Chosen by Fire

by Harriet Locksley

  “Can we—” said Kaetha, pushing past people to get the front of the bar. “Excuse me,” she said raising her voice. The barmaid looked up. “Can we have two dinners and two ales?”

  “It’s beef and neep stew,” the barmaid said.

  “That’s fine.”

  The young woman stared at her as she got the drinks. “You sound like you’re from Ciadrath. And the good end at that. Am I right?”

  Kaetha was suddenly aware of how close people were around her. “I’m from Highbroch,” she lied. “A day west of the city.”

  “But do you bring news of the goings on at the citadel?” There was hunger in her eyes as she leant towards Kaetha.

  “What do you mean?”

  “So you haven’t heard?” A satisfied smile flickered across the barmaid’s face. Aedan rejoined her and, when she caught his eye, his smile faded. What were people saying? Had Princess Rhona been discovered? She braced herself for the barmaid’s words, dreading to hear what might have happened to her, but she wasn’t prepared for what she heard next.

  “The king is dead.”

  SEVEN

  Behind a Name

  Alran was the only king Kaetha had known and she’d expected him to rule for many more years. She’d hoped he would get to the bottom of the plot against Rhona and kill whoever was responsible, thus allowing Rhona to return. Lines troubled Aedan’s brow. He looked as knocked by this news as she felt.

  Rather than elaborating, the barmaid raised her eyebrows knowingly, a twitch of a smile revealing how she was relishing their reactions.

  Kaetha made an exasperated sound. “Well? What happened?”

  The young woman paused, heightening the drama of her recounting. “Some say it was in his sleep. That the exertions of past battles had finally caught up with him. But I think it was poison.”

  “So, Princess Rhona is queen now?” Kaetha wanted to gauge how much was known about Rhona’s disappearance.

  “That’s the thing,” the barmaid replied. “No one seems to know where she is. I think she killed her father for the throne but was discovered and ran away.” For this comment, the young woman received a swat around the head with a dishcloth from the woman behind her who was tapping a barrel of ale.

  “You doo-wally!” The older woman rolled her eyes. “Why would she murder the king when she was to inherit the throne anyway?”

  The barmaid glared at the woman. “Perhaps – Ma – she got impatient.”

  Kaetha snatched their drinks from the barmaid’s hands without returning her grin.

  Aedan traced the grain of the table with his fingers and Kaetha chewed her lip, wondering what was happening in the citadel, trying to imagine what this meant for Rhona. Looking down, she realised she’d been so distracted, she hadn’t noticed that the bowls of stew had been set before them.

  “You’re a quiet pair.” A man’s shadow loomed over the table. “Most chatter away for hours after they hear the news of the king and the missing princess.” The scent of whisky hung in the air around him and he studied them with shrewd little dark eyes set in his clumsily featured face.

  “The news was a shock,” said Aedan. “And we’re tired from travelling. Was there anything that you wanted?”

  “I’m the ostler. Saw you came with two horses. My stable boy will feed and groom them for a copper penning each.”

  Aedan handed him the money though, rather than leaving, the man continued to squint at them.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. It’s Aedan Baird and this is Kaetha Baird, my daughter,” he added.

  Kaetha almost choked on a lump of beef, covering her mouth to suppress a cough.

  “You alright, lass?” asked the ostler.

  She nodded, swallowing her mouthful and coughing away the tickle in her throat, but it seemed to her that the man was looking at her with suspicion rather than concern.

  “You don’t know anything about these going-ons in Ciadrath do you? You came from that direction.”

  “That doesn’t mean we know anything,” said Aedan. “We only found out about the king now, that lass just told us.”

  “Been talk of a witch about too. Killed a royal guard they say, trying to get to the king, I reckon. Seen any sign of dark magic or strange happenings on your travels?” His gaze kept returning to Kaetha and the cat she held.

  “None at all,” said Aedan. “Kaetha?”

  “None,” she said.

  The ostler grunted before sidling away.

  She was unnerved by the man’s manner but her thoughts were now preoccupied by how Aedan had not only openly called her his daughter but had said her last name was ‘Baird’. She couldn’t work out how she felt about that, so she pretended to ignore it and, instead, talked of King Alran.

  She’d seen him two years ago when, much to Gwyn’s annoyance, she’d abandoned her lessons and snuck out to see the royal procession in Ciadrath for Princess Rhona’s twenty-first birthday.

  “King Alran had been the image of strength and majesty,” she remembered, “‘mighty as a bear, regal as a stag.’ That’s what people said of him. He was clearly proud of the princess. He was a warrior, certainly, but I think he was soft at heart. Towards her at least.”

  She’d thrown flowers for the princess when she rode by. Morwena had ridden behind the princess, a sight that had filled her with pride. Behind Morwena rode other nobles and, at the back, before the tail end of the royal guard, she’d seen a young man’s pale, angular face, framed with white blond hair and set with ice blue eyes – the king’s son, Svelrik, but not by his wife the queen. She’d pitied the bastard son, overlooked by most, in a place of such little importance in the procession. If it was a procession of my relatives, that would be me, she thought, feeling somewhat smaller and slouching forward in her seat.

  “He certainly was a great warrior,” said Aedan. “Braddon’s in the clanland of Mormuin, a land that used to be ruled by Clan Onuist. When I was a boy, Clan Macomrag rebelled, fighting for the status of High Clan. From a hilltop, I watched the final battle. The Macomrags might not have won had King Alran not appeared with his army. I saw King Alran personally take Chieftain Cerrin Onuist’s head.”

  “Why did the king get involved?” she asked.

  “Perhaps he believed that the Macomrags would have more loyalty to him. Though he didn’t honour them enough to grant them an earldom. No Macomrag has ever sat on the Royal Council.”

  “Were the Onuists disloyal?”

  Aedan shrugged. “Clan Onuist trace their line back to the old Edonian chieftains, though they married into Dalrathan families. They say King Alran feared that the Edonians who were once driven out of this country would invade to reclaim their old lands. Perhaps he feared that the Onuists would side with them. Though, of course, no such invasion ever took place.” He glanced at her uncertainly. “When we’re in Braddon, it may be wise to hide from the likes of the Macomrags that you are part Edonian.”

  This revelation made her thoughts spin like a spindle whorl. She was part Edonian. Of course she was. Not for the first time, nor the last, she felt like a stranger to herself.

  “You don’t think the king simply died in his sleep, do you?” she said in a low voice.

  He shook his head. “It would be too much of a coincidence. Someone wanted them both dead.”

  “Rhona should be queen now,” she said.

  “She should be. But she’s not here. And maybe that’s for the best. Someone else may take the crown but at least she has her life. Your mother and I saw to that.”

  He looked over to the door and Kaetha saw barely suppressed alarm register on his face and turned to see what had caught his eye.

  “Don’t,” he said firmly. “Don’t let them see you.”

  She faced him again, responding to the urgency in his tone.

  “Guards,” he breathed. “At the door. Talking to the ostler.”

  Her surge of panic felt like falling but she did all she could to co
ntrol it. “Can you see their livery?” she asked.

  “Black and green.”

  “We need to get out.”

  “Slowly now, so as not to draw attention.” Aedan got up and Kaetha followed, winding towards the back of the room where a door stood ajar.

  She couldn’t resist the impulse to glance back. The ostler was gesturing towards their table. Guards in black and green were looking around the room. Kaetha felt Aedan pull her arm and they hurried outside.

  They saw the guards’ horses when they retrieved Lossie and Arrow. They were draped in green and black to match their riders’ apparel.

  “But I haven’t finished brushing her,” said a stable boy.

  “She’s fine,” said Kaetha, mounting her.

  “Thank you,” added Aedan, handing him more coins. “Don’t tell your master we’ve gone.”

  When they had rejoined the North Road with no sign of pursuit, Kaetha finally felt able to speak. “No more inn stops for a while, then?”

  “No,” said Aedan. “Better tell that cat not to expect much fine food for a while.”

  The following few days took them through rain drenched fields, the nights spent in bothies where they sleep amongst farm workers. Then came two days of trekking across moorland, spending nights shivering on hillsides. The memory of this made Kaetha grateful to be setting up a shelter in Gledrae Forest, despite the tales she’d heard of its wolves and wild boar, of outlaws, thieves and murderers. At least the trees afforded them shelter and fuel.

  A huge tree, uprooted in a storm, fanned out its decaying roots like a half-collapsed spider’s web. Gathering dry, fallen branches, Kaetha and Aedan propped them against the roots to make a lean-to shelter, weaving willow sticks and ferns into the gaps.

  Once she had warmed her feet and hands by their fire and eaten her share of the porridge from Hetty’s cooking pot, she let her attention wander to the dangers of the forest. Looking at the knife at Aedan’s belt, she felt suddenly defenceless, wishing she had a weapon too. Fire, she thought. Even if I knew how to summon it again, my weapon could end up getting me hanged, or burning down the forest. She shuddered.

  She wondered if Aedan noticed her disquiet. Either way, he managed to distract her by talking about his old life in Braddon. She laughed when he told her about the time he went fishing with his friend Dermid Moray, toppled overboard and was hauled up in a net along with the fish.

  “I don’t like being underwater,” she said. “Were you afraid at all?”

  “Only of looking like a fool.” He grinned. “Mairi Dunbar was with Dermid on the boat and found the whole thing hilarious. I never lived it down.”

  “Were they sweethearts?” asked Kaetha, trying to build up a picture of his old friends.

  “Dermid and Mairi? Oh no. Dermid had a fancy for Jean Fisher. No other lass could turn his head. Mairi and I were sweethearts though.”

  “You were?”

  “Nothing serious, you understand.” He threw another stick onto the fire. “We were very young then.”

  She recalled that he’d never said that he had loved Morwena. Could it be that there were other women in his life whom he had cared more for?

  An idea came to her then, though she had no idea if it would work. She hadn’t only felt Fire magic inside her. There was something else too. Something had happened when the Annisith’s name came to her mind and she spoke it aloud. She’d heard his thoughts, catching at his memory. That was surely Air magic – Annisiths in the old stories would hear people’s thoughts. What if she could do it again? Did she only have to say someone’s name to read their thoughts? Her father was staring into the fire.

  “Aedan Baird,” she whispered, quiet so as not to be heard.

  All she heard was the crackling fire and the wind rustling the trees. She felt deflated. They sat quietly for a time, Kaetha picking at the willow herb where she was sitting. She longed to understand about his relationship with her mother and why it ended. She wanted to know why he’d said her name was ‘Kaetha Baird’ when they were at the inn. Wouldn’t he bring up the subject again if he’d meant anything by it?

  “Could you tell me . . . ?” she began.

  “Aye?”

  “Tell me . . . about being a merchant.”

  She listened as he chatted away describing the beauty of his ship, the Storm Petrel, and cursing the Hildervalders who sailed her now. He spoke of his early travels in which he was taught to read by Tyrrosian monks and taught a smattering of Angaulish and Shamlakahn from merchants, which included a fair few creative curse words. He talked about buying whisky from the north of Dalrath where he sold wool and tin; selling precious metals, ivory and spices in the south-west where he bought hides; acquiring corn, wool and tin from the south of Tyrros where he sold fine cloth; selling hides and corn in south-east Angaul where he bought fine cloth and wine and trading whisky in Shamlakah for precious metals, ivory and spices. It was too confusing for her to remember it all.

  “And,” she paused, edging closer to the warmth of the fire, “and how was it that you met Morwena?”

  He laughed nervously. “Well, I might as well have been captured for questioning.”

  “Did your trade bring you to Ciadrath?”

  “It did. I happened to be there when King Alran was looking to purchase fine jewels for his queen’s birthday and I was lucky enough to be invited to show the best of my wares at the citadel. I sold a finely wrought gold necklace, inlaid with pearls.”

  “And Morwena was there, at the citadel?”

  “Aye. I saw her in the library, pouring over an old tome.”

  “But, surely she couldn’t read then, could she? She and Gwyn had lessons with me when our tutor came to Feodail Hall.”

  “She only knew a few letters. ‘There’s a T’ she would say with such pride, pointing it out to me on the page before her, ‘look, there’s a K’.” His memory came with a smile and he gazed into the air for some moments.

  “But why was she in the library if she couldn’t read properly?”

  “She was drawn to it, she’d said. The Edonians had nothing like it. They carved pictures into stone but they didn’t write words.”

  “Their songs and histories are all remembered by the Wise Ones and learnt by rote,” said Kaetha.

  “Aye. Well, she got me to read to her, which I did, before a servant came and told me that my presence was no longer required at the citadel.”

  “But you planned to see her again?”

  He hesitated. “Not as such. But she found me when I was loading my ship. She’d brought a scroll, she said, and wanted me to read to her.” He twisted a loose thread from his cuff. “We saw much of each other in the weeks that followed. I was very fond of her.” He seemed to run out of words and the silence grew thick between them.

  “But you left?”

  He was looking at the ground and didn’t reply. Then he got up. “I’ll gather some more firewood before it gets dark.”

  He was still quiet when he returned and, after a while, they settled down for the night.

  In time, night swallowed everything but the small patch of light around the fire and the stars between the branches overhead.

  “I’m sorry you lost your ship,” she said.

  “Thank you, lass.” He sighed. “I may never see her again but I’ll get a new ship some day.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “And at least I have these. We have these.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Put out your hand.” She felt the warmth of his callused hand holding hers. “Here,” he said. “Open it.”

  She felt smooth leather and rough string and recognised it as the pouch he wore around his neck. “But I can’t see—”

  “Hold them up to the firelight.”

  She emptied the pouch and felt three balls the size of hazelnuts roll into her palm, each perfectly round and smooth as Morwena’s polished amber beads. Holding one up, the firelight glinted on it like sunset on water. The cat
sniffed at it, then sloped off, disappointed.

  “They rob the stars of their shine,” she said.

  He laughed. “I had four. They were worth more than the rest of the cargo I carried but I’d give them up in a heartbeat if I could get The Storm Petrel back.”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  “I gave one to Abel Mercier when he got me safely ashore. It was worth more than the horse and bag of coins he gave me in Ciadrath,” he shrugged, “but then he did save me life.” “Aedan, here you are,” she said, handing back the pearls. She started as the crashing of water filled her mind and she saw, as from a fragment of a dream, the Citadel of Ciadrath high on the cliff, receding into the distance. Then, in candlelight, she saw Morwena thrust something into her hand, only, when she looked down, the hand was not hers but a man’s, Aedan’s hand. In it was a silver chain – a bracelet perhaps. Morwena had her back to Aedan now. ‘Just leave. Now,’ came her voice, brimming with bitterness.

  “You could . . .” Aedan began.

  The vision ended as she became aware of her surroundings again. “What?”

  “If you like, you could call me ‘Pa’.”

  She was quiet for some moments. “Goodnight . . . Pa,” she said softly, wondering what sort of person her Pa really was. Despite her weariness, it took her a long time to fall asleep that night.

  EIGHT

  A New Household

  The next day’s riding took them from forest to moorland, following the River Leap. Aedan’s face brightened. “Can you smell it, Kaetha?”

  “Smell what?”

  “The sea.”

  She caught the faintest scent of salt on the air, though it was nearly dusk by the time a stretch of silver came into view, shimmering beyond the town. Kaetha’s heart leapt at the sight, the feeling of coming home taking her by surprise.

  Braddon’s palisade surrounded clustered shoals of buildings like a wooden net. A tall, stone kirk and monastery buildings on the eastern side, dwarfed the timber framed, wattle and daub buildings of the town. They wound through the town, stopping at a house on Curing Street. Aedan peered in through a downstairs window before helping Kaetha dismount.