18. No Home, No Haven
No Home, No Haven
T he path to the tavern is barely visible, overgrown with brambles and heather, and the looming Highlands offers no comfort from the biting wind that howls around us. Bran leads the way, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his dagger, his sharp eyes scanning the dim surroundings.
Behind him, Casey is humming under his breath, his usual swagger muted but not absent, while Callan brings up the rear, his broad shoulders tense with unease.
Triona is nestled in the cart in the rear, bundled beneath layers of blankets as the pain medication continues to keep her in a deep slumber.
“This is madness,” Callan mutters, his voice gruff. “We’re wanderin’ the Highlands with no plan, no home, and we’re barely holdin’ on. ”
“We have a plan,” Bran snaps without turning. “Find shelter. Regroup. And make sure she’s safe.”
“Aye,” Casey chimes in, his tone lighter, though there is an unmistakable tension beneath it. “Because nothin’ screams ‘ safe ’ like a mystery tavern in the arse-end of nowhere. What next? Gonna tell me it’s run by kindly Highland monks with a flair for hospitality?”
“Stay out here then,” I growl, shooting Casey and Callan both glares. “But if you keep blubberin’, I’ll throw you to the wolves myself.”
“Easy now,” Casey says with a grin. “Just tryin’ to lighten the mood, aye?”
Callan huffs. “Wouldnae need to lighten it if we’d stayed put on a pathway.”
I stop abruptly, turning to face Callan, my expression dark.
“Stayed put on what pathway exactly, Cal? Tryin’ to come upon people lookin’ for us?
Would you rather be back there lettin’ Colina finish what she started?
” My voice is low, sharp, and deadly quiet, careful not to wake Triona.
The air between us thickens, the tension coiled like a watch spring.
Callan tenses, his jaw tightening. “How could ye even suggest—”
“Ye’re sayin’ nothin’ that wasna already considered,” I clip, my voice barely above a whisper but brimming with restrained anger. “And ye’re lucky Triona’s dead asleep right now. If I didn’t have her to think of, I’d remind ye—”
“Dinnae test me, Finnis , lest ye’ve the spine to finish that thought and follow it wi’ swift action.” Callan interrupts, his tone low and lethal, matching the dangerous glint in his eyes.
Bran intervenes with his usual effortless charm.
“All right, break it up,” he asserts with a cool and even tone, though his voice carries an edge.
“We’re on the same side, remember? We shouldn’t be at odds with each other.
Let’s save the sparring for when we’re not starving, dead on our feet, dragging horses that look ready to drop, and in need of a dram. ”
Callan glares at me, his eyes simmering with unvoiced accusations, but he says nothing. I force myself to unclench my fists, jaw tightening as I turn back toward the path.
We rarely fought—being so alike often kept us in step—but the past few days have been a nightmare, wearing on both our patience.
And neither of us has said a word about our last row, the one where Callan had accused me of hiding things from him.
It’s something he’s not got over yet—and he’s being too much of a blethering gowk to apologise and move on .
The glow of the tavern’s window flickers just ahead, its promise of warmth and shelter tugging at my focus.
Bran glances between the three of us, his usual grin fading as he takes in the tension still ripe in the air. Without a word, he adjusts his jacket, and takes a step forward, his usual cocky energy suddenly sharpened with purpose.
“I’ll go ahead,” he says, his tone lighter but lacking its usual teasing edge. “See if this fine establishment’s got room for a few wanderers.”
I narrow my eyes at Bran. “Dinnae cause a scene, Mums.”
“Me?” Bran shoots back, feigning offense. “I’m charm itself, Finn. You worry too much.”
Before anyone can argue, Bran sets off at a brisk pace toward the tavern. His silhouette grows smaller with every step until he’s swallowed whole by the shadows.
Callan lets out a frustrated breath, adjusting his grip on his reins. “He’s too eager to run headlong into trouble.”
“Aye,” I mutter, eyes still fixed on the path ahead, “but if trouble’s waitin’, better it finds Bran first.”
Callan lets out a grudging huff of agreement, his lips twitching as if fighting a smirk. Then, to my surprise, a low, gravelly chuckle escapes him. It’s quiet, almost like he didn’t mean for anyone to hear, but it was there.
Casey glances sideways at him. “Did you just laugh, Callan? Thought ye’d forgotten how.”
“Dinnae get used to it,” he mutters, though there’s a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Just a momentary lapse in sanity brought on by exhaustion, and too much of yer voice.”
“Aye, the delirium’s settin’ in proper,” Casey shoots back with a wicked grin. “Give it another hour and ye’ll be singin’ lullabies and askin’ Finn for a cuddle.”
“If I do,” Callan says dryly, “assume I’ve been possessed, and do the merciful thing.”
Casey smirks. “Gladly. I’ll make it quick… right after the lullaby.”
Levity lingers for only a breath before the quiet swallows it whole. Minutes stretch as heavy exhaustion creeps back in. The faint rustle of the wind and the distant hoot of an owl are the only sounds breaking the silence.
Finally, the loud creak of the tavern door echos down the path, faint but unmistakable in the stillness. Moments later, Bran emerges from the shadows, his hand raised in an exaggerated gesture of triumph as he jogs toward us, his grin wide enough to rival the moonlight.
“There’s a room,” he calls out, a grin spreading across his face. “A small one, mind you, but it’s got a proper bed and a roof that won’t leak.”
My shoulders relax, though my face remains guarded. “Any trouble?”
“Quite the opposite. There’s a barmaid in there, Lori, jugs the size of a—”
“Focus, Bran.” I say flatly.
“Right, the point. She won’t be asking questions. Told her we needed to take the room for the night, and she happily obliged.”
I shoot him a look. “And did you pay her favour for that, or did yer charm take longer to turn on than normal? You had us waitin’ out here for a bit.”
Bran rolls his eyes. “Neither. I got stopped at the door by a rather interesting woman. She asked if ‘her eyes met the light of this day, or any since the last.’ ” He shrugs.
“It seemed as if she might have thrown a few too many back. I even entertained her and asked if she would clarify, and she just shook her head in disappointment and said ‘I’ll wait where time holds its breath—when the one meant to lead us stirs, I’ll reveal the hand. ’”
I frown, unease pricking my skin. “What the hell does that mean?”
Bran shrugs, still grinning despite the oddity of his encounter. “No idea. She seemed harmless enough, touched in the head, but harmless. I figured it was best to humour her.”
Callan shifts uneasily as he glances at Triona. “Drunk ramblings or no, I dinnae like the sound of it.”
“Nor do I,” I mutter, my gaze fixed on the dimly lit tavern ahead. I shake my head, pushing the unease to the back of my mind. “But we need to get her inside before we freeze to death out here. Just keep your guards up.”
Bran nods, motioning toward the tavern. “Room’s just off the main hall. Cosy, if you’re into tight spaces.”
Casey smirks. “Sounds like yer kind of setup. Ye’ve always been good in tight spots, eh, Bran?”
Bran halts mid-step, turning to throw an exaggerated hand over his chest in mock offence—dramatic, but with a glint of challenge in his eyes. “I know not of what you speak.”
Casey just grins. “Ye’re a heartbreaker, Bran. Ye’re likely to leave a trail of broken vows and weepin’ barmaids from here to bloody Port Oban.”
“I leave them all better than I found them,” Bran says with a shrug. “Confident. Glowing. Sometimes singing, depending on the time I’m spared.”
“Singin’?” Casey scoffs. “More like sobbin’. Probably writin’ poetry about their stolen virtue and mysteriously missin’ underthings.”
Bran lifts his chin, unbothered. “Well, art inspires art, mate. I consider it a cultural service.”
Callan groans under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
“A cultural service?” Casey chokes on a laugh.
“I give them memories,” Bran says, smug as sin. “And sometimes a mild limp. Depends on the evening.”
I let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a warning.
Casey clutches his chest. “Saints preserve us. Ye’re not a man, but a walking cautionary tale.”
Bran winks. “Only to the lonely and the curious.”
“And the easily impressed,” Casey mutters. “Come on then, ye wee magpie. Let’s see if that silver tongue of yours can charm us two rooms for the night.”
“Aye, just watch,” Bran replies, his grin widening. “They’ll be begging me to stay forever.”
“I reckon this goes without sayin’,” Callan cuts in, dry as smoke, “but Triona gets the room. Finn, ye’ll stay with her.”
“Why me?” I ask, confusion lacing my voice, though my tone feigns annoyance.
“Aye, why him?” Casey echoes, crossing his arms with a raised brow.
Callan doesn’t blink. “Because he’s not slept well in three days. Been tendin’ to Triona nonstop. We both ken he needs it more than anyone else, and she cannae be alone.”
I hesitate, guilt and weariness tangling in my chest. “Are you certain?”
Callan’s eyes meet mine, steady and firm. “Aye. Get some sleep, Finn. Ye really need it. I’ll stay in the common room with Bran. Someone will need to watch him before he gets us kicked out by flirtin’ with the barmaid and her... jugs .”
Bran snorts, clearly pleased. “Now, that’s the spirit, Cal! I could use a minder. Lori’s got a smile that could turn a saint unholy, and what’s one drinking companion when you can have two?”
“Go tend to the horses, will ye, Casey?” Callan says, his voice losing its usual edge. There’s a rare softness to it—something quieter, almost weary .