Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2) (11 page)

All her anger, all her fear, all these many months of fury had been directed toward David, and here he was in the flesh—the bane of her existence—the scourge of her people.

“I tried to tell ye she was a menace!” shouted a voice she recognized as Maddog’s—the mangy cur. “She plunged a knife into my man’s belly, just like I tol’ ye. One instant she was sweet as honey—“

“Shut your gob,” the Butcher snarled, but Lael could not hear what else was said because at that very instant they dragged her out of the hall.

Tucked beneath Una’s arm, the keek stane glowed with a faint green light, and by that light, she descended the ladder into the grotto. Somewhere near the bottom, she tapped through the mist with her faithful staff, searching for the floor.

One can never be certain
, she thought with a knowing smile.

Reality was a matter of perception and time was but an illusion. Yesterday might seem a hundred years past, and tomorrow be gone before the blink of an eye. Despite that her body was bent and her flesh was as wrinkled as an old prune, she betimes had the energy of a newborn bairn.
Though not today, not today.
At the instant she felt every second of every day she had spent upon this earth—far too many for an old soul to count, even though she not be vain.

She cackled softly to herself. How could one even think to be vain wearing this ancient face? It was a keen reminder, even whilst she walked in Bhrìghde’s shoes—Bhrìghde who ruled benevolently in sunlight, whose beauteous smile could raise tender saplings from the ground by its glorious warmth.

Aye, though ’twas winter she loved most, for winter spoke in verses laced with truth, stripped of the facades that hid all lies. It was a time when even the landscape was bared to knotty branches and the naked earth knelt beneath a harvest moon—and people clove to one another because they must. In truth, they always must, she thought with an inward grumble, yet somehow they did seem not realize, not whilst summer’s smile beguiled them.

All this she knew because, alas, it was true; she was Cailleach—the Mother of Winter, protector of all the Highlands. But in summertime she was otherwise known as Bhrìghde, and for an age they’d called her Biera too. Now those who loved her best simply called her Una, and it was this obscure name she enjoyed the most, because it allowed her to forget her burdens.

The cold mist parted before her as she made her way across the chamber, her bones creaking like old doors.

Oh, how she longed to sleep, perhaps to dream of the day when she was no longer forced to keep a second face… That time was soon to come, and sooner yet for those who measured hours by the seasons rather than the grains of a sandglass.

Today, she felt tired, drained and older even than the
Am Monadh Ruadh
. Before the day was over, she’d feel it all the more.

She rarely came into the deepest part of this grotto, but for the task she must perform she must be closer to
Clach-na-cinneamhain
—the destiny stone.

Imbued with powers far beyond the faith it instilled in men, the dark-veined basalt rock sat upon an altar made of stone in the center of the cave, surrounded by mist that rose like smoke from unseen places. And there beneath the stone, nailed to the altar, was an intricately carved metal plaque, the letters worn with age, but clearly visible, even to Una’s old eyes. It said:

Unless the fates be faulty grown

And prophet’s voice be vain

Where’er is found this sacred stone

The blood of Alba reigns.

Alas, no more. For the good of mankind, Una herself had brought the destiny stone into this tomb, never again to be warmed by summer’s smile. For by the power vested in this stone, men were doomed to commit the vilest acts in Alba’s name. This she knew only too well because she had witnessed the worst. Alas, it was true; she saw far more with one good eye than most saw with two—more’s the pity over that.

Setting the crystal down gingerly upon the Stone of Destiny, she breathed deeply, preparing herself for the rite. The very thought of it wearied her, for every glimpse into the crystal drained her of life, and yet these were sentient moments when the destinies of men could change with but a flip of the hand.

She positioned the crystal carefully for her eyes alone, so that the more concave side faced away from the entrance, just in case. To all but a few, the keek stane might seem merely a pretty crystal, but for those blessed with the sight it revealed betimes too much—things to come, things that passed, things that lingered now in twilight. Aye, and it was these nebulous visions Una sought above all others, for they alone revealed paths she might yet alter. The trick of that was to distinguish them from the rest, and for that she needed two great stones with divergent powers.

“Una!” she heard the child Sorcha call from above, presumably from Una’s workshop, but Una did not respond.

She knew instinctively Sorcha would not venture down this way, for it was forbidden to all save Una and to Aidan as leader of his clan. Someday, there must be rest for Una’s weary bones, and sometime before that time she would choose a disciple to carry on the Old Ways. Until then, this room was sacred. No one would dare disturb her here—not even precocious young Sorcha. Thus, she bided her time until Sorcha wandered away, settling her one good eye on the keek stane, transported momentarily to another time. Alas, she didn’t need the crystal to spy the past, for it played behind her lids like recurrent dreams.

Blood. Treachery.
Death.

Here in this place, long, long ago—but so not so long ago for Una—Kenneth MacAilpín called together the kings of seven Pecht nations: Cat, Fidach, Ce, Fotla, Circinn, Fortriu and Fib, represented by great men the likes of Black Tolargg and Drust. Each came from noble lines, but they were all seven prepared to bend the knee to Kenneth MacAilpín. For this Una blamed herself, because she had been the one to convince them. MacAilpín’s minny had been a Pecht princess, whilst his Da hailed from a long line of Dalriadic kings. It only seemed to her that, as a child of two nations, he should be the one to unite the clans. But she had been blinded by hope.

Blood. Treachery.
Death.

Smoothing a wrinkled hand over the cold, firm Destiny Stone, she remembered…

With a hopeful heart she’d blessed
Lia Fàil
—the Stone of Destiny, proclaiming it the seat of future kings—not simply for those Gaels who’d brought it by way of Erin, but for all the clans of her beloved Alba. In a ceremony attended by a hopeful nation, they’d crowned MacAilpín upon this very slab of stone, and oh, what a feast they’d had! On that day MacAilpín swore an oath by the sword of the
Righ Art
and the clans made merry for a sennight, celebrating peace, at long last.

But, lo, Una had forgotten how fickle men’s hearts could be. As surely as the men sobered, and the flesh of the roasts were plucked away, leaving only twisted bones, so too returned the vanities and vagaries of men.

MacAilpín, fearful of being challenged for his throne, called together the fathers and sons of all seven nations—here… at Dubhtolargg—asking them to sup, presumably to discuss the boundaries of given fiefs. However, once they arrived, he waited until they were well into their cups, laughing uproariously over jests and only then did reveal his treachery, plunging them all into pits that were carved beneath their seats and sown with deadly blades. All those who did not die by the blades he then slew from above, murdering every last one. He plundered their bodies and stole their treasures. That was MacAilpín’s treason and Una had been powerless to stop it. After all, what could one old woman do against an army of men?

Nay, though she’d wept… and even as she’d wept, she went to preside over the Stone of Destiny, cursing it that very day—cursing it so any man who sat upon it without right was forevermore destined to war against his own kin. Just as MacAilpín had served the Pechts, so too would his descendants suffer their end.
Justice.
Or so it seemed, at the time. But it was an act of grief, no less, no more. Now the curse could not be undone. And the true tragedy was that Scotia was doomed with the stone and without it as well, and all Una could do now was attempt to minimize the damage done. So here sat the Destiny Stone and here it would remain forevermore. Yet what of Aidan and his clan? Were these poor folk destined to relive the same treachery again and again until they were done?

Her heart filled with an age-old sorrow as she recalled Padruig mac Caimbeul’s bold act of treachery—played in much the same manner as MacAilpín’s treason. She could not know for certain if he meant to mock these people with his betrayal, but Padruig too had come as a friend and left with blood on his hands—the blood of Aidan’s sire and many of his kin. Long, long after they’d gone, Una discovered poor Lael clinging to her father’s dead body beneath the table, smeared with blood and wailing like a bairn. Not even her mother’s soft, broken coos could untangle the child from her father’s stiff limbs.

Moisture filled Una’s eyes and she blinked away the memory, admiring the stone sadly. Ach, but even the most benevolent magik sometimes went awry in the service of men.

But enough reverie for one day.

Once she was certain Sorcha was gone, she set aside her staff, leaning it upon the Stone of Destiny to lay her hands upon the keek stane, ready at last to begin. Her voice began as a whisper and then perfused the grotto.

Through the glass the sands shall go,

On and on as time must flow,

Reveal to me now another place

But in others’ minds leave no trace!

All about the room mist coalesced, gathering like a storm cloud before the altar. The keek stane glowed a brighter green, casting its pale light upon the nebulous mass. Faces formed in the cloud, peering back at Una from another time.

Stark green eyes. The face of Lael. The sword of the
Righ Art
. Rising up by a bloodied hand. A mound of dead. She gasped aloud.

Blood. Treachery.
Death.

With a pounding heart, the priestess waved a trembling hand and swept the mist away as though by a rush of unseen wind. Her bony fingers locked into a pleading fist. “Spare the child,” she implored, and then closed her eyes, spying wee Lael as a child of eleven.

They stood together by her minny’s grave beneath the rowan tree. “Una,” the memory child whispered at her side. “I will kill them
all
one day.”

Una felt the specter’s presence beside her as though she were here and now. Tears pricked at her eyes—she felt them cloud even her phantom eye. Sun glinted off the dirk in her ghostly hand—her father’s dirk—and Una felt compelled to warn, “Take care, child. Vengeance is a double-edged blade.”

“Ach, Lael, what ha’ ye done, lass?”

True to the Butcher’s word, Broc sat gulping down his victuals as they dragged Lael into the tunnels below the donjon. His expression full of worry, he set his plate aside and stood, coming to the bars to peer at her.

She couldn’t find her voice—not yet.

She wasn’t even certain what it was she was feeling at the instant, but it wasn’t triumph, nor even justification. If she had but kept her mouth shut and her hands to herself, she might have somehow negotiated not only her own release, but Broc’s as well. Now, instead, she’d been sent here to the gaols with Broc and both of them would rot here for the rest of their days. David would never compel his liegeman to show them mercy, not after what she had done.

Her brother had always claimed she was a termagant, though in truth, she had
never
behaved so irrationally, not in all her life. For all that she’d accused David of being calculating, she was far more deliberate in her actions than he could ever think to be. However, unlike David, at least she was driven by honor. Even now she had no kind words for the king of Scotia, but despite what she knew of him—despite all the atrocities he had committed against the people she loved—David had stood there, simply gaping at her, not even defending himself, and some part of her felt terrible for that fact—not to mention horrified over the look the Butcher gave her, as though he thought her mad.