Chapter Fifteen
Arran realized he was drumming his fingers on the table and forced himself to stop. Straightening in his chair, he plastered an attentive look on his face as Maurice, his castellan, droned on about the rising price of wheat.
The truth was, Arran had missed most of what Maurice had been saying.
No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, the price of wheat just couldn’t hold his attention.
His thoughts kept drifting back to Jenna.
Where was she now? Had she and Mal reached the second anchor stone?
Was she safe? Had they met any hazards on the way?
His thoughts had been going around and around like this ever since he’d sent Mal with Jenna this morning instead of accompanying her himself.
It was the right decision; after all, hadn’t they agreed to pretend last night’s kiss never happened?
If he was to do that he needed to keep his distance. But it didn’t mean he had to like it.
Somebody cleared their throat. Arran blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the table, and looked up.
Maurice was watching expectantly. The other two people at the table—his mother Rosaline and David, Arran’s steward, were also watching him.
Arran straightened in his chair. “Er… sorry… what?”
To his credit, Maurice didn’t let his annoyance show on his face, but Arran knew the old man well enough to recognize the slight tightening around his eyes that betrayed his frustration. This was not the first time this morning he’d had to repeat himself.
“I said, do I have yer permission to call a meeting with the grain merchants? If we look at increasing our exports of barley, and reducing our reliance on imported wheat, it should start driving the price down again.”
Arran waved his hand. “Aye, whatever ye think best.”
Maurice inclined his head. “My thanks, my laird. Now onto item three. It’s been brought to my attention that the repair to the wall in the eastern stable block is going to be more expensive than we thought due to the instability of the foundations.
As it’s a later addition, the stone used was of a lower quality—”
Arran stopped listening. His gaze drifted to the window, beyond which a brilliant blue sky could be seen. Where were Jenna and Mal now? He began mentally measuring the distance and time their journey would take. If they’d met with no mishaps, they should be somewhere near—
“Arran!”
He looked around to find his mother glaring at him. “Have you listened to a single word Maurice just said?”
“What? Aye, of course! I—”
He was saved from further explanation by the door suddenly bursting open and banging loudly into the wall. Brother Merrick came hurrying in, his sandals slapping on the stone. He stopped abruptly when he realized Arran wasn’t alone.
“Oh! My apologies, my laird. I didnae realize ye were in a meeting, but ye said that I was to come to ye as soon as I found anything.” He waved a rolled scroll in Arran’s direction before his eyes slid to Rosaline, Maurice, and David who were all looking annoyed at the interruption. “I… um… I’ll come back later.”
“It’s all right, Brother,” Arran said, leaping on any excuse to get out of listening to more tedium about market prices or building repairs. “What is it?”
Merrick licked his lips and glanced at the others again. “Um… that thing ye told me to look into? Well, I think I might have found something.”
Arran’s breath quickened. He pushed himself up from his seat. “Ye must excuse me,” he said to Maurice, David, and his mother. “I must see to this. Please, carry on.”
Rosaline frowned and opened her mouth to speak but before she could, Arran took Merrick by the shoulder and bundled him through the door, pulling it shut behind them. He took a deep breath. Already he could hear Maurice’s voice droning again from within.
“Yer timing is impeccable,” Arran said to Merrick with a wry smile. “Perhaps we should set up some kind of code system so ye can rescue me from such meetings in the future.”
Merrick looked puzzled. “My laird?”
Arran waved a hand. “Never mind. What have ye found?”
A flash of excitement passed over Merrick’s face. Stepping close, he unrolled the scroll and held it up for Arran to see. Densely packed script filled the page in a flourishing style that made it difficult to read.
Arran squinted. “Is that French?”
“Aye. It’s an ancient text that describes the siege of Chartres when Scandinavian invaders attacked the city.
It describes how the attackers were fearless because they believed they were protected by one of their heathen gods.
And it says they all wore the same ink design. Look, they’ve even drawn it.”
Arran took the scroll from Merrick and peered at it. Sure enough, towards the bottom of the scroll a crude symbol had been drawn: three interlocking spirals with a spiky rune above. The same symbol that had been inked into Ingold’s neck.
Arran looked at Merrick. “Does it say what the symbol means?”
The monk nodded triumphantly. “It does. It’s the symbol of the god Njord and anyone that bears the mark is one of his followers. Of course, it’s all heathen nonsense, but what can we expect from barbarians who have yet to embrace the one true God?”
Njord thanks you for keeping his isles warm for him. The words Ingold had spoken to him at Tollman’s Gate.
Njord. A god. Despite Merrick’s assertion that such beliefs were heathen rubbish, Arran knew better.
He knew that gods and goddesses still walked the earth and that if one had taken an interest in Skye, things were worse than he’d feared.
He’d believed that the raiders were opportunists with little coordination or plan beyond taking whatever they could get their hands on. But he’d been wrong.
They served a god. And that god wanted his island.
A low growl sounded in his throat and the scroll suddenly crumpled in his clenched fist. He forced his fingers to uncurl and then straightened out the parchment.
“My laird?” Merrick asked.
Arran fixed his gaze on the monk. “Speak of this to nobody. Go back to the library and find every scrap of information, no matter insignificant it may seem, about this Njord. Bring anything ye find straight to me.”
Merrick bobbed his head. “Aye, my laird.”
Arran strode quickly away. Merrick called after him, “But where are ye going?”
Arran glanced over his shoulder at the monk. “To find our errant spellweaver.”
*
Jenna clung grimly to the saddle horn and forced herself to concentrate on keeping her seat as the men around her bantered among themselves.
They’d seen no sign of danger either on the way to the anchor stone or on their way back, the day was warm and drowsy, and her guards had finally begun to relax.
Normally, their bawdy jokes and ribbing would have amused her—she might even have joined in—but she was in no mood for banter.
The sense of hopelessness that had come upon her in the cave hadn’t dissipated, and she could not get Lir’s words out of her head.
The original spellweavers who wove the magic that protects Skye loved this land.
They loved the mountains, the valleys, the streams, and the lochs.
They loved the people. Skye was a part of them and they were a part of it, and it was from this love that the magic was born. Without it, there is nothing.
Had her quest been doomed before it began? But why would Lir send Arran to fetch her if she had no chance of succeeding?
Despair filled her stomach like bile. What was she going to tell Arran? What was she going to tell the people of Skye?
Nothing, she thought. I’ll tell them nothing. Because this isn’t over. I’m not giving up. I will figure this out. I will.
“Is everything all right?” Mal asked suddenly.
Jenna glanced at him. “Fine. Why do you ask?”
“Because ye have been scowling fit to curdle milk ever since we left that cave.”
Jenna realized Mal was right. Her forehead was furrowed, and her jaw had begun to ache from where she’d been clenching her teeth. She forced her face to relax and gave Mal the sweetest smile she could muster.
“There. Is that better?”
“Better? Lass, that is absolutely terrifying.”
Around them, the men laughed, and Jenna found her lips quirking into a smile. “Behave yourselves,” she said, glaring around at them. “Or I’ll turn you all into toads.”
The laughter died out and they looked at each other uncertainly, unsure if she was joking. Jenna grinned. Perhaps being a spellweaver had some advantages after all.
The day had grown warm, and Jenna felt sweat beading on her brow, despite the cooling breeze that blew in off the sea.
The sparkling waves spread out to the horizon on her right while to her left, inland, the landscape was a patchwork of forested hills interspersed with little farms and homesteads.
Fluffy sheep dotted the hills like land-bound clouds while the shaggy-haired Highland cattle grazed in the fields lower down. It was beautiful.
And all under threat because she wasn’t good enough.
“Damn!” Mal swore suddenly, pulling up his horse.
Misty, who followed Mal’s horse like a shadow, came to a halt as well.
“What’s wrong?” Jenna asked.
“Sarrach has gone lame. I think there’s a stone in his shoe. Men! Take yer positions while I check this!”
He dismounted and knelt by his horse’s front leg. Jenna took the opportunity to slither from the saddle and walk around a bit, rubbing her aching backside and trying to work the stiffness from her muscles.
While the men inspected Sarrach’s hoof, Jenna found herself wandering among the tussocky sand dunes that led down to the shore. A horse-shoe bay lay beyond, with a golden sandy beach that would probably be a tourist hot-spot in the twenty-first century. But now she had it all to herself.
On impulse, she kicked off her boots and dug her feet into the sand, enjoying the soft, warm sensation of it between her toes.
The breeze blew her hair out behind her and she spread her arms wide, allowing the fresh air to blow away a little of the anxiety and doubt she’d been feeling since her encounter with Lir.
Ahead of her, the water spread out in a shimmering blanket, so clear she could see fish of many colors darting about below the surface. It looked very peaceful. Serene. The kind of spot that would help her forget her worries—if only for a little while.
Glancing back, she saw that Mal was still busy with Sarrach’s hoof and the rest of the men had spread out along the sand dunes, keeping watch for danger. It looked like the party wouldn’t be going anywhere for a little while. Perfect. Just enough time.
She waved her hand. “I’m going for a dip! I won’t be long!”
Mal shouted something back, but his words were lost in the moan of the breeze and the slither of the waves.
And, to be honest, she would have ignored him even if she had heard him.
No doubt he was telling her that she wasn’t allowed to swim because it was too dangerous.
Well, tough. She’d had a shitty morning, and she wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to de-stress.
Reaching behind her back, she untied her dress and stepped out of it, leaving her in only her shift.
She waded into the water, gasping in shock at the temperature.
It was colder than she’d expected. But not to be deterred, she swam out a little way, getting used to the temperature and then flipped onto her back, floating and gazing up at the sparkling blue sky.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she felt the tension leak out of her. As she floated in the water, cradled by the gentle swell, listening to nothing but the call of birds and the gentle lapping of the water, that little pool of despair that had gathered in her stomach began to dissipate.
But the question remained: how could she fix the magic?