by Amber Scott
He was toying with her again. After so many moments of Finn hunched, hind legs readying over and again, what else could it be? Breanne sat upright and exhaled in annoyance. Not that he would hear her, or care. She moved to rise. Then she heard it. Faint and low, but definite. She heard a grunt. Finn stood taller and peered down over the lip of rock.
“Heremon,” Finn said, his voice full of anguish so sincere it brought Breanne forward.
She went flat to the ground and belly crawled to him. They were so high up, her head and vision swam a little just at the thought of what lay below.
“Oh no,” she gasped, feeling the same anguish she’d heard. “Heremon. Can you hear me? Heremon?” The Druid’s figure didn’t move. “Heremon,” Breanne called again, using her hands to cup the sound and help push it down and out toward the man. The rocky, moss covered spot he lay on looked impossible to reach. How in the son of the lord’s name did the old man get there?
“Can you get to him?”
Finn paced, testing the rocky edge, but couldn’t seem to find a suitable angle. Then in a streak of fur the cat bounded down and landed a breath away from Heremon’s limp arm. Breanne put her hands over her eyes, then down to her mouth. The moaning sound came again.
She glanced toward it, the left, saw nothing and returned her attention to Finn and her teacher. “Is he breathing? Oh, what have I done? I knew. I knew and I stood there rather than trust myself as he’s always telling me and now he’s hurt.” She scooted closer. “Is he breathing?” she called louder.
Finn flashed her a look of panicked anger and sniffed Heremon. The slope he lay on became more clear as Finn tried to negotiate it and help without moving him. Hot tears dripped down her face, the gusts off of the ocean hitting them cold.
Please be alive.
But the longer Finn sniffed and peered, the larger her certainty became. He was not. She knew it and it numbed her, panic and fear leadening her mind.
Finn leapt back up and hung his head. “He’s gone.” The misery in his voice surprised her. She’d never seen the beast show any emotion outside of annoyed, amused or bored. Later, thinking back she would feel a small shame for her surprise and for her sudden complete lack of her own utter sadness.
Somewhere someone had moaned. Matter of factly, her mind told her this. She stood and walked in the direction she’d glanced moments ago. The wind brought the sound. The wind also had pushed it down to bring their focus to Heremon, but the low sound of pain they’d heard was not his. The numbness seemed to aid her in these conclusions, helping her walk without fear and listen.
Behind her, Finn yowled, as close to a human wail as she’d ever heard from a hurt animal. But, she stepped on, unmoved in any emotional direction. Three immediate needs showed clear and foremost in her mind. She first must locate the source of the second sound. Next, after assessing its source, she must take appropriate action. Third, she must get Heremon off of that sloping ledge before he fell from it and washed out to sea.
The second meant considerations and decisions unlike the other two. Once she found the person making the sound, should she dispatch that person? Was he or she lying wounded from battling Heremon? Or could they have witnessed her teacher’s tragic demise and need even more priority and help than Heremon?
Breanne lifted her skirt for her boline. But it wasn’t there. It lay in the grass somewhere south of this place, tossed and forgotten when she’d stormed back to the dun.
Another step brought answers. There in the brush, Breanne saw the gleam of skin, a man’s leg. She rushed to the form and found him, eyes closed and body askew. No more than breeches covered him from the elements and her startled eyes.
Chapter Four
He moaned again. She observed no marks on him save a few scrapes, no wounds to speak of. She knelt at his side and felt his head. A fever.
Breanne looked back to Finn. He lay on the ground, curled over himself and yowling into the wind. She could see he would be no help and hunted the area for fallen branches. She retrieved four, tore her cape from the shoulder fastenings and worked the branches and material together. She didn’t have time for perfection. Heremon needed her and this man would die if his fever couldn’t be reduced fast.
Somewhere in her mind, a voice ordered her to leave for help, insisting he was too big for one woman to haul anywhere, let alone to Heremon’s home that might not be safe. Breanne ignored it. If she left him, he would die.
She rolled him from the bed of heather onto the tied branches and dragged him, headfirst to the small stone cottage. The man lay limp, unperturbed by her clumsy hauling of his person. Her muscles screamed in pain from his dead weight’s pull on them.
She managed to get him in and the door closed. She laid him flat, near the fireplace and piled two small wood pieces on top of a peat moss clump. The fire lit, she scurried through the house, ransacking cupboards and drawers for Heremon’s herbs. He was a Druid priest for Christ’s sake, where were his herbs, potions? Her mind tangled with hurry and panic and she forced herself to stop and think.
He moaned again and she returned to his side. Only after she paused next to him did she notice how out of breath she’d become rushing as she had been.
She placed her hand to his brow. Damned but he was dangerously hot. Breanne wiped beads of sweat from his brow. Then she remembered: the door. Grabbing two candles, Breanne rushed to the forgotten room and flooded with relief when the light revealed shelves brimming with jars and bowls and papers and books.
Breanne set both candles on the long table in the center and searched through the glass bottles. The labels were hard to read but she found what she was looking for at last. Finn’s mewling carried softly from outside. Her heart, no longer so numb, ached for him. She couldn’t fathom the agony he must feel to loose Heremon. Her own sorrow would come soon enough, she knew, and set to grinding the herbs while she had the wherewithal to do so.
Mixed with warmed water, she lifted the man’s head and brought the bowl to his lips.
“Drink,” she said as sternly as she’d ever heard herself speak.
He sputtered in protest, wasting part of the mixture. Breanne used her knee to prop his head, curled an arm around his neck and forced his mouth open. She poured another mouthful in and covered his mouth tightly. He coughed and choked a bit, but ingested most of the hot liquid.
She repeated the process until the remaining liquid was gone along with her strength. The man spoke slurring words she didn’t understand. But he didn’t open his eyes, he settled down.
While she wiped a wet rag over his face and neck, her mind worked on a strategy to retrieve Heremon. She would leave Finn with the man, hide them in the room. Mayhap the door could be locked. If not, she would have to hope re-disguising it would suffice. Then she’d get back to the O’Donnell keep, wake Quinlan, no, Niall. She would be in serious trouble, but that was that. It couldn’t be changed and certainly was not so important that it took precedence to getting some men and some rope and bringing Heremon up from that tiny little ledge.
How could he have gotten there? Had he gone mad and fallen? Had he been pushed? But, the fall was not so far that he wouldn’t survive. Breanne couldn’t see Heremon to have died of natural causes, standing at the edge of rock, only to then fall on his own and land so mysteriously.
Breanne viewed the nearly naked man on the floor. His skin was flushed with color. He had the answers she needed. And if Niall couldn’t get them from the man, she would find a way. She might not succeed with a potion, but knew a poison that disrupted the bowels so much, a man would beg for death.
Breanne felt his forehead. It still burned, but not so hot as before. She nodded to no one and ran a hand through her loosened hair. The braided strands pulled painfully against the movement. Sighing, she began to unravel the thing and twist her waist length hair into a knot instead. She realized that Finn had gone silent. His silence was worse.
The first waves of sorrow were accompanied by fear. And soon guilt joine
d in. She should have come earlier. She should have followed him sooner. She should have told someone. A tear slid down her cheek and the first sob coughed through her. Breanne covered her mouth almost as though to keep the pain inside or lessen the outward force of it. But her hand only served to muffle the sounds of crying.
Heremon wasn’t an easy person to know. His affection was difficult to win and praise came in meager supply. But, she had grown to respect and even love the man. He was her teacher and had believed in her. She knew that, not because he told her but because he showed her. He had taken the time and withstood risk and ridicule by taking her on as his primary student.
“Bards come and go and believe themselves the blessing of life itself. But an Ovate is rare to discover, a hard win, and worth a thousand of them,” Heremon had said to her more than once.
Breanne smiled weakly as tears and her eyebrows gathered tighter. With her knees to her chest, she tipped back and forth, and didn’t notice the door had opened. They were no longer alone.
“Kill him.” Finn’s eyes glittered with malice. He stopped at the man’s waist.
“I canno’, Finn. He may know what happened to Heremon. He may be here with Heremon for a reason.”
Finn slowly shook his head. “Nay. He clearly killed a man you clearly do not fathom the worth of. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the air I take into my lungs.”
Breanne’s heart ached again for Finn. Had Heremon’s death sealed his curse, never to be lifted now? Seven times failing proved that she couldn’t lift it on her own. Or would Heremon’s death change the prophecy that an Ovate would end Finn’s enchanted sentence?
“I understand your anger, but this man may not be at fault. We canno’ assume blame with only his presence here to evidence it.”
Finn’s stare locked onto hers and she saw his pain, raw and fresh. But killing the man did not bode well.
“Slit him open and leave him to choke on his own foul blood. We must get help before Heremon falls from that ledge. We cannot afford your uncertainty.”
“This man is in no shape to kill anyone and can’t have been for some time. If you take pause for a moment and view the man as he is, you will see I speak truly.” She waited while he grudgingly turned to view the gleaming body he meant to slaughter. “A fever such as this is not brought on in minutes. He may not make it past whatever ails him and no man is strong enough to kill in this condition.”
“And pushing an old man off a cliff takes immense strength, does it? If not for luck having Heremon’s body finding that ledge, it would be lost to the sea.”
She wouldn’t acknowledge his tone by responding in like. She must remain calm, speak calmly. “Even walking to that edge himself would be impossible.” She wasn’t certain she spoke the truth, but she felt deep in her bones that this man must live. She must persuade him to wait. More than persuade, he must be convinced because Breanne couldn’t leave the man alone, yet had to get help before Heremon fell and was lost to the sea.
Finn eyed the man and Breanne watched for the venom in his expression to give way to compassion, understanding, or at least acquiescence. “He isn’t going anywhere. I will bring Niall and others for Heremon. Niall will see the man answers for what he may have done or find the person who should. Heremon was his most trusted advisor, was his Brehon advisor for years.”
Finn lowered his head slightly and closed his eyes. Breanne’s hope rose then fell again when the cat shook his head. “You will not give this man over to Niall.”
Taken aback, Breanne scowled. “Of course I will. I must. He may know something.”
Finn glared at her in his typical condescension. “Don’t you think Heremon would have brought the man to the keep if it were his intention? Has it not crossed your mind that the man is here for a reason?”
Breanne didn’t know how to gauge this about face other than as another outlet for his sorrow and anger. “No. I found him outside, fallen. I didn’t conclude that Heremon had him here at all, let alone by secret.” A strange and disquieting sensation took hold of her as implications and fears scrambled her thoughts.
“At this rate, Breanne, I will live a thousand years in this cursed place.” He shook his head slower. “The table? Did you not notice the pile of men’s clothing, a sword, next to the table in the herb closet?”
Breanne shook her head equally slowly. She hadn’t. She’d been so keen on finding the herbs that she’d barely noticed the table itself. She rose and went to the room and was struck by the obviousness of the pile, particularly the large, heavy-looking sword. Its hilt was encrusted with three large emeralds and a trail of sapphires inlaid in gold filigree. Beautiful.
“I still see no reason not to tell Niall. He needs care. He should be moved to the keep.”
“Do you recall what Heremon spoke of in his presage?” Finn said the name reverently. A new note of misery rang in his words.
Breanne furrowed her brow and struggled to remember the words from what felt like days ago, longer. She wanted to leave. She’d made a plan and Finn was changing it all. Niall would know what to do. Niall would care for this man, retrieve and handle Heremon’s body. She couldn’t do it, none of it. She wouldn’t.
“I don’t see how that pertains to any of this or how Heremon may help us now. I’m going for help. Stay or leave, just don’t kill the man.” She strode for the door.
“You’ll kill him yourself if you give him to Niall.”
She ignored his words. He was barbing her again and she would not give in. Breanne counted her breaths and paced them with her steps. It gave her direction and kept her mind clear to think.
She’d rouse Niall, bring him and whoever else he saw fit back to this place. The pines lead to a small cluster of birch and then to a line of oaks. The path was clear if you focused. Focus. Remember, so you may make it back.
“How would I kill him? I am trying to help him. He’s the one that was ready to gorge him on the spot.” She talked to herself to keep the anger at bay, and the guilt.
Niall would command the situation far better than she or Finn. Yes, he would be equally distressed by Heremon’s death. But, he was a levelheaded man. He certainly wouldn’t kill the man directly. He would make certain death was deserved.
What could Finn have meant? She knew better than to conclude he’d thrown the first lie at her that came to mind. He was far too calculating a beast to do so.
Think, Breanne. How could your leaving kill the man? Would Finn complete what she thought she’d stopped? No. She’d seen the change in him. Heard it.
She pushed away low branches as she walked. A branch slapped at her cheek, leaving a stinging stripe. She rubbed at the pain, her mind on the path and Finn’s words still. Her skin felt warm where the branch whipped her.
Suddenly, the realization sprang to mind. Mayhap Finn meant literally her departure would kill the stranger. Mayhap, he needed her there. But, how could Niall be brought? She didn’t wait for her mind to answer. She turned and went back, moving fast and deftly back to Heremon’s home. The fever. The man would succumb if she didn’t wait for it to break.
She broke through the doorway and rushed to the stranger’s side. “Has he worsened?” She felt his head. It was cooler, much cooler. Then he didn’t need her here. She straightened.
Finn stood and joined her from his position at the man’s feet. “He’s English.”
“What? How do you know…?”
“He spoke. Mumbled. The worst French I’ve ever heard in a distinctly English accent. And he’s nobility. The Irish may be the most hospitable people, but even hospitality has limitations when a former Brehon advisor to his clan’s chieftain, a Druid priest of high respect, has met a mysterious demise with an English noble in residence.”
She wanted to say he was reaching, that the conclusion would be based on loose evidence and that Niall had better judgment. Surely an Englishman would mumble his native tongue. But, Heremon’s words chose that moment to spring back into her muddled brain. The e
meralds…he is yours…tell no one. Protect him.
Breanne looked at the stranger’s face. No. It couldn’t be. Not her. Not him.
She looked at Finn, searched his eyes suspiciously. Had he been there to hear the words and already concluded the obvious that she always seemed to miss at first glance? So be it.
Breanne stood and surveyed the room. She needed to hide him and get back to the keep. His head was cool and he should sleep for a day with as much valerian root as she’d ground into the mixture. “They will want to search the place. Where can I take him?”
Finn smiled his cat’s grin. Gloating beast. “If you believe you can better disguise the closet, we may put him there. Or,” Finn rolled onto his back as though to scratch it.
“Or what?” Breanne fisted her hands into her skirt.
“There is a cave nearby.”
“How close?” She knew her limitations in successfully dragging a man this size.
“Close. It is sacred. He will be safe there.” Finn’s tone was casual.
“And your thirst for blood? Where is it now?” Breanne pinned him with her eyes. If she would have to trust him with more than simply watching the man whilst she left, she wanted assurance.
“Rest your fears, Breanne. If I still wanted his head, I’d have had it while you were off wandering the woods.” He managed to sound bored.
Though his point rang honest, Breanne trusted the instincts that sprang up alongside the prophetic words. She would take him to the place Finn suggested, ensure he was safe there herself, but Finn would come back with her. She’d drag him by the tail if need be.
It took her a full and arduous fifteen minutes to get the man from the cottage to the cave, despite how close it turned out to be. And though just a few cubits inside the forest boundaries, the small cave was concealed well by foliage. If a person didn’t already know it was there, they’d be hard pressed to detect it.
