11 KEEPING SECRETS
SLIDING OFF RùN’S back, Ailsa winced.
Shades. She hadn’t realized that riding left you crippled. Her thighs and arse were bruised.
The light was fading now; they’d just stopped to make camp for the night.
“You’ll be even stiffer by morning,” Dale said as he started to undo Rùn’s girth. “But it’ll get easier after a day or two.”
Ailsa didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about climbing back onto the stallion’s back, about spending all day pressed up against this aggravating man.
Nonetheless, at least she had a night’s reprieve.
After Cleghorn, they’d pressed on, riding hard.
Most of the afternoon had passed in silence, only the steady tattoo of Rùn’s hooves on the road accompanying them as they traveled.
They met a few travelers on the way—peddlers and farmers mostly, carrying baskets of wares and drawing small carts piled with vegetables.
Dale had stopped at one point, questioning an iron merchant with a wagon full of rattling cauldrons who’d traveled down from Duncrag. The woman confirmed that she’d passed the group they were following earlier that day. Mid-morning.
Ailsa’s pulse had quickened at the news. They were gaining on them.
“At this rate, we’ll catch up with them soon,” Dale informed her as he unsaddled his horse.
“Will they know they’re being followed?”
He glanced over his shoulder, his tawny gaze spearing her. “Possibly … since you put the wind up them in Farnoch.”
Ailsa frowned. She didn’t appreciate him bringing that up. Again.
Turning back to his horse, the mercenary started to rub down Rùn with a twist of grass. The big stallion, his coat gleaming with sweat, snorted as he began to graze.
Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at Dale’s back.
She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she wasn’t the reason those men rode like the wind. But he was right—and she hated that he was.
Ever since Cleghorn, the memory of her encounter with that thief wouldn’t leave her alone.
His grubby hand darting toward Dale’s purse.
His desperate lunge for hers.
The sudden rush that followed. One moment, she’d been startled. The next, she’d wanted to hurt him.
Ailsa swallowed hard.
Even now, she remembered the fierce satisfaction that had surged through her when her nails raked across his cheek. The bright line of blood. The shock on his face.
Her stomach tightened.
The pickpocket hadn’t frightened her, yet her own reaction had.
How she wished Kayla were here to talk to. Maybe she’d be able to explain these violent bursts of anger. Maybe she should have told her about what happened at Harvest Fire. She’d been stubborn then—proud after their argument—but she regretted it now.
Moments passed, and then, to her surprise, Dale began to sing to his horse. His voice was a low bass, barely above a murmur. Meant only for Rùn.
Nonetheless, she recognized the song. One about a weary merchant who traveled far and wide over Albia, and all the while missed his lovely wife, who was waiting for him by their hearth.
Home, bonnie home, where the hearthfire burns,
Waiting, my true love sighs.
Though I wander far, my heart ever yearns
Back to her bright blue eyes.
Long are the roads through Albia’s glens,
Heavy the miles I’ve crossed.
Trading my wares through the wild and fens,
Counting each day I’ve lost.
Home, bonnie home, where the hearthfire burns,
Waiting, my true love sighs.
Though I wander far, my heart ever yearns
Back to her bright blue eyes.
Dale’s voice was good, and the words tugged at her.
What would it be like to have a man long for her like that?
Meanwhile, Dale continued to sing, rubbing Rùn down in long, firm strokes.
Irritated at the direction her thoughts had taken—for they reminded her of her humiliation at Harvest Fire and the knowledge that she’d never fit in amongst her peers—Ailsa left them to it.
She wandered to the edge of the loch and started gathering twigs for a fire.
Her breathing slowed and deepened as she collected firewood. Finally, some moments alone. Time to sort through her own thoughts after such an abrupt departure from Farnoch.
The road continued north around a furlong east of Loch Lethe now, although they’d left the highway to make camp.
Dale had pointed out that it was foolish to rest within sight of the road.
Their fire would attract other travelers, some of whom might not wish them well.
Instead, he’d chosen a secluded spot, surrounded by a growth of willows, the last of their dying leaves gilded in the setting sun.
The air grew cold, and she was grateful for her thick cloak.
Gateway was just a day away now—she’d even heard people muttering about it in Cleghorn.
They’d need to find lodgings the following night, with a roaring fire and a locked door.
Even though the Slew no longer terrorized the night for most of the year, they—and other spirits and malevolent faerie creatures—still ventured out at Gateway.
The veil between the living and the dead was thinnest then.
And only a fool would sleep outdoors.
Hopefully, Gateway would slow those men down too. Maybe they’d end up staying in the same village. It was possible, especially now that they were drawing closer. They rode fast horses, but Rùn was swift too.
Boots crunching on smooth pebbles, Ailsa continued down the shore, gathering wood as she went.
The setting sun sparkling off the loch’s mirrored surface made the tension knotted deep in her chest ease. Just a little. Hold fast, Kayla. I’m coming.
Picking up another stick, she viewed her armload. This would be enough to get the fire started at least. Although she’d collect more.
She was about to turn and make her way back to Dale and Rùn when a pony’s soft whicker drew her attention.
Glancing left, her gaze settled upon a garron.
It was a pretty pony with a long mane, a tail the color of a raven’s wing, and a sleek liver-colored coat.
But surprisingly, it was wearing a saddle and bridle, as if someone had just been riding it and left it there.
Disconcerted, Ailsa glanced around.
There was no one to be seen.
The garron was unaccompanied.
Temptation quickened in her belly. She needed a mount of her own, a measure of independence. Riding with Dale was awkward to say the least, and when they rescued Kayla, they could ride double on this sturdy pony. It would carry them all the way home to Braewall.
“Good eve, my beauty,” she murmured, taking a couple of steps forward.
The pony watched her, nickering gently once more.
A smile curved Ailsa’s lips. She’d always wanted her own horse. Dale could teach her how to ride. She would—
“Don’t take another step.”
She stiffened, freezing mid-stride.
Dale’s voice was soft yet held a warning. She hadn’t heard him approach, for she’d been so focused on the pony. “That’s an aughisky.”
She stilled, her hand lowering.
“You really have led a sheltered life, haven’t you?” Incredulity laced his voice, and she flushed hot.
Fuck. She should have known better.
She knew what an aughisky was. A malevolent water spirit that lurked around lochs and rivers, waiting for the unwary.
Nausea rolled over her then. What had she nearly done?
“Aughiskies often take the shape of horses,” Dale went on. His hand then closed around her upper arm, as if he was worried she wouldn’t heed him. “Touch one, and it’ll drag you into the loch.”
Ailsa nodded.
She recalled the gruesome tales then. A fishwife in Braewall had once told her how aughiskies pulled their victims under the water and then feasted on their entrails. The story had terrified her at the time, but then, as she’d gotten older, part of her hadn’t believed it to be true.
But she wasn’t going to ignore Dale’s warning now.
Clearing her throat, she moved away from her bodyguard, forcing him to let go of her arm, and away from the pony that watched them with dark, intelligent eyes.
“Right then,” she said with forced brightness, even as her skin prickled. “Time to get a fire going.”
The fire crackled and popped, sparks spraying into the darkness.
Ailsa sat cross-legged before it, cloak pulled tight. Dale knelt opposite, whittling a piece of wood with a small, thin-bladed knife.
Her muscles were stiff, yet for the first time in days, her feet didn’t throb. But it was impossible to relax.
Not after her brush with the aughisky.
Not when Kayla was somewhere out there in the dark.
“I wonder if Kayla has tried to escape,” Ailsa said then, breaking the long silence between them. After he’d rescued her from a grisly death, she’d said little—she’d been too embarrassed—but she was recovering now. “She’s not one to submit easily.”
Dale glanced up, his brow furrowing.
The flickering firelight highlighted the handsome lines of his face—the slant of his high cheekbones, his strong brow, and the slight cleft to his chin.
Once again, a sense she’d seen him before nagged at her.
It irritated her that she couldn’t place him.
Shadows played across his throat from the dancing flames between them, and she found her gaze drawn down to it.
To where she could have sworn a vein pulsed just beneath the skin.
She imagined drawing a sharp fingernail down the column of his throat, and bright blood welling. She’d lean in then, and lick—
Gods!
She went rigid, ice flooding through her veins.
What was she thinking?
That was fucking depraved.
Cutting her gaze away from his throat, her heart started to beat wildly.
She recalled then how she’d questioned that vagrant back in Braewall. How her nostrils had flared when she’d scented his blood, how it had made her feel … hungry. She’d pushed aside her reaction then, for she’d been panicked about Kayla, but she didn’t ignore it now.
Was she going insane?
First the violence, and now she was having thoughts about blood.
Dizziness assailed her.
“Your mentor certainly has some fight in her.” Oblivious to her dismay, Dale dug the tip of his knife into the piece of wood he was whittling. “There were signs of a struggle at their lodgings in Farnoch … and she’d marked the floor with a triple spiral. In her own blood.”
Ailsa blinked, forcing herself to focus on him. “Why didn’t you say something before?” she asked hoarsely.
Dale cast her a sharp look. “I forgot.”
She bristled, even as her breathing came quick and shallow. It was hard to concentrate. She was still reeling from that horrifying urge. “That mark calls upon earth, air, and fire … for help.”
“I know.” He paused then. “Does the tattooist have a quarrel with anyone?”
Ailsa’s first instinct was to say no immediately. Instead, she cast her mind back over the past moons. She couldn’t remember any disputes.
If Kayla had made enemies, she didn’t know about them.
It struck her then that she knew little about her mentor’s past, her life before Braewall. Kayla rarely spoke of it.
“There has been talk about common folk dabbling in earth magic.” Dale continued to whittle the piece of wood. His hands were long-fingered and strong. “Only druids are permitted to channel it. … but in my travels, I’ve heard whispers of people who break the rules. Has your mentor?”
Ailsa started to sweat. His words were uncanny. There was something in his tone that made her instincts stir. Did he suspect that her mentor carried out illegal jobs?
What does it matter if he does?
The man was a mercenary, not one of the king’s spies.
Nonetheless, his pointed question made her already fast pulse spike. She didn’t like, let alone trust, this man. For all she knew, he was planning to blackmail Kayla once he helped rescue her.
His silence for more silver.
Her chest tightened. Maybe she should have thought more carefully before hiring him. “As you said, the use of earth magic by common folk is forbidden.” she replied, choosing her words carefully now. “Kayla would be stupid to take such a risk.”
His gaze narrowed. “Interesting … but you haven’t answered my question.”
No, she thought. And I won’t.
Her gut told her to keep Kayla’s secret close, and so she would.
Silence fell once more—not companionable but heavy. Eventually, it got to Ailsa. She desperately needed to distract herself. “What are you whittling?”
Dale glanced up. “A cat. Nearly finished.”
“Can I see?”
He hesitated, as if embarrassed, then handed over the small carving.
Ailsa turned it in the firelight. “Impressive,” she murmured—and meant it. As an artist, she knew talent when she saw it. The lines were clean, the muscles well shaped. “Though it doesn’t look like any cat I’ve seen. More like a clag-doo.”
She’d never seen one herself—few people survived encounters with the feline predators—but the massive jaws and heavy ruff were unmistakable from the drawings she’d studied.
Dale snorted. “It’s a cat.” He held out his hand. “Give it here.”
Heat rushed to Ailsa’s cheeks. “I wasn’t criticizing.”
He pulled a face and tucked the figurine away.
Ailsa was about to say something more, to point out ways he could make his carving more cat-like, when she caught a flurry of movement.
The willows rustled behind Dale.
The flash of an iron blade. The blur of black leather.
And then a figure burst from the darkness.
Ailsa recoiled, a cry ripping from her throat.