by Amber Scott
They thanked him and he nodded and took the opportunity to absorb every visible inch of her with his eyes, leaving her feeling bare and doubtless of his interest. When his gaze flew back to hers she glared fiercely back. He blinked. Interest fell away to blushing red cheeks and Breanne cursed herself under her breath.
She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Truly, she didn’t. She simply wanted him to stop. It had been a reflexive reaction. Damned guilt plagued her and Breanne found herself making more than necessary friendly attempts to engage Quinlan into conversation.
“Are you settling back in very well, Quinlan?” she asked and speared a sweet meat with her knife from the piled trencher.
“Oh, I would say he’s happy to be home,” Ryan said behind them. “Why, he’s been skipping around like a little girl, that one.”
Rose squealed in delight, jumped from her seat and into her husband’s arms. She nearly knocked Breanne into Quinlan’s lap in the process and they both went rigid with embarrassment. Righting herself, as did he, Breanne waited for another opportunity to make conversation.
She decided that if she kept on neutral subjects--warm but very unromantic and definitely not flirtatious by any stretch-- that he would perceive the underlying message. Could they please be friends and not become desperate with lovesickness?
“Have you decided whether you’ll hire onto Niall’s guard or not?” she asked Quinlan while Ryan and Rose’s reunion settled.
Quinlan looked at her strangely and immediately Breanne realized her mistake, an additional blunder. Her father had been Niall’s first warrior, the most elite of his hired warriors, assigned to fight for and protect the king. He had died doing it. And as honorable a death as it might be, Breanne had a hundred times already told Quinlan that his living would have been better.
Since childhood, she’d tried to dissuade Quinlan of the idea and he, in turn, would press it on her. But, that was before her feelings for him changed. Now, it seemed, since he would not become her husband, any career should be a good choice so long as he was happy.
Quinlan stood.
Breanne opened her mouth to try to take back the callous sound her words took on in her mind and, so obviously, in his, as well. But, what could she say? So sorry Quinlan, I hadn’t thought that one out? I’m distracted with an ultimatum and concern for my strangely behaving friend and mentor?
He walked away before a reasonable apology came to her.
“What was all that, then?” Rose asked. Ryan kept his arm around his wife, unhearing.
“I’ve said the wrong thing.” She put her forehead into her hands. “Oh, Rose, I’m mucking things up good today. Promise me you’ll forget every last thing I say today?”
Rose rubbed her back sympathetically. “Always, Bree. Why, I’ll even forgive the pile of lies you laid at my feet this afternoon.”
Breanne gasped and looked up.
“Don’t look so surprised. I have ears and eyes.” Rose’s eyes twinkled and smiled reassuringly. “You don’t have to tell me the truth of things unless you want. But, I’ve known you too long to not smell a rotten fib when you spew one.”
Breanne shrank down in her seat. She felt caught. Rose chuckled. She couldn’t help laughing, as well.
“Am I truly so terrible at them?” Not for the first time, she wished she could be so gay and forgiving as Rose.
“Aye. The whole Grianan, every woman in the room, begins to look about at each other for whoever filled it with stink when you’ve left a lie behind,” she laughed out.
“That’s my Rose. She can make a warrior blush.” Ryan shook his head and let his arm fall to eat.
“Stop now, Rose,” Breanne said. “You’ll have me crying if you don’t.” A tear slid out anyway.
“And then I inevitably get the blame.” Rose had tears, too. “But you’re my dearest friend and if that’s not worth suffering a few prim glares, what is?”
Breanne’s heart warmed. She hugged her friend close to thank her. Leave it to Rose to remind her that life can’t be taken so seriously.
“And you no longer have the blameworthiness of being with child right now,” Breanne said, “I had better stop before they bar you from the Grianan.” Her stomach and cheeks ached from the ongoing jest.
“Ah, let them.” Rose waved her hand and leaned back against Ryan. “Give me a reason to stay in bed.”
Ryan responded with appropriately lewd hip gyrations and soon the two were in their own secret jest that by the look of things and all the kisses, Breanne needn’t be in on.
She glanced about for Quinlan, caught Shane’s eyes on her and felt eager to escape to her bedchamber—without him or any other following. She hoped the visiting bards would be enough of a distraction to allow her to slip away unnoticed. She needed to prepare to steal away, no easy feat with the likelihood of revelry lasting into the night.
As the food cleared and the music began, Breanne slipped into the kitchen. Dishes sat in wait, the room otherwise empty. She needed a cloak and her book from her room and Heremon had said midnight, but also she recognized that easily, she could slink out now and not be missed.
With one glance and three short steps, Breanne sneaked out the door, the best path of avoidance. She liked this better than any entertainment, especially when the cool night air gusted on her face. The smell of heather was strong from the recent rains and Breanne sucked air into her lungs. She felt released.
She stood there only long enough to ascertain no one followed or wandered nearby, then slinked through the shadows, past the walls of the dun, and through the postern. Jitters of excitement danced through her. Her only regret was that Heremon wouldn’t get to examine her notebook, her developing Grimoire.
She could hear him now, “No, no. This chant is all wrong”. Surely he would understand she had to take the opportunity when presented?
“Too late now,” she said aloud. The moon would be full in less than two weeks and looked like a glowing smile surrounded by freckles of stars.
“Too late for what?”
Breanne screamed and turned to the direction of the too familiar voice. Pins and needles of fright rushed her shoulders and scalp. With her hand over her thumping heart, she glowered at Finn’s scruffy, pleased countenance.
“Why do you so love to come upon me like that, cat?” she said. Thankfully, he’d waited until she’d cleared reach of the keep to frighten the clothes right off of her. She should be used to it, should expect these little acts by now.
Finn joined her walk without so much as a chuckle of satisfaction. His step was heavy, purposeful.
“Where have you been?” Breanne asked, his quiet making her wary.
“Hunting fairies, preying on pixies.” His usual sarcasm held a note of disturbing sobriety to it. “You know they are quite tasty, the little people.”
“Heremon won’t arrive at the Grove for some time. If you’d like, we can try again when we get there,” she said, guilt over her failing him gnawing her.
He didn’t reply and she didn’t repeat herself. Obviously, Finn felt bent to brood and who was she to stop him? If she’d waited half the number of years as he, she’d be more than pouting, too. Once they got there, he’d probably let her try again. But she didn’t have her book. No matter. Perchance starting from scratch would turn out more successful. The idea assuaged Breanne’s guilt and focused her mind.
Night’s sounds sang in the breeze. Crickets chirped, frogs croaked, water burbled louder as they neared the wooded area. They headed to the usual meeting place after Breanne completed her ritual blessing and offering.
“I can’t see a reason to bother with it.” Finn lay on the grass and thumped his tail as he watched her bend, poke, pick through the foliage.
“We have time.” She chose to ignore the snide remark, but smiled at hearing signs of his usual self.
“Are you no longer worried for Heremon? With all the fuss and froth this afternoon, I thought you’d be rushing to find him first chance presented,
” Finn said, his tone venomous.
Heat climbed Breanne’s neck. She clenched her fists. She would not let him bait her tonight, not after the day she’d had. He couldn’t be expected to empathize with her plight, but might appreciate that she did his. She pursed her lips tightly, refusing to spit harsh words back at him.
“I believe I overreacted earlier,” she said. “Given time to consider the events of the day, I’ve decided to trust that Heremon is well enough, wise enough to care for himself.” Taking the high moral ground and turning her cheek felt good. Why give him what he so clearly wanted?
“Interesting. Do tell me then, Breanne, what will you do if he fails to show, unaware that his devotee is patiently awaiting a lesson he doesn’t recall scheduling?”
His voice was less sour, closer to the dry wit she’d grown accustomed to. But the words needled her worse. Damn. He was too good at this vicious game. Breanne steadied her breathing so that her mind and emotions would follow suit.
Moonlight broke free from a cloud, brightening the cluster of trees they walked through. She had no candle to light, no book to be reviewed and possibly no lesson to be heard, but she refused to give in to climbing regret. Finn wasn’t right, he was simply most happy when making her unhappy.
“I will check in on him,” she said succinctly and began searching the small clearing for ingredients to make a potion for Finn. Perhaps that would make him happy. In the underbrush a swath of white caught her eye. Recognizing it, Breanne bent and retrieved a candle that her master must have missed.
“Of course you will, brave girl that you are,” Finn sneered.
Carefully, she set the candle upon the stone altar and closed her eyes in concentration. She raveled up her thoughts into a little bundle, compressed the bundle into a ball and chanted the words in her mind. Breanne had successfully created fire only twice before, and neither occasion were close in proximity, but she might as well try.
The small orb slowly spun until it grew and colored to a deep blue. Breanne opened her eyes, looked at the wick and blew. She could feel the glowing orb’s energy deep in her chest and breathed inwardly to catch it and push it out of her. When the burning sensation left her body, nothing happened. She sighed in resignation.
Suddenly, a tiny flicker of light sparked the candle’s tip. A small happy shriek escaped her open mouth as she saw the flame take hold and dance.
“Finn. Finn, I can hardly trust my eyes. Have I done it?” She searched for him.
“Astonishing. You make fire. Forgive me if I don’t dance a jig, will you?” Finn blinked slowly, his ears pitched back.
Her smile widened. Finn was back to his old self and as annoying as that persona was, it also comforted her. She’d had enough of change today to last some time. Turning back, Breanne watched the flame she’d charged from her own mind and felt lifted.
I can do this. I am meant for this.
The joyous thoughts buzzed her veins with promise and certainty. She rested her chin on her bent knees, feeling like she could wait all night for Heremon. And if he did not arrive, she would take heed of Finn’s words and check in on the old Druid priest.
Beeswax melted faster than tallow. Or was it the other way around? Breanne couldn’t remember, but quashed the urge to ask Finn for verification and decided that of either substance, this one had burned well long enough to warrant seeking Heremon out. The beeswax was nearly all puddle, the flame dwarfed with so little wick left to consume. Heremon hadn’t shown.
Breanne blew the candle out. The darkness spread out around them. It was colder and the moon looked to be on its descent. She should return to the keep. If her mother had looked in on her, there would be more than hell to pay. Breanne stood and brushed at her gown. She nudged Finn with her toe to wake him.
“We must go. You were right. Heremon hasn’t come.”
The cat yawned and stretched but didn’t rise. “I’ll wait here.”
She realized that he thought she was going to find Heremon. She’d intended to, but the cold and the dark, along with a nagging rawness in her chest, changed her mind. Finn lay his head back down and peeked up at her through one eye. He didn’t have to speak a word for her to hear the gloating. She could see it in the slit of his eyes, the swish of his tail, that he thought her a self-centered coward.
Mayhap he was right. Was she here only to get in her long awaited lesson? Was her concern for Heremon truly because of his strange behavior or in fact a result of her discontent at missing out on five new herbals and praise for her Grimoire? Was he acting strange at all or had she conjured it all as a convenience?
“I don’t know where his home is,” she ground out, knowing full well that she had just taken his bait. “I need you with me.”
Swish. Blink.
“Please.” She’d look in a window, mayhap knock, say hello, farewell and be warm in her bed within the hour. And if he chose to stay, then she’d be there all the sooner.
After staring at her at length, eyes squinted, Finn leapt to his feet, stretched and pounced in a westerly direction toward the sea.
Breanne clamped her jaw and trudged after him, letting her cape drag and catch as it pleased along the way.
The trees grew sparse as they neared the edge of the forest. The piney scent of it mingled with the salty sea air pushing up the Slieve League cliffs. When the crisp blue of ocean came into view, Breanne stopped. She didn’t have to peer over the dizzying three-furlong drop to sense its danger. She could hear it in the quality of the waves hissing against the rocky walls.
“How much further?” she asked Finn, her voice quaking.
He ignored her and inched to the edge. Breanne’s breath caught, her belly clenched watching him. Terrible by day, the stony precipice felt horrific and cavernous by night. She could almost see his small, fat body plummeting to the bottom to his death and it made her ears ache and skin crawl.
Right as she readied to call him back, he stopped. Breanne looked up and down the coast for a dwelling of any size or shape, but saw none. The cliffs made her feel naked and she turned around for escape into the cover of trees. Then she saw it.
The home was modest and exactly what she’d expect of a man such as Heremon. She went to the stone house and resigned to knock. With no light inside, it was her only option. Breanne rapped her knuckles on the splintering wood door. It sounded hollow. She glanced to verify Finn hadn’t plunged, then knocked again, harder. The skin on her knuckles protested the combination of cold and hard colliding.
“He’s not answering,” she called to Finn.
He eyed her over his shoulder for a moment and finally joined her. A wind picked up and whipped at loose tendrils from her braid. “Could we have missed him?” she asked. “Mayhap he came as we went?”
Either way, she’d come and could now go. All she needed was certainty that Finn knew she’d tried.
“Is it locked?” Finn asked, his tone strange, almost caring.
Of course, he had known Heremon much longer than she. Longer than she’d fathom a guess at. Though Heremon never gave her such detail, she gathered that Finn’s curse began some time ago, long enough ago for him to have been through five other priestess hopefuls only to have them fail him.
Breanne tried the door. The dark wood slab fell open. Silence. Finn looked at her in agitation and Breanne stepped inside. Warmth enclosed her body and she understood how chilled she had become. Her skin prickled gloriously and she stepped further in. She could hear Finn follow and suspected that he might actually be uneasy.
They left the door ajar and Breanne lit a candle off the remaining, almost ashen embers. Four additional candles made the room fill with enough light to see two things clearly. Heremon was not present, which they confirmed after searching the adjoining rooms, and something was wrong. Breanne didn’t know if wrong was the right word to define the gut feeling she had. Amiss might be more suitable, or different, but nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, no fallen chairs, no signs of departure.
Neither spoke the words, but Breanne knew Finn sensed it, as well. He took as much care as she in keeping all movement quiet and delicate. After a fast search, she went through each room again, trying to pinpoint evidence to support her increasing worry. She came to a stop. Cool air brushed in at the open door on her. She frowned at Finn. He hadn’t joined her on the second turn, sat shaking his head for the twentieth time.
“Where do you expect he’s gone to?” she whispered.
“Mayhap nowhere. Have you not thought to try the fourth door?” His voice bounced off the walls.
“What door?” She turned, scanned and found it. She couldn’t believe she’d missed it. Leave it to Finn to sit and watch her muck along, missing the obvious.
The door was well hidden by shadows and a long narrow table piled high with books. Seeing that the door was not so obvious made her feel somewhat better. Breanne cleared the table, slid it away and tried the knob. It turned easily and she peeked into the darkness. She needed a candle.
“What was that?” Finn’s voice was a whisper. His ears tucked back and he crouched, looking into the night.
Breanne froze in place, hand an inch from a candle. The hair on her neck tickled with fear as she watched the cat slink low and creep to the door. Surely, it was Heremon returning, she told herself.
Finn stole into the darkness, forcing Breanne to choke back the tremble rising in her throat and follow. Her eyes penetrated the shadowy obscurity, rushing to adjust to the lack of light. Movement in the grass caught her eye and she followed the small form that could only be Finn’s.
By the time he neared the edge, she could fully see. She wanted to call his name but remained quiet, trying to calm the thudding blood in her head. The breeze shushed the tall grass around them, a hiss barely audible above the low roar of waves so far below them. The sounds concealed her clumsy movements as she crouched to the ground midway between the cliffs and cottage.
Time slipped like fingers drumming a surface. Breanne’s pulse steadied along with her breathing as she eyed Finn. She wondered how far down the coast they’d been this afternoon. Could she have simply walked a spell and found Heremon right there in the bright of day had she not given in to her temper?
