6 PROOF
FIVE LONG DAYS followed.
Painful ones. But despite that self-doubt plagued her, Ailsa didn’t slow.
She wouldn’t until she found Kayla.
She tore strips off her long undertunic and wrapped her blistered feet so she could tolerate wearing boots, but each step hurt, nonetheless.
Hunger and thirst became traveling companions. If it wasn’t for the few villages she passed, where she parted ways with more iron pennies than she wished to for bread, cheese, ale—and shelter—she’d never have made it to Farnoch.
In every village, she asked the same question: had a band of mercenaries passed through?
The answer was always the same.
Aye. Only a short while before. The bastards were always a step ahead.
The Wolds stretched endlessly around her. Too much land for one woman to search. Still, she kept walking, even if her shoulders slowly rounded. It was hard not to let her mind take her down paths that would lead to despondency—to despair.
It just as well she was pig-headed.
Kayla had always said Ailsa was stubborn. But on a journey like this, her doggedness served her well. She was tough, and she wouldn’t give up.
Even so, that didn’t mean she didn’t worry. About Kayla, and about her own safety.
Out here in The Wolds, she was exposed. Vulnerable.
After that first night, she did avoid traveling after dark. That evening, she slept rough, covering herself with ferns. The night after that, a crofter let her bed down with his goats.
And there were times, as she walked, when the skin between her shoulder blades would crawl—as if she was being watched.
However, every time she turned around, she found no one.
The sensation was unsettling, although after a while, she began to wonder if her mind wasn’t merely playing tricks on her. Paranoia appeared to be setting in.
As she continued northeast, Ailsa’s worries for Kayla grew. What did those men want with her? Had they hurt her?
What if she never saw Kayla again?
Her gut twisted every time that thought surfaced. No, she couldn’t despair. She couldn’t give up on her.
Three days into her journey, Ailsa crossed from Braewall’s territory into Duncrag’s. She was limping heavily now, exhaustion pressing down on her. The large market village of Els—where a stone bridge spanned a swiftly flowing river—had recently been taken back by the High Queen.
Wolf’s head banners, black against snowy white, fluttered in the breeze. No stag banners of Braewall here. Indeed, the High Queen’s warriors prowled the village; a garrison left behind to ensure King Niall didn’t attempt to retake this strategic point.
Despite that her bruised and chafed feet cried out for rest, Ailsa wished to get through Els as fast as possible; however, the crowds slowed her down.
Reaching a checkpoint on the bridge, she queued with other travelers.
Presently, a warrior stepped up and asked her where she was going and why. The man was attractive: raven-haired and muscular.
He reminded her of Lewis.
“Where are you headed, lass?” he asked, flashing her the kind of smile that would have made her blush once.
Not any longer. She was immune to men like him.
“Farnoch,” she replied, giving him nothing.
A groove etched between his eyebrows. “And what’s your business there?”
“I’ve an aunt in the fort … she’s ailing.”
His gaze roamed her face, as if he was trying to decide what to make of her.
Her belly hardened. She should be used to people looking at her like that by now, yet she wasn’t. It made her want to turn from him, to pull up her hood and hide herself away.
Moments stretched out, and then he stepped back and waved her on. “Off you go then.”
Two days later, limping and caked in dirt and sweat, Ailsa approached Farnoch.
The road clove a path between well-tended fields where cabbages, onions, and neeps grew in neat rows. Crofters’ cottages lined the road here, although there were few people about—most of them, bairns too, were working in the fields.
The fort itself perched on the loch-shore, its wooden palisades reflecting in its mirrored surface.
Slowing her step, Ailsa craned her neck to take it in.
Her lips parted in wonder. It was an irony that she’d wanted to travel for so long, and now here she was.
She just hadn’t expected it to happen this way.
She’d wanted Kayla to be with her, to share discoveries and experiences with her.
Farnoch captivated her. It wasn’t as big as Braewall, and unlike the southern capital, it was made almost entirely of wood. High oaken palisades silhouetted against the sky. Only the chieftain’s broch crowning it was stone.
Her pulse fluttered.
Please let Kayla be here.
If those mercenaries had stopped anywhere, it would be a place like this.
Maybe this was her abductors’ destination. And if not, surely, a crowded fort would be the perfect place to hide, to rest up for a day or two.
And while they did, she’d track them down.
Weaving her way through a stream of people who were coming and going from the fort, Ailsa passed through the gates and into the market ground. Woodsmoke laced the air, as did the aroma of roasting mutton and the nutty smell of baking bread.
Her belly rumbled. Loudly. Making her way over to a stall where a small, rosy-cheeked woman with braided walnut-brown hair was selling hot mutton pies, she bought two, placing them carefully inside her satchel.
It was difficult to resist the temptation to dive straight in.
Instead, she met the vendor’s eye. “Where’s the nearest ale-hall? ”
If the mercenaries were here, they would need food, ale, and a place to sleep.
The woman studied Ailsa—no doubt taking in her dusty, sweaty appearance—before gesturing to the alley behind her that led off the market ground. “You’ll find it a short walk up that wynd.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s a rough place.”
Ailsa favored her with a tight smile, even as her pulse quickened. “I’ll manage.”
The pie-seller smiled back, revealing large, slightly crooked teeth. “You can stay with me, if you wish? It’s two iron pennies a night, and that includes your morning and evening meal.”
Ailsa’s shoulders lowered at the offer, although she tried not to let her relief show on her face.
Best to appear sure of herself. She’d be visiting ale-halls in search of Kayla’s abductors, but she wasn’t looking forward to staying in one, to drawing attention to herself.
“Very well,” she replied with a nod. “Thank you.”
“I’ll see you back here.” The pie-seller turned to serve an elderly man who’d stopped before the stall. “Just before sundown. No later, mind.”
Ailsa left the market ground, a fresh spring in her stride.
She had somewhere to stay and directions to the nearest ale-hall.
If Kayla were here, she’d find her.
Making her way up the wynd the woman had indicated, she found herself a low wall to perch on. There, she devoured both mutton pies. After days of travel—of eating nothing but stale bread and hard cheese—they tasted incredible. Flaky pastry and a rich, tender filling.
She enjoyed the moment, the brief feeling that she was finally getting somewhere.
She’d reached Farnoch, found accommodation, and now had a bellyful of food.
And Kayla was close by; she could feel it.
She was still sitting on the wall, brushing crumbs off her tunic, when two tall, black-cloaked men made their way up the wynd. One was fair-haired, the other dark. They walked with the loose-limbed stride of trained warriors.
Enough of them had visited Kayla after dark for her to recognize the sort.
Ailsa stilled, her pulse kicking up a notch.
Could they be part of the band she was searching for?
Catching her staring, one of them scowled.
She ducked her head. Be careful.
They kept walking, and she tracked them, watching as they disappeared into the ale-hall farther up the wynd.
Her breathing grew shallow. What if it was them?
She couldn’t let this opportunity slip through her fingers.
She had to find out who they were. If she was lucky, they might even lead her straight to Kayla.
Climbing to her feet, and wincing as they pained her, she followed them. However, as she approached the low wattle door to the ale-hall, she pulled up the hood of her cloak. Best she was careful.
The musty odor of ale hit her as she ducked inside the dim hall.
Cressets lined the wooden walls, their light sending long shadows across the rectangular-shaped interior.
Rows of long tables stretched from one end to the other, where patrons—men mostly—drank from wooden cups.
Some played knucklebones, while others challenged each other to Liar, a game played with two dice and a cup, whereby players had to guess if their opponents were bluffing or not when they told them how the dice had fallen.
It was a game she’d played many times with Kayla on long, cold winter’s nights by the fire. She remembered the last time they’d played, the clack of bone dice against wood and the twinkle in her mentor’s eye as she met her gaze. “Two sixes.”
“Liar.”
Kayla had cackled then before thrusting the cup at her. “Got you again!”
And there, indeed, at the bottom of the cup, were two sixes. Her mentor was a sly player of Liar, knowing that Ailsa always relied too much on her facial expression.
“A lie is easy enough to spot,” she’d told Ailsa then, still grinning. “If you listen to your gut … not your head.”
Her chest constricted, guilt warring with worry. Five long days had passed since she’d seen Kayla last.
Gods, how she missed her.
How she wished she hadn’t spent so many turns of the moon resenting her.
When she got her back, she wouldn’t chafe at not having enough freedom or complain that Kayla worked too hard and was no fun. She didn’t care about any of that now.
All that mattered was that things could go back to how they’d been.
Until Kayla’s abduction, Ailsa had never realized how much comfort there was in safety.
She’d never take it for granted again.