by Dave Duncan
Again Annie bit a thread. "Here, try them on."
He rose and went to accept the trews she had been making. She ostentatiously turned her back to observe the sunset, but Toby turned his back, too. He removed his belt, letting his plaid hang from his shoulder while he pulled the trews on. The new tweed was pleasantly rough on his legs and came with its own fresh peaty smell, but he hated the thought of having to wear such a restrictive garment. He laced up the embarrassing flap in the front and then let Annie inspect the result.
"They're fine," he said. "Perfect fit. I don't know how to—"
"Bend over. Yes, they'll do. I wish there was time for me to make you a shirt, too, and a jerkin. Couldn't manage boots, of course..."
"You've done more than enough already. But you'll excuse me if I stay with the plaid for now?" He stepped by her and went outside, round to the back of the house in search of an area large enough to dress in.
He was unhappy at the thought of giving up his plaid. Legs and arms covered? Feet crammed into boots? But if he was going off to the Lowlands and other foreign parts, Annie had insisted, then he would have to dress like a Sassenach. The same idea had evidently occurred to others. Neighbors had delivered two shirts, a tabard, and a pair of boots—curiosities that had found their way to the glen years ago by one way or another and been lying in clothes chests ever since. None of them had come close to fitting him.
It was troubling—were these tributes rewards for killing Godwin Forrester, blood money? Or did the glen really care about Toby Strangerson after all? Likely he was just being handed his fare out of town and good riddance.
He returned with the trews over his arm. Annie took them as he returned to the table.
"I'll put them in with your things." She fussed with his bundle, which she seemed to have been adding to all day. "You'd best be putting this in your sporran for safekeeping." She dropped Grannie Nan's purse in front of him.
As he obeyed, his fingers found something in there already. He took it out and looked at it properly for the first time. It was clear and angular, one end broken and the other perfectly faceted, gleaming in rich purple— amethyst, obviously, for amethyst was common in the glen. A wandering tinker might pay a couple of pennies for a good crystal like that.
Annie's sharp eyes had noticed.
He tucked it away again quickly. "It was a present from Granny Nan. You know how she was always looking for pretty things to take to the hob, but lately she grew quite odd about it, worrying, hunting and hunting. And last night . . . saying good-bye . . . think she confused me with the hob . . . Just want to keep it for a while..." That was enough explanation. Annie wouldn't tell anyone, and why should it matter if she did? He took a very large bite of fresh bap, not as good as Granny Nan's, but quite adequate.
Annie nodded solemnly. "When Eric left, I gave him a new plaid. The old one's still hanging on the peg, waiting to be washed." She gathered up her sewing bag. She paused on her way by the table. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he mumbled. Her husband had died before Toby was born.
"You were giving me an awful funny look, Toby Strangerson!"
He felt his face redden from his chin to his hair. "I was just thinking that I never suspected you of being a sentimental person. And I was wondering why you told me about the plaid."
She went on her way, out of his sight. "You've got some growing up to do yet. You're a cynical lad, Toby. Understandable, of course. There's a sword ben the house that you are to take with you."
"Sword? I can't use a sword!"
She appeared at his side again, dangling a bucket in each hand. "And who's ever going to find out? The likes of you wearing a sword will not meet many challenges, I doubt. One look and they'll be tipping their hats to you. Old Bran Westburn sent it. He says it's drunk much English blood in its time, but it's getting thirsty again. So you'll take it. I'm off to milk."
"I can do that for you!"
"You stay here!" Annie snapped. "Eat until you can eat no more. Then take the sword and your bundle and be on your way like I said. We'll have no good-byes."
Toby started to rise.
"Eat!" she barked.
He sank back on the stool. He was completely full, but he reached for the meat again to please her. How to put his gratitude into words? He was a tangle-tongue, with no gift for speeches. "I don't know how to begin to—"
"Then don't. I want no thanks from you, Toby Strangerson." She paused in the doorway. "You're a nice enough lad, but I'm glad you're leaving, more glad than I can say. The whole glen will be cheering to see you gone and the only pity is that you aren't taking the no-good Vik Tanner with you. We'll get him out somehow, though, or some husband'll knife him, and that'll be all of you."
Stunned, he said, "All... ?"
Her face was shadowed, but her voice was bitter as sloe berries. "Married off over the hills or wandered away. Don't you understand? You've been the shame of the glen all these years. Did no one ever tell you? Did you never hear of the Taming? Oh, they tamed us, I can tell you, tamed us well! All the strong young men had gone and few returned, but there were still men here. They had things between their legs, anyway, so they claimed to be men. But they didn't burn the castle when the Sassenachs took the women. After a month or so, when the English had tired of the six, they offered to exchange them. No grandmothers, they said, but we younger ones could take their place, spell them off. Do you suppose we lined up at the gates?"
He could only shake his head, his throat knotting painfully.
"You're very right!" Annie grew louder. "We didn't. Of course I had three wee ones to care for, so I couldn't go, could I now? We all had some excuse. Children. Husbands and fathers who locked us up. Who was going to be first to volunteer to be a harlot? Who wanted to satisfy a squad of Sassenachs every night? All those widows . . . but we all had excuses. Men and women both, we had our excuses. And this way there could only be six Sassenach bastards, no more. That was important. No more than six. Well, six there were of you, and every day since you were born, Toby Strangerson, the sight of you has been a cut across the eyes for us, a reminder of our shame, a reminder that we were too cowardly to help our own! So leave the glen. Take your rotten half-brother with you—I wish you would. When you've all gone, then perhaps we can start to forget."
She marched out the door with her buckets, firing a final shot: "I want no thanks from you." Then she had gone.
Toby rose. He had lost his appetite; he wanted no more of her hospitality on those terms. Providing a meal and some clothes was certainly easier than whoring for Sassenachs all winter.
It helped, though. He need feel no guilt for accepting help.
So much for the Campbells' friendship.
So much for their famous courage.
2
He was almost out the door when he decided that there could be no harm in looking at the sword. He went through to the other room. Annie had not picked a very good hiding place—he could see right away that there was something under the pallet. It would certainly not be very comfortable to sleep on. He knelt down and reached for it.
It was a two-handed broadsword, double-edged and almost as long as he was. It seemed both old and of poor quality, probably made right here in the glen. The guard was a simple crosspiece, and there was a weight on the pommel for balance. In the hands of a strong man it would have had value against a knight too much armored to move nimbly, but knights did not fight like that anymore. Nowadays the gentry stood behind the guns and directed the cannon. Even on a rainy day, when firearms were unreliable, a shield and short claymore or a musket with a bayonet would be a safer weapon. The blade was well nicked by use, but had been sharpened and greased recently, probably that very morning. The scabbard was a crude thing of wood and leather that looked ready to fall apart.
He had no use for a sword like that! It was heavier than a sack of oats. It would attract attention to him, and he was not much over a mile from the Sassenachs at Bridge of Orchy. Common sense told h
im to put it back where he had found it and leave without it, but the feel of the worn leather binding on the hilt and the sense of power as he hefted its weight sent shivers all through him and filled him with a hateful, irresistible longing. A blade like that would make him a man to reckon with—a big man with a big sword.
He slipped the strap over his shoulder. If he found it too heavy, he could always throw it away in the bog, yes? He slung his bundle over his other shoulder and walked out into the dusk.
There was no road where he was going. Beinn Inverveigh on his right and Beinn Bhreac-liath on his left were masses of darkness against a stormy sky. Glen Orchy dosed in around him, narrow and eerie. The moon would be up soon, but meanwhile he stumbled on the rough ground, stubbing his toes. He passed four or five cottages at a distance and twice dogs barked, but no one came to the doorways to wave. Now he knew what the Campbells thought of his departure—good riddance!
The feeling was mutual.
Going to see the world. Going to seek his fortune.
With a sword! Why did he covet that great blade so strongly? Was it Toby Strangerson who felt that way, or the demon? In a few minutes he would meet up with his companions. Then perhaps a thunder of diabolic heartbeat and his arms would take over, the sword would whistle through the air, slicing heads clean off. He ought to throw the horrible thing in a patch of bracken and go on without it.
He didn't—or couldn't.
He wondered why, during his two episodes of possession, he had heard his own heartbeat drowning out all other sounds. He was not normally conscious of his heart, although obviously it had been pumping away since his birth and would continue until the exact moment of his death. An immortal might find that constant thumping very strange, or even annoying. It was almost as if he had been forced to listen to what the demon heard. The cure for possession was a blade through the heart.
He heard a shout behind him and turned.
"Toby! Toby!" Hamish came staggering over the moor, slim and stooped under a pack almost as large as himself. "You keep your promises, Toby!" The boy's dark-tanned face was an excited gleam of eyes and teeth. He was panting with exertion or excitement.
No monster heartbeat; no sinister glow brightening the twilight . . . the sword stayed in its scabbard. Toby breathed again.
"I'll keep the one about the gallows, too." They fell into step, Toby shortening his stride. "I take it you're looking forward to this?"
"Oh, yes!" The kid gasped his agreement. "This is a real adventure, going off over the hills with you, Toby! Friends in adversity? We're outlaws together, aren't we! Mates?" He looked up hopefully.
As a friend, little Hamish would be less use than the broadsword. Hamish didn't want a friend, anyway; he wanted a hero. The sort of friend Toby needed was ...
He didn't. Some men were strong enough to manage by themselves, so they had no need of friends. He was one of those men. He'd gotten along well with Hamish's brother Eric, but even they had never been close—no boy had wanted to be seen consorting with the bastard very often. Toby Strangerson had been a loner all his life, and he would stay that way.
Mustn't upset the kid, though. "Friends," he agreed.
With a sigh of relief, Hamish heaved his monstrous pack higher on his shoulders. "You worried about the bogy?"
"Not as long as you're with me."
Hamish chuckled with jittery glee, not realizing that Toby was serious. If the Campbells wanted to dispose of him by feeding him to the bogy, they would not have sent Hamish along.
"Where're you going, Toby?"
"I promised I'd see Meg as far as Oban. And you?"
"Pa says I must go and stay with Cousin Murray."
"Who's Cousin Murray?"
"Murray Campbell of Glen Shira. I'm to stay with him until Pa sends word that it's safe to come home. He sounds old and cranky, but Pa says he should have books. Pa met him once, years ago. Where are you going after Oban, though?"
"Try to get a boat there, I suppose." Toby tried to shrug, but the sword wouldn't let him and Hamish wouldn't see anyway. "After that, I don't know. Travel the world."
"You're not going to join the Black Feathers?" The boy sounded both shocked and disappointed.
Not if he could help it, Toby wasn't. The rebellion had been dragging on for years and showed no signs of success. The first thing he needed was an exorcism, and a town like Oban must have a sanctuary—but would the demon let itself be exorcised? If he tried to go there, would his feet obey him? Would his tongue explain the problem?
The Sassenachs will be putting a price on your head, Pa says. How much do you think they'll . . . Not that anyone will take their silver, of course," Hamish added hastily, "but—"
"But it would be nice to know what I'm worth, you mean?"
"Pa says it might be as much as ten marks!" He sounded quite impressed that a friend of his would command a price that high. It was certainly more than the five shillings the steward had offered yesterday.
The moon was rising at their backs. The wind had fallen strangely silent. Glen Orchy was ominously still. Toby listened for the music he had been told to head for, but all he could hear was a trickle of the burn and Hamish's endless prattle….
"What?"
"Cousin Murray's the keeper," Hamish repeated.
"Keeper of a shrine? A holy man, then? An acolyte?"
"Sort of. A shrine isn't a sanctuary."
"But it has a tutelary?"
"Just a spirit." Hamish heaved his pack higher on his shoulders. He chuckled. "More than a hob."
The night was already cold. The ground was squashy underfoot. Not a breath of air moved, yet there was a sound ... right at the limit of hearing, a lute was playing a plaintive melody. That was the sign they had been told to listen for, where they would meet with Meg Tanner and their unnamed guide. He veered toward it. If Vik was there with her, Toby would let his demon try out the sword. He shivered at his own black humor.
He was being unfair. He had been entrusted with two youngsters' lives, and he wasn't trustworthy any longer. He could not even rely on himself, so why expect them to? He ought to warn Hamish ...
But he had not killed the boy on sight. He had not harmed those pompous village elders in the night, nor old Annie. So far his private demon had behaved itself when in well-behaved company. It had acted only when he was in danger—a curiously helpful and nonaggressive demon! If he told Hamish about it, Hamish would flee. He would run back and tell the whole glen. Then every man's hand would be against Toby Strangerson, not just the Sassenachs'. Did all traitors rationalize their betrayals so easily?
"What sort of work will you look for, Toby?"
"Needlework."
"You mean swords?"
"I mean needles. Embroidery."
"Eric used to say you had no sense of humor."
"That's not true! He did not say that!"
"He did," Hamish muttered, "but I think only when he'd just done something especially stupid that you hadn't joined in. I know he said you were the last man to take to a party and the first one to want in a tight spot."
Thinking that would make a fair epitaph, Toby said, "Ah! Listen!"
In the darkness ahead a woman was singing "The Flower of the Hill," with the lute weaving rainbows of music around her voice. It was a strangely moving sound in this lonely, haunted glen.
Wee Hamish Campbell was a walking library. Toby Strangerson was a muscle-bound dolt...
"You know, this must sound funny. I mean, I was raised by a witchwife, but I don't really know the difference between an adept and an acolyte, or a keeper of a shrine. Granny Nan never spoke of such things."
"Don't suppose she knew. I mean, I'm not trying to—"
"Granny Nan never read a book in her life."
"And reading is all I have ever done!" Hamish's laugh was a nervous twitter of sparrows. "An adept is someone who has studied the occult. I suppose acolytes are adepts, too, but usually 'adept' is used in the bad sense, like the black arts. A witchwif
e like Granny Nan wouldn't know any ritual or gramarye. She just kept the hob happy. Self-taught. A natural."
Like Toby Strangerson swinging a broadsword, as opposed to a trained fencer like Captain Tailor. "You mean a spirit is a hob, but bigger, sort of?"
"Sort of." Sounding uneasy, Hamish dropped his voice. "A hob's an elemental—mischievous, unpredictable. The books say that a spirit is ... bigger, I suppose. Benevolent. A tutelary has a sanctuary, with acolytes and worshipers making offerings. A shrine is in between, with a keeper or two. People make pilgrimages to shrines, though, if the spirit is well thought of."
Toby sounded them in his mind: hobs, spirits, tute-laries. Witchwives, keepers, acolytes. Grotto, shrine, sanctuary. Elementals, adepts. Demons, hexers ... were these all just words in the night? Could they ever mean anything to an ignorant country lad?
"And demons?"
"They're bad!"
"I know that. Are they much the same, though? Bad spirits?"
Still the woman and her lute sang of sorrow and loneliness in the night. She had a gorgeous clear voice. Toby had never dreamed that his guide would turn out to be a woman.
Hamish had been thinking, anxious to impress his big friend, flattered by his attention. "There's differences. An acolyte worships and tends a tutelary, just like a witchwife and her hob—serves it. Hexers compel demons and use gramarye to force them to do their bidding. Any spirit is local, whether it's a tutelary or just a hob. Demons are not attached to one place. Well, sometimes they are. Mostly demons are attached to things."
"Or people?" Toby said.
"Sometimes people, yes—husks, they're called, or creatures. More often jewels, though. I read in a book that hexers imprison demons in jewels."
