Virgins, Riding Bareback

I.

I was always Thomas to her, but Tom to my father and mother and the rest of our clan. Tom MacKarcher of the Clan MacAndouire, of the lowlands. across MacGeicheron lands from Mostreach, in the southern quarter of the Isle of Cyatte, what the Imperials called one of the Western Isles. My father was Laird Hugh MacKarcher, and in the winter when the sap in the trees froze and the forest rang with their bursting, he took forty men in battle and didn't think it a great many. My mother was Lady Tessa, and in the spring when MacMoody's granary burned down to the rock and the wind carried the flames into his stables she saved fifteen of his horses and wept for the sixteenth who perished, and didn't think it a great many. I, for my part, had done little or nothing. I'd taken only four men, I couldn't weave like my mother or sing like my father, could not cast a spear true or swim the Failte Bre, or dance on a spinning wagon wheel, but when a body tried to stare me down I would not look away, which was precious little but still something. I could run like a buck, strike like a spark on tinder, and shout like the roar of a winter storm. In the summer the MacKierra brothers drank their fill of apple wine and ran their father's boars through the meeting of the Clan Lairds, I chased down twelve mean hogs myself, and didn't think it a great many. This was the tale, personal as smallclothes, common as the sun, of Molly MacCamnon, how she saved my poor life, and how she made me a man.

It started in the hog pen, in the mud and scraps and shite. I carried a third bucket of scraps to the trough, with my elder brother Stephen leaning against the unlatched gate watching me slip and stumble and swear through the mush, my elder sister Emer tossing corn to the cocks and hens in the next pen over.

"Do you like wading around in hog-leavings, boy?" he asked, trying as usual to plant a burr under my saddle.

"I sleep in the bed next to you, you dumb bastard. Compared t' your smelly arse, this is spring meadow-flowers," I said back, and dumped the bucket in the trough, bending at the knees. He was a wicked shot with a dirt clod, but since I moved, the clod bounced off the rail of the pen and landed by my feet.

"Hea, Thomas!" With a voice like the soft trickle of melting snow on a thatched roof, Molly MacCamnon came into view, swaggering around the corner of our house. I felt my ears redden, and tried hard to keep a wide smile from staying overlong.

"Ooh, Thomas!" My brother called out in a cracking falsetto, flapping his hands at the wrists.

I'm not such a bad shot with a dirt clod, either. The same one he threw at me, greased with a little hog-shite, hit him in the forehead. Since I was aiming to put it in his open mouth, I was a little disappointed. He wiped his rocklike head on his sleeve and laughed as he walked away.

"That's on your debt, brother of mine, but I'll let it slide, since I'm out here and you're knee deep in dung."

Molly leaned up against the fence, sneaking a smile out at the corners of her mouth without showing teeth.

"Can't you work any slower?" She plucked a piece of her brown hair off her head. "Look, I've been here so long I'm going grey."

"I doubt it," came out sounding surlier than I'd meant it to.

"Is it your time, then?" Her green eyes twinkled. "Are you bleedin'?"

"No." I tried to scowl and smiled crooked instead. "Are you?"

"I finished yesterday, since you asked." She gave a shrug that somehow made my jest seem small and feeble. She smiled again like the sunrise. "Get y'r arse movin', then!"

I bowed from the waist.

"Yes, your Highness, the Laird o' the hog trough is always ready t' do your biddin'."

"Thomas! Quit talkin' around my hogs and wash up!" my father growled, as he stepped out of the house. He had it in his head hearing voices made his hogs mean, and their meat tough.

"But—"

He vaulted over the fence and boxed my ear, but I didn't go down.

"I'll have none o' your lip, not this nor any other morning until the end o' the world. Now go wash up and be back on time." He turned to Molly. "You look like you have at least half a spoonful more brains in your head than this useless git, so I'll tell you—make sure he's back for supper."

"Whatever you say, Laird MacKarcher." She smiled.

"Spirits take you, my name is Hugh, and you damn well know it." He didn't shout the way he would have if talking to me. "Give me the bucket, boy."

The hogs gathered around him, raising their stinking snouts and jostling each other to peer up at him through dim pig's eyes. He bent to rub a bristled back or scratch a mottled ear, and they grunted in recognition of their master, who waved at my sister to bring her over.

I worked the pump handle and wet my arms to the elbows. The hog's bristle brush tied to the pump got most of the mess off, and I picked my fingernails clean with the point of my hoof-handled knife. I stripped off the half-pants I inherited with the hog-trough from Emer, and rinsed off the little bit of mud on the field skirt as Molly tapped her foot at me. I looked up, then looked away, then laughed, without thinking. I counted my blessings I'm not the one the Lairdship of the clan would pass to once my father's time was up: I knew no trick to keep my heart from parading starkers across my face, not a good quality for dealing with men or outsiders or those who drink power like the Imperials across the sea.

"Come on, you, get your bow, the sun'll be coming up soon and we've got three meadows t' cross." Molly jabbed me in the small of the back as I scrubbed.

"I'd be ready to go by now if I didn't have t' answer your babble, you know."

She laughed. "You'd still be abed."

I shrugged. The bowstrings were in my pocket, to keep them warm, the bow and quiver under the edge of the pile of extra thatch we kept for roof repairs, easily retrieved.

"Let's go, then."

She started to jog towards the walls, saying, "If you can keep up."

We made it about halfway through the village without trouble, but the luck of my people wasn't with us—one minute I was jogging alongside her, the next I was on my belly in the middle of the path, my bow in the dirt and my quiver spilled, wondering how I'd fallen. Finias Donbennach grinned down at me, looking pleased with himself.

"Good day t'you, runt," he said. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"I caught the rot from your grandmother, and I'm going t' see Ossi to get it cured," I stood up. A fist the size of a baby's head knocked me down again. I said, "Oh," because it was all I could think of, down in the dirt with a rock digging into my back.

"You think you're funny, don't you? A sharp one. We'll see how silver your tongue is when y'r jaw is swollen shut."

I rolled towards him, since he expected me to crawl away, and kicked hard, trying to take his knee out from under him. I hit his shin, and he grabbed my ankle.

"Oh, damn—" was all I managed to say before I went whirling around, sailing through the air, and hit one of the fence posts of Scott MacNeely's hound's pen. With the hounds barking and sticking their heads through to nip at my face, I spit blood and out came a tooth. I grabbed it and stuck it in my pocket, then got up, expecting Finias to continue the thrashing, and watched him walk away.

"If I had an Imperial ha'piece for every time that dumb mouth of yours bought you a beating, I'd own the island." Molly handed me my bow and quiver.

"You were a great help." I spit, and wiped the blood off my chin.

"What happened t' your mouth?"

"Lost a tooth."

"I guess we really are going to see Ossi, then."

"I don't have much choice in the matter. Sorry to spoil your plans."

She laughed.

"Not matter. Field hare's as tender as quail anyway, and easier to clean."

"But—"

"What? You think I'm going to let Finias the Ox ruin my morning's hunt? You're not gettin' away so easy."

I couldn't think of anything else to say, so we turned and went to see Ossi, our clan's resident seer, sage, and healer. His shop and home, about three quarters the size of my father's as Clan Laird, cluttered with bits of feather, fur, bones and precious pieces of glass, looked (as always) ready to split its seams. We opened the door and stepped back in a cloud of green smoke as something small and scaled flew away.

"The Cold Hells take ye, then!" snarled Ossi as whatever it was took to the sky, heading into the north wind. He scratched his head with soot-covered fingers, ran a hand through his plume of rambunctious white hair, and squinted at us.

"Come in, your lettin' the heat out!" he snapped, and turned away, tugging his peppered beard. "In or out, dammit! Either close the door or go t' the hells and leave me be!"

Molly poked me in the ribs and shut the door.

Ossi took a seat on a tall three-legged oak stool, and swiveled around to look at us with eyes the color of spring wheat. There was a glint of humor, there, but Ossi was hard to read, and his moods ever-changing as the sea, so I had no guess what to expect next.

"Well?" He raised one craggy black eyebrow, staring at us his eyes bright enough to glow. "What d' ye want?"

"We ran into Finias on the way out of the village—" began Molly.

He scowled. "What has that idiot nephew of mine done this time?"

Ossi picked up a bronze goblet, swirled it around, sniffed at it, and poured a few black drops onto the floor near his twitching foot, where they hissed and smoked.

"One of these days he's going to pick on a mainlander and get himself run through and come moaning to me t' save his worthless hide. Boy's a waste of perfectly good seed," he said, eyebrows furrowed, scowl on his face, faint smile at the corners of his bearded mouth.

"Well, Thomas—"

He took a sip of whatever was in the goblet, frowned, spit it on the floor, and nodded my way. "Tom MacKarcher. Ye were an easy birth. Not like your brother at all. How's my half-sister?"

"She's fine. I thought my mother was your cousin?" Jaw aching, I spit blood on the floor.

"Hmm. Depends on who's asking. I say her father crossed through our lands about the time I became, before he met her mother, and she says I'm wrong. I hope you have the tooth." He looked carefully at the blood on my chin.

"Right here." I took it out of my pocket.

"Good." He nodded, seemed satisfied I hadn't taken complete leaves of my senses. "Well, come closer. I can't fix ye all the way over there. Let me clear a space."

He stood and shifted the mess around to dig out another stool, shaking it to free the last bit of rope looped over one of the cross-bars.

"Sit."

He put his hands on my head, pressed against my temples, and wiggled my nose."That hurt?"

"No."

"Open your jaw," he said, in the rolling lilt of the older Island tongue. "Wider. All the way open."

He stuck fingers that tasted of mint into my mouth and pushed out on my cheeks.

"That hurt?"

"O."

"Close your mouth. Bite me and I'll knock out another tooth myself."

I carefully closed my mouth. He took back his fingers and wiped them on his pants.

"Open again. Don't touch it!" he snapped at Molly, who was reaching for a mortar and pestle on the table, without looking her way or changing his tone.

"Why?"

"Ye'll lose a finger, and I have better things t'do than go puttin' it back on. This hurt?" he asked, and poked at my gums.

"O."

"How about this?" he asked, and wiggled several teeth next to the gap.

" 'augh 'eally."

"Just here, then," he said, and pressed down on the bloody hole in my gums.

"Aaaiiighh!"

He pulled his fingers out of my mouth and wiped them again on his grubby shirt.

"Good." He took a bite from a half-loaf of black bread. As he chewed, he picked up a stone bowl, dumped out the wine it held, and wiped it clean with a grey rag.

"You're lucky. Nothing else seems t'be broken. Finias must be coming down with something."

"How comforting."

"Let me see the tooth."

I handed it to him, and he squinted at it, turning it over with his fingertips.

"I see." He nodded to himself. "Think I can pop it back in. Might have to use a little glue."

"Glue it back in?" I looked for reassurance to Molly, who didn't help matters by shrugging.

"Well, that's the simple version. Actually what I'm going t'do is take out the pieces still stuck in there, and make it whole, then put it back, and—ye wouldn't understand. It's wyln."

"Wyln?" I'd heard the word before, once, in a whisper.

"Magic. Ye know, spirits? Charms? Adaimma."

"Is it going to hurt?"

"No more and for no longer than it did when ye broke it. Well, maybe a little more, but not much."

I nodded, swallowed, and tried to tell my legs to stop trembling.

"Has he addled y'r senses, or are ye always this dense?" He chuckled, scratching his chin through his beard, glancing at Molly. She returned his gaze without a response, for which I was grateful.

He turned away and pulled out a drawer, from which he retrieved three clay jars whose cork stoppers were inscribed with glyphs. Molly squatted on her heels, leaning against one of the beams, and watched, and waited. Ossi poured a bit from two of the jars into the stone bowl and stirred the brew with one long curled fingernail. I heard it sizzle, and I began to sweat. He moved aside a bundle of leaves and picked up a small pair of tongs.

"Open your mouth. The quicker we get this over with, the less it'll hurt."

'Reluctantly' is too mild a word. Trying not to shake or piss myself, I opened my mouth and closed my eyes. He stuck a rag in, pressing it against the hole in my gums to soak up some of the blood. When he took the rag away, I tensed. He jabbed the sharpened tongs into my gums, closed them around the stump of my tooth, and pulled hard enough to twist my neck. I didn't scream but I did flinch. Blood began to fill my mouth.

"Spit into the cup." He held it next to my chin. I did, wiping my chin on my forearm. He hunched over the pieces of tooth, muttering, and I saw a faint glow between his fingers. I leaned forward, trying to see, and without looking my way Ossi smacked me in the nose hard enough to make my eyes water.

"Not for ye t' know, boy."

"But—"

"But nothing. Swish this around in your mouth, but don't swallow it. Spit it out on the floor."

I swished, and spit, whatever he'd mixed in the cup burning my mouth as it were white-hot pebbles.

"Open."

His thin mint-tasting fingers forced the tooth back into the bleeding hole in my gums—

"Aaaaggghh!! 'A 'oo 'yin' a' oo' a' 'ee?"

"Hold still." Fire raced around inside my mouth, searing my cheeks and tongue. He sat back, dumped the dregs out of the stone goblet, and poured in a little out of the third clay jar.

"Hold it in your mouth, boy. Don't swallow any or ye won't go proper for a week."

I took a sip—the taste like nettles—and held it, while he continued to move his lips without saying anything aloud.

"Spit it, boy." He held out the goblet. "Good. Now go t' your hunt, and bring me some of whatever ye kill, if y'r good enough t' kill anything."

"Yessir."

"Don't forget, or I'll send Finias to collect."

"We won't forget." Molly stood, and handed me my bow. The quiver, slightly scuffed, still hung from my belt. I spit pink with little red bubbles, trying to get the taste of thorns off my tongue.

"Your jaw still hurts, I take it?"

I probed the fresh-mended tooth with tongue and fingers.

"Nah. It dinnae hurt much, just a bit, when I poke at it."

"Well, don't poke at it, then, y'idiot." She smiled again.

We went out the west gate, waved through with a frown and a nod from Molly's uncle Colin who hadn't smiled since he lost his wife to one of the Stewarts during a cattle raid four winters ago.

"Goin' huntin', Uncle.".

"A likely story." He looked me over with dark sad eyes, and waved us through.

Molly set a good pace, not so fast we'd arrive winded, but fast enough to make conversation difficult. I looked around at the fields as we jogged, a rag stuffed in the mouth of my quiver to keep the arrows from rattling as we headed west through the lands of my people. We have never, will never, cannot bow down to the Imperials. I thought of this as I watched Molly's back ahead of me, thinking about the will of my people and the will of the Empire, wondering which would break first. Every year they sent troops to subdue us, and every year we sent the troops back, most loaded onto their ships in boxes. They could stand to lose the men, but we couldn't. I wondered whether I'd live to see my people speaking in Imperial tongues, or whether we'd fall after I passed on to the next life. My people, my Clan, first among equals, we'd been fighting them off since before my grandfather's grandfather, and we'd keep fighting until they learned we were a people who would not bend and could not break. The sons and daughters of the Clans were stronger, and faster, than any Imperial save the Kail C'tall with their magics, black hearts, and black armor, and when the beetles came we made them pay dearly for every inch of Clan soil they took. Molly's blade was notched a few times, same as mine. I'd done my share, as my brother had, and sister, father and mother, each of us sure in knowing when they came we would meet them with a song on our lips and a blade in our hands, always ready, and always free. Our freedom came with a price, but it was one we would gladly pay until there were no more bodies to fight and no more tongues to shout our refusal. This much had been beaten into my head by the histories my father made me learn to tell.

Molly slowed to a walk, letting me close the gap, and licked a finger to test the winds.

"We should find some hares in the next meadow, on the edge of the West Woods." Her smile came as easy as butter on fresh bread.

"You're the better hunter. I'll follow you where you want to lead."

"Will you, then?" She raised an eyebrow at me in a way that made me hesitate before I grinned.

"Wherever you lead."

She slugged me in the arm.

"You're too willing t' follow. You don't know me well enough."

"I know your body well enough," I countered. "Believe me, I haven't been letting you run on ahead because I'm out of shape. You have such a pleasing backside to follow, I'd chase you all the way to the sea."

She laughed.

"Sometimes, Thomas, you really are plain simple."

"Sometimes, Molly, you … underestimate me!" I lunged at her, arms outstretched, making a show of it.

She danced out of my reach, a few quick steps back, and I ended up on my belly in the grass. Not the original plan. Hard to impress a girl with sod on your shirt and mud on your palms.

"You'll have to try harder, if you want to catch me." She skipped a few paces ahead. Her smile made me start to stiffen under my field dress.

"You'll find me more than willing t' make the effort," I came to my feet and swiped at her ankle. She skipped back again, pulled an arrow out of her quiver and poked me in the chest with its head.

"You're a fool, and a slow fool at that. Try all you want, it makes me laugh, but if you really are that clumsy you'll still be tryin' when I head back for supper." She whacked me on the side of the head, the arrowhead nicking my ear. "Shouldn't you be the one doing the poking, here? Are you confused?"

I tossed my head back and laughed as the gods of the wind and sky looked on with a smile and sent us an easterly breeze. She bolted across the meadow, and laughing and stumbling, I gave chase. We caught up with each other, she slowing enough for me to close the gap and myself giving an extra burst of speed.

"Got you!"

"You're welcome to try." She gave half a grin, and darted away again, slipping out of my grasp like a salmon leaping. We made it to the edge of the meadow, near the West Woods. I didn't mean to drag her down—in fact, I tripped over one of my feet and fell on her as she skidded to a halt on the dew-brushed grass. The end result was the same—we went down in a tumble, my face in her back, my hands on her waist. She smacked her head into a rock or root, swore, and elbowed me sharply in the chest.

"Off! Get—" she rolled underneath me, and kicked me, "—off!" in the gut.

"I'm sorry," we said at the same time.

"Your nose … is … bleeding." I tried to catch my breath, picked the rag up off the grass, handed it to her to staunch the flow, and started picking up my arrows.

"Are you all right?" She held the rag to her nose to soak up the trickle.

"I'll … be … fine." I coughed hard enough to bring up some crud from deep in my chest, then spit near my knees.

"Poor boy." She reached out, brushed her hand across my cheek. I felt the flush like a sunburn over my cheeks, ears, and neck. She laughed, and it reminded me of how alone we were. Her hand dropped a little, to my shirt, and with a dirty handful she dragged me to her. Up close, I could smell sweat, mixed with her grandmother's handmade soap, on her skin.

"Hea, Thomas." She leaned back, keeping a handful of my shirt in her fist, pulling me off-balance, pulling me … on top of her? My sister, Emer, would've shrieked with laughter, I-told-ye-so, if she'd seen my face, still baffled.

"What are you—?" Her hand let go of my shirt, and scratched lightly across my neck.

"What d'you think? Put your arms around me, my Thomas."

She tipped her head skyward, and her lips brushed mine. I felt myself stiffening under my field dress, this time with more intent in the devil.

"Here. Put your hand here." She moved my trembling palm to her breast. "Gentle with them, but put your hands on me like you mean it."

"I don't understand. Gentle or rough?"

"A bit o' both, if you fancy."

I did my best to oblige, feeling her breast warm and soft in my hand, as she kissed me.

"I've never—"

"I know." She laughed. "It's as clear as if it'd been painted on your nose. Don't worry. Just enjoy the gift."

I tried to explain.

"No, I mean, I don't know what you—I know what to do, but nae what you want."

She kissed me, hard enough that when she pulled away my lips tingled with a rush of blood, as if they were going to bruise.

"You can do that, can't you?" Her eyes were bright. I didn't think it particularly funny.

Molly's hands were roughened by washing and hunting, gutting fish and pulling weeds, but still soft enough to be unmistakably a woman's. She slid them down my sides and under my field dress, drawing her fingernails along my ribs and then lower, over my hips.

"Ahhhh …" was all I could say as she scratched. "Are you sure you want t' do this?"

"I've grown up by your side, my Thomas. I've run the same paths, I've hunted the same fields, and I've drunk wine of the same cask. I know you as well as your kin, and I mean to know you a bit better than they do, if you're game."

She looked up at me from the grass, her eyes weighing me like a merchant looking for impurities in foreign coin.

"Ye are game, aren't ye? I didn't figger ye for the kind to fancy men. Unless I miss my mark, ye haven't lain with another. But you've been following me about like a puppy all season. Why is that, my Thomas? I think I ken the heart of it, but tell me anyway, I want to hear it," she said, holding on to me, her thumbs idly brushing against my sides. I didn't think the devil could get more furious, but he did.

My staff was as hard as it had ever been, and maybe my head wasn't thinking clearly, but I felt as if I wanted to do fifteen things to her at once. The words stumbled out without asking permission, as I laid there, trembling. My nipples ached, every time she brushed against me I twitched, I felt like we were beside a roaring signal-fire instead of on cool grass, and my head still wanted to do fifteen things to her at once, not thinking it a great many.

"I don't want to—I cannae lie with a girl for the fun o' it. That's the best way t' get tied down and trampled by clan life, t' have my head beaten against the walls that keep me, until I have no dreams and no sense for making replacements."

She smiled, this time with a touch of sadness. "I'm not here t' tie you down, Thomas. You should know me better than that."

"I do." I still trembled.

"Kiss me." Her hand went to the back of my head, pressing me to her strong and firm.

My lips brushed hers, and she smelled of rough soap and fresh grass. She kissed me back, fierce and hungry. I twitched under my clothes.

"I—" I flushed, embarrassed.

"Shush." She pulled me close and eased her legs apart. With one hand she pulled the field skirt out of the way. "My hearth needs warming, Thomas."

I looked at her cauldron (which boys bathe in to become men, if they've brought the right wood to bring it to full boil)—I'd seen glimpses here and there, but hers was the first I'd been given leave to look upon full. The hair above and around was a shade darker than the red mess atop her head, and there, right there, flushed and damp, was her altar. Her hearth, she'd called it, as good a name as any.

"Go on." she said, as I reached out, arching to move her skin into my hands. "Touch me. That's it."

I parted her, and made my fingertips slick with her.

She laughed, and I looked up, wondering what I was doing wrong.

"Oh, poor lad—I'm na' laughin' at you, I'm laughin' because o' something my Aunt said t' me this morning. I'll tell ye later. For now, come here."

She pulled me between her legs, pulled up my field dress and laid a grip along my staff, which was too excited to have any clue what to do with itself. With her fingers around me, she tugged me closer, and eased it in.

"There. Slowly."

"Ahhhh …" was again all I could say.

"Will you pluck the hair from the pate of the sun?"

"I'll pluck him bald for you."

"Will you plow the fields with a comb for plow and mice for pullin'?"

"I'll plow … the whole island with only my fingers … and a jug of mead to sweeten the work."

"Will you leave the clans and come with me t' the mainland, give it up for me?"

I hoped she wasn't serious; I hoped she was. Head swirling, I wasn't honestly sure of what to think, afraid if I gave the wrong answer it would end. At the moment, if she'd asked for my father's head on a plate, I would've promised it.

"Wherever you go, I'll … go … with … with … you."

"You can finish—" she started to say, then grinned as I stopped being able to speak."It's all right." She stayed still, not moving further than to brush the sweat-stuck hair on my neck.

"Wherever you go, I'll follow."

"You're such a dreamer, Thomas!" She laughed as she wiped off and pulled her skirt back down. "You've got such high hopes for everything." She gave me a mysterious, knowing smile. "I like that about you."

"Hea. Give me time to grab a few things, I'm ready t'go."

"Not yet, my lover, but soon." She stood up and stretched. "Now, sir, we have some … hunting to …" she didn't finish the sentence, but instead stared at something behind me. She didn't look afraid, but I was expecting Finias to kick me in the back, so as I turned I braced for it, my hands clenching into fists.

What I saw made my fists fall open.

Standing about ten feet away was a shaggy grey stallion, long mane and long fetlocks. In and of itself this wasn't remarkable. There were still a few herds here and there of horses-gone-wild and horses-unbroken. These were the Western Isles, a place for wild things, and there were plenty of places even on a small couple islands for the untrammeled to hide, be they horse or man. No, what made me step back a pace and drop my hands, struck dumb, was the curled, almost braided-looking horn growing out of the stallion's forehead.

"By the gods of our people," she said. "An aelecorran."

She leaned towards it, taking a half-step.

The stallion tossed his mane, and snorted, backing up. I could see the muscles in his shoulders trembling like a plucked lute-string, as if he would bolt, given any reason to.

"I don't know anyone who's seen one—" she said.

He snorted again.

"Shhh … Molly, don't move," I slowly raised my hand.

The stallion—the aelecorran, if that was what it was—lowered his head to point the thick horn towards the center of my chest, brushed the tip of my palm. It stung a little. He slowly came closer, until he brushed the front of my half-on field skirt. Where the horn scratched it, the fabric split, and in one quick dip a thin red cut opened along the length of my staff. I stepped back, but there was no pain, and the world seemed to heave away, then held still again. He snorted, and slowly lifted one hoof, then put it down again.

"Run, Thomas. Back away slow, then give your heels wings and run. We don't know anythin'—"

I felt a different kind of flush on my skin, my ears heard a crackle like a cedar branch tossed into the fire. The sweat ran into my eyes and blood down my palm as what felt like a fever took hold. That's the best I could describe it, but the word was only half-right. While an ordinary fever would burn you out, make you sweat out your strength, this heat felt like it was doing something else. I felt stronger instead of weaker, and I became rigid again under my clothes, feeling a single drop of blood from the cut in my loins roll along one thigh. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Molly reach for me, but I didn't feel her touch. I think she was afraid she'd upset him and get me run through.

"Thomas?"

The stallion looked me in the eye, and I wasn't afraid. The world rattled again, blurring at the edges. The one thing still clear was the stallion's eyes as we looked at each other, and I understood.

"Thomas? What do you think you're doing?"

I was struck, hard, by a vision of two boats and knew they had both crossed the channel between the Western Isles and the Empire proper. In one, a man with our look about his face, a woman, and another smaller man with a mustache. The other—

"Thomas, speak t' me."

I looked at the stallion. The other boat, chasing the first, carried two men in black plate mail, the Emperor's Chosen. Beetles. Kail C'tall. Trouble, cruelty, and death.

The aelecorran began to kneel.

"It's all right," I said, still not turning away, wishing she'd be quiet. "Don't make any sudden moves." I was already sweaty, but it seemed to be running quicker, now.

"This can't be happening."

He bared his teeth at her, looked at me, and lowered his head again.

"Get on behind me." I climbed on, deliberate, nice and slow. "And hand me my bow and quiver."

"Have you lost your senses? Never mind. I have to see what comes next, and if need be, save you from yourself." The aelecorran turned his neck to look at her, and she took a step back.

"I'm not a threat t'you," she said.

I held out my hand and took the bow. The stallion turned its neck back to me and nickered as she climbed on. The village bell began to toll. I knew from the bell one of the men on watch had seen the first of the boats landing on the beach, then saw because the aelecorran knew it, the second one coming in on the surf. She straddled his back behind me, holding onto my waist tight enough to make me glad I hadn't eaten much before my chores.

"You've lost your mind, my Thomas, I—oulf!"

She yelped as the the aelecorran stood, and began to trot, then to gallop back towards our home.

"I must've lost my mind, to be listening to you …" the rest of her words were gone, spoken to my back and taken by the wind.

I leaned down close, along his neck, holding on to his mane as we sped to the edge of the meadow, up a rise and across the next field. His hooves barely seemed to meet the ground—I have no explanation for it but we weren't shaken off or bruised to the bone, as if some bit of magic bent the rules a little bit to favor us, holding us on and keeping us safe. We flew towards the walls, and it took a moment to sit up and raise a hand to the sentries on the walls, to keep from being shot off the horse. I saw them turn, jaws open, before the stallion carried us through the gate and between the houses. I saw Colin nearly drop his axe as we passed him, and saw Finias throw himself into the mud to keep from being trampled. The horse skidded through a puddle as he turned hard, splashing mud, and we passed the far wall heading for the beach.

He slowed up once we were through town as the ground broke up into rock and sand, then dunes. I could see a fight in the surf, the trio barely holding off a pair of the Emperor's beetles, the Kail C'tall. The pair of Kail C'tall fought to gain better footing on the sands, trying to force the trio back out into the surf, all five moving towards us as the aelecorran walked over the last dune.

"Thomas, what d'you think you're doing?" Molly hissed in my ear as I nudged the stallion a little.

"Getting closer." I guided the stallion over the wet sand with my knees as I strung my bow.

"By your father's black beard, we'll both be killed! Use your head!"

"Did you come with me to tell me so, or to help?"

As we came closer, one of the clansman's men—thin, with squinted eyes and a thinner black mustache over a small white-lipped frown—went down in the surf. He was slow to get up, but get up he did, bleeding, and he kept fighting. I saw the woman now, her back to us, hair tied up out of the way, swinging one of the Imperial three-quarter blades as if she'd once known how to use it. Muscles remember, but they can also forget: she held her own, but she swung awkward and wild. The bastards in black plate pressed the advantage and tried to close their snare. I nocked an arrow, and drew.

"I'm backing you up. Don't block my sight after you let go." Molly, held her bow at her waist, at the ready.

"I love you," I whispered without turning around. I saw—I think I saw the aelecorran's horn flash like it was wrapped in silver thread.

I blinked the fever sweat out of my eyes, locked my elbow and stared hard at the fight. I released, aiming for one of the Kail C'tall's eye-slits, but the arrow glanced off the top of his head. The strange clansman shouted something I couldn't make out, and swept up a sheet of water with his off hand. It bought him time, but it meant I didn't have another shot.

I swore. The aelecorran came closer, bringing us near enough to hear the word "Traitor!" come from one of the Kail C'tall. Not a surprise. They do the Emperor's bidding, which gives them license to go after whoever they want. Odds were, the man in faded clan colors did nothing more than try to leave their sacred Empire. I slipped off the horse and laid my bow on the sand. I drew my sword, and tried not to think about how stupid I was being. Help wasn't going to be here for a while, I knew.

"Cover me. You're a better shot."

I came closer, but still out of sword range.

"Stand off!" I shouted as loud as I could. "I am Thomas MacKarcher, and these are clan lands! This man is under clan protection!"

"Piss off, boy!" shouted one of the Kail C'tall. "We're here on the orders of the Emperor's Voice!"

He swung again, and the strange clansman stopped it. White sparks arced off blackened armor as the clansman made them keep their distance.

"You're not in your rotting Empire anymore!" I sidled towards the quiet one, who was waving his hands, trying some sort of witchery. I didn't have time to talk, or to think. I didn't know what he would do or what I should do. All I remember thinking was that I hoped clan steel was good enough to do the job. I prayed to the gods of my people I could help, and swung. He blocked it, and left a notch in my sword, but it didn't give. Up close I could see the grey in the clansman's hair. He kicked his dancing partner, who cursed him and rocked back on his heels but didn't fall. The clansman's woman lunged, teeth bared, aim true, and drove her blade in through a space in the armor at his neck. He screamed, gurgled, and dropped into the water, thrashing, his sword still in his hand. The blade opened up the shin of the small man with the mustache—I saw a flash of bone in a stripe of blood as he went down, shrieking curses I'd never thought of before, and drawing a knife. He spit seawater and came back up, throwing himself at the Kail C'tall in the surf.

The other backpedaled. I heard the twang of Molly's bow and tensed up, hoping I wouldn't have to get Ossi to pull the arrow out of me. She hit him in one of his armor's elbow joints, and it glanced off towards us. I jerked out of the way, so I didn't see it happen, at least not all of it. As we'd moved gradually inland, village-ward, the horse now without a rider circled around to the far side of the fight, behind and to my left. I heard a whinny, turned my head, and jumped out of the way as the aelecorran closed in. The stallion reared up from the dune sand, kicking, and where the hooves met metal, metal crumpled. The clansman tried to take advantage of the distraction, but the Kail C'tall brought his guard up. I slashed, and the stallion charged. My blade did nothing—as he parried it he clipped off the point. The horse finished him, driving the silvery horn through his chest and out the small of his back, armor and all. Blue fire enveloped the man, and I heard a crackle of fat from cooking flesh as his plate-mail became white-hot. He dropped his sword, and the aelecorran lowered its head to deposit his smoking body into the sea-foam at the border between dune sand and beach mud. The man with the mustache groaned, trying to stand.

"Orewyn's eyes, don't let me bleed to death here," he moaned. "At least let me die on dry land."

The strange clansman gave me a sharp look.

"James MacDorrin. This is my wife, Delilah. And the man there is Edgar. I'm in your debt. Will the beast carry him to your healer?"

"I don't know." Something in my heart said to doubt it. "Maybe?"

Molly limped towards us, leaning on her unstrung bow.

"Are you hurt?"

"He threw me off, and I twisted my ankle, but not bad. You?"

"I don't think so." My breath came out shaky, as my knees got weak and my head began to swim.

"Pay no mind to me." The other man pushed himself up on his elbows. "I'll just lie here and bleed." He tried to get up.

"Quit whining," said Delilah. "Be glad you're not dead."

MacDorrin bent and hoisted the man up. "How far are we from town?"

"How do we know you can be trusted?" asked Molly.

"I'm a MacDorrin." He sheathed his sword. "Or at least, I was raised as one. That should be good enough."

The first runners came over the dunes, armed to the teeth. As usual Finias was in the lead, bare-chested and probably half-drunk. This man—MacDorrin—glared at him. I heard him mutter something under his breath like 'some things never change'. The aelecorran wheeled around to face them as they closed in, and lowered his head to charge.

Finias raised his sword to the gods of the sky as my father came over the dunes.

"I am Finias Donbennach, of Clan MacAndouire—"

His words were cut short, as Ossi whacked the back of his skull with an oak walking stick, and he crumpled. I made a mental note to remember the place he was struck.

"Boy, what have you done this time?" My father looked at the newcomers, then at the horse with the bloody horn. "By all the hells and all the devils in them …"

"He's saved our lives, for starters." Delilah sheathed her sword as my father smiled.

Ossi spoke next, stepping past my father.

"James? Delilah? What are you doin' here?"

MacDorrin answered as Molly hobbled over to me. I kissed her.

"Where did it come from?" Molly's voice was whisper, and she hardly whispered for anything.

"I don't know." I looked back at the aelecorran, who stood on the edge of the dunes, staring at us, and flicking his tail. With a half-snort it was gone, like morning fog in the sun. It didn't turn to go or gallop up the beach, it disappeared like smoke into the wind, came apart and the parts puffed into nothingness. "Don't know where it just went, either."

"We'll have a good long talk about that horse later, Tom." Ossi turned back to MacDorrin. "Let's get your man patched up."

"Finias, get some men and drag the bodies off the beach."

"What? Whuh—Huh?" Finias was slow to get up, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and checking it for fresh blood. "Sure. You, you, and you," he said, pointing at three of his cronies. "Help me with this."

"Let's get away while we can." Molly whispered again, her breath tickling my ear, and I smiled.

"Aye. If we make it back before the rest, we can pinch some of my father's wine. Maybe this will make more sense if we're drunk."

She laughed, leaned against me as we left the others talking on the beach. The feel of her softness, her warmth, at my side was more comfort than a whole cask of whiskey or wine, and I started to feel more myself before we took even a few steps.

I am Thomas MacKarcher, of the clan MacAndouire, of the lowlands near Mostreach, in the southern quarter of the Isle of Cyatte, one of the Western Isles. I rode on the back of an aelecorran the day we heard the first warnings of the great war on the mainland, and I did think it a great thing. Every lass was a new kingdom, she told me, hands on hips as we walked along the beach, and until you learn the lay of the land you'd best tread careful. There were no maps of a woman's heart, and I doubted men would ever understand any of the local landmarks: the best we could hope for was a reasonable rent for a small plot of land and a woman who was patient enough, willing enough, to explain her native tongue. I managed to trick a woman into believing there was some part of me worth the attention, and Molly was not always patient enough to translate, but bit by bit I was starting to learn the dialect.

II.

"Well?" asked Hugh MacKarcher.

"Well, what?" I shot back.

I am Molly MacCamnon, daughter of Celine MacCamnon, a daughter of the Clans, and I bow to no one, whether he's the Clan Laird or not. My day had grown stranger and stranger as the hours continued to pass, and some invaluable progress was made with my Thomas, to be sure, but who was to say, in light of what had happened, whether he would remember it as clearly as he should? The minds of men—even the ones young enough to remain mostly unspoiled—were as difficult to fathom as the reason of a wolfhound, and often, from what my mother and the other women of my clan said, just as absent.

"It's nothing to keep secret, lass." That last from my father.

My inquisitors, the council: my father Edward, Tom's father Laird Hugh, Ossi, the strange clansman MacDorrin and his wife Delilah. Finias, despite his protests, wasn't allowed in. No one was making accusations, but as I stood with Tom still on my thighs, I couldn't help but feel besieged. There were other things I'd rather be doing.

"What do you want to know, then?" I put my hands on my hips.

"Could you tell us again, girl?" Laird Hugh, going for the soft touch—as if putting it nicely would change the fact they were asking a woman of the Clans to justify herself.

"I picked him up when he was doin' chores. We were headed out to hunt, when that idiot—your nephew—" I pointed at Ossi, who frowned.

"Now, Molly—"

"Now nothing. Finias took a swing at my Tom, no damned good reason, same as always, and knocked out a tooth, which Ossi, you can prove, since you put it back in."

Ossi nodded still frowning. I couldn't tell if he disapproved or if he was thinking, hard, his old craggy face was hard to read since it usually looked that way.

"We went out into the fields, and we did th' deed," I looked for any hint of condemnation, but couldn't see anything to rail against. "Shortly after, the horse showed up."

"And were ye a virgin, then, lass?" asked Laird Hugh.

"No, I damn well was not."

"Then—" MacDorrin paused, frowning, looking addled. "Why the aelecorran?"

"Ossi?" asked Laird Hugh, turning in his seat.

Ossi kept frowning as he answered. "They're strange creatures, and truth be told, even I don't know much about 'em. They show up when there's trouble, like they're drawn to it, and disappear as soon as the trouble's over. I even heard one tale as a young lad of an aelecorran disappearing out from underneath somebody."

"But they seek virgins." Delilah's tone was puzzled, thoughtful, a voice for sorting things out, putting them in boxes or bins. From the way MacDorrin looked at her, and the way she spoke, I could see their beginnings. I wondered whether the council could see into me so easily.

"Yes and no." Ossi cleared his throat, and spit on the floor. "More wine."

"Here." Laird Hugh sounded tired as he passed the skin. "Go on."

"Thanks." The old man swished a bit around in his mouth, and swallowed it down. "Yes and no. They do seek the pure, an' the young, true." He looked sharp at me.

"Do you intend to pay the tax on Tom MacKarcher, lass? Answer me true." The tax, the pittance for taking a son or a daughter to bed for the first time, was that what concerned them? The Council had more important things to worry about."

"Tom? But Tom's not—" Hugh stopped, fixed me with a quick eye. I saw some dim flicker of understanding, and I was glad I wouldn't need to explain it to him. Laird Hugh was a good man, but men usually didn't understand women's affairs, and I was already tired and a little angry.

"If Laird Hugh asks it, I'll pay."

"So that much, at least, is settled," said Ossi.

"Not enough for me," said my father. "I don't see anything settled at all. My daughter's right, we're moving in circles."

"Edward, your daughter's taken up with Hugh's son, an' unless I miss my mark, that's a pair that'll stick," said Ossi.

"Daughter?" asked my father.

"Yes, sir."

"Is this the truth of it?"

"Yes, sir, and if you let Tom in here with me, he'll say the same. You're wastin' my time."

"We'll talk to you one at a time, as we choose. You're still a MacAndouire, and under oath to me. Don't forget your place." Laird Hugh put some gravel into the words, as if his bluster meant anything to me.

"Settle down, Hugh," said my father.

Laird Hugh bristled, his face gone ruddy. "I'll damn well settle when I choose."

"Hugh." Ossi's soft reminder held bindings I wasn't privy to, reached to memory and things like duty or honor that I had little use for but had learned to recognize. Hugh looked his way, then back at me. He sighed.

"All right. So as soon as you'd done the thing, the aelecorran showed up. What next?"

"Did he touch either of you, girl? Tell me quick, and tell me true," said Ossi.

"He touched Tom with his horn. Didn't seem t'think too much of me, but put up with me because Tom wished it."

"And it told you this directly?" asked my father. "Less guessing, girl, and more fact."

"Fine. Fact is, we rode it through the fields, through the village, and out to the beach, where as that man, his lady, and his servant laid up at Ossi's house can tell you, we gave them aid."

"And the horse vanished after?" asked Laird Hugh.

"After, yes, it did. Which I've already told you."

"What do you think?" my father asked Ossi.

"There are certain parallels—for example, the aelecorran's horn bears a certain affinity to a young man's staff."

"Were you—" began Laird Hugh, then leaned to confer with MacDorrin's lady, Delilah.

"What?"

"Dear, when did you last bleed?" she asked.

"Finished a day ago, and bathed it away."

"You're sure?" Her eyes said, I can be trusted. I stood my ground, betraying nothing.

"I'm damn sure."

"Ossi?" asked Hugh.

"I'd say the game goes to ye, Hugh. Do ye approve of her choice?"

Hugh stared me down for a few, and whatever he saw made him nod. "If you consider this matter settled, then, I do approve. Provided Tom can back up her story. If she's lying, I'll leave it to Edward to decide her punishment, although why she would lie I couldn't fathom."

"Very well. You can go, daughter," said father. "Send him in as you leave."

"Are you sure?"

Laird Hugh failed to catch the sarcasm. "Go, girl, before we change our minds. Send in my boy."

Outside, my Thomas looked childbirth-pale, but drew me to him as if he'd found the strength to wrestle down the sky.

"You're done, then?" He held my face in his hands. I brushed a smudge of dirt off my cheek, and nodded.

"You're to go in, now."

"But—"

"I think they're almost talked out." I squeezed his shoulder to offer him some comfort.

"But—"

"Shush," I laid a finger on his lips. "Go on. I'll be here when you come out."

While I waited, Finias came back with sand and blood on his hands, dusted them off and stood, looking down at me.

"So you've taken to him, then?"

"I'm certainly not going to take to you. I remember you play too rough, Finias."

"I could—"

"Ye could no more learn to be gentle than sprout wings and fly." I stared, jaw clenched in case he brought up his fists, daring him to try to argue.

His eyebrows bunched up, and his nostrils flared. I watched his jaw move soundlessly, then his hands clenched as I'd thought they might. He took a step towards me—I wasn't afraid, exactly. Not looking forward to an undeserved beating, certainly, but not willing to sit there and take it and therefore not fearful. I reached for my knife.

"Don't do it. Ossi can patch you up, but it'll still hurt. Leave me be."

The fist came up and back, but stopped before it began to come at me. In the pause, I slipped the knife out, and slid down the bench towards the door.

"Back down, Finias," I said, hoping my voice would carry.

He glanced at the door, and lowered his fist.

"You whore, you said—"

"If I'm a whore, Finias, what does that make you? What kind of a man pays for his love with bruises?"

Again the hand came up, wavered, hesitated. I watched his feet for the shift, and kept talking.

"You sure I'm the one to blame?"

The hand returned to his side.

"I'll kill him. How would you like that? Your precious Tom, dead at my feet. All your care would be for naught."

He moved, so I whipped my arm out and sliced, the tip of the blade passing through the first few layers of the skin of his shin as he backed away.

"I'm smart enough to kill you in your sleep, Finias, if you lay another hand on him. You won't see it coming, you won't feel a thing and you won't have a chance to take a swing at anyone. Do you think you can spend the rest of your life with one eye open?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall, and waited, making a show of not looking my way as the blood from his shin welled up and trickled in three rivulets onto his boot. I wiped the blade on my pants, and put it away. He kept his post, and I kept mine, until the MacKierra brothers returned from burial detail.

"What took you so long? Where's Angus?"

"Supposed to be a four-man job, Finias," said Rob MacKierra, poking him in the chest. "Ended up being me 'n Paddy, which sums up to a man and a half. Angus left soon as you came back into town."

"He was headed northeast, along the coast. We—" Paddy looked at Rob, who finished the sentence.

"We think he was headed towards Stewarts' lands."

Finias grunted. "Let his kin deal with him, then."

"Hea, Molly." Robert, the quicker of the two, looked at me like he knew what had gone on. "Finias? Why are you bleedin'?"

Finias looked down. "That? Don't know."

Robert looked at me again, eyes like sling-thrown stones, but didn't pursue it further.

"That other matter, the—"

"Not here."

"After you're done waiting around doing whatever your uncle has you doing—which doesn't look like much—"

"You're pushing your luck, Rob," said his brother.

Finias didn't even blink. I don't think he wanted to give me the satisfaction.

"—meet us. We need to have a little talk. You know where."

Robert raised a hand, and moved it towards him, but Finias slapped it away.

"Ossi told me to wait." For a moment—a heart's beat, no more—something like worry draped its shawl over Finias' face, then tugged away again and was gone. "If I'm—"

He looked at me, eyes deadly again, as if daring me to acknowledge what I'd seen.

"If I'm not here when he sends for me …" He licked his lips. "I'm waiting here."

"As you'd have it," said Robert. "We'll be there."

The brothers left. Finias looked at me, thinking hard—I could tell by the way one of his eyelids began to twitch.

"You know nothing." He looked at me, eyelid twitching away, as if by staring at me with enough will he could force me to believe it.

"I know you and the MacKierras are doing something you want kept secret."

"Don't mean shite."

"Might not be something you want investigated, I think."

He looked at me in a way that made me hold my tongue—staring at me, but looking through as if all he saw when he looked my way was a ledger—what he could gain on one side, how much I could cost him on the other. There were at least two layers to Finias' anger, as far as I knew, and while I could shrug off the first, I couldn't face the second head-on and survive. I kept quiet, waiting to hear my Thomas come from the council.

I didn't sit for too much longer. The inner door opened and shut, then Thomas' face peered out at me.

"Molly?"

Finias snorted from his side of the doorway, my eyes jumped to him, and Thomas, looking at me, caught it. He stepped back from the door, and opened it, stepping through with his back to me and his face towards Finias.

"You're to come inside, both of you, Finias first."

"Good. Finias has some explaining to do."

"Keep your mouth shut, whore, or I'll snap you in half." Finias shouldered past Thomas and went in.

"Are you all right?" Thomas looked to where Finias had been, then back at me.

"Fine."

I made as if to go in, and he put a hand on my shoulder.

"This is not the way I wanted to ask you this, but it has to be quick. I want the banns posted, Molly, if you'll have me. And I want to go east, to the Empire, if you'll come with me. I want … We could get away from this Clan life, see the world, anything has to be better than this endless parade of hog-shite and rain and—"

"Shh." I laid a soft touch on his mouth to still him. "You're running at the mouth. I can't give you a solid answer right this moment. I'll go east with you, but as for the other, we'll have to see."

He turned away, and I yanked his jaw back to me, hard, then kissed him, so there was no misunderstanding.

"You're mine, Thomas, as I am yours, and I'll have you, don't be afraid, but not yet. Understand?"

He nodded.

"Good. Let's go make sure Finias has a very bad day."

We stepped inside, into the heat and crackle of the fire, blinking in the half-light.

MacDorrin and his wife weren't there any more. I assumed they'd left sometime during Tom's questioning. Ossi, Hugh MacKarcher, and my father were left. I took it as a good sign. If MacDorrin and his wife were gone, Tom hadn't spoken to the council about going east. We still held that surprise in our satchels. If it was Ossi, and our fathers, Tom had probably told them of his wants for me. Another good sign.

"Molly? Tom? Keep your feet," said Laird Hugh. "Finias? Take a chair."

"But—" Hugh glared at Finias for this, and the boy backed down. "Yes, sir."

"We've heard your tales, and while some of us—" Hugh glanced at Ossi, "—are still not satisfied, we've decided to leave you alone about it, for right now. If you ken to something you haven't told us, maybe after you've taken a bit of time t' think, go to Ossi, tell him. I'm sure he'll stay after you."

I nodded, as did Thomas.

"What about the new man, MacDorrin?" he asked.

I watched my father for a reaction—he looked at Ossi, then at Laird Hugh, frowning with the corners of his mouth.

Ossi answered. "James MacDorrin is loyal to the clans. I knew him before he went east with his head full of dreams of glory, and knew his wife Delilah, too. Both of 'em are good hardy people, more 'n good enough to pull their share. We're takin' him in."

"We hardly have enough to feed those who're here this winter, much less adding two mouths," said Thomas, and I tried not to smile as I saw where he was headed. "Good thing Molly and I will be headed east."

"Absolutely out of the question," said Laird Hugh.

"They could—" began my father.

Again, Ossi answered for the council.

"With two of those dead beetles here, there'll be more coming. Mac Dorrin tells us he was given a direct order to bring the clans east. East is the last place ye'll be going. We need ye here to hold a sword, or a bow."

"MacDorrin and his wife can hold their own," I said. "They held off those two Kail C'tall long enough for us to get there to help. How many men here could do the same? I think what Thomas meant to say was we're going, with or without your blessing. We'd like to have it, but if you don't approve, it won't keep us here."

"We need you here," said Hugh. "We need every able body we can feed here."

"That's it, though. You can't feed us. Save the grain. Feed MacDorrin and his wife instead, and you'll have better fighters to man the walls."

"Come on, Hugh. You went east. I went east. We came back. It's about time they did the same," said my father.

"Ossi?"

"I think we should send them with an escort." Ossi took care choosing his words, eyes sharp in the firelight. "I don't think we can keep them here, and we've all made the trip. Why not send my nephew, or Rob MacKierra?"

"Rob MacKierra is a shifty one I'd as soon rather have where we can see him," said Hugh.

"Your nephew there won't deny he's got a grudge against both of 'em," said my father.

"I can fix that," said Ossi. "Finias! Get on your feet, boy!"

"Yes, sir." Finias' voice sulked and fumed at the same time. He walked across the room to stand before the council, positioning himself in front of Thomas and I. I could see his calves tremble, and could smell his sweat over the woodsmoke, but he looked his uncle in the eye without a flinch.

Ossi peered at him, then grunted.

"Ye're right, Ned. Heh. I can summon spirits, and knit flesh, and read the stars, but I can't seem to get the anger out of this one. I think it's time to do something I should've done a few years ago." He stretched his spine and cracked his knuckles, and with the aid of his cane walked to the end of the dais, then clumped down the stairs.

"No—uncle, no, whatever it is, I—" Finias took one step back, voice cracking, stiffening up as if he wanted to but was afraid to turn and run.

"Hold your tongue!" roared Laird Hugh. "Stand like a man and take it like a man or I'll climb over this table and brain you myself!"

"Ye misunderstand, Hugh," said Ossi, keeping his eyes on his quivering nephew. "He knows what I'm doing, but ye misunderstand. I mean to fix a geas on him, make him behave."

"Uncle, I promise—"

Ossi's thin and scar-crossed forearm slid out of his robes as he raised his staff over his head. A flickering blue fire unspooled as he started jabbering in some tongue I couldn't understand, traveled down that forearm, up to his shoulder, and licked at his hair. Ossi moved fast, striking Finias with the staff at the shoulders, crown of the head, elbows, and knees, transferring the blue fire, knocking his nephew to the floor. I didn't hear the sound the staff made as it smashed flesh—Ossi wasn't hitting hard—but Finias dropped as if he'd been struck stone dead, headed forward as his knees gave out, then back as they hit the floor, then over onto his side in a loose crumple.

"Get up, boy, or it'll go worse for ye."

Ossi continued to mutter in a strange tongue that sounded like bad memories and forgotten curses. Bluish-gray smoke poured out like water from the end of Ossi's staff, covering Finias like a quilt, but spreading like soup spilled onto cheesecloth, puddling around him on the floor. My eyes didn't tear up, no one coughed-Ossi was good about keeping his spirits well-trained, hidden, and inoffensive—and the blue swirling cloud on the floor followed a step behind Finias' motions. As he rose to his knees, it paused, then drifted upwards to obscure him again. When he stood, it stayed for a few moments waist-high, then rolled up his belly, over his chest, and around his head, leaving his face half-hidden.

"I bind ye to my service, boy." Ossi added a string of sounds that made no sense to me. "Ye are to escort Thomas MacKarcher and Molly MacCamnon to the coast." He waved his staff, and for a moment I thought I could see a pair of ghostly hands, unspooling the smoke like yarn—then they were gone. I blinked. "If they come to harm, ye will come to harm as well."

Finias opened his mouth to speak, and the smoke flowed over his mouth, into his throat. He choked on whatever it was he intended to say, coughed croup-hard, and tried to wave in fresh air as his eyes watered up.

Ossi stared down his nephew, who looked back at Thomas and I. Tears were streaming down his face, although whether it was from choking on smoke or from fear of his uncle, I couldn't tell.

"Don't look for help, boy." I wondered about the heart of a man who could do this to his own kin, then pushed the thought out of my head. Ossi had helped me, more than once, and no one but the two of us were the wiser for it. I didn't feel like I'd earned the right to question, but still the question remained. Would he kill Finias when Finias (inevitably) refused to submit?

"Look at me. Look in my eyes, boy. I am your last living kin, and I bind ye by the blood of your father and my sister to my service."

Finias nodded, and the smoke cleared away from his face enough for a rib-straining gasp of air.

"Refuse me, and be cast into the sea without a limb to cling to. Now tell me, and tell me true, do you agree to this?"

"Yes, uncle." I tried to imagine what it cost Finias to say it, and couldn't. I wondered whether Ossi had solved a single problem, or delivered a whole fresh litter of them. I looked at my Thomas—I must've been as pale to him as he to me, because we reached out a hand at the same time, and squeezed.

"Good." With another wave, and another flash—I saw hands with thin fingers, wrists and forearms, as if something I couldn't see was sitting on his shoulder unraveling a skein of smoke—the smoke pulled up through the vent in the ceiling in a rush, and was gone.

"Hugh?" Ossi stepped back up to his position, wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Ned? Do either of ye have any objections, now?" He snorted, which turned into a wheezing cough, and grabbed his tankard as he eased himself back into his chair.

"Finias, ye stay here. Hugh and Edward will have need of ye, I'm sure. I'm goin' home, to drink. Ye are bound to me, and I am bound to Hugh. You listen to him as ye would me."

"Yes, sir." Finias answered with a voice made hoarse by the smoke.

Ossi stepped down, leaning more heavily on his cane—again as if something I couldn't quite see was sitting on his shoulders—stumped to the door, and stepped outside. The draft from the door fanned the flames, sending a few sparks up towards the hole, and I felt my cheeks cool for a moment, then the door shut, and I turned back to our fathers.

"There is the matter of provisions, of supplies—" began Hugh. "I don't think we can spare two horses. Ned?"

"If you can spare one for your Thomas, I can spare Molly's Brand—she won't let anyone else ride her anyway. You can spare some salted pork from your smokehouse? If I remember rightly, you've finished curing two sows last week."

They looked back at us. My father spoke.

"Molly, lass?"

"Yes, father?"

"You're grown enough I cannae stop you. But can I convince you to wait a fortnight?"

He looked at me as I looked at Thomas, and knew the answer before I could open my mouth.

"No, I didn't think so. Well, if you plan to leave with the sunrise tomorrow, we can send you with food, and a few coins, enough to last you for the trip to Mostreach. You'll have to bargain your way onto the mainland, but you have a brooch and a few rings fine enough to sell …"

Finias tottered to one of the chairs beneath the dais, and sat, facing us, staring with empty eyes as Laird Hugh and my father laid out plans and precautions, warning my Thomas and I as best they could about the Imperials and their customs. I think, from the way my father looked at us when he finished talking, he wanted some reassurance we would come back, that we weren't abandoning the clans, but it was Thomas' father who actually said it.

"All's settled, then. Now." He clasped his hands together, then reached beside his chair for his longsword. "I want you to swear you'll return when you can. I don't—" he looked at my father, who he'd never really agreed with, for confirmation. "—I don't need a guarantee of a season, or three seasons, or six, but I do need you to swear on my blade you'll return when you can." He tried to be gentle about it, but Laird Hugh has never been gentle, or reasonable. While he kept his tone kind, he yanked his sword out of the sheath, and slapped it down on the table—Thomas, Finias, and my father flinched.

"As you wish, Laird." I ran my thumb against the edge of the blade, feeling the skin part. Blood swelled up from the cut, not enough to trickle down my wrist, but enough to run to the first crease of my fingertip. Thomas did the same, showed his father the blood, and squeezed out a drop beside my own onto the tip of the blade. Laird Hugh nodded, at least momentarily satisfied, and lifted his sword, wheeling it up over his shoulder, then behind his chair, back into its scabbard. He shoved it in, with a loud ch-clack, as if he wanted to find someone who he could drive it through without feeling guilty.

"Finias?" asked Hugh. The name came out almost as hard as if Ossi had said it. I grudgingly gave Thomas' father credit for knowing how to use his voice, if not for knowing how to use his power as head of the clan.

"Yes, sir." Finias answered from his chair, looking away, his voice still not his own.

"On your feet, where we can see you."

"Yes, sir."

"Go to your uncle's house. Get whatever provisions you need out of the storehouse, but don't take more than your due. I expect to see you at my house before I feed the hogs."

"Yes, sir." Finias still wouldn't look Laird Hugh in the eyes, and turned to go.

"I'm not done with you," said Hugh.

Finias heaved a sigh, and turned back. Laird Hugh drew my father's belt-knife, and presented it.

"I know you don't want to do this. But being a man of the clans means doing things you don't want to do. I'm making it your fitte, as Laird of Clan MacAndouire. See them safe to the coast, see them on a boat to the mainland, do your duty like a man should, and when you come back we'll count you among the men, instead of among the boys."

Finias looked up at Laird Hugh, and for the first time since Ossi left I saw the familiar dumb rage on his face as he quickly came back to himself, licked his lips, and spoke.

"As my fitte, I'll do it." Finias stepped on the seat of the chair, then up to the dais. "Give me a blade, and I'll swear on it. Only—" he took the knife from MacKarcher's hand, and nicked his thumb. "—-make them both swear, while I keep them safe, they won't make my job harder." He blotted the blood on my father's knife, hopped down, and turned to face us.

"I'll see you to the coast, and away from here, but while we're riding, if it's my job to keep you safe, you'll do as I say."

He turned back to Laird Hugh, and my father, who were both frowning. I saw an opportunity, and took it. I spoke before either of our parents could say something official.

"I'll promise to listen to what you say, as long as you're guardin' both of us. Thomas? You'll swear it true, cussha?" Finias looked back at us, looking at Thomas—wanting to see some sign of defeat.

Thomas nodded, frowning like his father, telling me from the way he shifted his feet and the way his shoulders crept up a little higher he hoped I knew what I was doing.

"Say it." Finias thought he'd won some victory, not thinking about what I'd actually said. I squeezed Thomas' hand, hoping he didn't screw it up.

"I swear it, as long as you're guarding us."

I watched Finias, watched his brain come to the easiest conclusion, and relaxed.

"I'll see you at dawn." He turned to our fathers, and bowed.

"Go on," said Laird Hugh.

Finias nodded, and left, his stride gaining in strength as he walked to the door, yanked it open, passed outside. I looked to Laird Hugh and father, wondering what would come next, and when the outer door closed, both men visibly relaxed. I was astonished.

"Dangerous game Ossi's playing with him, Hugh," said my father.

"Everyone knows it but the boy himself." Hugh turned to me, then to Thomas, and pointed at both of us. "Be on your guard. Both of you. Expect trouble. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," said Thomas.

I nodded.

Father cleared his throat.

"There's one more thing to talk out, then we can go—well, two things, really. You both know the laws of it. You're free to go, but this choice you've made, this pairing—well …"

"Just say it, father." I used what I hoped was my gentlest voice.

"There's the women, you see. All our talk here isn't going to mean much if you don't sell it proper to Tom's mother, or to your grandmother—"

"Father, hush. I've talked about it with grandmother, when she brought me tea for my woman's pains. She approves, has approved for more'n a fortnight."

"So. Ah, good." Father looked relieved—she's his mother, and while she's never been anything but kind and patient with me, he lives in terror of the day he finally does something to make her go after him. "Which leaves Tom's mother. What do you think, Hugh?"

Hugh MacKarcher looked a little uneasy as he reached to scratch behind one ear.

"Well, with Tess, I honestly don't know—" he looked at Thomas, for some sort of reaction. Thomas nodded. "She's always been strange about things, has her own way of thinking. I think, tonight, you should talk to her. Ned and I will stay out of the way, but you'll have to make your case as best you can."

"You can come with me t'our house," offered my father.

I glanced at my Thomas, and found him looking to me for guidance.

"What do you think, Thomas?"

He chewed his lower lip. "I think we'd best go soon. This might take some doing."

"Then we'll go quick."

He smiled.

When we left the council house the sun was beginning to set, shining its last rays in through the west gate, and throwing our shadows large upon the walls as we jogged to his parents' house. His elder brother, Stephen, was hanging rabbits in the smokehouse, and came out as we opened the gate to the yard.

"Hea, Thomas! What's happened?"

"What d'you mean?" Thomas bunched up his eyebrows as if he expected to argue.

"I heard you rode an aelecorran, and you've been in with the council and with her all afternoon. Hea, Molly. How are you?"

"I'll tell you the whole story soon, but we have to talk to ma."

Stephen glanced at me.

"So that much of it is true, then? You and she—?"

Thomas nodded. "We're leaving at dawn."

"They tossed you out?" asked Stephen, his voice unfolding from tight astonishment to loose and rolling anger.

Thomas raised his hands. "No, no, we're leaving because we want to. I'll tell you as soon as we're done talking with ma. She's inside this early in the day?"

"She knew you were coming. She's making you dinner."

Emer met us at the door, smiled at Thomas, and brushed his hair back from his face. She turned to me, and I tensed, expecting harsh words, maybe a slap, maybe worse. I'd never had an argument with her, but I expected to have a hard time with other women, something about my nature I guess.

"So you've chosen our Thomas?" She laid one hand on his shoulder, left the other on her hip.

"Yes, I have." I tried to will her to like me. She looked me up and down, and opened her mouth to speak, but Thomas' mother's voice came from the kitchen.

"Send them in here!"

"Good luck," whispered Emer, and put her hand on my shoulder for a moment, as if to reassure me.

"Coming, mother!" Thomas took me by the hand and led me into the kitchen, the puffs of steam from kettle and pot making me uneasy as I thought of the smoke from Ossi's staff. The woman waiting to receive us, Lady Tessa, was not unknown to me-at least not by sight. Her smooth hands and easy step I had seen before, in the village. There weren't enough people living here to make anyone a stranger. But I hadn't spoken to her a word past 'Beg pardon', 'Sorry', or 'Thank you'—in fact, hadn't really heard her voice before she smiled at me, and said, "Sit down, please, make yourself comfortable," as if we were sipping tea on the mainland, playing at cards.

"Mother." Thomas hugged her, then took a spot on a stool beside me.

"So. Molly MacCamnon."

Tess MacKarcher stared at me, her winter-blue eyes making me feel as if I'd suddenly lost all the meat on my bones. Hers was a kind enough face—an Imperial nose but a clanswoman's proud smile, laugh lines at the porches of her eyes—but those eyes made me feel stripped bare.

"I'm not going to mix you into the stew, you know." She smiled as if to make up for her stare, which remained unchanged.

"Ma …"

She looked at him with half a smile. "Thomas, go talk to your brother."

"I'd rather not—" She swatted him with her spoon and with an apology in his eyes he left the room. I was alone with his mother, and for the first time all day, I was genuinely terrified.

"Have some tea, dear." She took the kettle off and poured two cups. "And don't look so worried." She laid her soft hand on my wrist as I reached for the cup, again as if to make up for her gaze. "Really."

I relaxed, but didn't let my guard down.

"Molly MacCamnon. I remember when you were born."

I flinched, spilling a little tea on the table. She turned to stir the stew and pretended not to notice.

"Your poor mother. She loved you so much, and fought so hard …"

She smoothed out her apron, brushing off some flour, and smiled at me. This time the smile did actually make it to the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sorry, girl, I don't mean to make you uneasy. But you all grow faster than we think you should—like you don't learn to savor your time until all you can do is miss it …" She looked at the stew, and I began to understand this was as difficult for her as it was for me. "You're here for my permission, are you? You and my Tom?"

"Yes ma'am."

"What, exactly—" Her eyes gleamed like cold razors again, "—do you intend to do?"

"Your Tom wants to be with me. And I've waited a long time for him to grow into himself. I mean to marry him, with your blessing."

She smiled, and shook her head. "What do you think being married means, then?"

I began to answer, and she waved me off. "Forget I asked. Being married—it's not easy enough to have an answer. I wish it were, but it's not."

"But—" She held up her hand, and I stopped again.

"I don't doubt you have good intentions. Nor do I doubt Tom wants you; I may be his mother but I'm not blind. But I don't think you know what you're getting into."

"Are you talking about life here? Because I've been carrying more than my share at home, long as—"

"The men of the clans, they love us, but they don't understand how much work we have to do to keep things running. If you'd had a mother around, you'd know what I'm talking about."

The mention of my mother stung, but I didn't let it show.

"We're going east. Tomorrow, at dawn."

She nodded, looking at me, and sipped her tea.

"You'll need money." She reached into a drawer. Her hand came out with a small coin purse.

"Does this mean you're giving your blessing?"

"Not exactly." She handed it to me. "I have to have a promise from you."

"What is it?" I asked, hearing my Thomas and his brother as they passed by the window.

"Swear by the moon's blood you won't have children right away. You've been taught by your grandmother, how to keep them away—swear you'll wait at least ten seasons."

She stared at me, something behind her eyes needing me to agree, and I began to understand why I hadn't spoken to her much before. Seeing her unhappiness made me—for a moment—wonder if any of us should be on the Western Isles at all. Misreading my face, she went on.

"I don't need to be rescued. Put the idea out of your head. Just swear to me you'll wait. Don't let yourself be tied down. Live a little before you start raising little ones."

I put my tea down, feeling my face flush as I stepped closer to the fire.

"I won't be tied down. I swear by the moon's blood."

"Then you have my blessing." She gave me a soft-but-still-cool hug. "If you want some stew—but you'll be spending the night at your father's house, won't you?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Emer?" The quiet, willowy girl came in from the next room.

"Bring in your brothers."

Emer asked me a question without saying a word, arching one eyebrow. Tess caught it, and answered for me.

"Yes," she said.

Emer clapped her hands, hugged me—with feeling—and went outside to tell her brothers.

"Take care of Tom, please," she said.

"As I would myself."

Emer snorted. "That doesn't reassure me. I've seen you grow up. You're … rougher than he is."

I turned to her, to see if she was joking—looked like she was, mostly, so I smiled.

My Thomas came inside, cheeks flushed, kissed me, and hugged his mother. I'm not sure which of us was made to feel more uncomfortable. Stephen shook my hand, and welcomed me, then pulled me close and tried to tell me with wine on his breath his brother was a dangerous scoundrel, not to be trusted. Emer, I think to avoid any further awkwardness, clapped both Thomas and I on the shoulder, and pushed us toward home.

At my house—my father's house, really, since by morning I would have no claim to it—we found an anxious and slightly drunk Hugh MacKarcher, with my father stammering along in his wake, coming out to meet us in the yard.

"Well? Well? What of it?"

"Hugh," said my father. "Hugh, let's go back inside by the fire." He reached for him, and the clan chief wheeled around, scowling, fists clenched.

"An' why shouldn't I be—" He snorted, and turned back to us. "Well?"

"She gave her ble—whoulf!"

As soon as the news was half-delivered, a beaming Laird Hugh scooped us both off the ground, and squeezed, with a laugh full of whiskey.

"Hugh, come on inside."

"Sure, sure, inside." The big man tottered back into the house.

"Daughter … " began my own father. "I'm happy for you." He dabbed at the corners of his eyes and wiped his nose.

"Are you comin' in?" yelled Hugh, sticking his head out of one of the kitchen windows.

"We're coming, Hugh," said my father in a tired voice. "I honestly don't know how your mother does it, Thomas—your father is more than a handful, he's more than two handfuls—"

"Well, for starters, we don't let him drink if we can help it."

I heard a plate breaking from the kitchen and edged towards the house.

"But he told me—"

Thomas smiled. "My mother lets him drink if he's meeting with the rest of the chieftains, but that's the only exception."

Father went pale. "I thought—"

Thomas smiled again. "Don't worry about it too much. We'd better get inside while you still have pots and pans you can use."

Inside, we found Hugh bent over, picking up pieces of a bowl.

"Slipped. And knocked it off."

Father and I both looked at Thomas to see how to react.

"Sure you did, Pa. Let me clean it up. Go sit by the fire."

I expected Thomas to end up flat on his back, but Hugh nodded, and retreated with my father to sit near the hearth. I helped to pick up the pieces, and we left them on the chopping block.

"Ed-ward?" screeched my grandmother from upstairs. How long was Hugh thundering around? Was it time for her to get up again? Grandmother slept most of the day, and thumped around at night with a cane, moving slowly to keep from crashing into furniture. She didn't come down to meet guests, but if a visitor got rowdy, she might come down to rap him in the shins. I tried to imagine Hugh MacKarcher's reaction, and decided it would be best if I went upstairs to talk to her.

"I'll be right back." I started up the stairs towards her room, leaving Thomas to deal with both our fathers, hoping for his sake I wouldn't be gone too long.

"Ed-ward?" she screeched again.

"I'm coming, grandmother."

"Molly?" she asked, as I opened the door to her room. "Come here, girl. Sit and tell me what's going on? Who's making all that noise in my kitchen?"

"Hugh MacKarcher, grandmother."

"Hmph. You and his boy, Thomas, going to wed, then?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, you've made up your mind, and I'd be twice the fool to change my mind now, or to try to change yours."

"I thought you approved, grandmother," I tried to keep my voice easy, but felt heartsick and hoped I'd misunderstood.

"I approve of the choice, dear, but I don't approve of your timing. If this is what you want, I'm happy for you, but I can't help but wish you'd waited a little longer."

"Thomas' mother said the same thing—that we were hurrying into this. Why—" I tried to bite my tongue, but it came out anyway. "—why doesn't anyone think we know what we're getting into?"

"We're trying to be gracious, dear. If you did know what you were getting into, and you still went ahead with it, you'd be fools." She patted my knee as I sat in the chair beside her bed, trying to take out some of the sting. "No one who gets married really knows what they're getting into, though, so I guess you'd be in good company."

"Do you think you married grandfather too soon?"

"I wasn't even as old as you are now." As if it was the most natural thing in the world. "I didn't know any better, and no one tried to tell me."

"But you loved him?" I didn't mean for it to be a question, but it came out as one.

"I surely loved him. But things were harder on us than they should have been. I'm trying to tell you, in my own way, to be careful, and to use the brains you've been given."

"Thank you, I think."

"Listening and remembering are thanks enough."

"Will you come down?" I knew what her answer would be.

"No." Her mouth was firm, her jaw set. "You can bring him up, if you like, but I'm not coming down."

"Thank you." I went back downstairs, the middle four steps creaking under my feet.

"Is she—?"

"She's awake. She'll be awake while we finish up here, but—"

"She's not coming down." He looked relieved.

"No."

Laird Hugh looked at me, a little irritation on his broad face, and scratched his beard. He and my father stood before the fire, with Thomas in one of the chairs. I'd interrupted something.

"Go ahead—"

Hugh nodded, and reached into the corner beside the hearth, pulling out a long thin bundle wrapped in canvas. "I traded for this the week after ye were born, an' I've been saving it since then." He waved it towards his son. "Go on, take it, unwrap it."

Thomas accepted the bundle, and laid it in his lap to untie the rope holding it shut. After a few minutes of frowning and tugging, he unveiled the grip and hilt of a sword—a boar's head in worked steel, interwoven black leather straps around the grip, and the largest cat's-eye I'd ever seen in the hilt. He pulled off the rest of the canvas and examined the scabbard, banded and capped in steel, then looked up at his father.

"Thank you."

Hugh smiled. "It's mainlander steel, from Nilos. It'll do the job, if you have to use it. I hope you don't, but it looks like you might … Go on and unbuckle the rig you're wearing, hand it to me. I can get a good trade for it."

Thomas nodded, and stood, the new sword in his lap rattling to the floor. He picked it up, flushing, tucked it under his arm, and awkwardly unfastened the old one, passing it to his father.

"It's heavier than I'm used to."

"The blade's stronger than you're used to, too." Hugh turned to my father. "Where did you hide the whiskey?"

Father glanced at Thomas, who almost invisibly shook his head.

"We drank it, I think."

Hugh frowned.

"Are you sure?" He looked at his son, then seemed to understand. "Ah." He clasped his hands together behind his back. "Well, I'd better head home. Sorry about the dish, Ned. Next time we see a tinker, I'll get it replaced."

Father nodded. "It's really no trouble." He looked at me, then up at the ceiling, and I understood. "Let me walk you home, Hugh."

Hugh nodded, on his way out the front door, and my father paused for another moment, looked at me as if he were about to speak, then followed.

"What was that about?"

"You should come meet my grandmother, now. I'll warn you, she's a little … well, she's a tough woman, but don't let her scare you."

"Do I have to?" he asked, but he still stood up and followed me upstairs.

I tapped on her door, and waited for her to say, "Come in," in her dry, rough voice.

"Grandmother, this is Thomas MacKarcher. Thomas, this is my grandmother."

"Come here, boy." She stretched out with a hand made thin and knobby by the years. Using the cane in her other, she levered herself forward, to inspect him. Thomas took a step towards her—a small step, but still a step. She waved at the quilt.

"Sit on the edge of the bed."

He sat, and she worked her jaw as she looked at him, brushing a strand of hair out of his face, feeling his neck with what I knew would be feather-soft but cold fingers, poking him in the chest.

"Hmph. So you're going east with our Molly, are you?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Think you can stand up to the Imperials?" Her voice came out sharp, easily the hardest voice I'd heard all damn day.

"I don't plan to need to, ma'am. It'll be easier to keep quiet, to find work in one of the cities."

"Hmph." She peered at him with baggy eyes.

He looked at me for reassurance I couldn't give. No one could predict my grandmother's reactions: I'd never seen her go after anyone with her cane before, but that didn't mean she couldn't, or wouldn't.

"You'll not give up."

"No, ma'am."

"It wasn't a question. I'm telling you—you'll not give up. I'll know it if you do, and I'll track you down."

He glanced back at me, a tic of the eye, then met her stare head-on. He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Bring me my brush." She pointed to the dressing table on the other side of the room.

He nodded, and crossed the room, his passage through the air making the candles on the nightstand flicker. Grandmother looked at me.

"You know what you're doing, girl?"

"Yes."

"You'd best pray you do. It will be rough and hard. Harder than you think."

I nodded, and she turned to Thomas.

"Come here, boy, and brush my hair." Thomas gave me a terrified stare over her head.

"I can do it," I offered.

"Let the boy do it." I knew better than to argue with her, not with her jaw set and that shielded look in her eyes.

Thomas picked up the ends of her hair, and began to run the brush through in short strokes—something told me he'd brushed his sister or mother's hair a few times, and made me worry a little less.

"Listen to me, dear." She dropped a hand to my knee, squeezing as Thomas brushed. She dropped her crackled voice, almost whispering but still loud enough for both of us to hear. "I've had bad dreams. Those men on the beach, your father tells me they were servants of the Emperor. Beetles." She pursed her lips and spit on the floor."In my dreams I can see him, and all of us like dune-sand through his fingers. War is coming, a war to mark the losing of the age … " She trailed off, then cleared her throat, turning to Thomas.

"You can brush a little harder, dear."

Thomas gave me a face that said, 'What do I do?', but I didn't have an answer, so I shrugged.

He finished, put the inlaid brush on the table, and came around to sit beside me at the foot of grandmother's bed. As quickly as it appeared, the steel in my grandmother's voice vanished.

"Where are my manners? You're probably tired. Wait, before you go, take this—right—" she reached under her pillow, and pulled out a little poppet, which she gave to me. "There, there it is. Put it under your pillow."

"Thank you," I turned the little rag doll over in my hands. I hadn't seen any sign of her making it, but grandma was left to her own devices once father and I were asleep. I thought of her sitting up, knitting and stuffing by lamplight, and wondered how much there was beneath the surface that I would never know.

"Go on." With the cane she directed us out.

In the hallway, Thomas kissed me, trembling, holding onto my waist and leaning into it as if he were afraid I'd vanish into the air. I kissed back, then carefully pried him off.

"I think she likes you. She doesn't predict disaster for most of the people she meets."

"She frightens me. And I'd like to go to bed, now."

"Poor Thomas," I said, running my fingers along his shirt, over his ribs. "My room is—"

"Molly?"

Father returned.

"Upstairs." I continued along the hallway, leading Thomas to my room and my bed. Father's head appeared at the top of the stairs as I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

"We're turning in."

"Oh. I—ah, I don't want to lecture you. You've sense enough, and I've raised you to be as quick as I could. I wanted to wish you good luck. Maybe, you think, you'll come back to visit before I get too gray?"

"I love you, too." I met him halfway, wrapped my arms around his thin shoulders. When I let go, he sniffed, and offered a hand to my Thomas, trying to look stern (looking slightly confused instead).

"Both of you, take care o' each other. That's the key. Look after each other."

"Yes sir."

That night, knowing we wouldn't get a chance on the trail, I woke Thomas for another go-round, and it was better than the first. He nearly brought me over, and I nearly helped him last, and when we fell back under the quilt he curled up at my side, calling me cussha as he drifted off to sleep.

III.

No excuses, no apologies—these were not my people. They called me Finias Donbennach, my father Michael Donbennach who came to MacAndouire lands fleeing Stewart justice, my mother Arwen MacKillan who came to live with her brother (my uncle, Ossi) to escape a Stewart marriage, neither still breathing—I owed the clans, and this clan, nothing. I lived because Ossi brought me back, and a day didn't pass without him telling me so, but my debt was to him and not to Laird Hugh, and I didn't intend to pay it anyway. I was accountable to no one but myself, and they knew it, and ignored me when I'd let them. When I swam the Failte Bre, I took the last cut of meat. When my mother's clansmen came three summers ago, I slew four, and five mainlander mercenaries besides, but filled my mug last from the cask. When my uncle called, I bent my back for them, and unless I was twisting an arm they took no notice. So be it. The one lesson Ossi taught with his staff was this—no excuses, and damn sure no apologies.

My head was no good as a storehouse, but I could learn my lessons in other ways. The body could remember for you, in scars, in aches, in the occasional fleeting smile. Or frown. My father told me nothing directly—didn't know what to do with me anymore than I did myself—but he taught me one lesson:

He kept hogs—most of the village did, because a hog's useful to have around for food, or leather, or glue, and a stomach'll make a nice wineskin if you cure it right—and had one book in the world Ossi'd taught him to read, a history of the West by Ron Jolla, that he took with him when it came time to slaughter one. He'd put on his pen-boots, book in one hand and axe in the other, and stand in the pen, reading out loud. He thought it was comedy, because of the way Jolla left out any mention of the clans, and roared it out like the words of the gods of the sky, no matter what the neighbors thought. The hogs, when he started shouting and waving the stick, would first mill around, worked up, but—every time I watched for it, and every time it happened—after a few minutes they would stop moving, and sit, and wait, watching him. It looked as if he were teaching a lesson, the hogs trying hard not to miss a word. That day, he went out to kill a hog (my mother gone, already dead) and I stood at the door to watch. As usual, the hogs got scared, then calm, and he swung the axe at one near the edge of the group—with the crack of the blunt side of the axe meeting neck, one less hog. He put the book down to drag the hog so it could be butchered and drained, left the axe leaning against the fence, and as usual the hogs ran to the other side of the pen, as far away from the body as they could. One of them, a young sow, got it into her head to turn around, and came back. I didn't think anything of it, and neither did he. When the sow was close enough to snort at her dead brother, my father raised a hand to wave her off, and slipped backwards in the mud. Something about the sudden move spooked the hog, because it squealed loud, which set the others off—and hogs are smart enough to be mean, when frightened. My father got up as they mobbed him, but couldn't get his muddy hand on the axe-handle quick enough, and one of the worked-up boars took a chunk out of his knee and shin. I dragged him out, and sent for my uncle, but he bled away on me before anyone arrived. He died at my feet as I waved for them to hurry. My father taught me the world will most likely screw you, given the chance.

My mother taught me the good things don't last as long. She went so early in my life I could hardly remember her. I owed these people nothing, and after one last chore for my uncle, the MacKierra brothers and I would be gone. The brothers could be abandoned once we were on the mainland, and I could start over from scratch after I'd dealt with Tom and Molly. I owed them a reckoning, and I wasn't going to let anything stand in my way.

"How'd it go?"

I owed the MacKierra brothers something too—not a formal debt, but courtesy given should be returned—a mostly-civil tongue, and a little hesitation in my fists. They'd been hospitable to me, in their fashion. Which wouldn't keep me from putting them to the sword, if it came to it—they were still loyal MacAndouire men, when all the tallies were counted.

"Worse than it could have, but not worse than expected," I said.

We stood out past the first bend in the road up the coast, out of sight of the sentries and well out of earshot.

"How's the plan stand, then?" asked Paddy MacKierra.

"As it does. When Tom, Molly, and I ride out tomorrow morning, you'll be out here."

"We'll shadow you." Rob would be doing most of the tracking—his brother Paddy was slower than I am, but good to swing a sword, and if need be later, good to die for me.

"Meet up on the second night out, at the overhang, right?" asked Paddy.

"What are you going to do with Tom and Molly while you meet us?" asked Rob.

"Tie them to a tree."

"What if they get loose?" asked Rob.

"I'll track them down."

I saw movement across the trail, and drew my bow, motioning the MacKierras into the brush, hoping Paddy didn't give us away. I knelt, and fitted an arrow, watching for the swaying grass—there! I took a gamble, and waited one heartbeat longer than I should have. The buck was joined by a doe. I released, pulled another arrow, and my first shot punched through his fright-frozen neck. The buck, arrow flopping, wheeled back into the brush, losing strength in its legs as it tried to jump to safety, falling to knees, hobbling, then over to kick, bleeding, with still-quick eyes as we came out of hiding. The doe was gone before the buck finished his turn, and no sense looking with dinner waiting to be cleaned.

"Brutal shot, Finias." I suspected Rob only half meant it as a compliment.

"Good work," said his brother, too slow to hear the difference.

I didn't answer. Taking down the buck meant field-dressing the buck and disposing of the unusable guts somewhere that wouldn't bring wolves on our trail tomorrow night.

"Rob, you get to—" I started to make it his problem.

"Na, I don't want it. Make Paddy do it."

"Do what?"

"You don't have to help dress the deer. All you have to do is wander off the road a ways and bury the guts."

Paddy frowned.

"Finias, I don't—"

"No arguments." I stared him down. As expected, he flinched, and nodded to keep me from taking it any further.

The buck's eyes were glazing over, but I didn't let Rob reach for a leg until I'd prodded it with the tip of the bow. There's a scar across my chest from that lesson.

"All right, so—mmmph!" Rob took the hind, I took the forelegs, and we rolled the body more onto its back. "You think you can do it?" His brother stood on, looking both slightly worried and slightly bewitched. It was his way of trying to seem serious.

"Is your purse as full as you can get it? Can you both make passage?" With help from my field knife I recovered the arrow, and wiped the bladed head on the grass before slipping it back into the quiver.

"We can," he said. "I'm wondering whether you'll be able to yourself."

"Rob—" began Paddy, but his brother kept talking, cutting him off.

"I think you're too hung-up on Molly MacCamnon to think straight."

I jammed the knife into the buck's chest, and left it there, and as he jerked his hands away I caught him by the wrists. He pulled, but I'm stronger, and brought him in close, to talk.

"Don't be stupid. You question me again, we'll have problems. Understand?"

"I do. Now let go o' me."

I squeezed until I felt his bones shift and start to bend towards their snapping point, then let go.

I went back to the deer, cracking the breastbone with a little anger and a large rock, opening up the ribs and hauling out the guts for Paddy, who gagged like a child with colic, to deal with. Rob hacked down a suitable sapling in the time it took me to finish my work, and together we stripped it, then slung the buck below to carry back to the village.

"If you go after her, this will all fall apart," said Rob. "Use your head."

I took no joy in the quick twist-and-stretch that reintroduced my fist to Rob's gut, but it needed to be done. Lessons learned. When he dropped at my feet, it wasn't joy that made me stand over him, but necessity.

"I am using my head. And from here all it's telling me is you're full of doubts."

He rolled from his side to his back, mouth half-open and sucking in sips of air, and I leaned down in his face, with my bloody hands on his shirt, to make sure he understood.

"I won't do a thing to Molly to endanger our plan to get away."

I backed off to leave him some pride, pulled my knife out of the turf, and nicked my thumb against the edge.

"I swear it in my own blood."

He wiped spit from the corners of his mouth as he stood up.

"And the blood of our dinner." His eyes held murder but I knew he didn't have the heart for it.

"I swear't."

Paddy, bloodstained and half-sallow, returned from entrail duty, and spoke, hands at his sides, watching us without seeing the way we stood.

"We should head back soon."

"He's right," said Rob. "Second night out, at the overhang."

I nodded, and lifted my end of the pole, the buck's antlers dangling on a limp neck, brushing the back of my shirt back and forth as we carried it to the village. Paddy talked just to hear himself talk, but no one said anything of importance. MacMoody at the gates sent word to the MacKarchers—Laird Hugh is a tyrant for his first cut—and made us (made me!) wait while Stephen MacKarcher came to take his father's share. Ossi took his cut at the house, and while I didn't get my due I didn't get last cut, either, so I kept quiet. We butchered the deer in the yard, salted what we could, laid the skin out to cure on the floor of the smokehouse behind Ossi's house, and roasted venison steaks on the stove two to a pan. The MacKierras didn't complain about the wait—good, since I fed them—and left me alone with Ossi as soon as they could. He tossed a filet into the pan and spoke while watching me out of the corner of his eye.

"Ye know better'n to try to cross me, don't ye?" he asked the steak.

"I do, uncle."

"My magics, they'll maul ye if ye do." He poked the meat with his knife. "Adaimma are not reasonable creatures, Finias, far less reasonable than ye find me. They will cripple ye without a thought, and I will not be able to put ye right again."

He looked at me, eyes hard.

"Tell me the truth of it or I'll brand ye with the skillet. What is there between ye and the MacCamnon girl?"

"I've been with her," He continued to poke at the filet, watching me. "Twice."

"And what else?" He raised a shrub of an eyebrow.

For a moment, I forgot myself, forgot my debt, and raised my voice to him. I knew what would happen when I opened my mouth, and I did it anyway, thinking less than Paddy, hardly thinking at all.

"What the hell else d'you want, then?!"

I heard a scrape—my warning—as filet and knife went onto the table, and kicked the chair over as the skillet dented a ring into the edge of the door, then dropped onto the table, grease spattering my arms. I knew he'd pick it up again if I said anything else, so I bit my tongue as I rubbed the grease off with my sleeve, feeling blisters already raising their ugly little heads on my skin. He leaned over the still-popping skillet, speared the fillet on the knife, and dropped it in, returning skillet to stove.

"Boy, ye're going to get hurt. Tell me what is there t'tell, and tell me all of it."

His eyes were sharper than arrowheads, sharper than field knife or sword or spear, and I knew if I looked away when I answered he'd go for the skillet again (or worse, the knife).

"I had her once—I caught her at Hodd's brook, to the west, swimming, and took her on the banks."

"There's more." The disgust in his voice crackled like the pops of the meat in the pan.

"The second time I had to work harder to get it, because she was hung-up—" Rob's accusation came to mind, but I kicked it away. "—on Tom MacKarcher."

"So ye go out after him? Why her, too?"

"She refused me, and my honor—"

"Bull."

He stared me down, and I'm sorry to say I did flinch.

"We were halfway through, and she kicked me in the chest, then locked me out of the room and threw my clothes out the window."

"What did you do to make her do that?" He cut into the filet and pried at it with the fork to see how pink it was in the center.

"I stopped when she told me to." I felt the sweat even though the stove wasn't roaring with heat.

"Did ye?" His head snapped up from his food so fast I started to stand, to get out of reach. "Sit." I sat back down, my elbows and knees starting to loosen up to run for it.

"I don't—"

"Did ye? Stop when she said to?"

"Yes."

"Are ye lying?" He assumed a casual, neutral expression, but he still had the knife in one hand, and the skillet handle in the other.

"You can kill me if I am."

Ossi flipped the meat into a bowl, and began to carve it into bites, sitting across the table with knife, fork, and a black-bread roll to soak up the juice.

"Then what happened?" He ate without looking at his food, staring at me instead, scowling, looking for any trace of deception.

"I got angry. I think I hit her."

"Bull. Ye 'think'. Bull. Ye did hit her. She came to me with the proof." Ossi sighed, chewing. "And I told her I'd keep ye away from her."

"But—"

"But ye've made me a liar, Finias." He swallowed, and pointed the knife at my cheek. "And now I have to send ye out to do something ye just can't do."

I leaned back, but kept my hands on the edge of the table, because I knew it would go worse if I flinched or looked too much like I was about to bolt.

"If ye can do this for me, your life will be your own. But I don't think ye can, and I'm ashamed of ye for it. Ye've brought dishonor on your parents' memory, and ye've brought dishonor on me." He finished the last few bites of his filet, mopped up the juice with the roll, dropped the fork on the plate. "Clean this. I don't want to see ye in the morning."

I didn't move. There was still the knife. The skillet was still heavy enough to hurt, and still hot besides. Ossi stood.

"What's wrong wi' ye, then?" He whacked the side of my head with elbow and forearm on the way out of the room, and I'd had worse so I took it. "Get moving."

I waited until my eyes could see sharp again, cleaned and oiled the skillet, and turned in early.

In the morning, despite the words of the night before, Ossi whacked the side of the bed with his staff until I raised a hand to ward it off.

"Get moving, boy." After which he left and gods-help-me if he needed to come back. I dressed, rolled up one of the warmer blankets to stash behind the saddle, and gathered my things—sword, bow, knife, tinderbox, the other basics—as if I were going out for a hunt. My gold wasn't hidden under the floorboards: Ossi goes through my room when I'm not around, and I knew it although he didn't know I did. No, counting on his heart, I'd put the purse in the bottom of the chest at the foot of my bed, below the extra blankets, below my clothes, underneath my mother's dresses, and from under those dresses, because I was right in guessing he wouldn't dig deeper, I retrieved my hoard, then left the room. Ossi wasn't downstairs, which meant he was probably tending to the deer's hide, or lurking somewhere between his house and the MacCamnon's to make sure I went. I didn't see the MacKierra brothers as I walked, a good sign. As I started to beat the door to the MacCadhnen house, it opened, and her father came out with a bucket of slop. He looked at me the way the MacAndouires always looked at me, keeping a safe distance, trying to keep from staring too hard but watching all the same.

"Finias."

"Ned."

He sidled past me and dumped the slop into the trough, then looked back.

"No trickery up your sleeve, is there?"

I scowled.

"Ossi made sure of that," was all I was willing to give him. "They're late. This isn't a morning for a lie-in."

"Hardly." She came out of the house with Tom in step behind her. "I don't see your horse saddled, Finias."

I looked at her, a few strands of hair slipping the ribbon, eyes like silver under candle-light, knew how she'd spent at least part of her evening, and looked away.

"Listen, Finias—" said Tom.

"Get your horses. We have a ride ahead of us—three days along the coast to Mostreach."

"Blaze is saddled and ready to ride," she said. "Tom's horse is at his parents' house. Where is yours?"

I didn't bother to look her way when I answered. "Waiting at the gate, should be. The MacKierras owed me for their dinner."

It took a few more minutes to finish preparations. By the time we rode, most of the hogs in the village were enjoying a morning meal, and most of the chickens had been startled off their eggs. The sun came up as we rode north-northeast along the beach, the day's colors painting the coast with warmth and cheer I didn't feel. Damn Molly MacCamnon and her changing mind. I looked at Tom, thin, slow, and soft inside, and wanted to find a shrine, to kick it apart. Three miles out from town, with birdsong and surf in the air, I fought myself hard to keep from having my vengeance. Five miles past, when the road left the seaside and cut north, climbing hills and dividing forest, I bit my tongue to keep from demanding an explanation. The way they looked at each other made it worse—a sort of false shyness as if they were pretending to be guarded, it made them both smile and made me jerk Essa's reins a little harder than I should have. At midday, looking back over my shoulder, I saw a flash of the sunshine off metal in the distance I took to be Rob MacKierra's way of letting me know they were out there. When we stopped to eat and water the horses, Molly tried to pull me aside.

"Finias—"

"No," I tied, untied, retied the saddlebag.

"Molly, I don't think that's such a good idea," said Tom from the fire.

"Listen to your runt," I lowered myself down, started skinning her field hens with a little more jerk in the wrist than I needed.

"Look." She reached to touch me, but I pulled my arm away, knife in hand.

I tried, I tried hard to keep my voice even:

"Molly, don't touch me."

"No." Again she reached for me. The storm clouds that circled inside my head wheeled around, found something to focus on. As she reached out for me I grabbed her arm, then dug my fingers into her shoulder, picked her up, and shook her.

"Leave, me alone, you whore." I didn't shout. My voice was calm. I kept my anger for later.

Tom took a step, as if he were going to do something about it, but I tossed her back. Seeing her stumble, then land on her backside, brought me no joy—a reminder her body, sprawled out in the grass, was not for me. I turned to find Tom at my back, tried to keep myself from taking a swing at him, stopped with the fist halfway up. I turned back to her.

"I have nothing to say to you." I took a step, standing almost over her. "And unless you plan to sleep with one eye cracked, I'd keep quiet."

"You have no right—" She started to sit up.

"I have no right? Where do you get off telling me anything? I told you I loved you, and you kicked me in the chest. There's no more to say between us."

"Molly?" asked Tom, from my right side. I smiled. He hadn't heard the tale, yet.

"Go ahead. Tell him that one. We'll be riding out again as soon as those birds are done, though, so make it quick."

I saw the hurt on Tom's face as the runt tried to find words, and couldn't.

"Molly?"

She favored me with an especially bitter look as she got up.

"There's not much to tell, my love. We laid together. He wasn't to my liking, so I told him no. In response, he hit me."

Tom—I couldn't stave off the laugh—drew his new sword and took a few steps towards making his day worse. I smiled, wanting, privately begging for him to be stupid enough to try it.

"What, Tom? Going to try me? I would eat first, in case I yank off both your arms."

He turned away, put the new sword in its scabbard, and ate without speaking to either of us. Somewhere behind us, something called out a howl, and somewhere nearby, something cracked a dry limb off a tree. I assumed my uncle was making his helpers' presence known, but guessed I could still push my luck. I turned to Tom as he reached to take another hen off the spit, and slapped him across the face, smiling. Something—how my uncle's helpers could hide in full daylight without cover I couldn't tell—growled at my back from the other side of the clearing. I found I didn't care, much. Until Tom and Molly were in danger of death, they couldn't touch me—it was a guess, half-proven to be true, but if correct it gave me a lot of room to work with.

"You'll do as I say, both of you, under orders from Laird Hugh. Which includes taking it." His eyes would've taken a bite out of my empty heart, if they could. "Eat your hens, so we can get back on the road. I'll dig a pit for the bones, but I won't be far."

They knew no quick answer, and kept quiet as I dug. Whether they were afraid or simply cagey I couldn't tell (and didn't care). We rode out the rest of the afternoon without a word, and made camp at dusk in silence.

"Go get dinner, bitch. He'll still be alive when you get back."

She opened her mouth, then looked at me again, then said nothing.

"Thomas." She put a hand on his shoulder (reminding me, her touch was not for me, making me angrier) and turned him a little to look him in the eye. "Don't give him an excuse."

"I won't."

As soon as she left, with bow and field knife, he turned to me, hoping (maybe) to talk some sense. He might as well have been preaching to a tree, for all I listened.

"Finias—"

"You have a fire pit to dig. Go to it."

"Shit, Finias—"

"Your father and my uncle told you both to do as I say. Go to it."

"Finias, you have no grudge with me." He cut into the earth, lifting a piece of sod, putting it aside.

"I don't? You have what I want. Why don't I have a grudge?"

"You don't." He leaned over, both hands digging at a rock in the way. "If I weren't around, she still wouldn't have you."

"And I'm not supposed to be angry about it?"

"No," he said, bending to move another rock. "She's leaving. I'm leaving. Let it go."

"Let it go," I said, and kicked his shin out from underneath him as he turned for another rock. "No. I owe her a purse full of suffering. Since she's tied herself to you, makes it your purse, too—the more I hurt you, the more I hurt her. So tell me again why I have no quarrel?"

He picked himself up, brushed his knees off, and turned to stare at me.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing that will change." I meant it.

Molly returned, three rabbits richer, and we ate without much talk. Something out there howled at the nightfall, probably stalking us the way the MacKierras would've liked to, if they'd had the skill. When the remains were buried, we settled down for the night: she and he on one side of the fire, myself on the other, nobody willing to sleep. Tom laid on his side, spooned up against Molly's back, watching me over her shoulder. For her part she drew her field knife and made sure I was looking as she laid it within easy reach, watching me for a reaction I wouldn't give.

"You run in the night, I'll track you down and break your fingers. Your fathers put me in charge."

"What if we kill you in your sleep?"

"What if you try to kill me in my sleep and fail? I don't think the gods would let it pass. You'd suffer for it, your parents'd suffer for it."

"But not at your hands." Tom slid his free arm around her belly. One of my hands began to twitch.

"Thomas, please," she said.

"I don't care. I'm not sleeping, and I'll—"

"No." She turned back to catch his eye. The way her breast shifted in her shirt made me clench my fists. "He has to sleep sometime. If he tries anything, I'll cripple him, and he knows it."

She stared me down, and to my shame I looked away as I rearranged my blankets.

"Don't let the fire go out." I rolled over, and let them spend hours wondering if I was asleep yet. I got my rest, and woke early, despite bad dreams. She sat across the smoldering fire from me, knife drawn, watching. I shook out the blankets, rolled them up and stowed them away behind the saddle, then turned back to deal with the damned pair. She shook Thomas awake, frowning, her touch rough to keep me from interfering.

"Morning, runt." I spit at his feet. Thought about giving a kick for good measure but she was in my way.

"Doesn't matter." He put his whole skin-and-bones weight into the nasty look he tossed at me, sat up, tried to stretch out the aches from a night spent tossing on hard ground.

"Get moving."

He looked at me as if he were about to say something, but she caught his eyes, gave a little shake of the head, and he kept quiet. It felt good; I grinned.

We made the day's ride easy, crossing over MacGeicheron lands without trouble, and I assumed the MacKierras stalking our trail ran into no riders, either. We rode down out of the edge of the highlands, towards the sea and the port there, towards Mostreach, where I would have my vengeance. At night, we camped on the edge of a thicket the MacKierras and I knew from a few nights spent poaching MacGeicheron game. I made camp, and sent Tom out after food.

"I don't know what you're planning, Finias, but if you hurt him, I'll have your guts for a purse." She sat with her back to the open fields, watching Tom range out for our meal with his arrow nocked. The sun was setting, which was why I thought he'd be able to return with something. I'd have done it myself, but leaving a brooding Molly MacCamnon alone with my horse and tack didn't seem like the best idea, so I stayed put, and watched her watch me, as I leaned back on one hand and pulled the cork out of a bottle of whiskey with a little help from my teeth.

"Drink?"

She didn't say anything.

I shrugged, and took a long pull, swished the mouthful around to get a proper taste of oak and smoke, then swallowed it down. She sat, still and quiet, watching me without blinking too often. Some sort of thing growled from the woods, no doubt watching me with the same stare. The wind rustled by, the sun sank, and we sat there, staring daggers at each other as the light faded. When Tom returned with two rabbits and a lone quail, she looked up at him, then back at me before speaking.

"Cussha." She reaching to brush his knee as he crouched by the fire, a light touch, a reassurance, a reminder to me of where I stood. He gave her a rabbit, then held rabbit and quail out towards me. I took the rabbit; there's less meat on a quail, and more bones.

"Good hunting?"

"Easy enough. I could manage."

I handled the fire, and we roasted our meat without talking. I sent Molly to bury the bones, and glanced at Tom.

"Make sure she's worth the hurt, runt." The first kick knocked him over. He tried to get his hands up, but couldn't catch the second and his air left his lungs. I dropped one knee, coming down beside him as he scrambled to get up, and drove my fist into his nose. It broke, and he fell back, trying to roll away. I clubbed him twice in the back of the head, and he went out like a candle in a breeze. I set to work tying him up, and waited for Molly to come back. From the woods, a hundred yards back into the trees, I heard a whistle I'd been waiting for. The MacKierras. As she came back, one hand on her knife, the other brushing dirt off her knee, I caught her jaw with a fist, and knocked her down. I yanked the knife out of her grip and tossed it, knowing she'd fight back, and braced for her knee as it came up. I caught the side of her head, then her cheekbone, then her forehead, and she went slack. Thought about her body, helpless, but knew I didn't have time for more than a thought, so I tied her up, and left. Something shook the undergrowth as it passed me, and I felt the hair on the backs of my hands stand up; I broke a sweat. The low growl was meant for me, I knew it.

The MacKierras were waiting by the overhang, beside the rotted husk of what was once a great oak, their horses tied to saplings in the shade. Paddy was squatting on his heels, scratching at something in the dirt with his finger. Rob raised a hand to me as I approached, and took his blade hand away from the hilt of his sword. Maybe he read my mood, maybe he'd learned to be careful, I didn't wonder.

"Hea, Finias," he said, eyebrows bunched, mouth tight, glancing over my shoulder.

"Rob. Paddy."

Paddy nodded, and stood up, brushing his hands together to knock off most of the larger smears of loam.

"Where are they? What did you do?" Rob's mouth stayed open. He didn't back away—Rob knew me too well to flinch. Paddy, behind him, took the step back, but I wasn't worried about Paddy: he was too far away to reach me.

"They're alive." I laughed once. "Bruised up, but alive. I don't have much time. Where do we stand?"

Paddy MacKierra started to talk, but his brother cut him off, stepping up to me, I think to put himself between us. He stared at me. Why did everyone keep staring at me? Something further back in the shade snarled, and the horses shied towards my left as I looked back at the MacKierras. I looked, but couldn't see a thing. Something was out there, moving, and I couldn't tell where.

"Finias, Ossi knows. He tricked us into swearing not to lay a hand on either of them, and something, something unholy, it started on our trail as soon as we were out of sight of the village. I don't know what to do, but I'm damn sure not—"

I stopped him with a wave of my hand, and glanced to the right, past them. "Come on. We head back to camp is what we do. Come with me." I turned to go.

He turned to his brother. "Paddy, you can come or go, as you wish. This will be ugly."

"Damn right it will." I promised myself that much.

"I'll come wi' you," said Paddy, handing over Rob's reins, and taking his own.

We hurried back to the edge of the woods, until I could see the camp, where the MacKierras tied their horses. We left the shade, out into the meadow, pressing through the low grass with swords drawn.

As expected, both Molly and Tom were no longer bound, but they were in no shape to ride away, either, and were wasting time tending to one another. Tom sat beside the fire, shoulders hunched, arms hanging limp, as Molly bent, with her back to us, dabbing at his face. He caught our approach, and I broke into a run as he frowned, then said something to her. She jerked her head up, and turned, then lunged for her sword and shouted to him as we came close enough for me to hear what she was saying.

"Thomas!"

I came out, blade naked, and didn't say a thing as I heard the same rumble in the throat from the grass on the far side of the fire pit. I heard a horse scream, but the sound wasn't right. It came from behind whatever growling thing waited for me after I'd finished with Molly and her Tom. The horses were tied in the other direction. Didn't make sense. Molly didn't give me time to worry about it, bringing her sword out of its scabbard and towards my chest, bruised and bloody but still intent on repaying me for every ache.

I rolled back on my heels as I whipped my own sword across, knocking her away with a kick. She landed, side-scampered out of the way of my next kick, and came back after me.

Something roared from the grass, long and loud, a roar that seemed to already have fresh blood in its throat, a roar that hit me in the chest and belly as I knocked her blade away again, a sound that made my hands tremble. Another horse screamed. Beside me, pressing out of my reach and dripping blood from his nose, Tom swung wide at Rob MacKierra, who shouted but beat him back a step anyway, not trying to kill, not fighting, defending himself. Molly ducked, and slashed at my legs, but I backed away. The setting sun flashed off something past Molly, but I couldn't spare the second to look.

"You get what you deserve." I clubbed her hard with my off-hand against the bridge of her nose. She went down, and I saw behind her as the grass parted, a hound the size of a pony, deep red and slathering, kicked towards me by the gods-damned aelecorran. Which didn't turn around, just launched another kick with a hind leg as soon as forelegs hit turf, and shook its head, horn flashing silver. The world jumped like it was trying to shake us off, and everything seemed to move in flickers of half-light.

The red beast came on, hard, turning in midair, all fangs and claws, intent on carving into me.

Whatever it was, I couldn't move fast enough. I jumped, and chose wrong. It hit me, knocking me off my feet. I landed on my back, and hit my head against something that didn't give, whatever the thing was snarling and rolling, its coat burning my skin through my shirt like a spilled drop of one of Ossi's tinctures. The beast was built heavy and solid and baleful, and it mashed down hard enough on my gut to bring up my dinner, then harder, cracking a rib as it rolled off me, claws biting my arm like a boar's tusk. Its head whipped around to stare at me, something half-hound, half-mastiff, with the eyes the color of one of the highlanders, a MacGeicheron's stone-cold ice-blue that seemed to cut at me all on its own. I screamed, I'm not ashamed, and it ducked away as the horse came through the camp. Still moving forward, the aelecorran thundered through, kicking back at another of the red hounds. Was there more than one? My heart sank down into my gut, and I'm not ashamed to say I was afraid. The aelecorran lashed out without seeing the red hound's leap, catching it in the chest with a crack like an overloaded roof beam. The hound went down, away into the grass, howling, I couldn't see where.

I got to my feet, running back towards Molly and Tom, and another of the things came out of the grass, walking slow, starting to snarl. This one, maybe the one I'd seen nearly kicked in half, maybe a second, maybe a third, came after me, and I heard the horse screaming again. Everything was chaos, nothing quite made sense. Was I facing one of the hounds, or a pack of them? I couldn't tell. Molly, on its far side, shouted something I didn't catch. Tom backpedaled, and the stallion wheeled around, between us. No doubt it was an aelecorran—I saw its horn properly now that it was close to trampling me, wrapped in little bands of white fire, and I knew it to be an aelecorran, no question. If any of the others who were there tell you I wailed again, they're a liar.

Molly and Tom were behind the horned stallion, the MacKierras were behind me, and the rumbling, sneering, slavering hound was not going to let me closer. I backed up, hoping I didn't trip, and the hound came on, settling on feet the size of loaves of bread to jump. The horse hissed in the back of its throat, and stomped a hoof at it, but the hound skirted away, and came back for me.

"Paddy, run for the horses, and ride for home."

"I'm not—"

"GO!" Rob shouted as the hound snapped at his ankles, dodging another quick hoof.

I scrambled back, trying to get away, trying to save myself, praying I wouldn't be trampled, praying the hound's burning mouth didn't close around any part of me. Molly shouted something to Tom, and I saw them heading away. I stepped around Rob, but the hound followed me, and the horse followed the hound. Couldn't get around in time. The snarls and the noise from the horse made it too hard to think. I slashed out at the rust-furred thing, and it dropped to the ground, letting the blade pass above its head, then gathered its weight and jumped for my throat. The aelecorran reared up, for a moment coming between me and the sun, and I felt hound's claws dig into my chest, then I was on the ground a few feet away. The horse came in close—too close, I knew, and I tried to curl up or roll, to get away. Not a chance. Its neck bent, ash-colored mane drooping, and its horn dipped down. Something burned my skin, briefly, then disappeared. I tried to get up, but my shoulders were so heavy they held me down. Abruptly, everything went still and quiet again. Might've been my head got cracked harder than I thought.

"Are you all right?" This was Rob MacKierra, breathing hard.

"Yes." He didn't look at me. Still couldn't get up.

"We're alive," said Molly. "Thomas? Are you hurt?"

The horse was still there. I heard its neigh.

"I feel better now." Something in his voice, I couldn't tell?

I tried to stand up, and everything rippled like pond-water. I dropped back down.

I heard a horse—the aelecorran—again, and turned my head to see as it looked my way, then gave its attention back to Tom and Molly. Turning my head made everything worse. My sight got a grey cloud at either edge, and the pain got heavier, and heavier, and heavier. Felt like I could barely move, surely not move around it.

"I can see you safe to the coast," said Rob. "Until then, my blade is sworn to your service."

I could see the edge of his boot as he kneeled. The horse moved, I could hear the grass sway and hear the whinny as I tried to curse Rob's traitor's heart, but when I opened my mouth, I felt weak and sick, and the grey got thicker. My heart beat too hard in my chest, and I closed my mouth, trying to recover my senses for a while, listening.

"—Finias?" I didn't catch the beginning.

"No," said Rob. "I can still hear one of those hounds out there."

I tried to listen, tried to hear it, but couldn't.

Then I couldn't hear anything for a while, nor feel anything neither.

When I woke up, it was on my back, alone, beside a cold fire, bleeding and stunned. Everywhere I'd had a claw-mark, I had boils, except my chest. There, the stripe of a white scar left me a reminder from the horse, but I could breathe again without the sharp pain of cracked ribs, and had a good guess as to why. After sitting in the dark for a few hours, I brought the fire back, and rested, waiting, looking out at the dark meadow, listening through the rustle of leaf and creak of limb for a howl, a snarl, anything, trying to pull myself together enough to find my horse. It took me a very long time before I was able to do anything at all.

THE END

Bio: Pat Honovich has been gleefully making stuff up for as long as he or anyone else can remember. His first novel, Thirst, was published in 2013. His work has appeared in Silver Blade Magazine, The Ansible, Bewildering Stories, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and the anthologies Magic We've Forgotten and Dark as Life. He's LGBT+ and quite neurodivergent, and lives in southern central Illinois where he enjoys encouraging other people's bad habits, small-town life, and cooking nice meals for his wife.

E-mail: Patrick Honovich

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