Connor put his hand on the older man’s arm. “You need to move on, Donal.”
Donal shook off his melancholy. “Nae, lad. We can serve Alshada better here.” He pulled the spare pipe from his pocket. “Will ye enjoy a pipe with me? ’Tis been a long time since we shared a pipe.”
“I will. And a cup or two more of that fine drink?”
Donal laughed. “What would a pipe be without it?”
Donal retrieved the oiska and their cups from the house while Connor waited on the back steps. When Donal emerged from the house again, he was chuckling. “My sweet wife. She’s got your lady sitting by the fire with a cup o’ tea, chattering on about children and grandchildren and what have ye.” He handed Connor a cup and poured them each a generous shot of oiska.
They sat down on the steps, and Donal lit Connor’s pipe. “She’s not my lady,” Connor said. “I’m just taking her north.”
Donal took a long drag off his pipe and gave a slight grunt as he blew the smoke out. “Ye still canna settle down, eh?”
“I don’t think settling down is for me.” He stared into the distance, unable to look at the older man. “Donal, I regret . . . I wish things had ended better with Aine.”
Donal was quiet for a long time. “Aine loved ye, but ’twas a childish love. She is well. Settled. Happy. She holds ye no ill will, Connor.”
Connor scoffed. “She should.”
“Nae, lad. She made her own choices.” He gestured back toward the house. “’Tis none of my business, but the lass, Mairead—she has a spark. And ye could do worse. She’s a beauty.”
“It’s just a job, Donal.”
“Are they all just jobs to ye, then?”
Connor couldn’t answer.
“’Tis a lonely way, lad. Ye canna tell me ye’re happy.”
Connor stared out past the pens to the distant fields. He drew on his pipe. The sweet flavor of the tabak lingered in his mouth when he exhaled. He drank another shot of oiska and considered what to say. “I’m happy as I can expect. I’m well-paid. Beautiful women pursue me. What more could I want?”
“’Tis a lonely way. Ye’re not meant to be a farmer, that’s certain. But lad, do ye not want a woman to love ye? A home?” Donal sighed. “Course, hard for me to judge, I suppose. Aileen and me, we grew up together in this village, married, ne’er left. Raised five children. Ne’er needed to go anywhere else.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Near to forty years. It seems but a moment ago that I asked her.” He smiled at Connor and poured him another shot. “I loved her from the moment I saw her. Took me a while to figure it out, though. She was a beauty, but ’twas more than that. She had something else—a spark, a fire, life, call it what ye will. She’s kept me honest. I ne’er wanted another woman since I first saw her.”
Connor finished his pipe and stood. “I must get to bed. We need to leave at dawn. I thank you for your kindness, Donal. You’ve been a great blessing to us.”
Donal stood and clapped him on the back. “We still owe ye much, lad. If it weren’t for ye—well, we wouldn’t have our Aine, would we?”
“You give me too much credit. If it weren’t for me, Aine—”
Donal’s hand tightened on Connor’s shoulder. “Aine made her choices. She ran after ye because she loved ye, but ye dinna force her to do it. Ye saved her, lad.”
Connor couldn’t speak. He clapped Donal on the shoulder and walked away before his emotions betrayed him.
Connor lay awake for some time that night, hands behind his head, eyes toward the ceiling. He heard Aileen tidying her house as Donal spoke in his low, easy voice. The sweet odors of pear pudding and pipe hung in the air. This place—if I believed in spirits, I would believe they were here in these walls. He closed his eyes and remembered days of hard work and nights of ease at Aileen’s hearth with Aine and her brothers and sisters. If he concentrated, he could almost hear Aine laughing.
***
Emrys stood in the shadows of the brothel and stared at the empty field in front of him. A flash of light behind him alerted him to her presence. He didn’t turn. “Mistress.”
Her low voice tickled his ear. “Have you found the heir?”
“I’ve tracked her from Taura. I feel her presence, but I cannot reach her.” He turned.
Her dark eyes glittered like cold onyx in the moonlight. “The Syrafi protect them here. The raven has a strong connection to this village.” She stared at the field with him. “Wait until they leave the Syrafi. When they are on their own, you must separate them. Then you can capture the woman.”
“How do you suggest I separate them? He is fanatical about finishing the jobs he takes.”
She turned to him and put one hand on his cheek. “You have ever been beguiling, Emrys. You will think of something.”
He folded his arms. “What are you doing while I’m here?”
“I am repairing your mistake in Taura. The princess is still in the castle. I will see that she dies and create the chaos I need to reveal the Brae Sidh village.”
“How?”
The cold eyes narrowed. “You need only worry about the heir. I will be ready to use her when you bring her to me.” She nodded toward the brothel. “Go feed yourself. You will need your strength.”
Emrys snatched her wrist. “How do you do it? How do you stay on Taura, inside the wards?”
A twisted smile crossed the elegant, noble features of her dark face. “I do not share your qualms about using our power.” The elements around them separated to reveal dark spaces, and she slipped into one of the gaps. Another flash lit the darkness when the elements joined again.
Emrys stood alone, staring out at the field, until a woman wearing little but thin undergarments approached him. She slid one arm around his shoulders. He pushed her away. She gestured toward the field. “Nothin’ out there, love.”
He turned to her. “Has there ever been a house there?”
She shuddered when her eyes met his. “Once. Folks moved on years ago. Took a daughter and left. Rest of the family followed.”
“What happened to the house?”
“Burned. Faltian fires got outta hand a few years ago.” She tugged on his cloak. “Come, love. Ye canna be out here all night.”
His mistress was right. He needed strength. Panic flickered across the woman’s face when he grasped her wrist. He forced her to the dark corner of the alley and pushed her against the wall. One hand held her still as he pressed the other over her heart. Terror rose in her eyes. By the time he had drawn the sweetness of her soul into himself, her limp body hung in his hand. He let her go and walked away, strengthened by the darkness of her many transgressions.
Chapter Seven
Beside the great waters will my people find peace.
By the sea will they find sanctuary.
— Songs of King Aiden, Book 8, Verse 10, Year of Creation 4993
Minerva reined in at the edge of the great forest. Night still blanketed the road, and she was grateful for the faint moonlight shining through the fog. Their eyes are already on me. Her palm burned with the proximity to so many warriors. She pulled her hood up further over her head. Alshada, forgive me. I must warn them. I promised Muriel.
She’d passed a tense and cold three nights since leaving the sayada in Torlach. Shelter was hard to find for a woman with meager coin, and she feared revealing her identity, so she slept in farmers’ fields and sheltered groves between the city and the great forest. She traveled far away from the main roads. If it weren’t for Braedan, I could go to a village with a kirok. They’d feed and shelter me. But the days of kirok sanctuary were waning. Braedan had plans for Taura, and Minerva suspected they didn’t include the work of kirons and sayas.
She stared at the trees, her heart racing with fear. Stay calm. The mark buys you passage. She opened her hand and stared down at the faint glow under the brand on her palm. Memories returned in a rush—a husband’s smile, a father’s anger, a sister’s tea
rs. She squeezed her hand and her eyes shut. This isn’t about returning to the tribes. This is about warning them. I’m just warning them. She clenched her jaw. And if he kills me, I’ll die in service to Alshada. She spurred her horse forward.
Warriors dressed in woolen kaltans or leather breeches met her at the boundary. To a man, they displayed multiple hunting tattoos on bare, muscular arms. Two great wolfhounds sat nearby, unconcerned, tongues lolling in long pink curls against shaggy gray coats. Hound tribe. She held up her hand, revealing the circled cross to the warriors. “I have business with the hound tribe.”
They looked at her palm, and one clenched and unclenched his fist. He thumped the butt end of a spear into the ground. “You are a guardian?”
The words wanted to catch in her throat, but she forced them free. “I am. I bring news from Torlach.”
The man snorted. His hand twitched on his spear. Another man took a bow from his shoulder. “News from Torlach does not concern the people.”
“This news does. Your chieftain will want to hear.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What tribe are you, guardian?”
A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed and coughed. “Salmon,” she said. “Or I was, many years ago.”
He frowned, surveying her silently for several moments. Finally, he nodded once and stepped aside. “The village is straight ahead.”
She inclined her head once and rode forward.
Autumn gray clung to the tops of pines and firs in the thick southern forest. Minerva smiled. So much like the day I first came here. That first winter with the people, eating and sleeping and training with the other guardian initiates, returned in a rush. They’re all guardians by now, perhaps mothers and wives, doing their rituals and raising babes. The pain of grief struck again, but this time, it wasn’t just for her husband. That time with the other initiates was the first time Minerva felt like she belonged somewhere—that she had something to offer, that people wanted her to be part of their lives.
She thought of the first time she danced the rites after a hunt and remembered her warrior’s brown eyes on her. She drew him into the circle with her, emboldened by the heat of the fires and the swirling magic of the lifespirit around them. “I’m only an initiate,” she whispered when he spun her close.
His breath warmed her neck, and she shivered. “You are strong in the wisdom. I sense it.”
She closed her eyes and let her body flow in time to the music. “They call me Esma.”
“Esma,” he whispered. He put his mouth on her neck and nipped at her. “Esma. I could whisper that for hours.”
Minerva shook away the memories. Forgive me, One—Alshada. Being here—I want to fall into the tribal ways. Forgive me. You are Alshada, not the One Hand.
She came to the edge of the village as the sun crested the horizon in the distance. Village sounds drifted to her—women stirring cook fires and soothing babes in the huts, goats bleating for food and milking, warriors returning home after night watches. Most wore leather breeches or dark woolen kaltans over their legs and wool tunics and furs over their arms and torsos.
A hound bayed, and Minerva startled. A burly, graying tribesman wearing only breeches stepped out of the fog to meet Minerva at the edge of the village. He hushed his gray wolfhound, patted the dog’s massive head, and pointed at his foot. The dog wagged his tail and lowered his head, and the rest of the village dogs quieted.
She lifted her chin and took a deep breath. Hrogarth. The snaking brand across his face gave him away, but if it hadn’t, she would have remembered the fierce, chiseled features and intense stare. Careful. Don’t let him know who you are. “Traitha Hrogarth. I am Saya Minerva. I bring news from Torlach.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “News from Torlach doesn’t concern the tribes.”
“Grant me a moment, I beg you.”
“A moment.”
“Fergus has died. Braedan has claimed the throne for himself. He has stormed the sayada and taken most of the sayas prisoner, including Sayana Muriel. He will come after the tribes next.”
Hrogarth grunted. “I saw the dark moon. I knew Fergus’ time had come. But the unbeliever will not come after the tribes. He is bound by ancient treaty to stay out of the great forest.”
“Braedan isn’t afraid to break faith, and he will drive his men to seek you.” She paused. “He seeks the Sidh.”
His eyebrows raised a fraction, the only concession to surprise. “He shouldn’t know about them. No regent has ever known unless the Sidh queen allows it. How do you know this?”
“The Sidh queen told Sayana Muriel. She believes he is seeking Cuhail’s reliquary.”
“Can one spoiled brat destroy enchantments two thousand years old?”
“The enchantments are fading—they’ve been fading for decades. Queen Maeve told Sayana Muriel that the protections around the Sidh village have been weakening ever since the tribes and the Sidh rejected each other. Braedan has been asking questions about the Sidh since he returned. He will come to the tribes seeking them.”
“It’s a fool’s quest. The unbeliever is human. He cannot use the reliquary. And since he does not carry Brenna’s blood, he cannot be the rightful deliverer, either.”
Stubborn man! “It doesn’t matter what is true.” Her voice rose. “Whether he believes he can use it or not, he still seeks it. He still threatens the safety of the Sidh and the tribes. Traitha, please—you must go to Queen Maeve. You must offer your protection once more.”
Hrogarth spat. “I’ll not crawl to offer my protection when they rejected it. Let them have their magic and their gold.”
Despair twisted Minerva’s stomach. “But they have nothing. They have no way to defend themselves should Braedan reveal their village. They need tribal swords and spears. You cannot reject—”
“I reject nothing. The Sidh reject it. They told us their magic could protect the artifacts. Let them depend on the elements.”
“Hrogarth, the time of chaos is coming. Braedan listens to evil counselors. They push him to find the relics. If he unleashes the full power of the earth, this feud will be nothing but a petty spat that will destroy you. Namha will be loosed, and the Forbidden will rule all.”
Hrogarth’s mouth flickered into a frown. His eyes narrowed, and he took three steps toward her. Minerva flinched. “No,” he said. “I swore when I was a child—I will not bend my knee. I will not return what they rejected.”
Her voice wavered. “Please, traitha.”
“You bought passage with the wisdommark. I will be merciful now, but if you ever return, Esma, you will die. I will not abide an oathbreaker in my village.”
She lifted her chin and straightened in the saddle. “The blood of the Brae Sidh will be on your head.”
“That may be. But I will face the gods or the earth for that, not some oathbreaker playing at being prophetess.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back and swallowed. Salt and vinegar—my sister was right. I’m only salt and vinegar. She drew up the reins of her horse and started to turn, but her eyes fell on a woman in the distance.
Alfrig.
Alfrig approached wrapped in furs, her thick, dark hair awry, and stopped a dozen paces behind Hrogarth. Her eyes narrowed, then widened in recognition. Her mouth trembled. Her foot started toward Minerva and stopped.
A swell of emotion rose in Minerva’s chest, and she struggled to keep her composure. Alfrig, chief priestess over the nine tribes, wife to Hrogarth, heir apparent to the wisdomkeeper in the far north. And once my friend, and the only mother I knew, for a time. Her palm burned. The words formed on her tongue. Great Mother, hear our laughter. Great Mother, hear our sorrow. Great Mother, hear our pleas. She opened her mouth, but her eyes fell on Hrogarth’s face again, and she snapped her lips shut.
Alfrig gave a small shake of her head. She turned her hand out just enough for Minerva to see the faint glow of her own wisdommark. We are still sisters, the gesture told Minerva. We a
re still joined by ritual and blood, and I will not betray you. But he is my husband, and you broke your vows. Go, now, while he is merciful.
Minerva wheeled her horse around before she could change her mind. Alfrig’s eyes stayed on her back, and as she rode away, the traitha and the guardian spoke in low, heated tones.
She rode out of the hound tribe’s territory, away from most tribal eyes except the few sentries who lined the road. When she was as alone as she could be, she dismounted, knelt at the foot of a massive fir tree, and started to shake and sob in relief, despair, and sorrow all at once.
Great Mother, hear our sorrow.
She wiped her nose on her sleeve and shook her head. “No,” she said. “No. I don’t pray to the earthspirit anymore. I don’t speak to the wisdomkeeper. I am a servant of the One—of Alshada.”
She opened her hand. The crossed circle still glowed, even some distance away from the warriors. Minerva scrambled to her horse and rummaged through her pack in desperation until she found her gloves. She pulled them on and let out a long breath. I can’t keep it from flaring, but I can keep anyone from seeing it.
A snap behind her startled her, and she whirled. The hound warrior who had first greeted her stepped out of the trees. “I meant for you to hear me,” he said. He tipped his spear at her. “I gave you time to draw.”
Minerva backed up against the horse. “Hrogarth let me go.”
“He did not give you permission to remain in the forest.”
“Please,” Minerva whispered. “I need to stay. I need to find the Sidh.”
“The Sidh?” Amber eyes narrowed. He worked his mouth as if chewing words. The lines of his face softened. “Find the wolf tribe. North—near Kiern. Their traitha is sympathetic to the Sidh. You may get help from them.”
She inclined her head. “I thank you.”
He grunted. “Not all of us believe as Hrogarth does,” he said, and he disappeared into the trees.
Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles) Page 9
