“Long-lived folk,” said Sophia, carefully neutral. The people of castle and village must not be entirely ignorant of the MacAlasdairs’ true nature, she thought, but that didn’t mean they knew it fully. “And none of the grown children have married yet.”
“One of the girls. There was a grand feast, and then she went away. The boys… Well, they’re men, aye?” Donnag glanced up at Munro again, shook her head, and chuckled. “At least the village girls have naught to fret over.”
The fire was very hot, and Sophia leaned back, letting the cool air hit her face. “That’s very…courteous…” she said with even more care than she’d used before. She didn’t meet Alice’s eyes. She didn’t even let herself think past the words.
Unnoticing or uncaring, Donnag shrugged. “Courteous or not, they can’t breed. Can’t even do it with their proper brides, my gran once said, without going off into the mountains for a fortnight.”
“Gossip.” Munro finally spoke.
“Could be. But you were a boy here, and a young man. Ever seen a child that took after one of their lordships more than it did its father?” Donnag stretched gnarled hands out toward the fire, the knuckles cracking. “It’s generally plain enough to those with eyes. And it’s not as though they look common, is it?”
Sophia reached for her cake, took a bite, and didn’t taste it at all this time. She thought of Cathal’s brilliant green eyes and the clean lines of his body. No, he didn’t look like most people. “They could just be very, um…pure?” she suggested. “Or…keep such things outside the village?”
“Not from what I’ve heard. Not about old Artair or his eldest, at any rate. Sir Cathal…he’s not been around here long enough. But I’ve never yet heard of a soldier who’d keep his hands off the women, given a chance.”
No longer able to ignore Alice’s gaze, Sophia turned to her friend and gave a quiet shrug, all the answer she could provide at the moment, and perhaps the only one she’d ever be able to manage. After all, what they’d heard was only gossip and the conjectures of a single old woman, midwife though she was.
Even if it was true, that wouldn’t change very much. Sophia and Cathal would still be in a castle, still surrounded by witnesses; she would still be leaving; and it would still go against what she’d been taught was proper. One wall had a few cracks in it. All of the others remained standing, remained sturdy.
That was another thing that she could tell herself—another thing that she suspected she’d need to hear.
Twenty-three
From the mirrored surface of the scrying pool, Artair MacAlasdair gave his youngest son a grave look. Neither distance nor magic blunted the impact very much.
If Cathal was larger than most men, his father was huge: near seven feet tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was almost pure white now, his craggy face seamed with lines, but his eyes were as they ever had been, the cold, clear blue of winter lakes, where an unsuspecting mortal could freeze to death in minutes. When they focused on Cathal, he still had the urge to scuff his feet and look down.
“Demons, now?” Artair asked. “You’ve made yourself quite the enemy, boy.”
Cathal contemplated excuses: It was only the one demon and I didn’t see much way around it and I suppose you’d have charmed Valerius into surrender, then, or mayhap just eaten him? None became a man of his age and dignity. He settled for a stone-faced “Aye.”
“Aye,” Artair repeated, not asking for elaboration. “Well. I can remind you of the wards. I presume that’s why you needed my presence.”
“I’m not overburdened with blood or amethyst, no.” Time was also often an issue for scrying. Even aside from waiting until his father could respond to the summons, the ritual to activate the pool was a lengthy one and required a specific alignment of day and hour. Agnes and Douglas had understood the principle. Cathal had simply bludgeoned it into his mind.
He wished he could have told Sophia about it. She would, he suspected, not only understand but see angles of possible improvement.
The entire family would have killed them both. Anyone in the village, and a few beyond, knew that the MacAlasdairs weren’t merely human. Other secrets stayed strictly in the bloodline, or on rare occasion with spouses, where the wedding vows provided geas enough for secrecy.
“I thought it urgent,” Cathal said into the silence. “If the wards will even work.”
“They should. You’ll need to take a hair from the lady or a drop of blood. She’ll have to stay until this business is over, mind you.” Artair frowned, his just-in-case-you-were-thinking-otherwise look. “You’ve gotten her into very dark matters. She’s a door now. At Loch Arach, you’ve enough power to hold it shut. Let her walk unguarded elsewhere, and in time, people will die for it.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” said Cathal. “Even now she has guards wherever she goes.”
“And she’ll not need them once you’re done, so long as she stays in the castle. Understand that well. You’re at the source of your greatest strength there. The land—”
“—knows my blood. Our blood. Yes.”
Artair’s eyes glinted. “You still remember, then? I’m glad to hear it. Allow an old man his doubts. A few decades tend to blunt memory.”
The young wolf snapped; the old one bared his teeth; no more was needed. Cathal dropped his head. Impatience had only been the easier path, anyhow.
You’ve gotten her into very dark matters.
If Cathal said that Sophia had chosen her path, that he’d offered a way out, his father would be neither surprised nor moved. He’d spoken as fact, not in accusation. Cathal knew his voice, in his own ears, would have the ring of an excuse, and so he was silent again.
“Howbeit,” Artair said, his tone more thoughtful now, “this mischief will have left tracks.”
“It came through the air,” Cathal said. “Not flying. I don’t think any of us could trace its path.”
Artair shook his head. “Not that sort. All magic costs. To wrench a demon out of hell has one price. To point it at a target and send it across miles has another. And I doubt your foe is lurking just outside the castle walls.”
“Costs,” Cathal repeated. He looked down at his wrist, where the cut was already mostly healed. He knew not at what price the oracle chamber or the air spirits had come; that work had been done without him. Sophia’s work took herbs and jewels, flame and spirit. The scrying pool took jewels too—and blood. “Messy ones?”
“From all I’ve ever encountered, very. It’s easier to hide death in war, but these would be noticed, unless your man took great care to hide them. He does not,” Artair added with a curled upper lip, “seem the careful sort, past what is absolutely needful. There would likely be talk.”
“And he’ll not be able to send too many demons.”
Artair shrugged, massive shoulders moving like stones beneath his plaid. “Not too many. We’ve both seen war. There’s always a few who won’t be missed…along with the army, if not in it. The spell itself should limit it more.”
“The alignment of the planets?”
His father looked surprised, a memory Cathal would treasure. “You’ve picked up a few things. Aye, that. And the other costs, which I don’t know. And it’ll likely take a bit out of the man too, though not enough for my taste.”
“I thought…” Cathal said. “If Moiread’s sources were right, he made a pact?”
“Likely. But extra services have extra cost.” Artair folded his hands underneath his chin. Another man his age might have stroked his beard, but the MacAlasdairs had never been able to grow them. It had gotten Cathal into a few fights in his boyhood. “I’ll pass the word along. If…Valerius”—he said the name with the same distaste Sophia had shown at first—“is leaving a blood trail, there’s likely a few who will have picked it up.”
“They might not be so willing to speak with us.”
&n
bsp; “Mayhap not. But they’ll have talked of it to another, who’ll speak to yet another, and in time we’ll hear of it if we’re listening.” Artair’s smile was much older even than his face and spoke of centuries of war, and the edges of war, and the fighting men who cared little for their nations or kings. “Have patience, boy.”
The old reminder was half reassuring, half provoking. “The matter’s an urgent one.”
“And we’re treating it urgently. Act…and then have patience.”
* * *
After dinner, on the staircase, Cathal asked Sophia for her hair. He had tried to find enough privacy for the request and had sent Roger away beforehand—his turn on guard was coming to an end, and he’d tell Munro where to find them—but he couldn’t think of a plausible excuse to keep Alice absent. Nor could he justify wanting her gone, save that making his request in front of those sharp eyes made him feel like a lad begging for his lady’s favor. Matters were awkward enough as was.
Nonetheless, he charged into the face of danger. “It’s for the defenses,” he said and paraphrased Artair’s explanation. “They need to know you. So to speak.”
“Yes,” said Sophia. She was unpinning her wimple as she spoke, and her face lit with the new idea. “It does stand to reason that they would, especially given that I’m not one of your people. I understand very little of the theory, of course, but from what I know, it makes a great deal of sense.”
“I’m glad you think it does,” Alice remarked and shook her head as Sophia reached for her knife. “Stand still. If you do it yourself, you’ll look like a hedgehog. I know, remember?”
“I was ten,” Sophia protested with a laugh that warmed the stone staircase. Yet she stood motionless as Alice lifted a single lock of her hair away and sliced through it.
Alice, in her turn, handed the strands of hair over to Cathal like a surgeon dropping an arrowhead on a tray. “I hope this will suffice. Or do you need to shave her head?”
“No. That should be fine.”
“It must be a fascinating process,” Sophia said. “This spell of yours, I mean, not shaving my head. I’d dearly love to see it, were you so inclined.”
“I’m inclined,” Cathal said. As he spoke, he found that it was true. He would have given much to have Sophia at his side during the ritual, both to watch her fascination and to benefit from her advice, if anything went amiss. He sighed. “But no. Chamber’s got its own defenses. None but my bloodline can enter or even see inside.”
Sophia frowned. “But then, if a spell goes awry—”
“Then it’s a truly dark day for us, aye. An uncle of mine lost an eye that way. One of my cousins died. Other mishaps too, more minor ones. The ideal is to have another of us standing by to lend aid.”
“If enough of you are in the castle,” said Alice, with a look between him and Sophia that he couldn’t quite puzzle out. “There aren’t that many.”
“No. Often we’re at least two. Now…war. And love, or at least marriage.” Cathal shook his head. “I’d not call that the wisest protection, but neither did I set it up, and I fear to try to change it. I’ll only be doing as much as I am by rote and detailed instruction… Could I bring you in, I’d gladly do so. As it is, you must accept my regrets.”
“I understand,” said Sophia.
All three of them stood silent on the stairs. Much time couldn’t have passed, for once again footsteps broke the quiet. Munro appeared only a bit later, but still the moment felt longer. To Cathal’s surprise, Roger was following only a little way behind, hopefully not bearing any catastrophic news.
“I bid you good night, ladies,” said Cathal.
“Good night,” said Sophia. She started to ascend the stairs, then turned back. “Be careful. And if anything does go amiss…call. I cannot say I’ll be able to help, but I’ll try.”
Cathal stared as she left and stopped looking before too long only due to a combination of will and the realization that Roger had lingered and was watching him. Abruptly, he turned and began to head back down to the hall. “Aught wrong?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Indeed, I hope not.” Roger glanced sideways at him, then away.
“Sounds promising.”
Roger flushed. “I’ve not forgotten that you’re the laird’s son, nor that you’ve the castle and all of us in your charge. And I’d not question your judgment lightly, you understand. There’s nobody who’d do that.”
Christ have mercy. “But you are questioning it. Have out with it, then. I don’t bite,” Cathal said, trying to remember what little he knew about Roger.
Like Munro, Roger had grown up in the village, and his people had lived there almost as long as the MacAlasdairs themselves. Roger hadn’t ever left, even to fight with Wallace’s army. He’d been willing enough to go, but his parents were aging and he was their only son. At practice, he wasn’t notably worse than his fellows and displayed even a little more alertness, one of the reasons why Cathal had picked him for Sophia’s guard.
Now he cleared his throat, folded his arms, and said, “How much do you know about…her?” A jerk of his head upward made quite clear who he meant, since it was doubtful he’d concern himself with Alice.
“Enough,” said Cathal. Generally, he tried to be reasonable with his men. He felt little inclination toward reason on this, but forced more explanation out regardless. “She’s helping us. You know of Fergus.”
“Is she truly helping, sir? And for what cause?” The tensing of Cathal’s muscles—or mayhap the way his lips drew back from his teeth before he could stop the incipient snarl—must have told Roger what sort of ground his question had landed on. “Meaning no offense, sir. None at all. It’s only that she’s foreign, and she’s odd, and aye, she’s pretty-mannered, but foreign women…”
If he closed his eyes, Cathal could still see the bruises on Sophia’s throat or the ring of frostbitten skin on her leg. If he didn’t stop himself, he would recall, clear as day, her body on the floor and the demon crouched atop her.
He could hear her voice much more clearly than Roger’s, thick with anger and conviction: What would I be if I turned and ran now?
“She is helping.” Cathal said it with infinite patience, or thought he did, but the words came from deep in his chest. “She’s an honorable woman. A woman with courage. And I trust her a damn sight more than most. You can remember that. You can tell your fellows too.”
And when Roger hurried off, Cathal turned and hit the stone wall—not with his full strength, but hard enough to split the skin over his knuckles. It could be that he’d managed that conversation poorly. Anger wouldn’t necessarily have helped; it might have just convinced Roger—and whoever he’d spoken to—that Sophia had too much influence. There might have been better, more delicate ways to handle the matter. He couldn’t think of any.
Waiting at Loch Arach, taking care of it until his father or Douglas could take the reins again, was less burdensome than it had been originally, thanks to her. It still wasn’t where he belonged, nor where he wanted to remain.
He wasn’t, Cathal realized, precisely certain where that was.
Twenty-four
Again, she was up a tree. Again, the shadow-things gathered below her. The dead forest stretched far beyond, and the castle lay at its distant edge, dark and almost as lifeless.
This time was different. The branch hadn’t broken; indeed, the tree’s limbs had all been sturdy, and Sophia thought that there’d actually been less space between them than there had the times before. The shadow-thing that had grabbed for her ankle hadn’t even broken the skin.
She’d considered fighting them. The world, whatever it was, had started responding to her will. She might have been able to make herself a sword or a bow. Possibly here she’d even be able to use either—but Sophia thought not. For one thing, her body seemed still to be hers, with all of its strengths and weaknesses, an
d she saw the sense in that. The body was one of the first and closest ways that a person knew themselves, and thus logically the hardest to change. For another, she didn’t know enough about weapons to know how to make herself good with them. For a third, the direct exercise of will itself was still new to her, and she used it clumsily. Her efforts before had been shouting or shoving, not delicate manipulation.
Last and most important, the world might not have belonged to Valerius entirely, but Sophia would have wagered that the shadow-things did. Either they were his creatures, dual-natured and thus more at home than she was in the world of the forest, or they were direct projections of his will. Unless she had no choice, she would not set herself against him. She’d never do it and hope to win, nor even to survive.
And so she’d fled. She lay wrapped around a branch near the top of her tree, looked down at the moving mass of shadow, and then peered out across the forest.
She didn’t want to go to the castle. Then again, she didn’t want to be in the dream at all, and there certainly was no more inviting destination in sight. Now too, she wondered whether the forbidding appearance of the place might not be intentional. If so, if Valerius didn’t want her there, it certainly merited further investigation.
Very well, then. Options.
Giant birds—or dragons, in fact—would be difficult. Sophia had yet to try to create anything living, but it didn’t feel like a wonderful idea or even necessarily a possible one. If the shadows were dual-natured and pulled into the dream by Valerius’s magic, then trying to create anything sufficiently dragon-like might even force Cathal into the forest world, another only-in-dire-circumstances plan.
Bracing herself against the branch, Sophia summoned her will, stared at the castle, and tried just to think herself there. Very briefly she felt the fabric of the world respond—a deeply strange sensation—but it was as though she leaned against a very thick door. The frame shifted a bit, then shifted back. There was no real give. She hadn’t really expected any—she’d had to climb the tree herself, after all—but she would have felt foolish not trying.
Highland Dragon Warrior Page 16
