Chosen by Fire

by Harriet Locksley

  A family, all with golden red hair, emerged from a house that looked precariously close to the cliff edge.

  “Donnan!” called a lass from the family, waving.

  “Who’s that?” asked Kaetha.

  “It’s Elspet Moray. I sometimes help out on her father’s boat.”

  “She seems to like you.” Kaetha smiled at Donnan’s discomfort at this comment. The family came over to greet them.

  “I suppose you’re Aedan’s daughter?” said the mother, smiling.

  “Kaetha, this is Jean Moray,” said Donnan.

  “I’m glad our old friend has returned and even more glad to welcome you to Braddon, lass.”

  “Heavens, you look like him,” said a balding man with a tanned face and multitudes of freckles.

  “In a feminine way you mean though, Pa.” A tall lad caught Kaetha’s eye.

  “This is my son, Rorie,” said Jean, a smile pulling at a corner of her mouth. Kaetha blinked to stop herself staring at Rorie’s broad shoulders, his large eyes which were like the sea. “And the twins, Elspet and Cailean. They’re about your age, almost.”

  “Nannie told us you used feverease to help Donnan,” said Elspet, who had leapt towards them, putting Kaetha to mind of a spring lamb. “You must be clever with herbs like Cailean. He learns healing with Nannie, that is, she teaches him. Maybe you’d like to learn with him?”

  “And do you like making potions too?” asked Kaetha.

  “I prefer to be on the boat with Pa, out fishing. But Ma makes me stay behind often enough.”

  Jean Moray rolled her eyes. “Well, now you’ve chattered our new friend’s ears right off, I think it’s time we got down to Cannasay. Thane Macomrag’s not called a gathering like this in years.” Elspet’s twin, Cailean, was clearly more reserved than his sister, saying nothing and mostly looking at his feet.

  “Have you been to Cannasay yet, Kaetha?”

  She felt herself blush, surprised to hear Rorie addressing her. “No,” she croaked, her throat dry all of a sudden.

  “You should see the cairn on the cliff. They say it’s hundreds of years old.”

  “I was just taking her,” said Donnan. Rorie shrugged and followed his family as they disappeared down the path to the beach. “It’s an Edonian battle cairn,” said Donnan, resuming his tour, “from the days when they ruled here.”

  “My mother was Edonian,” she said, wondering how Donnan would respond to that. So many in Feodail had viewed Morwena and Gwyn’s heritage with suspicion, even hatred.

  “Really?” his eyes widened with interest. “There’s some Edonian blood in a number of families around here, though some feel the need to hide the fact. It’s wrong that they should.”

  They reached the cairn, hundreds upon hundreds of stones, forming a smooth mound. Before it, facing out to sea, was a standing stone the height of a man, which soared upwards like a jagged tooth.

  “It’s a battle cairn, you said?”

  “Aye,” said Donnan. “Before a battle, every warrior of the army placed a stone here and each survivor took one away. I sometimes think about how brave those men and women must have been.”

  “Brave and scared,” she said.

  “Scared?” said Donnan.

  “I don’t think it’s possible to be brave if you’re not scared in the first place.”

  He squinted, then looked away from her, out to sea.

  Kaetha rested her hand on one of the stones. Each one represented a person lost to battle and many more who grieved for them.

  “That’s because they stopped here on their way to the battlefield,” came the voice of someone who sounded as though they knew everything.

  Donnan froze and Kaetha saw the angered set of his jaw, his hands tightening into fists. She walked around the cairn to see a boy, little older than herself, with coarse sandy hair and a fuzz of soft hair above his lip, leaning against the standing stone, surrounded by other young people, perhaps offspring of lairds, judging by their fine clothes. “And here, you see,” he pointed high up on the stone, “read that. It says ‘Macomrag’. They wouldn’t have immortalised the losing side, so it’s right there in stone – Macomrags have been warriors and victors for hundreds of years.”

  “Son of an arsewit,” Kaetha muttered under her breath. “It doesn’t say ‘Macomrag’.” The memory of people fallen in battle shouldn’t be slighted by such mistakes, particularly not by some arrogant boy with no regard for the truth.

  “And what would a fisherman’s daughter – or whatever you are – know about it?” the boy sneered.

  “I know that the standing stone is hundreds of years old.”

  “Obviously.”

  She walked up to it, looking closely at the faded images in the rock. “These symbols – the circle within a star, the leaping fish – they’re Edonian. This is an Edonian battle cairn. Macomrags are Dalrathan aren’t they?”

  “Of course Macomrags are Dalrathan.” He looked as though she’d spat in his face.

  “Kaetha, let’s go,” said Donnan. There was a hardness in his voice and she noticed the cold look he shot at the boy.

  “The pictures may be like Edonian ones,” said the stranger, “but Edonians are a race of boggin eejits. They don’t know how to write. It’s a Dalrathan monument,” he asserted.

  Walking around the stone, two carved symbols caught her eye. Tracing her fingers over the shapes of a long-necked bird and a flower with pointed petals, she thought of her old guardians’ Edonian tattoos. The idea that their family – her family – could be connected to this monument, rooted in the history of the land she now walked on, sent a thrill through her. However, below the images was a word, its edges eroded, lines interrupted by patches of lichen but it clearly spelled ‘Tarlan’. Tarlan, not Trylenn, she thought. Someone else’s family. Someone else’s roots.

  “But the letters could have been engraved by Dalrathans at a later time,” she said, half to the irritating boy and half to herself. The names are not that dissimilar, perhaps the writer just made a mistake. “Only Edonians could have carved the symbols.”

  The boy shifted about uneasily as his companions muttered amongst themselves. “You’re talking pish, you are. It’s a stone of Clan Macomrag, any fool can see that,” he said. But some of the others looked doubtful now.

  She smiled.

  “Kaetha—” warned Donnan.

  She ignored him. “The lettering may have weathered but the name you’re pointing to is ‘Mealcanaul’ – an Edonian clan – not ‘Macomrag’.” The others squinted up at the writing too. “Would you like some reading lessons?”

  There was sniggering amongst the group and the boy went red, glaring venomously at Kaetha. She felt like laughing at him but restrained herself. When a smile twitched the corner of her mouth, he came at her, seizing her clothing at the neck and pushing her against the standing stone.

  “You’re nothing but a doaty bitch,” he snarled. He was pushing at her neck, making it hard for her to breathe. She grabbed his wrists, pushing his hands away. He flinched then and staggered backwards, staring at her. She thought of how she had burned Raghnall’s face with a slap all those months ago but her skin didn’t feel hot and tingly as it had then. What had made him look at her like that?

  Then there was a loud bark of derisive laughter and she turned to see a man standing behind her, flanked by lairds and ladies. He was an imposing figure, tall, broad and muscular, with fair receding hair and a thick beard. A pleated cloak draped from one of his massive shoulders across his shirt and warrior’s leather jerkin, secured with intricately wrought golden clasps and a mighty sword hung at his side. Kaetha tried not to look intimidated.

  “She proved you wrong and no mistake, Murdo! All that gold spent on the best tutors, learned men from Roinmor and Torrath. I’d have expected my son to read better than a common fishlass. You’d better let her be on her way before she bests you in battle as well as wits.”

  “That’s the chieftain,” whispered Donnan, d
rawing her away from the group.

  “You mean—” She looked at the boy again.

  “Murdo Macomrag.”

  Her insides squirmed. Had she just humiliated the son of Thane Macomrag? Heat rose to her face as she and Donnan made their escape. As they hurried down to the beach, the sky darkened. A fresh wind carrying the promise of rain.

  Their feet crunched on shingle. To the west was the harbour where fishing boats clustered around jetties. To the east, great rocks marked the edge of Cannasay. It seemed to Kaetha that there was something strange about the rocks, as if they’d been prised out of the cliff itself and scattered by giants. Weeds, barnacles and limpets clung to those which would be submerged at high tide – to all but one anyway.

  As she drew closer to it, a familiar tingling washed over the back of her neck. She climbed, her attention drawn to the bare rock as, once, it had been drawn to a particular spot in the River Eachburn. However, she saw no sign of life near it. Her fingers grew cold as she rested her hand on its rough surface.

  “What are you doing?” called Donnan.

  She snatched her hand away. “Nothing.” She said, jumping down. “Exploring.”

  They wandered through the chattering crowd until they reached Aedan. Kaetha took her place beside him. Mairi was at his other side.

  “Whatever this news is about, I’m sure the Macomrags will do well out of it,” said a man with fluffy white hair and monks robes.

  “Kaetha, this is Brother Gillespie,” said Nannie who appeared at his side. “An old friend.”

  Chatter subsided as the Macomrags made their slow descent down a gently sloping path which reached the shore opposite the fishing boats. The crowd parted for them as they strode down the beach, cloaks flowing out behind them, followed by their lairds, to a point where the cliff face formed a natural alcove. Indulf Macomrag stood upon a rock and cleared his throat.

  “Some of you may not have heard,” he boomed, his voice amplified by the shaping of the cliff face, “that these are days of mourning for our late king. A ruler, a warrior and a friend to all of us in the great clanland of Mormuin.”

  “Not to all of us,” someone in the crowd muttered.

  “The seven earls have named the new ruler,” he continued, “and so, it is with honour that I proclaim Svelrik, son of Alran, as our king.” The gathering became more vocal now as they discussed this revelation. “As a boon to his people, our gracious king offers to waive this season’s taxes.”

  This gained cheers from the people but Brother Gillespie’s voice cut through them all. “Where is Princess Rhona? The king’s trueborn daughter? His firstborn child? She should be queen,” he declared. Kaetha smiled but the thane looked darkly at him. “Where – is – Queen Rhona?” Brother Gillespie shouted. Some people nodded, voicing their agreement with him whilst others appeared to be happily contemplating a season free of taxes. Thane Macomrag gestured to two of his men at arms and they pushed through the crowd, seizing the monk.

  “Let him go!” shouted Kaetha.

  “What’s happening?” There was panic in Nannie’s voice. “Gippie?”

  “There will be no tolerance of rebellious talk,” boomed Thane Macomrag. “Take him to Kaernock Hall where I will decide how to punish him.”

  “No!” cried Nannie. “The bishop won’t allow this.”

  “The bishop is not thane,” shouted Indulf’s son, Murdo.

  How could they treat a harmless man like this? It wasn’t right. Rage shot through Kaetha. Then there was a loud crack. A streak of white fire, like lightning, flashed from the air, striking one of the guards. He let go of the monk, collapsing to his knees. Another pulse of anger was followed by another resounding crack. The other guard released him. Kaetha stared, open-mouthed, her heart booming like galloping hooves in her chest. What had she done?

  The crowd swarmed, allowing Brother Gillespie to make his escape with help from Rorie and Dermid Moray.

  “Witchcraft!” shouted one of the guards. “There’s a witch among us!”

  Kaetha didn’t like the look that Murdo gave her then; it made her feel like a thousand knives were pointed at her. However, she knew there was no way he could know it was her.

  “Who is responsible for this?” demanded the chieftain.

  Dark clouds churned thunderously above them, echoing the fear that swelled through the crowd. Kaetha edged back a step, feeling an urge to run but Donnan clamped his hand on her arm.

  “Stay,” he whispered in her ear. “You must stay.”

  Rain pattered on stone, then burst in a fury from the clouds.

  “It wasn’t witchcraft,” called someone from the crowd. “It was lightning. The heavens were protecting the monk.”

  Kaetha wrapped a blanket around Donnan’s shoulders and returned to squeezing out the rainwater from her hair.

  “I’ll light a fire,” she said. “Pa will be back soon.”

  “That was lucky,” commented Donnan as he closed the shutters.

  “What?”

  “That storm coming so soon. And people not realising that real lightning would do far more damage.” He glanced up at her.

  “How can we know it wasn’t’ real lightning?” She turned her back on him as she made a pile of kindling.

  He gathered more sticks from the pile by the door, then came around the hearth to face her. “Why were you going to run?”

  “I wasn’t.” She tried to look preoccupied by her task.

  “You were,” he said, raising his voice.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He let his bundle of kindling clatter to the floor. “For God’s sake, Kaetha, don’t pretend. Not to me.”

  She finally looked up at him and saw the anguish contorting his face.

  “You can trust me to keep your secret. I’ll do all I can to protect you. But you have to learn to control it. Particularly in front of Macomrags.” He gripped her hand. “Do not give them a reason to make you their enemy.”

  That night, a gasp woke Kaetha with a jerk. She scanned the room, thinking of Murdo and his men coming for her. But no. That had only been a dream. The gasp had been real though, she was sure.

  “No – no – no,” came a distressed whisper.

  She went over to Donnan.

  “Stop.” He was twitching in his bed.

  “Shh,” she said, resting a hand on his clammy forehead.

  “Stop,” he said, louder than before, waking himself up.

  “What’s the matter?” came Aedan’s voice from across the room.

  “It’s nothing,” said Donnan.

  “It sounded like more than nothing,” said Kaetha.

  “It was just a dream. Sorry I woke you. You should go back to bed.” But before she got up, he grasped her hand. “Be careful,” he whispered before letting her go.

  TEN

  Nannie Hattock

  Nannie sat on a three legged stool, stirring the contents of a large earthenware pot set above the fire. The smell of kale, onions, turnip and chicken broth mingled with the drying bay, thyme and seaweed hanging from her cottage ceiling, making Kaetha’s mouth water. Being here felt to Kaetha like retreating to a sanctuary. It had the feel of a cave, its single room surrounded by curved walls, sunlight peeking in through one small window. A scattering of metal objects – pans, knives, a shovel, a poker and the tiny clasps of dozens of wooden boxes on shelves around the room – all gleamed in the firelight like chinks of metal ore in a mine, and water glinted in buckets like underground pools.

  “So, you’ve decided what to use for Jean’s pain reliever?” said Nannie as she added barley to her pottage, impressing Kaetha once again by the amount she could do without the use of sight.

  “Oh, I finished that. I mixed a little opean into a powder of red dulse seaweed. It’s in a pot on the shelf with the other pain relievers. I marked it for you with a limpet shell and an opean leaf.”

  “You only put in a pinch of opean? It’s potent stuff.”

 
“I didn’t use much,” said Kaetha. “There wasn’t much to use anyway, the powder barely covered the base of little storage box.”

  “Really? I was sure I had more,” said Nannie.

  “Why do they call opean ‘tears of battle’?” Cailean asked as he selected sprigs of dried figwort and speedwell to grind for the salve he was working on.

  “The opean flower grows best in freshly turned soil,” said Nannie. “Earth churned up by plough and by army mean that the red and white flowers spring from crop fields and battlefields alike. Opean liquor leaks from the cut seedpods like tears, though we dry it to a powder. The tears are said to be the flowers weeping for fallen warriors.”

  “It’s expensive though, isn’t it?” asked Cailean.

  “Aye,” said Nannie. “But I managed to get my last batch from a monk physician from Calamor who traded it for some of my own remedies.” She grinned. “Anyway, lass, what is it you’re making now?”

  Kaetha had prepared her story and only hoped that it would convince Nannie as it had Cailean, though she hated lying to either of them. “I overheard a woman from Kaernock village talking to her friend about her husband whom she suspects has a mistress. I asked her what she would pay for a potion which made her husband tell the truth and she said one silcwen. But if it was good, she’d pay a goldkin for another.”

  “That is much more than just healing magic, and you know that, Kaetha,” said Nannie, pointing her finger at her.

  “But imagine all the supplies we could get for that kind of money,” said Cailean, “all the people who could benefit.”

  A smile curled Nannie’s lips. “I don’t want to be responsible for either of you getting into trouble,” she said, pointing at each of them. “But where did you learn about truth potions? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “My aunt once told me of the truth inducing properties of firrinwort,” said Kaetha. “Cailean found me looking for it in the woods near your cottage. He found black clover too which I hadn’t even heard of.”