2 NEVER AGAIN
Two moons later …
NOTHING EVER CHANGED in this fort. Not the market, not her daily chores. Not the steady stream of customers wanting tattoos.
Ailsa wove her way across the market ground, basket slung over one arm.
She knew the route through the stalls as well as she did her way around Kayla’s workshop. The vendors all had their allotted places here—and they never altered them.
Sighing, she stopped before a stall selling onions and garlic. She and Kayla were nearly out of onions, and she was making pottage this evening. She’d need more. Helping herself to six, she handed over an iron penny to the vendor.
The man took the coin with a grunt, as he always did.
Pursing her lips, Ailsa moved on.
For years now, Kayla had sent her out to buy food, and so every three days, she filled her basket. Initially, she’d found it exciting, a chance to escape the workshop and get amongst folk. A little freedom, at last.
But these days, she chafed at the sameness of it all.
Years ago, Kayla had promised that they’d take a break from work a couple of times a year, that they’d travel The Wolds. Ailsa had wanted to see the other three southern forts—Inverwich, Muirport, and Troon—but every time she brought up visiting them these days, her mentor brushed her off.
They were always too busy.
It was never a good time.
Irritation simmered as she continued her well-trodden path through the stalls.
Aye, she’d retreated after her humiliation at Harvest Fire, but that hadn’t changed how she felt about her life in Braewall. She still felt as if she were slowly dying in this place.
Kayla was always in control. She seemed not to notice that her apprentice was a woman now, capable of making her own choices.
Frustration twisted under her ribs.
Enough.
Tonight, once they were alone, she was going to have it out with Kayla. She’d make it clear that things had to change.
She deliberately hadn’t told her mentor about what had happened at Harvest Fire. Kayla seemed determined not to bring their quarrel up, and Ailsa wasn’t in any hurry to talk about it either.
And so, they’d gone on with their lives.
Buying a wedge of hard goat’s cheese, she then moved on to the egg stall. They still had half a dozen eggs, yet Ailsa was of a mind to make a honey cake this afternoon. The day was cool and grey, and her mood matched the weather.
Kayla would likely complain she was trying to make her fat, yet there was nothing better than the scent of baking honey cake to brighten her mood.
Decision made, she bought another dozen eggs, arranging them carefully in her basket, before making her way to a stall selling pots of honey.
Stopping here was a slight break in routine. Honey was expensive. A luxury. However, they’d just finished their last pot. Ailsa took her time deciding between the different varieties before choosing the heather honey.
She was just tucking the pot away in her basket when she felt eyes on her.
The back of her neck prickled, and she straightened up.
Turning, her gaze met Lewis’s across the crowd.
Shit.
She’d never run into him at market. Indeed, he looked out of place here. Wearing his leather smith’s apron, his brawny arms streaked with soot, he held a dead fowl by the feet in one hand. It looked like someone had sent him out on an errand.
And as they stared at each other, tension rippled across his features. He looked almost … guilty.
Heat quickened in her belly. Gods damn him, he was still handsome, and admitting such infuriated her.
Handsome and an arse.
The last two turns of the moon rolled away, and suddenly, she was back standing in this same spot before the roaring bonfire, mocking laughter ringing in her ears. The Warrior’s Cods. She didn’t need reminding of that night—indeed, she’d done her best to forget it.
She’d also tried to forget her loss of control.
The rage that had exploded inside her had been as terrifying as it had been exhilarating. She’d pushed it down, had tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, but seeing him brought it all back.
Turning away, she started to push through the crowd, toward one of the wynds that would take her home.
She was done shopping.
However, she’d barely gone a few yards when Lewis’s voice reached her. “Ailsa! Stop!”
Coming to an abrupt halt, she spun around to face him. “What do you want?”
Breathing hard, he stopped before her. The fowl he still gripped dripped blood onto the dirt. “About Harvest Fire … I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she cut him off. And she really didn’t.
“I shouldn’t have let them speak to you like that,” he said then, a muscle feathering in his jaw.
Ailsa fought a lip curl. No, he shouldn’t have, but it was too late for apologies.
She no longer craved his attention or his approval. As the days following Harvest Fire had grown shorter and colder, something had hardened inside her.
She’d shown those people her soft underbelly, and they’d kicked her.
Never again.
“Leave me alone, Lewis.”
He flushed red, drawing back under her coldness.
And this time, he didn’t speak.
Good. They understood each other.
Clutching her basket tightly against her, Ailsa gave him her back and strode away.
A blast of sharp, smoky evening air stung Ailsa’s cheeks as she opened the door.
Stepping back, she allowed tonight’s customer to enter.
Tall, tattooed, and rangy—he had long braided black hair, craggy features, and dark, deep-set eyes.
Closing the door after him, she moved back from the workshop entrance and picked up a cloth. She then resumed wiping down the table a few feet away, all while keeping a wary eye on the newcomer.
“Welcome,” Kayla greeted him, rising after putting a fresh brick of peat on the fire. “Bar the door … we don’t want any interruptions.”
Nodding, the man did as bidden, sliding the iron bar home before taking off his cloak, and unbuckling his sword and knife belt. He then hung them up and gave the space he’d just stepped into a long, assessing look.
A moment later, he screwed up his face.
Ailsa frowned.
Their shop was cramped, but clean and orderly. A large scrubbed wooden table dominated the space, with a workbench at one end. A row of shelves lined one wall, where Kayla kept her tools, pigments, and brushes, and a hearth burned brightly opposite it.
It wasn’t a king’s hall, yet it didn’t deserve a sneer.
The man’s attention flicked to Ailsa then, and his eyes narrowed. Something shifted in their depths.
She stilled under his scrutiny.
What did he see?
What everyone else in Braewall did, most likely: a strange, lanky lass with skin that was too pale, eyes that were too dark, and lips that were too red.
Nonetheless, this stranger made her hackles rise. She was always wary of those who visited after dark, anyway.
These customers weren’t superstitious farmers or masons seeking protection or prosperity sigils. They wanted marks that made them faster, stronger, and deadlier—through magic.
And Kayla never asked what for. They were just jobs, and the ones conducted after she’d shut up shop for the day paid better than most.
Sometimes, Ailsa thought they should ask more questions.
They were doing something illegal, as it was.
The use of earth magic was forbidden to common folk.
To make matters worse, King Niall had recently banished all druids from the fort, accusing them of being the High Queen’s spies.
It was best he never learned that a former sacrificer—one of the five druidic paths—lived within the fort’s walls.
These days, they had to be more careful than ever.
Kayla cleared her throat. “What will it be then?”
The stranger turned, his gaze settling upon the small wiry woman standing before the hearth.
A halo of red curls, threaded with a little silver these days, framed a strong-featured face and sharp hazel eyes.
Tattoos, interlocking spirals and knots, covered her bare arms and curled up her neck.
“I want a blade on the back of my hand,” he replied, his voice a rough, low drawl.
“One that will make my draw even faster.”
Ailsa’s mentor nodded brusquely. “It’ll cost you twenty silver pennies.”
“Very well.”
“Up front.”
The man grimaced before digging into a large pouch at his belt. Dressed head-to-toe in dark leathers, he had the appearance of a mercenary. The weapons he’d left by the door and his fur cloak looked expensive. He then counted out the coins and handed them over.
Kayla pocketed her payment and gestured to a stool at the nearby table. “Take a seat.”
That was her apprentice’s signal to get things ready.
Meanwhile, the newcomer was staring at Ailsa again. His expression was sharp, almost calculating, as if he was trying to figure her out.
Good luck with that. Cutting her gaze away, she moved to the long bench at the back of the shop, collecting the items Kayla would need: a clean bone needle, a dish of ink—a mix of soot and woad—as well as a small hog bristle brush and some clean scraps of linen.
“Do you have a preference for the type of blade?” Kayla asked as she took a seat next to him.
“A dagger with an engraved hilt.”
“Right … any sigils on the blade?”
“One that represents speed.”
The arrow would be perfect, Ailsa thought.
She’d been brought up in this shop and had once played with her poppets and wooden blocks on the floor while Kayla worked—as such, she knew the meanings of all the marks and motifs tattooists used.
For years, she’d merely listened and watched.
And then, when she’d entered her fifteenth summer, Kayla had taken her on as an apprentice.
Seven years on, she was still an apprentice. Aye, Kayla let her ink designs on their daytime customers, but she hadn’t yet let her weave earth magic into tattoos unassisted. It was just another of the frustrations Ailsa felt these days. It was as if her mentor kept her on a short leash.
Kayla had given Ailsa a special tattoo of her own though. It was a small red rose on her right calf: the mark helped her summon earth magic and channel it into her work. And she’d shown her how to use it. However, Kayla still wouldn’t let her work alone.
“It’s for your own good,” she’d said. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready to weave earth magic into tattoos without my guidance.”
Ailsa was running out of patience.
Not just for that—but for everything.
“Ailsa.” Kayla’s voice intruded on her brooding.
She glanced up, realizing that she’d halted halfway between the bench and the table, and still clutched the tools and dye.
“Are you bringing them over here, lass?”
Ailsa nodded, moving forward and placing the items on the table at her mentor’s elbow.
Kayla’s gaze roamed over her face. “What’s up with you, this eve?” she murmured.
Ailsa met her eye. “I need to talk to you,” she said firmly. “Later.”
She caught that familiar narrowing of Kayla’s eyes, the tightening around her mouth. She didn’t want another fight.
Ailsa stared her down, making it clear that, like it or not, she’d be getting one.
Favoring her with a curt nod, Kayla then cut her gaze away and met the customer’s eye. “An arrow then,” she said briskly. “Show me your hand.”
He placed it on the table between them. It was big and scarred, with dirty fingernails that needed clipping.
Kayla ran a finger over the skin, prodding and examining. “You do realize a mark on the back of the hand hurts more than most?” He grunted, yet undaunted, the tattooist continued. “The skin is thinner here, and it’s nearer bones and tendons.”
“Just get on with it, woman.”
Kayla shrugged, unfazed by his rudeness, even as heat started to pulse in Ailsa’s belly.
This bastard needed reminding of his manners.
The heat intensified, sweeping over her before she caught herself.
Leash it.
Her pulse leaped. Gods. She’d thought she was in control of herself these days. Had her encounter with Lewis earlier in the day rattled her that badly?
Oblivious to her struggle, Kayla picked up her bone needle and began to hum. It was a low, monotonous sound, one she’d honed as a sacrificer many years earlier. Then, leaning over his hand, she made her first incision.
“Fuck!” the man hissed.
Kayla glanced up, an eyebrow lifting. “I did warn you.”
He scowled back. “Aye, well … get me some strong wine.”
“Will ale do?”
He shook his head. “Not with you digging that Gods-damned needle into me.”
Ailsa stiffened. Demanding arse. Did he think he was sitting in an ale-hall?
Kayla huffed a long-suffering sigh. She then glanced over her shoulder, meeting Ailsa’s eye. “Fetch some strong wine from Lilias.”
Ailsa hesitated. Kayla was tough and could defend herself physically. Even so, she didn’t want to leave her alone with this man, despite that Lilias’s ale-hall was only a short walk away. “Kayla, I—” she began, but her mentor cut her off with an irritated wave of her hand.
“Go on … the quicker you set off, the sooner you’ll be back.”
Meanwhile, the man glanced over at Ailsa, his deep-set eyes glinting. “Off you go, Brèagha.”