Highland Storm (2 page)

Lulach stared at her, and Lianae threw up her hands. “Would you have him plug his nose over the stench of me?
Look at me,”
she begged, and prayed he would see the bruises as well. “I have come straight from tending
your
children. ’Tis little wonder he has stared at me all morn as though ye’d put a turd beneath his nose!”

Lulach sighed, relenting at once. “No tricks, Lianae,” he warned. “If ye canna find it in your heart to do this for yourself, or for me, then ye must consider your nephews. Alan may yet find a way to make our father proud.”

Dressed as a Sassenach? Nay. Never! Óengus would turn in his grave.

Lianae narrowed her eyes. “It is for love of them I did not leave when I had the chance,” she reminded him. She loved her brother’s children as though they were her own. But Lulach had already pledged his fealty to the new Earl and she doubted fitz Duncan would harm them, not when he needed the people’s support. As a rightful born son of Óengus, Lulach was very well regarded. Even to the grave, the people of Moray loved her father dearly.

“Very well, I will arrange the bath.”

Lianae’s heart leapt with glee. “I thank you. The Earl will thank you,” she amended quietly, trying not to squeal as her brother clapped his hands.

The hall doors flew wide and in marched not one, but two burly men to escort Lianae out of the great hall. They plucked her up and dragged her away.

“Remember yourself,” Lulach warned. “And dinna tarry.”

“Dinna fash yourself,
brother
. I will do my duty,” she promised with little compunction.

It was her
duty
to find a way to escape.

Almost at once, the details of her plan began to form in her head. Lianae but needed a few moments alone in the bathhouse—long enough to open and enter the passageway. The entrance should be easy enough to locate, even after all these years. The new Earl and his party could scarce be expected to know the history of these lands, or the structures erected therein. Fitz Duncan had spent his entire life in England and their ignorance would serve Lianae well today.

Out in the corridor, the Earl stepped into Lianae’s path. Smiling thinly, he seized her by the arm before she could chance to pass. “Come this evening your brother will no longer have a say over what I do with you, Lianae. Best you find a better use for that soft, velvet tongue of yours.”

Lianae shuddered.

Satisfied with her response, he grinned and released her. Heat suffused Lianae’s cheeks. But for once, she held her tongue, her heart hammering fiercely against her ribs as she peered back into the hall at her brother. Lulach was watching, unmoved by the plea in her eyes, and she knew in that instant that he was lost to her. And yet she was smart enough to ken that anger wouldn’t serve her now. But seduction might. Her mother had been a siren, weaving a spell with every word she spoke, and so she sidled up to fitz Duncan and brushed her tongue across her lower lip. With more bravado than she felt, she said, “Dinna fash yourself,
laird
—” she swallowed over the deference. “—I ken what to do with my saft, velvet tongue. After all, I am a maid of Moray.”

Fitz Duncan’s pupils dilated, his eyes turning the deepest black. Something bright shone in the depths of his gaze and he smiled a bit as he bent to whisper in Lianae’s ear. “Your sister was weak. She had not the fortitude of a queen. But I have always wanted to flay a Moraywoman to her bones… to see what she is truly made of… simply give me cause,” he warned, and moved away, stepping out of Lianae’s way.

He left her standing in the corridor, a cold sweat seeping into her bones. Fear and doubt paralyzed her limbs. Of course, this man would be unmoved by seduction. He was immune to a siren’s charms. He would have his way with her, and she would never have a say. Like Elspeth, who was far more beautiful than she, her life would end by fitz Duncan’s hands.

Chuckling deep in his throat, amused by the fear in her eyes, the Earl made his way back into the hall to finalize the wedding plans, and Lianae stood so long that the Earl’s man pushed her rudely at the small of her back.

God help me.

She would have but one chance to escape.

And if she failed…

She would not fail.

Lianae didn’t look back to see if her sister’s murderer and her brother were still watching. Without another word, Lianae of Moray, the last remaining daughter of Óengus the Mormaer, allowed the usurper’s men to lead her away.

L
ong out of its season
, a giant yellow fox moth flittered about the table, lured by the crystal’s strong virescent light. With a glower, Una tossed her tartan over the crystal ball, loathe to dwell on the images shimmering behind the luminescent façade. Deprived of the
keek stane’s
light, the thwarted moth flapped its overlarge wings toward to the grotto’s only torch while Una considered the images revealed.

To all but a few, the
keek stane
might appear to be but a lovely crystal. But for those blessed with
da shealladh
—
the second sight
—it revealed betimes too much—things to come, things that passed, things that lingered yet in twilight. The trick of it all was to distinguish which of these visions revealed the paths she might yet alter. Today, her visions had been as clear as the faerie pools on the Isle of Skye, which only meant that the future she saw was inalterable now.

Stealing the bounce from her old limbs, a rush of sadness enveloped her. Today, even her skin felt tired; it hung limply from her ancient frame, as though it no longer had the will to remain. She had more aches in her small toe than most suffered in a lifetime. And now time was growing short…

Clach-na-cinneamhain must never be found.

The Stone of Destiny was no longer a blessing to men. Imbued with powers far beyond the faith it instilled in men, the dark-veined basalt rock had once belonged to the Gaels—their holiest of relics, brought to Scotia by way of Erin and blessed by a Pecht priestess. By the power vested in that Destiny Stone, men were doomed to commit vile acts in Alba’s name. Having seen the lengths to which they would go for a taste of immortality, Una herself had entombed the Stone and then chosen her guardians well. But to leave it now in mortal hands was to ensure that Scotia’s rivers always ran red.

What to do… what to do…

Alas, it was not something she could burden Aidan with, for her prophecy would only serve to breed anger and fear. And worse, if Aidan should discover Keane’s part in bringing the Stone’s journey to its end, he would blame Keane, and the younger dún Scoti must continue as he should. They did not like to think of themselves as sons of Scotia, but sons of Scotia was what they were—Pechts, Gaels, Scots. These were all merely different names for precisely the same thing. A thorn by any other name was still a thorn.

A thousand cold fingers pricked at her flesh, like a thousand dead kinsmen accusing without words. “I ken,” she said with a bit of irritation. “I ken. I will see the stone destroyed. Be still now, and leave me to think!”

As though it merely meant to obey, the fox moth returned to the table, beating its bird-like wings. It landed upon the tartan, atop the crystal and then sat staring at Una, fanning its hairy wings and wiggling its horn-like antennae.

The caves where she made her home were solid throughout, the Stone itself entombed within the mountain’s deepest vault. Some years past, Aidan’s new wife had fallen inside from a fault line above, but the breach had long been sealed, and now there remained only one entrance into the vault—here through Una’s workshop—in the grotto where she now stood. The entrance was accessible only through a trap door that lay hidden beneath her alchemy table. But sealing the door was not proof enough.

Fire was not proof enough. The Stone would not burn, and neither would it score the curse from its basaltic pores. And furthermore, despite the
magik
she possessed, she could never ferret that heavy Stone out alone. But even if she could, it was impossible to remove an object of that size without raising some alarm. The Guardians of the Stone had now been at their task far too long. They would never let it go.

Forsooth, but it was a quandary for the gods—of which Una was most certainly
not
one. She was, after all, only a humble servant of men.

With a wistful smile she considered Aidan’s family, the last of the guardians in truth. Lìli, Ria, and the new child Lìli now bore. Young Cailin’s path was as yet unknown. And Keane had always been a sweet, sweet lad, though his heart had hardened. Catrìona was the first to leave. She’d wed herself to a second son of the Brodie clan. And Lael too had fled, to wed the laird of Keppenach. And lastly, there was Sorcha… dearest Sorcha…

Soon the guardians would all be free to roam the lands, each aligned to a new clan. Alas, but the paths of men could no longer be altered—not in this age or the next.

Tears pricked at her auld eyes, catching in the folds of her skin. Crow’s feet they called them, although after so many years, her wrinkles were nearly as deep as Lilidbrugh’s
well—that long forsaken place whose visage now loomed from the depths of her crystal. It was there, in that cradle of their clan, that the younger dún Scoti would meet his destiny.

Any day now…

Distracted and weary, the old woman turned from the alchemy table, barely in time to spy Sorcha’s long limbs descending into the grotto from the chamber above—searching for Una, little doubt, for Lìli had sent her up the hill long hours before to fetch a poultice for little Ria. Unexpectedly, she’d been waylaid by the crystal.

“Una!” The girl shouted, never bothering to look around.

The fox moth hoisted itself up into the air and flew away.

“I am here, child, please! Save my ears,” Una complained, and her gruff voice held a note of defeat.

Hopping down from the ladder, into the grotto, Sorcha furrowed her brow. At twenty-three, the youngest dún Scoti lass was hardly a child anymore, despite what Una liked to believe. Her violet eyes, so like her sister’s, were canny and far older than her years. She appraised her young charge through a weepy eye.

“Oh! Am I interrupting?” Sorcha asked, her eyes drawn to the crystal glowing beneath the tartan.

“Nay.”

“We thought ye might need help…”

Una lifted a wiry brow. “To carry a poultice down the mount? D’ ye think me lame, child?”

Sorcha responded with a crooked smile and Una’s staff itched to fly at her, though she stayed her hand. At these moments, she missed Keane all the more. The dún Scoti lassies were all quite hale and sharp of wit, but Una was never inclined to give them a wallop on the head. More’s the pity that Kellen was not about, for he made a fitting substitute. Alas, though Lìli’s sixteen-year old son would rise up into manhood far quicker than he should, and Lìli would be angered by the decisions her husband had made whilst away at Chreagach Mhor
.
She blew a sigh, and her despair reared itself in the form of a cold draft that swept into the grotto from the caves above, billowing through Sorcha’s blue skirts and fluttering the torchlight so that its flame gave a long obeisant bow. Casting a dubious eye toward the
keek stane,
Una confessed, “I was waylaid, if ye must know.”

Despite an overabundance of curiosity, Sorcha knew better than to ask about the lump beneath the tartan, but Una decided that now was as good a time as any to discover what she must know. Leaning on her staff for support, she made her way to the nearest chair and sat down to study her pupil. “How is Ria’s rash?” she asked.

“Better, Lìli says, though she is prickly.”

“Lìli or Ria?”

Sorcha laughed softly. “Both, if ye must know.”

Reaching up for one long plait of hair—a nervous gesture meant to occupy her hands— Sorcha wandered closer to Una’s worktable, driven by her insatiable curiosity for the crystal. It called to her now, for she too was a
taibshear
—a
seer.
But it was one thing to possess the
knowing
, quite another to be conscious of it and wish to use it. There were folk who had the natural disposition, but who did not trust their intuition, nor did they keep an open mind and heart…

Even now, seated across the room, Una felt the crystal’s energy and knew it longed to be seen by different eyes. The question was, did Sorcha feel the pull as well? Was the lass strong enough to embrace her inner
magik
?

She watched the girl she’d raised from a wee bairn and after a moment her eyes were drawn to a high shelf. “Sorcha, dearling, do ye recall the book we used to read together?”

Made of sheepskin and bound with leather, the volume was painted with ancient symbols that were drawn in blood. It was quite old and delicate, impossible to read, unless ye had the sight. To anyone who did not have
da shealladh
, the pages would simply appear blank. But Sorcha knew them… nearly from the first. Even as a child, she had seen things others had not.

Following Una’s gaze to the high shelf, Sorcha said, “Of course. I remember.”

Una smiled ruefully. “Promise to keep it safe?”

“I will! But Una—”

“
Dùin do ghob somaltag
.”
Hush your mouth, child,
the old woman said gently.

Resolved to her task, Una tapped her ash wood staff upon the grotto’s stone floor and mist rose like smoke from unseen places. Along with the mist arrived a cold that seeped straight into the bones faster than a wet, cold rain. And yet despite the swirling smoke, the air grew stale—as though before a sweeping fire, sucking oxygen into its flame. Sorcha felt the change, and like a wary doe, prepared to flee.

Only once or twice before had Una revealed herself before men. Each time there had been a wrath to pay.
Next time would be her last.
She stared at her young charge, willing Sorcha to remain.

Never fear, child.

The silky sound of Una’s voice slid like an asp through the misty cavern.

Even as she watched, half expecting Sorcha to fly away like the moth, the girl’s shoulders began to relax. Behind her on the table, the scrying stone glowed a little brighter, its powerful
magik
seeping beneath the weave like diaphanous threads of light.

Remove the tartan from the keek stane,
Una suggested, but her lips never moved.

Startled by the command, Sorcha snapped her head about to peer at the tartan, and turned a wary glance to Una.

Remove the tartan,
Una said again.

Blinking, Sorcha’s hand lifted toward the blanket as though of its own accord, but cautiously. Una watched patiently as her fingers hovered near the cloth, waiting…

Remove the tartan,
she willed once again.

Clearest violet, the girl’s eyes were luminous in the grotto’s warm light. Her gaze locked with Una’s, and Una smiled reassuringly, quite pleased. Sorcha might not realize what it was she knew, but, aye, she knew…

Peer into the crystal and tell me what you see.

Sorcha found her voice. “Truly?”

The old woman tipped her chin but once.

Tentatively, as though she feared it might be a figment of her imagination and that any moment Una’s staff would fly at the pate of her head, Sorcha’s fingers pinched the tartan. Silently, the old woman rose from the chair to stand beside her pupil at the table, moving more swiftly than her auld bones should have allowed. But if Sorcha sensed her advance, it did not appear to alarm her, nor did she turn to acknowledge the auld woman standing at her side. The
keek stane
now held her undivided attention.

Anticipation became a living, breathing creature in the stone chamber. Una could see the misty tendrils of the
bruadar
—the
vision
—reaching out for the girl, like arms that longed to embrace her. Sorcha’s heartbeat ticked like iron tocks, each one in tune with the beat of Una’s heart. Una lent her the strength of the
bruadaraiche—the dreamer.

Quickly, as though she feared to change her mind, Sorcha tugged the cloth and the tartan slid off the
keek stane
, revealing a concave crystal from whence all the mist in the room seemed to emanate. All that remained trapped within the crystal shifted violently into desperate shapes.

Una waited patiently for the energy to be harnessed, and then demanded, “Tell me what you see.”

For a long moment, Sorcha’s gaze was inscrutable, and then, curiosity silenced the beat of her heart, and she slipped past Una, around the table so that she might better peer into the ancient
keek stane.

There inside the crystal, shapes began to coalesce… but this
bruadar
was not for Una, so she kept her eyes affixed to Sorcha. Illumined by the changing light of the crystal, the girl’s dark hair appeared as violet as her eyes. Her skin took on the translucent hue of a pearl. After a moment, Sorcha lifted her eyes from the crystal and met Una’s gaze.

Una’s brows wiggled with amusement. “Speak. Tell me what you see.”

“I-I canna be certain,” Sorcha said.

“It is better to see without certainty than to yield to blindness.”

Long accustomed to Una’s enigmatic lectures, Sorcha peered down again into the
keek stane
, staring into the swirling eddies. She swallowed perceptibly. “I see a broch.”

Una’s brows lifted. “A stone tower?”

Sorcha nodded.

“Of the Norman type, or rather those erected by our ancestors?”

“Not Norman.”

“What else?”

“A wolf and a blue four-legged bird.”

“What else?” Una snapped.

“I canna be certain,” Sorcha said, nipping at her lower lip.

“Ye must remember that certainty is the death of dreams. Hurry, child, tell me what more ye see.”

The images faded irretrievably and Sorcha shook her head. “I dinna see aught more,” she said, looking confused.

Annoyed, Una clucked her tongue. “’Tis too late now!” She lifted up the tartan from the table, tossing it irritably over the
keek stane
, concealing the crystal.

“What does it mean?”

“It means what it means.”

“What is that crystal?”

“There is an unseen life who dreams us, Sorcha… one who knows our fate. The crystal provides a glimpse through Cailleach’s eye. But the
bruadar
is yours alone to decipher
.
”

Sorcha’s gaze lifted to Una’s face, to the patch that hid Una’s one missing eye. Disappointed, Una turned her face. “Go on, take my book back to your room.”

“Why?” Sorcha argued. “I dinna ken how to read it.”