Reid pushed worry from his mind and grinned at her. “Never. Though, at times, I am late.” He climbed over the sill and took his place by her bed.
“I don’t know how long I can stay awake.” She frowned.
“Then I must get right to it, my dear one,” he said.
She slipped a hand into his, twining their fingers together. “The lord was about to give Iyilik a challenge,” she reminded him.
Her eagerness warmed Reid. “Indeed, he was. But not a battle challenge for he knew very well that Iyilik was prepared for that.
“The lord came down off his throne and had his guards lead Iyilik to a small muddy paddock near the barns where three haystacks stood. ‘Do you see those stacks, beggar?’ he asked.
“‘I do,’ Iyilik replied with a sinking feeling.
“The lord smiled. ‘I have hidden three golden pins in those stacks. If you find all three before dawn, only then may you marry my daughter.’ The lord held up a pin to show Iyilik what he would be looking for. Pinched between a finger and thumb, the golden pin was tiny: No longer than Iyilik’s thumb was wide and almost as thin as a hair. ‘You have one lantern to accomplish your task. I suggest you get started.’
“Then the lord chuckled as a guard shoved a small hooded lantern into Iyilik’s hand.
“When the lord left, two men guarded the gate of the paddock to ensure Iyilik would have no outside help. He stood on the sodden ground with the pitiful lantern and a sinking heart. He felt the tickle of whiskers as Piruz gazed upon their task with his black-bead eyes. Then the little mouse laughed.
“‘You think this funny?’ Iyilik asked, walking around the three stacks. They were all taller than he was by at least a foot and wider at the base than a wagon. ‘This is impossible.’
“‘For a man, maybe,’ Piruz said. ‘Do you recall what I said when you asked if I had family?’
“‘Aye, you said you had a thousand cousins.’
“‘A thousand, thousand cousins,’ the mouse said. ‘Put me on the ground and my cousins and I will search the haystacks. By morning, you will surely have your three pins.’
Iyilik couldn’t believe his ears. ‘And what will I owe in return?’
“‘You saved my life when you had no reason to. This is how I will repay my debt. As for my family, I think some fine cheese from the lady’s house would be grand. But we are humble and will take what we can get. Now put me down.’
The moment Piruz’s feet touched the mud, he bounded off toward the barn. Iyilik turned the lamp low and settled himself in to wait. He fell asleep against the fragrant hay.
In the morning, the guard’s calls wakened him to find a little brown mouse curled up on his chest with three tiny gold pins all in a row. He picked up Piruz, thanked him, and tucked him in the dark hood. Then he took the gold pins and went to where the lord stood by the gate with his guards.
“‘Are you ready to leave my town, beggar?’ the lord asked him.
“‘Not without my wife,’ said Iyilik and he showed the lord the three gold pins. The lord was furious, but there was nothing he could do; the law was the law. The guards led Iyilik back to the courtyard where a great number of townsfolk had gathered to see the end of the story.
“‘Now, remove your hood,’ the lord commanded.
“‘Send for Zamina,’ Iyilik said, for Piruz had told him that was the kind-eyed girl’s name. In truth, Iyilik was worried that she would take one look at his scarred face and send him away.
With so many of the town there watching, the lord could not refuse to send for his daughter. When the lord’s daughter arrived, it was indeed the girl with hair like red honey and eyes of blue, the very same girl who had laughed at the mouse’s antics from the carriage. Iyilik thought her even more beautiful than he recalled.
“‘Daughter, this beggar has completed the tests and wishes to ask for your hand.’
“‘As you will, my father,’ she said with a demure curtsey.
“‘Now, beggar, you will remove your hood or my guards will beat you to the edge of the town,’ said the lord.
“Iyilik trembled. He walked to the kind-eyed woman and knelt. Then he did as he was asked.
“When he slid the heavy cloth from his head, he could not look at her. He did not want to see fear or disgust replace the kindness in her glance. But he heard the shocked gasps of the crowd. A low murmuring began, like wasps from a fallen nest. The crowd was calling for his head.
“‘Where is your sharp tongue now, arrogant bastard?’ the lord asked.
“Iyilik felt Piruz nudging him, squeaking for him to be brave. It made him laugh, to be counseled in courage by a mouse. The prince-turned-soldier set his shoulders and raised his face to the sun to see the girl with tears streaming down her cheeks. Was he so hideous that she must weep?
“She should not judge him so,” Maura murmured with a frown.
Reid ignored her. “Iyilik could find no words in his shame. While he kneeled mute in the dusk, the girl raised her hands for silence. Then she called out for all to hear. ‘These scars upon his face are not a devil’s charm as the foolish among you have claimed. They’re a badge of honor, a mark of his courage. You do not know his story. But I do.
“‘Tell me, sir,’ she asked him, ‘how many men did you save?’
“‘I don’t recall,’ he said, wondering how she knew.
“‘Ten? Twenty?’ She turned to the crowd. ‘Which of you would pay such a price for even one of your fellows?’ An uncomfortable silence fell over the townsfolk.
She turned back to Iyilik. ‘I hear you were born a prince.’
“‘Once upon a time I was, my fine lady. I have no title to offer you now. What you see before you is truth. I am poor in pocket and poor to look on. I can only give you my love. Still I ask: will you marry me?’
“She gazed solemnly down her nose, though her lips twitched with a hidden smile, ‘I have one last test, my soldier-prince.’
“He held his breath in fearful anticipation.
“‘Show me Piruz and my hand is yours,’ she said.
“Iyilik reached into the hood on his back and brought out the sleepy mouse who could only manage a single sleepy somersault before curling up in his hand once more.
“And that, my dear one, is how Iyilik found himself a wife.”
Maura frowned, as she nestled down into her pillows, half-asleep already. “Too bad you don’t have a somersaulting mouse,” she murmured.
“Indeed,” he said.
CHAPTER 16
“You could use the front door,” said a deep voice the moment Reid’s feet hit the ground outside Maura’s window. He whirled to face the sound as Bradan stepped into the weak light. The shadows on the chieftain’s face made him appear sterner than usual. Or perhaps it was displeasure that hardened his features.
Caught red-handed, Reid wondered what excuse he could make. But there was no good explanation for crawling out of Maura’s window in the dead of night. He steeled himself for whatever consequences might come and said, “I was trying not to wake anyone.”
Bradan nodded, his silence a worse torture than Tarhill’s shouting would have been. Just as Reid opened his mouth to ease the tension with words, even empty ones, Bradan took a deliberate step closer and murmured softly, “Go home, Reid.”
Reid nodded with a hasty “yes-sir” wondering if there would be a public tongue-lashing in the morning. As he passed the Chieftain, Bradan’s large hand stopped him.
“Brigga’s time is near,” the older man said, his eyes unfocused. “You’d do well to hurry.”
“Did Ingrid tell you something?” Reid asked, a hot flush of anxiety coursing through him.
“No. Sometimes I just know.”
Sudden dread rose like bile in Reid’s throat. He pulled his arm from Bradan’s grip and ran, fear nipping at his heels.
The Tarhill home was quiet, though not entirely so. Brigga wheezed unevenly from the cot where they’d put her. His father snored from the nearby chair.
Reid sat quietly on her bed and took her hand in his. One look and he knew Bradan was right. Her face was ghostly pale and her cheeks already sunken. The hand in his was lifeless and cold. If not for the noisy breathing, he would think her already gone.
Even alone with his grief, he held the tears back. Tarhill would not want to see them if he woke. He pressed his mother’s hand to his cheek, remembering all the times he’d felt embarrassed by it.
“I love you,” he whispered, realizing how infrequently he’d told her, “and I always will.” Still holding her hand, he slipped off the cot to sit on the floor, leaning his head on the bed. The trials of the day dragged his eyelids down and he slept.
Brigga was gone by morning.
Reid had never seen Tarhill so distraught. The man screamed and cried and pulled his hair. When his grief turned to rage, it surprised no one. Tarhill tore through the small house, knocking over furniture and throwing crockery. He unleashed his anger at anything that moved. After a few sharp cuffs on the head, Reid made his escape by bringing Ingrid the news.
The old herbalist nodded at his words as if she had known it was coming. Still, he could see it broke her heart to hear it. He escorted her to Maura’s house to break the news to Ealea.
Ingrid didn’t need to speak. The moment Ealea opened the door, she knew. As they fell weeping into each other’s arms, Reid envied them the solace of their joined tears. He remembered that day he watched the three of them by the stump. What would happen to that steady guidance now? Someone would have to take Brigga’s place: the counselor.
He thought of Maura. With her kind ways and calm steadiness, he knew it could only be her.
But how could she if she married Gilland?
Had they known? Could the trio of crones see the future? Perhaps their support had had a deeper meaning after all. His heart was too sore to think on such schemes.
“Ealea,” he said when their tears subsided. “Please don’t tell Maura yet. She’s ill and I don’t want her to worry.”
Ealea’s red-rimmed eyes assessed him, as if weighing his soul. “She’ll be angry when she finds out.”
“True. But let me tell her. I’ll shoulder the blame.”
Ealea considered him with the sideways look of a crow. Measuring his intent. Judging his request. She glanced at Ingrid before she nodded her assent. “It is your sorrow to share, when you will,” she said.
Reid led the two women back to his home where they would prepare Brigga for burial. Between the two of them, they kept him and Connor away from Tarhill’s violence, busying the brothers with chores and errands.
Maclan was the only one the old man tolerated, although Reid could see the depths his brother’s guilt. The price she paid for his life cut him deeply. Even so, Maclan had so much of his mother in him, he comforted Tarhill despite his own sorrow. Once he’d quieted their father, the two of them drank together deep into the night, talking softly of things past.
Midnight had come and gone before Reid could slip away to visit Maura, but he could not rest until he had kept his promise.
Maura’s window still glowed with light. Although Bradan had advised the door, Reid couldn’t bear to see anyone but her. He crawled in, not trying to hide his presence.
She was awake, eyes bright. Then, she forced an exaggerated frown and chastised him. “You’re late and that will cost you another story, my bard.”
She looked better today. Dare he hope she was on the mend? One less worry for his weary mind would be a blessing. He would tell her about his mother, but not tonight. Right now he wanted to forget everything except her steadfast affection. He was sure the smile he gave her didn’t reach his eyes, although she accepted it without comment, patting the stool near her bed. He had no energy even for playful banter, though he tried to muster some.
“I am not late. You are merely early.”
“Mother says I am a churlish girl,” she agreed. “But since you’re here now, I demand a story.”
“You demand? Your manners are even worse than mine. But since you are ill, I will indulge you. Just once, mind you. What would you like to hear?”
“I think you should pick one.”
There was a story that had tumbled around in Reid’s head all day. As with most of his clan stories, Brigga was the one who’d taught it to him. He cleared his throat and began.
“Long ago, my dear one, there was a time when the veil between this world and the next was thicker than now and those who had passed over had no way to be heard.”
Maura reached for his hand, twining her fingers in his. A gesture that had become habit already. “A sad story tonight?”
“Depends on how you look at it,” he said, only now realizing what story he had begun to tell.
She pulled his arm closer and leaned her cheek against it. “I’m ready.”
Reid wasn’t sure he was, but he continued.
“As I said, those who passed were once lost to us. One devoted man’s love for his wife changed all that. Ages ago, there was a chieftain named Fyddlon O’Shiran. He was a soft-spoken man, a reluctant warrior with the eyes of a poet, well-loved by his clan and his hearth. Fyddlon had a wife named Gwynmerys and she was lovelier than snow lilies, with a doe’s eyes and hair like bright embers. But it was her heart—warm as a hearth on a winter’s night—that he loved most. And she loved him too, my dear one, even more than the owl loves the night.
“One day in early spring, the chieftain went with the village diggers to harvest ore from the mine on Blunt Peak. As evening fell, a ferocious blizzard howled through the mountains. The winds were so strong they uprooted trees and sent them tumbling, bringing a landslide of snow and rock down upon their heads.
“In those days, Borran loved to wander the rocky slopes during storms and that night was no different. In the midst of the storm, he stumbled upon the battered bodies of the village men. They had frozen to death where the avalanche had left them, trapped in the snow. All, that is, except one and he was almost gone.
“This poor soul saw Borran and reached out to him with hands already white with frost. ‘My wife,’ the man said, ‘Dear spirit, do not let me die and leave her all alone.’
“As you have guessed, my dear one, this man was Fyddlon. Upon hearing such a desperate plea, the spirit looked into the man’s heart. There he found a love deeper than the roots of the mountain and it stirred his pity.
“Borran said to the chieftain, ‘Do not worry, brother. She will not be alone. I swear it.’ Satisfied, the dying chieftain breathed his last, knowing his wife would be safe in the spirit bear’s keeping.
“That very night, Borran went to the village. He went to the chieftain’s house, peered in through the shutters, and saw the lovely young woman waiting for her man. Even from a distance, he saw her heart burned with the same bright love as her husband’s. Such a loss would surely devastate her. So, to give her some solace against the coming grief, he slipped into the house and visited the chieftain’s wife wearing the man’s face. In the dark of the chieftain’s bed, Borran gave her a gift. And oh, such a gift it was, my dear one.”
“What was the gift?” Maura asked, her voice hushed and eyes brightly moist.
“Ah, I cannot tell you yet. But when the wife awoke, she found her husband gone and the village in mourning. News had arrived that all the men had died in an avalanche. At first, she was sure they were wrong. She knew her man had survived. But as days passed and he did not return, she began to realize the truth. He had left her.
“She knew fear then. For if not her husband, then who or what had come to her in the night? She prayed it had not been an evil spirit bent on mischief. So she didn’t speak of it to anyone for at the very least they would think her mad. As the days turned into weeks, she realized she was with child.”
“A child is a very good gift,” Maura said.
“A very good gift indeed,” he agreed, kissing her head.
“In time, she bore a son. He was an odd boy, unusually large and slow in speech, t
hough not stupid. There was a lost look in his eyes, and folks thought him daft for he wandered about fascinated by the smallest things. He’d stare for hours at a pool of water or a clump of shadows. Even so, he was kind and good and the chieftain’s wife loved him dearly. The boy grew larger, kinder, and more loved every year. Sometimes, when he found her weeping, he would say things to her that sounded like what her husband might have said.
“One day, when he was particularly entranced by the shadows in the corner of the house, she asked him, ‘Why do you stare at shadows so?’
“‘To see my father,’ he said to her.
“His words made her afraid. She scolded him, ‘Your father is long dead.’
“‘True,’ he answered unmoved by her anger. ‘But can you not see him? There, even now, standing in the shadows.’
“The thought chilled her heart and she thought her son must be mad. Or perhaps she was. ‘No one can see the dead,’ she told him.
“‘Father says it is a gift. From Borran himself,’ the boy said.
“‘You cannot speak with your father,’ she said, angry though tears ran down her cheeks. ‘The dead have always been silent.’
“The boy looked at her with his strange knowing eyes. ‘Father died in a blizzard, did he not?’
“She could only nod.
“‘He saw Borran that night,’ the boy said. ‘He held the spirit’s large paw in his very own hand and begged with his dying breath that you might never be alone.’
“’Who told you this?’ she said.
“‘Did Borran not comfort you?’ the son continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Did you not recognize the great bear spirit, Mother, when he came to visit you?’
“The wife grabbed at a chair for she felt faint. ‘That was no spirit. It was your father.’
“The boy laughed. Then he said in a voice far older than his years, ‘I am father’s last request. Rest assured, you will not spend a single day alone as long as you live.’
“The boy kept Borran’s promise and his mother never wanted for company until, at last, she closed her eyes and was reunited with her husband beyond the veil. But ever after, the boy’s descendants had the ability to hear the words of the dead. All because of a man’s love for his wife.”
Tales of the Archer: A Corthan Companion Page 10
