holy Land, and it didn’t work at all if one party was on the water. (“Probably something to do with the elements,” Agnes had said. “They’re creatures of air. Fire or earth would likely stop them too, but why would we spend a week there?”)

  Cathal passed the remaining letter over. “Artair MacAlasdair.”

  His father was likely preparing his own forces to come back, perhaps negotiating with Longshanks and the Bruce, always with a set face and a shrug when anyone pressed him, though they might do so in a manner which would have had Cathal drawing his sword long since. Endurance was Artair’s watchword—it showed in the castle he’d rebuilt, in the wives he’d outlived and the various children he’d sired—and patience another.

  Rome wasn’t built in a day, he’d said often as Cathal had raged against a slight or confinement when young. In the days of the war, when he and Moiread had raged against the English or despaired at setbacks, his father had added to the saying: and neither did it so fall.

  Perhaps that was easier to say when one had almost seen it. Still, Cathal had remembered the words bitterly over the last few months, thinking of them over and over as he watched Fergus decline.

  Rejecting Valerius’s offer had been a matter of honor—and probably of wisdom, as sorcerers who waved thighbones around probably made poor allies and worse employers—and Cathal didn’t regret it. Nor would he have regretted trying to kill Valerius if he’d done so. He’d killed scores of men through the years, with practicality heated by the passion of battle, nothing more or less.

  He’d struck out of rage and offended pride. He knew that. He’d known it in the instant he’d swung his sword. His first thought had been that the wizard would pay for making such an offer, and more for even thinking he’d accept.

  Cathal thought he’d meant to kill the man quickly, just the same. He prayed that he had, in the stunted and half-formed prayers of which he remained capable. And he wondered every day if he was deceiving himself on that score. He was glad he hadn’t seen his father’s face when he’d told Artair about the curse, even if it had held as little emotion as his voice had. Cathal wondered often enough about that, too.

  Straightening up, walking to the edge of the battlements, he found a new element introducing itself into his speculation: what Artair would think of his newest guests.

  Guest, really.

  Alice was a pleasant lass—in a sharp-tongued way wherein she clearly neither liked nor trusted Cathal, and which was really rather to her credit—but she didn’t enter his thoughts the way Sophia did, nor did her presence lighten them.

  In Fergus’s room, doing nothing more yet than a surgeon’s everyday work, Sophia had made him think of figures on stained-glass windows. She was gold and darkness in his mind, the shades of fire on a winter’s night.

  Be wary, he told himself. Don’t justify her warnings; expect no miracles.

  He grew tired of not expecting.

  The western tower was sturdy, the sky blue and inviting, and his day’s immediate duties were behind him. Cathal straightened his spine, gulped in clear, cold air, and leapt off the tower.

  Even now, the moment of free falling was exhilaration and terror, the back of his mind insisting that he could die here even as the rest of him knew otherwise. Then the transformation took over. Suddenly there were wings unfolding from his shoulders—much larger, scaled shoulders now—and air beneath them, bearing him up and taking him away.

  Five

  After five days, Sophia had made more progress than she’d expected at first. She could find her way around the castle by herself.

  Fergus’s blood was coming along nicely too. She’d set half of what she’d taken aside in a tightly stoppered glass jar—no point in cutting the poor boy open more than she had to—and the calcination stage had gone well. Now seven smaller vessels stood in the room off the western tower, each over heat appropriate to the metal it contained, and she carefully watched as the fluid within bubbled gently.

  Colors had not appeared yet, but—she glanced down at the hourglass—it wasn’t time.

  She had no doubts about her technique, at least. She’d taken more care than she ever had with an experiment before, and nobody could ever have called her haphazard or flighty to begin with. The laboratory helped as well. The room was spacious and well lit, and the heat steadier and more reliable than she would have expected, particularly on short notice. As dearly as she would have loved to work with any of the furnaces she had back home, she’d known she’d have to do without them. The castle’s hearth and the various braziers were better than she’d hoped for.

  She’d mentioned as much to Cathal the day before. They sat together for meals, as befit the castle’s current lord and an apparent gentlewoman, and Sophia was glad of the opportunity to speak a friendly word. For a woman out in the world, her uncle had said, kindness would be better armor than steel, and plain words were their own sort of magic.

  Also, she’d wanted to see Cathal smile again, the way he had when she joked about Valerius. The memory made him loom a touch less when Sophia encountered him about the castle. If she was going to stay as long as she might, she’d need more such perspective.

  Alas, she’d chosen a poor moment to speak. She hadn’t seen the man-at-arms approaching the high table—even in her time there, that happened often—and looking, Alice said later, like a stormy day. Cathal had heard her thanks, but whatever he might have replied had been lost in the storm of Gaelic that came next, and the moment to repeat herself had never come around again.

  If that was her greatest disappointment at Loch Arach, Sophia would count herself far luckier than she deserved. She had reminded herself of that later.

  Meals often went in such a fashion—or Cathal was simply absent. There was no reason for Sophia to be sorry when that happened, perfunctory and distracted as his conversation often was, and yet she felt the absence, noticed the empty place on the bench, and from time to time wondered where—or what—he was.

  Once, she’d paused in her unpacking and gone to look out the tower window, thinking to stretch her back and ease her eyes. In that moment, she’d thought she’d seen a great winged shape far away, and perhaps a glint of blue in the sunlight. She’d leaned her elbows on the windowsill and peered through the hazy, greenish glass, but the shape had vanished, and she hadn’t yet gotten up the courage to ask Cathal about it.

  If thanking him for the room and its comforts hadn’t gotten his attention, maybe I thought I saw you flying the other day would. On the other hand, what she’d had of his attention hadn’t been entirely comfortable.

  On the other other hand, if she’d sought comfort, she wouldn’t have been spending the winter on a mountain in Scotland.

  Sophia eyed the bubbling vials closely, checked the flames under each, and went still when she heard a knock at the door.

  “Will anything explode if I come in?” Alice called from the other side.

 
“I think not.”

  “You’re not quite a comfort in times of uncertainty, you know.” When Alice pushed the door open, Sophia saw that she was carrying a small tray with bread, cheese, what looked like eel pie, and a small flask of wine. “You also missed the noon meal.”

  “I did?” Sophia glanced toward the window, but afternoon light in Scotland wasn’t what it had been in Paris, and the glass didn’t help. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to bring me anything.”

  “No. I’m a very generous woman and will doubtless receive a just reward one of these days. But it wasn’t my idea. Is this all right,” Alice asked, jerking her chin at a clear space on one of the tables lining the room, “or will you turn into a rat?”

  “I’ll be no more likely to than usual. Not your idea?”

  Alice pulled one of the two stools up and broke off a piece of cheese. “Whatever else I can say about Sir Cathal, he’s not a blind man. He asked me where you were. I said you came and went without leave from me, but if I knew you, you were probably up in this tower messing about with fire and silver and turning your hair green—”

  “My hair’s never turned green.”

  “—and he had one of the pages fetch this. He was going to take it up himself, but I thought there was less chance of disaster if I did it, since I’d remember to knock first and not go about poking the fire or drinking potions to see what they do.”

  “I doubt he’d do that,” said Sophia, a chunk of bread and cheese halfway to her mouth. “Any of that.”

  Alice shrugged. “Well, I’ll let him come next time, then.” She nibbled the cheese, looked up, and grinned. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Sophia, and she truly wasn’t disappointed, or not mostly. She was too surprised. Pleased too: the thought had been a kind one, and it was flattering to know that she’d been on his mind at all. “I’m no good to him if I starve,” she said, as much to herself as to Alice, “and I’m sure he knows that hunger clouds judgment. Besides, he was probably looking for a chance to see how the experiment was coming along.”

  “He doesn’t seem like the sort who’d need an excuse for that,” said Alice. “How is this going? You still have your eyebrows, I note, which is a pleasant change.”

  “I’ve only lost them once.”

  “Yet.”

  “And I was sixteen, and the crucible was faulty.” This was an old dance, and Sophia quickly moved on, breaking the bread and cheese into smaller portions as she talked. “I think… I think…it’s going well, but this is only the first part. Finding out what’s wrong.”

  “Other than ‘extremely sinister evil magic,’ you mean. Ugh.” Alice shuddered. “Perhaps we did well to spend a dozen years away from England, if this is the sort of thing they get up to.”

  “I don’t get the impression that it’s common.”

  “A little goes a long way.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Sophia said. Despite the fatigue of the journey, she’d taken long enough to get to sleep the night after Cathal had told her his story. “But you know there could have been such men in France, and we just never crossed their paths.”

  “Oh yes,” said Alice, rolling her eyes, “you’re very comforting.” She sighed and shook her head. “I did want to see the world, didn’t I?”

  “So you said back home.” Sophia chewed a bite of pie and studied the face before her: light where hers was dark, angular where hers was heart-shaped, and more familiar than her own, especially since their months of travel when mirrors had not figured heavily in their lives. “Though I admit you cannot have had this in mind. If you do want to leave—”

  “Do not,” said Alice, blue eyes narrowing, “be foolish.”

  “I’ll not lose sleep trying to figure out a way then,” Sophia said and smiled.

  “Don’t. You kick when you’re restless.” Alice picked up the flask of wine, took a drink, and passed it back to Sophia. “Besides, I’d never find anywhere nearly as pleasant to stay the winter. I’ve just about fit myself into the kitchens, and one of the girls here knows a little French. We’re swapping songs. You know we’ve not heard most of those here.”

  “I do,” Sophia said, although in truth, the minstrel’s songs had all blended together into pleasant incomprehensibility for her. Without words, music had never quite caught her attention, but she knew what it meant to Alice. “By spring, we might even speak some of the local language ourselves.”

  “Oh, if we can make our throats work with it,” said Alice, shaking her head good-naturedly. “Maybe you can brew a potion for that while you’re up here. Or we could just put small rocks under our tongues. Speaking of which—brewing potions, not rocks—have you had any word about this midwife? The one who knows her herbs?”

  “No,” said Sophia, “but she wouldn’t be very useful just now. Everything I’ve been able to find says that the first step with a spell is determining which planetary influence it primarily falls under. Herbs won’t be of any use until I can do that.”

  “I’ll believe you,” said Alice, “since I really have very little idea what you’re talking about. Finish your pie.”

  Sophia did as she was told. Eating the bread and cheese had reminded her body of its physical nature, and her hunger was greater than she’d thought. Such was often the case; it was why many magicians had apprentices. Alice wasn’t her apprentice, nor did Sophia travel with her for those reasons, and yet Alice filled that place, a role which, Sophia was discovering, was rather essential.

  “Thank you,” she said, when the mouthful of pie was gone and she could speak.

  “You’d be dead without me, I know,” Alice said. “Or in a horrible mood all the time. Stalking the halls and trying to gnaw on people’s shoulders when you forgot to eat.”

  “I think I’d try the kitchens first, even in that state.”

  “I’d advise it. Nobody here looks the sort who’d tamely submit to you biting hunks out of their arms. I do, of course, but then I’m not nearly as mild and proper as you might think, so I wouldn’t try that either.” Alice rose from the stool, brushed her skirts into place, and reached for the tray, which now held only crumbs and the empty flask of wine.

  Laughing, Sophia waved Alice’s hand away. “Leave it. I’ll bring it back.”

  “The aura of cheese won’t contaminate your experiments?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.” When Alice still looked dubious, Sophia added, “It truly is the least I can do, since you climbed all this way.”

  “And you’ll remember it?”

  “I swear”—Sophia put a hand over her heart—“I’ll bring it with me when I come down. Which I also swear to do, and in good time for the evening meal.”

  “Do,” Alice said, “or I’ll have one of the men-at-arms come and carry you down. Not in any dignified fashion either, but over one shoulder. Like a sack of grain or a recalcitrant pig.”

  “Hark at the lady. You don’t even know their language, and you’d command them to start carrying off strange women?”

  Alice shrugged. “Very well… I’ll get Sir Cathal to do it,” she said and was out the door before Sophia could take the last word from her.

  No magician, Alice had nonetheless conjured up a very vivid image. Even under tunic and surcoat, the lines of Cathal’s body were clear, and clearly strong. Sophia doubted he would have any trouble throwing her over a shoulder, or in keeping her there.

  After another glance at the flasks, she rose quickly and went to the window, pressing her hands against the cold glass. The fires, she thought, were working a little too well.

  Six

  Mornings for Cathal, since he returned from the war, meant a trip to the western tower. He went before the rest of the household was at mass, before anyone had thought to light a fire in the castle, and while his blood let him shrug off the cold easily enough, he often had a
harder time with the hunger. In a hall below Sophia’s turret, he opened a door to a square room without windows, lit only by the first rays of the rising sun through the cracks in the stone. He could have taken flint and steel to the torches on the walls—his mother and a few of his siblings could have lit them with a thought or a muttered word—but most days he didn’t bother. He wasn’t human, and dim light offered him no hardship.

  At the center of the room was a five-sided table: part of his mother’s dowry, carved from a single block of ash. A map of Loch Arach and its borderlands covered the surface, burned into the wood in deep black lines.

  There were no chairs around the table, or anywhere else. In this room, you stayed on your feet.

  The dawn’s light bathed the map in red-gold, but it remained only sunlight when it touched the wood, not turning to the darker red that would have meant battle, nor the yellow of plague. The first signs of the day were clear.

  Cathal crossed the room to a dark corner, where a small well descended into the earth below the castle. Lowering the bucket—made of ash as well—was routine now, his hands as trained to the motion as they were to drawing his sword or mending his gear. His mind, not yet fully awake, wandered, making lists of the tasks ahead, bringing up the memory of the last song the night before, and reminding him that he was only a short staircase below the room where Sophia spent most of her days.

  Might she be up there already? She wouldn’t be one for mass, that was certain, and she might be wary enough to retire to the turret before the rest of the castle went to the chapel. Later, he could go up and see for himself. It would be wise to check her progress on occasion and to see what use she was making of the room he’d given her.

  It would be pleasant to see her face in the rosy light of dawn, to stand alone with her in a warm room and talk as he never seemed quite able to do at meals. Everything about the great hall spoke to him too much of his role and his duties, and he could never quite break free of them long enough to think of conversation. Odd that his days had been longer on campaign, and physically as hard or worse, but he’d always been able to charm a pretty lass when he’d wanted to.