Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
DUBHTOLARGG
Long out of its season, a giant yellow fox moth flittered about the table, lured by the crystal’s strong virescent light.
With a glower, Una tossed her tartan over the crystal ball, loathe to dwell on the images shimmering behind the luminescent facade.
Deprived of the keek stane’s light, the thwarted moth flapped its overlarge wings toward to the grotto’s only torch while Una considered the images revealed.
To all but a few, the keek stane might appear to be but a lovely crystal.
But for those blessed with da shealladh—the second sight—it revealed betimes too much—things to come, things that passed, things that lingered yet in twilight.
The trick of it all was to distinguish which of these visions revealed the paths she might yet alter.
Today, her visions had been as clear as the faerie pools on the Isle of Skye, which only meant that the future she saw was inalterable now.
Stealing the bounce from her old limbs, a rush of sadness enveloped her. Today, even her skin felt tired; it hung limply from her ancient frame, as though it no longer had the will to remain. She had more aches in her small toe than most suffered in a lifetime. And now time was growing short…
Clach-na-cinneamhain must never be found.
The Stone of Destiny was no longer a blessing to men.
Imbued with powers far beyond the faith it instilled in men, the dark-veined basalt rock had once belonged to the Gaels—their holiest of relics, brought to Scotia by way of Erin and blessed by a Pecht priestess.
By the power vested in that Destiny Stone, men were doomed to commit vile acts in Alba’s name.
Having seen the lengths to which they would go for a taste of immortality, Una herself had entombed the Stone and then chosen her guardians well.
But to leave it now in mortal hands was to ensure that Scotia’s rivers always ran red.
What to do… what to do…
Alas, it was not something she could burden Aidan with, for her prophecy would only serve to breed anger and fear.
And worse, if Aidan should discover Keane’s part in bringing the Stone’s journey to its end, he would blame Keane, and the younger dún Scoti must continue as he should.
They did not like to think of themselves as sons of Scotia, but sons of Scotia were what they were—Pechts, Gaels, Scots.
These were all merely different names for precisely the same thing.
A thorn by any other name was still a thorn.
A thousand cold fingers pricked at her flesh, like a thousand dead kinsmen accusing without words. “I ken,” she said with a bit of irritation. “I ken. I will see the stone destroyed. Be still now, and leave me to think!”
As though it merely meant to obey, the fox moth returned to the table, beating its bird-like wings. It landed upon the tartan, atop the crystal and then sat staring at Una, fanning its hairy wings and wiggling its horn-like antennae.
The caves where she made her home were solid throughout, the Stone itself entombed within the mountain’s deepest vault.
Some years past, Aidan’s new wife had fallen inside from a fault line above, but the breach had long been sealed, and now there remained only one entrance into the vault—here through Una’s workshop—in the grotto where she now stood.
The entrance was accessible only through a trap door that lay hidden beneath her alchemy table.
But sealing the door was not proof enough.
Fire was not proof enough. The Stone would not burn, and neither would it score the curse from its basaltic pores.
And furthermore, despite the magik she possessed, she could never ferret that heavy Stone out alone.
But even if she could, it was impossible to remove an object of that size without raising some alarm.
The Guardians of the Stone had now been at their task far too long. They would never let it go.
Forsooth, but it was a quandary for the gods—of which Una was most certainly not one. She was, after all, only a humble servant of men.
With a wistful smile she considered Aidan’s family, the last of the guardians in truth.
Lìli, Ria, and the new child Lìli now bore.
Young Cailin’s path was as yet unknown. And Keane had always been a sweet, sweet lad, though his heart had hardened.
Catrìona was the first to leave. She’d wed herself to a second son of the Brodie clan.
And Lael too had fled, to wed the laird of Keppenach.
And lastly, there was Sorcha… dearest Sorcha…
Soon the guardians would all be free to roam the lands, each aligned to a new clan. Alas, but the paths of men could no longer be altered—not in this age or the next.
Tears pricked at her auld eyes, catching in the folds of her skin.
Crow’s feet they called them, although after so many years, her wrinkles were nearly as deep as Lilidbrugh’s well—that long forsaken place whose visage now loomed from the depths of her crystal.
It was there, in that cradle of their clan, that the younger dún Scoti would meet his destiny.
Any day now…
Distracted and weary, the old woman turned from the alchemy table, barely in time to spy Sorcha’s long limbs descending into the grotto from the chamber above—searching for Una, little doubt, for Lìli had sent her up the hill long hours before to fetch a poultice for little Ria.
Unexpectedly, she’d been waylaid by the crystal.
“Una!” The girl shouted, never bothering to look around.
The fox moth hoisted itself up into the air and flew away.
“I am here, child, please! Save my ears,” Una complained, and her gruff voice held a note of defeat.
Hopping down from the ladder, into the grotto, Sorcha furrowed her brow.
At twenty-three, the youngest dún Scoti lass was hardly a child anymore, despite what Una liked to believe.
Her violet eyes, so like her sister’s, were canny and far older than her years.
She appraised her young charge through a weepy eye.
“Oh! Am I interrupting?” Sorcha asked, her eyes drawn to the crystal glowing beneath the tartan.
“Nay.”
“We thought ye might need help…”
Una lifted a wiry brow. “To carry a poultice down the mount? D’ ye think me lame, child?”
Sorcha responded with a crooked smile and Una’s staff itched to fly at her, though she stayed her hand.
At these moments, she missed Keane all the more.
The dún Scoti lassies were all quite hale and sharp of wit, but Una was never inclined to give them a wallop on the head.
More’s the pity that Kellen was not about, for he made a fitting substitute.
Alas, though Lìli’s sixteen-year old son would rise up into manhood far quicker than he should, and Lìli would be angered by the decisions her husband had made whilst away at Chreagach Mhor.
She blew a sigh, and her despair reared itself in the form of a cold draft that swept into the grotto from the caves above, billowing through Sorcha’s blue skirts and fluttering the torchlight so that its flame gave a long obeisant bow.
Casting a dubious eye toward the keek stane, Una confessed, “I was waylaid, if ye must know.”
Despite an overabundance of curiosity, Sorcha knew better than to ask about the lump beneath the tartan, but Una decided that now was as good a time as any to discover what she must know.
Leaning on her staff for support, she made her way to the nearest chair and sat down to study her pupil. “How is Ria’s rash?” she asked.
“Better, Lìli says, though she is prickly.”
“Lìli or Ria?”
Sorcha laughed softly. “Both, if ye must know.”
Reaching up for one long plait of hair—a nervous gesture meant to occupy her hands— Sorcha wandered closer to Una’s worktable, driven by her insatiable curiosity for the crystal.
It called to her now, for she too was a taibshear—a seer.
But it was one thing to possess the knowing, quite another to be conscious of it and wish to use it.
There were folk who had the natural disposition, but who did not trust their intuition, nor did they keep an open mind and heart…
Even now, seated across the room, Una felt the crystal’s energy and knew it longed to be seen by different eyes. The question was, did Sorcha feel the pull as well? Was the lass strong enough to embrace her inner magik?
She watched the girl she’d raised from a wee bairn and after a moment her eyes were drawn to a high shelf. “Sorcha, dearling, do ye recall the book we used to read together?”
Made of sheepskin and bound with leather, the volume was painted with ancient symbols that were drawn in blood.
It was quite old and delicate, impossible to read, unless ye had the sight.
To anyone who did not have da shealladh, the pages would simply appear blank.
But Sorcha knew them… nearly from the first. Even as a child, she had seen things others had not.
Following Una’s gaze to the high shelf, Sorcha said, “Of course. I remember.”
Una smiled ruefully. “Promise to keep it safe?”
“I will! But Una—”
“Dùin do ghob somaltag.” Hush your mouth, child, the old woman said gently.
Resolved to her task, Una tapped her ash wood staff upon the grotto’s stone floor and mist rose like smoke from unseen places.
Along with the mist arrived a cold that seeped straight into the bones faster than a wet, cold rain.
And yet despite the swirling smoke, the air grew stale—as though before a sweeping fire, sucking oxygen into its flame.
Sorcha felt the change, and like a wary doe, prepared to flee.
Only once or twice before had Una revealed herself before men. Each time there had been a wrath to pay. Next time would be her last. She stared at her young charge, willing Sorcha to remain.
Never fear, child.
The silky sound of Una’s voice slid like an asp through the misty cavern.