Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Cian stood in the trees out behind John’s armory and waited for the man to finish his business with a pair of elderly women.
Usually, the place was deserted the first Saturday of the month, and he could sneak through the back entrance without anyone in town laying eyes on him, but not always.
Thus, he was ever so vigilant when nearing the township of Aviemore.
It rankled him that he was forced to skulk like a villain, as if he had no right to walk down the lanes as everyone else was free to do. But others had no reason to hide who they were, and no one from whom to hide…
As always, he’d left his furs in a hidey-hole back in the forest so as not to draw too much attention as he pulled his wee sled behind him across the snow-covered fields.
His great kilt always caused a few heads to turn, but leaving that behind would cause a much bigger ruckus.
This was still Scotland, after all. And a man had every right, these days, to wear his clan’s colors.
It was pity more men declined to do the same.
Cian made his way to John’s door and left his nigh-empty sled by the wall.
Only after a long friendly haverin’ would they load the thing with the supplies he’d requested the month before.
He couldn’t wait to see the look on John’s face when he showed him the hilt he’d made for a broadsword.
He’d hesitated to bring down the beautiful beast he’d taken it from, but a man had to eat, had to cloth himself, and had to lend his share of work to the world.
So, he’d taken the shot, sent the arrow home, and thanked God for the bounty the glorious animal had provided. And when John saw the piece, Cian would garner another boon from its sacrifice.
He knocked once, good and sharp, and waited for his friend. The door opened so promptly, it startled him, and his hand flew to the dagger at his hip.
John noticed and gave him a nod of apology. “Come in, come in. Kettle’s on, but we haven’t much time. Bring the sled.”
Not much time? Cian’s stomach and shoulders fell in unison. He so looked forward to their monthly chats wherein he would finally have a chance to converse with the living while honing his own grasp of modern speech—not that he had much use for it. But perhaps one day…
Cian dragged his sled inside and went back to close the door. “Ye’ve something important to tend to, do ye?”
John began to nod, but stopped himself and shook his head instead. Then he heaved a heavy sigh and dropped his backside onto his cold metal stool.
Cian’s hackles rose. Something was wrong with his one and only friend in the world, and if the man needed his help, he would do whatever was needed, Cian’s own safety be damned.
“What is it? What can I do to help ye, John?”
The man shook his head again, then looked Cian in the eye. “I have never lied to ye, Cian MacInnis, and I willnae start tadee.”
“Ye’re leavin’ Aviemore?” It was the only disaster he could imagine, since John had already lost his wife.
“Nay. Never that. Never that—”
“Ye’re ill, then?”
“Nay. I’m hale. A wee bit heartsick, mind. But not that…”
Cian breathed easier and strode to the bench to sit. He’d pushed enough. His friend would explain in his own time.
“I’ll just say it plain, then, shall I?”
Cian shrugged.
“Two women came to see me—”
“The two I saw from the tree line?”
“Aye. They havenae been gone long.”
Cian nodded and waited for more.
“They had a message for ye.”
His head snapped back, as if he’d been struck by a powerful fist. “A message for me?”
“Aye.”
“And how do they ken about me?” Only John knew him by name. Only John knew he was more man than myth, that he was both more and less than a traveler come down from the mountains from time to time. But he’d never believe that his friend had shared Cian’s name with anyone but his late wife.
“They claimed to be witches.”
The burst of Cian’s heart forced him to his feet. He struggled to keep a breath long enough to speak. “Witches? They claimed as much? Aloud, even?”
John scowled. “Aye. They did.” He shook his head. “This is not so rare these days, lad. There are organizations…”
“Covens?”
“Aye. No doubt. But many a lass claims to be a witch for…any number of reasons.”
Cian blanched at the very idea of it. “They claim it, willingly, when it is not true?”
“There are books that can explain how to—”
“To become a witch?”
John grimaced. “How to practice such things.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if the forge behind him had grown too hot.
“I’ve not studied any of it myself, Cian.
I cannae say what they do or dinnae do. I only know that it is, generally, not the evil practice it once was believed to be.
They are respectful of the earth and the balance of nature.
That sort of thing. For the most part, I reckon. Although…”
“Although?” Cian forced himself to sit again, but he was prepared for more surprises, just in case.
“These two…”
“The ones who have a message for me?”
“They knew yer name. At least yer given name. I’d never shared it with a soul, except for Effie. At the end—”
“I believe ye. I’d never doubt ye—”
“So, perhaps they have real power. There is no reason to believe they were sent by…by that time traveler.”
“And no reason not to believe it.” He begged his heart to stay put and keep a steady beat. “Where is this message?”
“An easy message to remember. They didnae write it down.”
“Ye reckon they’ve been watchin’?”
John shook his head. “I’d never seen them afore. If they were locals, I would know them.”
Cian braced his hands on his knees. “Right then. What did they say?”
“They insisted that ye hurry back home. Now. As soon as ye can. They said a terrible storm is coming. A storm mighty enough to change yer life. And that, if I failed to warn ye, I might cost ye yer happiness.”
“And they would know what would make me happy, would they?”
“Perhaps my friend. And more possible, is it not, if they knew yer name?”
Cian shook his head. “They couldnae have confused me with some other Cian?”
“Ye’re the only one I ken, and they knew ye would come here. And ye should know…”
Cian’s heart trembled, but he pressed on. “What is it I should ken, John?”
His friend grimaced. “They mentioned Balnacoorie.”
Cian felt the blood drain from his head and was grateful he was so close to the floor, in case he fainted away like a lass. These two women knew where he called home. Two witches kenned where he lived.
His slow instincts caught up with his brain, and he rose to his feet. “I’ve been found, then. I must go.” He patted the hilt on his belt and cast his eyes about for anything he might need to take with him when he fled out the door, never to return. But he was half blind with fright.
“Woah, son. Take a breath. Sit down.” John came to his side, took his arm, and led him back to the bench before sitting beside him. “They said they mean ye no harm, and I believed them.”
“Only one man kens that I am here in a century where I dinnae belong. Only he could have sent them.”
“But think, man. If yer traveler kenned where to find ye, and if he did intend to send ye back to Culloden, would he have wanted ye warned? After all these years, would he have wanted ye on yer guard? Or to take ye by surprise here and now, if he kenned ye would be comin’?”
Reasonable. Of course, John would see reason.
“So ye believed them.”
“I did. They claimed they go about fixin’ mistakes, and when they cannae be fixed, they make amends. Whatever they’re up to, they believe it will make things right for ye.”
“Make things right? Nothing can ever make things right. If I were taken back to where I started, I’d perish on the battlefield.
Ye and I, we’ve read the history. I’d have less than an hour to live.
” A thought struck. “Or perhaps sending me back would correct some balance I disrupted when I came forward.”
John was already shaking his head. “Nay. They mean to make amends to ye, laddie.”
Cian sucked in a breath and tipped his head back to rest his attention in the simplicity of the rafters and appreciate how often this place had brought peace to his heart. But if he took the time to appreciate it much longer, and he might well walk into the storm he’d been warned about.
Should he trust his fears? Or should he trust John and a pair of witches who had no earthly reason to know of him? He honestly couldn’t decide.
He was so very weary of living in fear. Perhaps no one would fault him for taking a wee respite from it.
“Arright, John. I’ll go.”
John squeezed his arm. “Ye don’t mean to flee? To disappear on me?”
“I will go back to Balnacoorie. And come March, I shall expect ye to have the kettle on.”
His friend seemed vastly relieved. “Aye. I will! And we will have a bottle of The Macallan. The 18, even! We’ll blether into the night, aye?”
They both chuckled, their worries slightly abated. Cian stood and brushed his hands together as if they’d completed a weighty task. “My happiness, they said?”
“Aye.”
They loaded the sled, and when they were done, Cian pulled out the bundle of carved pieces he’d brought to exchange for his supplies.
John fairly forgot to breathe when he was presented with the large hilt carved from the base of the stag’s horn.
Around the spaces where a man’s hand would be seated, there were sections of carved figures depicting the Battle of Culloden.
Some figures rose head and shoulders above the others, blades in hand, targes held high. A tam here and there. A leader on a flawless white horse depicted Bonnie Prince Charlie, leading his men into the charge as he ought to have done. It had taken Cian half the year to finish it.
“Auch, my friend, no man is worthy of this.” John held it out, pointing. “And how did ye create the shadows?”
“Blood.”
John blinked, met his gaze. “Yers?”
“Aye.”
His friend could find no words.
“This is not to be on offer,” Cian told him. “T’is for ye alone. I trust ye can make a blade to fit.”
“For me?”
“A gift of thanks fer bein’ my friend all these years. My one friend. For not turnin’ me away when I confessed who I was. For keepin’ m’ secret.”
“This…” John swallowed. “This is already my most prized possession. I will make them bury me with it.”
Cian smiled and nodded. He couldn’t have been more pleased. “Now, I reckon I should go and do as I’m told.”
“If I were ye, I surely would. I surely would. And whilst I wait to hear the tale come March, I will pray ye find that happiness they mentioned.”
“To arrive home hale and hearty, with no one following, will make me happy enough.”
Watching out the window, John followed the progress of The Ghost of Glenmore and his sled as they disappeared into the trees. “Dear Lord,” he whispered, “that honorable lad deserves more than he asks for. Surely?”