Table of Contents

SCENT OF THE SOUL

Books by Julie Doherty

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

SCENT OF THE SOUL

JULIE DOHERTY

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

SCENT OF THE SOUL

Copyright©2015

JULIE DOHERTY

Cover Design by Leah Suttle

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-705-1

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Books by Julie Doherty

Scent of the Soul

Scattered Seeds

The Scent of Forever

A Vallry Too Far

For Somerled -- part Gael, part Viking, all man

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, thanks to God for his many blessings, not the least of which were loving parents and teachers who cared. Huge thanks to Mom and Aunt Rosie, who were certain I could do this even when I wasn’t. To my family, friends and co-workers, thank you for dreaming with me and for suffering through my early attempts. Laury, Robin, Clara, Karen, Connie, and Jessie, thank you, my lovelies, for being the first to read SCENT in its entirety. To Yve, my Scottish turnip and critique partner, I can never repay you for putting your own superior writing aside to look at mine. I would be lost without you. To Francine Edelman, my agent, thank you for answering that half-finished query, and for your guidance and hard work.

For answering my barrage of research questions, I wish to thank Jayne Wright, Cron MacKay, Gordon McIntyre, Lord of the Isles Galley Trust, the members of The Longship Company, and the fine folks at Finlaggan Visitor Information Centre.

Lastly, to Maurice, my Somerled, thank you for loving me, for letting me love you, and for pitching in and keeping the house quiet. I could not have completed this novel without your encouragement, support, neck rubs, and dialect.

Chapter 1

As Godred’s oarsmen shoved off from the jetty, Somerled wondered if there was any man less suitable to deliver a marriage proposal. Godred of Dublin was coarse, marginally Christian—indeed, marginally sane—and easily riled. Nevertheless, King Olaf liked him, and for that reason alone, Somerled had selected him as his envoy.

“No side trips,” Somerled shouted before Godred was too far away to hear. “Ye have three places to go and that’s it: the Isle of Man, your clan, and back here.” Godred was prone to unscheduled detours.

Unless bad weather or the scent of easy plunder pulled Godred and his thirty oarsmen off course, Somerled would have Olaf’s answer in a few days. If Olaf agreed to the marriage, Somerled would add a wife to the items decorating his new castle at Finlaggan and eventually, the Isle of Man to his expanding area of influence.

The nobles would respect him then. Half-breed or not.

Behind him, a door squealed on one of the two guardhouses standing sentinel over the Sound of Islay. The small building spat out Hakon, his chief guard, another man of Dublin birth and temperament. Hakon strode the length of the jetty to join him. “I have every confidence the Norns will weave Godred a successful journey, my lord king,” he said, his words puffing white clouds above his tawny sheepskin cape.

“If your goddesses have woven anything, it’s an unfortunate headwind,” Somerled said. “Godred is forced to tack.” He closed his cloak and secured it at his throat with a brooch he once plucked from a Viking who no longer needed it. “The wind promises hail. My proposal will be delayed.”

“Aye, likely,” Hakon said, his hair and beard whipping into copper clouds, “but it will hasten Olaf’s reply. Do not despair, my lord. Ragnhilde will marry ye soon enough.”

Despair? Somerled stifled a laugh. Did Hakon think he had feelings for a lassie he had never met? He was about to tease his guard about being a romantic when Hakon stiffened.

“Another ship,” Hakon said, looking past Somerled’s shoulder.

Somerled spun around to inspect the northwestern waters of the channel separating Jura and Islay—the jewel of the Hebrides and the island that served as the seat of his burgeoning kingdom. “Where?” he asked, squinting.

Hakon thrust a finger toward the fog bank blanketing the horizon. “There, at the promontory, in that pale blue strip of water. See it?”

At first, Somerled saw nothing but swooping terns and ranks of swells. Then, an unadorned sail appeared. It crested on a wave, dipped low, and vanished.

“Should I sound the horn?” Hakon asked.

Somerled raked his fingers through the coarse, wheaten mess slapping at his eyes and held it at his nape while he considered his response. Behind them, the signal tower on Ben Vicar was smoke-free. Across the sound, the towers on the frosty Paps of Jura were likewise unlit, although clouds partially obscured their peaks. The Paps had a commanding view. If a signal fire blazed anywhere, the men stationed there would have seen it and lit their own.

“My lord king, should I sound the horn?” Hakon impatiently palmed the battle horn dangling at his broad chest.

Men began to gather on the jetty.

“Let us wait. It is only one ship, and it looks to be a trader. The signal fires would blaze by now if it were someone worthy of our concern.” Somerled glanced back at the mud and thatch cottages shouldering against one another. At their doors, the bows of half his impressive fleet rested on the shoreline, a sandy slip extending well into the distance. The rest of his ships sheltered at the far side of Islay, in Loch Indaal. A signal fire would deploy them quickly and, perhaps, needlessly.

“Alert the village. Have Cormac ready Dragon’s Claw,” he said, “but send only the nyvaigs for now.” The nyvaigs were smaller, but no less deadly. They would be out and back quickly.

Hakon sprinted through the gathering crowd and past the guardhouses. He leapt over a pile of rocks with surprising agility for a man of his years and size. In no time, specialized warriors and oarsmen were boarding the boats. A pony thundered inland, its rider instructed to warn, not panic, the people of Finlaggan.

Though Somerled carried his mighty sword, he had dressed for warmth, not battle. His mail shirt, aketon, and helmet hung in his bedchamber, two miles away in Finlaggan. He singled out a boy in the crowd. “Lad, find me a helmet and a shield, and be quick about it.”

The boy shot like an arrow toward the cottages.

Somerled held his breath as he watched the nyvaigs head out. At the first flash of steel, he would blow the battle horn. His men would light the towers and he would board Dragon’s Claw. The foreigner would be sorry he entered the Sound of Islay.

The ship’s features were barely discernible, but he could see that its high prow lacked a figurehead. He was trying to identify the banner fluttering on its masthead when the ship’s sail dropped and scattered gulls like chaff in the wind. His heart hammered against his chest as he waited for the foreign vessel to sprout oars; it didn’t. It stalled—a sign its crew had dropped anchor.

Dragon’s Claw bobbed next to him at the jetty, her top rail lined with colorful shields and her benches holding sixty-four of his savage warriors. Cormac gripped the tiller, but he would move aside when Somerled barked the order to do so. He would serve as his own shipmaster in the face of an enemy.

Low and curvy with a dragon’s head exhaling oaken flames from her prow, Dragon’s Claw was his favorite vessel, not because she was new or particularly seaworthy, but because he had wrenched her from the last Viking to leave his father’s lands.

The memory of that battle warmed him and occupied his thoughts while the nyvaigs swarmed around the foreigner. Then, they swung about, furled their sails, and rowed for home like many-legged insects skittering on the water’s surface.

When the boats reached the beach, Hakon jumped from his nyvaig and jogged through ankle-deep water, apparently too impatient to wait for his men to haul the vessel’s keel onto the sand. “Well, my lord king,” he said, “it seems to be the day for marriage proposals. It is an envoy from Moray, who comes at the behest of Malcolm. He asks to speak with ye regarding Bethoc.”

“Malcolm MacHeth . . . the Malcolm MacHeth . . . wants my sister?”

He had met Malcolm MacHeth only once, at King David’s court, on a night spoiled by ill-bred lassies who had mocked his foreign garb and speech. Malcolm, a bastard nephew of the Scots king, had observed his humiliation and pretended not to notice.

Yet here was Malcolm of Moray, a claimant to the Scottish throne and a known rebel, seeking Bethoc’s hand in marriage. Tainted bloodline or not, Somerled was apparently worthy of notice now.

Somerled wished, as he led Bethoc past the guardhouses and onto the jetty, that Malcolm had not sent boarskins. Stacks and stacks of the musky things . . . and equally pungent men to offload them. The skins had endured a wet journey to Islay. Now as they steamed in heaps on the jetty, their greasy odor proved overpowering.

Somerled was helping his sister up the gangplank to Malcolm’s galley—and wondering if there was a boar left alive in Moray—when Bethoc turned to him and whispered, “Brother, if my betrothed greets me wearing boarskin, or looks anything like his men, I pray I am widowed quickly.” She smiled, but it added no radiance to her eyes.

He patted her hand, which was like ice on his forearm. Bethoc had no cause for concern. Malcolm of Moray was handsome enough. She might even grow to love him, whatever good that would do her.

A lump choked off his airway as Bethoc glided away, her handmaid sobbing on the sea chest beside her. Five of Argyll’s longships followed. Cormac would see to Bethoc’s comfort and return in a few days.

“That’s Bethoc away,” Hakon said, as the beats of the rowing gongs faded.

“And Moray added to our territory,” Somerled replied, swallowing hard. “She has always been a good lassie. Never complained, not even during our exile.”

“Malcolm will treat her well, I think,” Hakon said.

“He’d better,” Somerled replied, “or Cormac will hand him his own guts.”

They watched in silence until Malcolm’s galley disappeared behind Jura’s southwestern bluff. It struck Somerled that the best thing he could do for Bethoc—for all of Argyll and the Isles—was to move forward with his plans. Succumbing to emotion weakened a man. He could not—would not—allow it.

“There will be no shortage of good news to share at the clan gathering,” he said. “By now, Godred should have seen Olaf. It will be good if he returns before the rest of the clans arrive.”

“It will be good if he returns at all,” Hakon said, fingering the Thor’s Hammer amulet that always hung at his throat. “He is already a day late.”

The nobles gathered for the first meeting since returning from exile. All, that is, except Godred, who was now three days late.

Furious, Somerled stood at the end of the corridor, just short of the feasting hall. Beyond him, the hall was thick with men and torch smoke. His nobles, chieftains of the ancient Gaelic clans—like his father—were dressed in their finest plaids or tunics, gliding like eiders from one group to another. The harps and flutes prevented him from overhearing their hushed conversations, but he could guess the common topic: Dublin was late.

Of all clans, Dublin.

It was unfair that Godred’s clan remained cinched to that placename, for the boorish chieftain had severed ties with the Dublin Norse years ago. His lot had lived itinerantly under Somerled’s protection ever since, supplying conscienceless warriors and plunder in return. Somerled had always intended to offer the clan—his mother’s—an island of their own.

He waited a respectable amount of time for the buzzards to pick the gossip carcass clean before squaring his shoulders and entering the room.

“The King of Argyll!” someone shouted.

“King Somerled!” the rest acknowledged him, lifting flagons and tankards above their heads.

He nodded and charged to the head of the stone table dominating the feasting hall, where his seat awaited him, facing the door according to Gaelic custom. His position there had the unfortunate consequence of raising and dashing his hope each time someone entered the hall.

The nobles gathered around the table. Servants appeared with platters of food. A wide woman served Somerled a roasted mutton joint, and just as he sank his knife into it, MacGillivray whispered to MacEachern, “Did ye notice that Dublin is late?”

Whispers rippled down both sides of the table—rhythmically, like a rowing song—“Dublin’s late . . . Aye, Dublin’s late . . . Aye, Dublin’s late,” until it reached the far end, where MacIan muttered, “Pagan bastards, the lot.”

A bite of mutton halted mid-way to Somerled’s mouth.

His simmering frustration boiled over, kicking his heart into a gallop. The vein on his forehead was likely bulging—his “angry vein,” Bethoc always called it, visible only in times of extreme agitation.

Men put down their eating knives and stared at their plates. Servants abandoned their tasks and scurried out of the hall. Only the harpists continued their business, although they peeked around their instruments, evidently wondering why the room had quieted.

Somerled locked his eyes on MacIan. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood with his hand still clenching his eating knife. It shed its mutton with a light thud.

MacIan, apparently unaware of his offense, busied himself with a bowl of steamed mussels. A spoonful of the shellfish clattered onto his plate, conspicuously loud. “Could someone pass me the . . .” He looked up and appeared to notice the nobles first, then Somerled. He half-smiled, then deflated like punched bread dough.

“Perhaps,” Somerled said through clenched teeth, “ye would care to explain yourself, MacIan.”

“I . . .” MacIan turned the color of a waterlogged corpse. His eyes darted from man to man, but the other nobles sat with bowed heads, as if whatever rested on their plates was of paramount importance.

Somerled leaned over the table. Its edge pressed into his thighs. “Perhaps,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “ye forget who restored ye to your rightful lands. The men of Dublin found ye cowering in a cave on Loch Aline, did they not? While the Vikings enjoyed your women and ate your cattle?” He allowed his words to penetrate. “Ye may also forget that the one who directed them—the one who now protects ye and feeds ye mussels by the barrelful—is, in fact, only half Gael!”

MacIan hung his head. “My lord king, I beg your—”

It was Ivar Flathead—of Dublin—who spared MacIan further abuse by flinging the door open. “Signal fire’s lit!”

The harpists’ final plucks were sour and extinguished by the squeals of swords. Somerled’s warriors poured through doorways like floodwaters. Chairs grated on the floor or tipped over as the nobles rushed to the hearth, looking dazed and panicked and seeking their guards.

MacEachern said, “It is Olaf, come to reclaim what is rightfully his. We will die here.”

“No one’s reclaiming anything. Olaf benefits by our presence on Islay.”

“But my lord, to build a castle on another king’s island . . . surely, ye must see how that might be seen as a bold move that canny be ignored. Perhaps your proposal was the final insult to his—”

“Enough!” He was tired of MacEachern nipping at him like one of the dogs on the common. “Take the others, go to the second floor, and wait.”

“Up your arse,” someone whispered in his ear as the nobles whirled away. Maguire—Somerled’s Irish cousin and the only man allowed such insolence—flashed a perfect grin, framed by a black mustache and beard.

“Come on then,” Somerled said. They rushed to a chamber, where servants helped both men don their mail and aketons. Somerled buckled his sword belt and lifted his helmet and shield from their pegs. “Let’s go.”

They joined the flow of warriors exiting the castle into a night gone crimson. Fire cast its eerie glow on everything—the skyline, the ripples on the loch, the glints in their eyes and on their weapons and helmets. Even the stones of the castle blushed an angry red.

“Bar the door,” Somerled ordered.

A servant closed the great oak door. A crossbar clanged behind it.

Drunken warriors knelt and dipped into Loch Finlaggan to splash their faces. Men paced along Eilean Mor’s shoreline, fuming that they had to wait their turn to cross the bottlenecked causeway leading to Finlaggan, on mainland Islay. Somewhere, Hakon’s battle horn blared. The Hebridean Sea would soon be prickly with masts. Whoever had the balls to punch Somerled’s beehive would shortly feel his sting.

“Where is that ginger bastard?” Maguire asked, a crimson sheen dancing on his sleek hair.

“He’s coming,” Somerled said, nodding at the shadow gliding toward them.

They waded into the loch and swung aboard Hakon’s skin-covered curragh without waiting for it to stop. Two oarsmen resumed their rowing, and the boat’s bow lifted in response, nearly tumbling Somerled and Maguire overboard. They sunk to their knees in the hull.

“Ginger bastard,” Maguire muttered, rubbing his hip.

Hakon scowled, his expression made fiercer by firelight.

“What has happened?” Somerled asked, fearing the worst, a Viking attack or an invasion by Paul Haakonsson, Jarl of Orkney.

Hakon’s beard plaits bounced on his chin as he answered. “It is Dublin, my lord.”

What had Godred done?

“Godred’s ship has returned,” Hakon said, “hacked up. We are towing it in now. With Odin’s blessing, it may make it to the jetty without keeling over. I thought it best to light the fires and send out the fleet.”

Maguire crossed himself.

“The ship lists badly,” Hakon said. “There is but one man left.”

Somerled slammed his shield against the ribs of the curragh, too furious to care that he might pierce the fragile skin covering them.

Hakon answered his next question before he could ask it. “The man is not Godred.”

Somerled fumed. “Does another ship follow?”

“No.”

Olaf had returned the crippled ship as his answer. There was no other possibility. Had Somerled’s proposal somehow offended the King of Man? There were better ways to decline a betrothal. He would sail Dragon’s Claw straight up Olaf’s arse for this. “Row!” he shouted to the oarsmen. To Hakon, he asked, “Has Dragon’s Claw sailed?”

“No, and it pains Cormac to wait, my lord,” Hakon said. “The rest are surely in open waters by now.”

“Wait he will,” Somerled said, “until I am good and ready.”

The curragh hissed onshore among a swarm of others. Men splashed out of the boats, joining the clans organizing in front of Finlaggan’s cottages. Some were already sprinting through the village, heading for the main road with their round shields strapped to their backs, anxious to cross the two miles separating them from their ships.

“Where are the women and children?” Somerled asked, seeing only men.

“The chapel, and in the hills with the archers.” Other than Somerled’s castle on Eilean Mor and the meeting hall on Council Island, the chapel was the only stone building in Finlaggan.

“My men—where are they?” Maguire asked.

“They could not wait, as your ship was blocking the others.”

“Arseholes,” Maguire muttered.

“Ye’ll sail with me in Dragon’s Claw,” Somerled said. “First, I want a look around from Ben Vicar.”

The few thick-necked ponies remaining in the paddock were wild with panic. Somerled handed Maguire the reins of a shaggy mare while a groom bridled another. They mounted and galloped through the village and onto the main road, passing a jogging group of Highlanders, identifiable by their plaids. They turned at the common grazing lands, bolted a flock of sheep, and urged their mares up a rocky incline. The smoke from burning ash stung Somerled’s eyes as they neared Ben Vicar’s summit.

Maguire’s mare reared and tossed her head. He cursed her and maintained balance until she calmed. A quick slap on her rump sent her lunging through the acrid smoke. “Remind me to send ye a real horse as Fermanagh’s next tribute,” he said. “How ye can tolerate these stumpy things is beyond me.”

Somerled ignored him and dismounted his mare. He flicked the reins over her head and trotted beside her toward a sentinel. The fire was hot, and the mare refused to go farther. She reared, and Somerled fumed. He was in too big a hurry to deal with her, and he dropped the reins and jogged the rest of the way without her. By the time he reached the sentinel, he was gasping. “Where . . . is . . . it?” he asked, waving at falling sparks.

The sentinel coughed and pointed toward Finlaggan. “I saw the two towers near the village go up an’ lit my own. When the Paps lit up, I saw her. She was leanin’ pretty good, sail flappin’. The nyvaigs swarmed ‘round her. Next thing I know, men are runnin’ like their arses are on fire. Towers in the east an’ west went up after that.”

Hakon had covered the sound with ships. The southern fleet was surely out of Loch Indaal and onto the sea by now. On the water below, only two vessels were inbound, one of them leaning hard to port and rocking perilously on the choppy water. He could see no enemy ships.

Maguire sidled up to him, rubbing at watery eyes. “Jaysus, the smoke. Anything other than the one ship?”

“No,” the sentinel replied, “but if there’s anythin’ out there, they’re not gettin’ away. By now, the fires are lit from Argyll to Ireland.”

Somerled inspected the coastline in all directions and saw that the sentinel was right. The sky glowed red in all directions. “Let it die down,” he said, “and begin work on a replacement at first light.” To Maguire, he said, “Let’s go back down. They’re nearly at the jetty.”

The ponies were more than willing to descend the fiery hill quickly. Somerled pulled his mare’s head toward the jetty and jabbed his heels into her flanks, mentally preparing himself for what was likely to be a gruesome sight. The wounded Dublin ship would be in by now. Hacked to bits, Hakon had said.

He hoped the surviving oarsman lived long enough to say Olaf’s name.

Chapter 2

A day’s sail from Islay, Semjaza raged at the three warriors hanging their heads in front of him. “You’ve been gone all this time and brought me no women? Not even one?” He sprang from his seat in the dark corner and lunged at Knobs, so named for the three bulbous lumps that made up the warrior’s forehead.

Knobs shrieked and darted sideways.

Semjaza missed him by a hair’s width. He stumbled, top-heavy on his spindly legs, and smacked against the far wall. There, the glow of a hall torch glanced his arm and sent him squealing like an injured boar to his corner. He slithered down the wall to its base and rubbed his forearm. A few scales flaked off.

Pain was glorious when inflicted on someone else, but not when he experienced it for himself, and nothing caused him more pain than a lightburn. Humans enjoyed the light—as had he, long ago. They had eyelids that blinked at it and pupils that reacted to it. The sun’s light bronzed their skin. On the clearest day, a human could sit outside without the slightest discomfort. He shuddered at the thought. The lightburn, while slight, had been frightening and uncomfortable: Knobs had to pay.

He examined the warriors standing in the center of his chamber. They glanced nervously at each other, evidently wondering what would happen next.

He decided upon Lips, cruelly named for the warrior’s lack of them. Lips was wide and roomy as a host, although possessing anyone compressed Semjaza and sapped him of energy. He would pay when he returned to his own shell, but it would be worth it; he wanted Knobs to burn as he had burned.

Massing his energy for possession took little effort. He heard the familiar whoosh! and braced himself for the constriction and panic that always accompanied his entry into a host.

Lips had been looking from Raam to Knobs, trying to determine which of them Semjaza would select as a host. Semjaza was careful to keep the warrior’s eyes darting, but he could not resist looking into the corner. There, his own shell slumped over too-thin legs, jagged hocks, and split hooves. Its head rested in hands tipped with talons.

At the dawn of the world, he’d been magnificent. The heap in the corner—that thing that was his body—once boasted supple skin and pristine wings. He gaped at its bark-like exterior, and it disgusted him. Worse, it enraged him.

He retrieved a lantern faster than Lips ever could have on his own. Its light illuminated his host’s forearm, something that would have had him, in his own skin, writhing in pain. Seeing the radiance on the supple skin of the dumb half-breed he occupied was no less agonizing. He hated Lips. He hated all of them. If only he didn’t need them.

He threw the lantern. It shattered against Knobs, dressing him with fuel and flame. The warrior howled and fell to the floor, twisting and kicking while Raam slapped out the flames. Knobs succumbed to pain and passed out, sizzling in the dampness, his skin peeling away from the layer of fat beneath it.

The heat of Semjaza’s fury was unbearable in the confines of his host’s body. Lips’s soul coiled around him, confused and seeking its own space. Semjaza could stand no more.

He returned to his own body, exhausted. The smell of burned flesh hung in the air. It reminded him of the time of the sacrifices, before his fall from grace, when man’s sweet offerings drifted up to them in the heavens.

Raam rose from Knobs’s side. “Will you not be happy until your sons are as scarred and ugly as yourself, Father?”

Semjaza ignored his fatigue and hobbled over to Raam, who suddenly looked like a dog caught stealing a hen. “You dare to call me that,” he hissed over his split tongue. He rose up onto the points of his hooves, leaned in close to Raam’s face, and waited.

Raam’s eyes watered, and his nostrils quivered. He swallowed several times before a gag gripped his throat and became a cough. He stepped back, nearly tripping over his scorched brother.

Semjaza laughed. He was used to revulsion. “I cannot believe I ever had any hope for you,” he said. “Until now, your cruelty was unmatched. Now, I see you are as weak as the rest. This is, perhaps, why you could not do this one simple thing I asked of you . . . and why I have no new women.”

“We did not expect dogs,” Raam said.

“Dogs,” Semjaza said. “You were defeated by dogs.” He shook his head. “Pathetic.”

“These were no ordinary–”

Semjaza rammed a talon into Raam’s chest. “No excuses. You failed.”

“It was not just the dogs,” Raam said, his eyes like two empty graves. “The men were fierce. Even killed a few of ours.”

Semjaza’s breath caught in his chest. “Impossible.”

“No, I am telling you the truth. They killed some of our men.”

“No human is a match for flesh of my flesh.” Semjaza rubbed at his chin, dislodging a few scales. “Unless they are not wholly human. Where were these men?”

Raam glanced at Knobs, who moaned on the floor while Lips pressed a cloth against his wounds. “Just off Galloway, though they looked Norse.”

Semjaza’s mind swirled. He kept an accurate inventory of his own descendants. The ones whom he had allowed to live beyond his reach had blood so watered down they could barely be linked to him. He decided there were two explanations. Either there had been an accidental mixture of the proper recessive traits, or the men Raam faced in battle were descended from another Watcher.

“There’s more,” Raam said.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Before the battle, we had gone deep into the land of birch and ice.” He looked uncomfortable, and Semjaza recognized the need for encouragement.

“Go on, Raam. It’s all right.” You stupid, worthless, piece of dung.

“For weeks, we camped in a forest. Some of the men were craving food when a monk happened by. We stole a cheese from his sack. We were bored and entertained ourselves by taunting him. He prayed aloud, ranting about the unspeakable evils in the wilderness. He mentioned men with knobby foreheads and no souls, which we knew was us, of course, but then he mentioned something else—women who could scent on the wind like dogs and men that disappeared from sight.”

“Go on.”

“You are the only one we know of who can vanish, and knowing you were here, we were confused. We were also wondering about those women. We—I—knew it would please you to have them.” He paused, obviously seeking praise.

“Good thinking, Raam.” Idiotic, brainless nothing.

“So we forced the monk to show us the way to the village. We invaded, but the village teemed with dogs, and the people scattered before we could capture anyone. We chased an old man and a girl until they split up. Knobs wanted to continue after the man, but I said we should get the girl to you first, as she was surely more important.

“She managed to stay ahead of us because she could scent us. We returned to the ship and searched for her along the coastline. Near Galloway, we met a flotilla. I could not believe our luck. She was onboard one of the boats.”

“And yet, you failed to obtain her,” Semjaza seethed.

“But those dogs—”

“Your cowardice disgusts me!” Semjaza clomped to the corner. This was a lot to take in. “Tell me more about the girl.”

“Bronze hair, eyes the color of lush grass, and an astonishing sense of smell. The others in the village paled next to her. I knew you would want her above all others—and fast. We tried, Father, we truly did. We killed many men, but those dogs . . .” Raam cringed, evidently expecting punishment.

Instead, Semjaza closed his eyes and thought of the girl. His prison held women who could read minds, women who could tell the future, and women who knew just which plants to mix to make a poison or a cure. This was the first time he had heard of anyone who could scent like an animal.

He imagined his scent penetrating the girl’s nostrils. Would she find it pleasant? Probably not. He could meet her on a forest path, manifested as someone she would find desirable. The idiots had lost her. “You have to find her.”

“But the men of those lands can kill us.”

“So can I, and I can make you suffer until you beg me to do it.”

Raam’s gaze dropped to the floor.

This was not going to be easy. It was their first brush with mortality. He would have to make the girl’s capture worth the risk.

He approached Raam, who backed away. “Fear not,” Semjaza said softly, attempting the lipless smile that he had practiced but never mastered. “It occurs to me that perhaps I have not given you proper incentive.”

Raam’s brow furrowed with suspicion.

“What if I offer you a turn at the girl when I am finished with her?”

Raam’s split tongue slid across his oddly perfect lips.

The surge of pleasure at his son’s reaction was as close to pride as Semjaza had ever known. He could not read Raam’s thoughts as well as he could some of the others’, but he knew Raam well enough to know what he was envisioning.

It was an unprecedented offer, one that would yield results. Raam had always been among his more lustful offspring. He had never enjoyed a woman. None of them had. It was an act punishable by an extraordinarily painful death, since all of Semjaza’s attempts to use his sons for breeding had yielded nothing but mutants and dead women. Only Aengus, the bread man, was allowed to have his way with prisoners on occasion, but that was because Aengus sired no offspring. Besides, it gave Semjaza something to watch on occasion.

Raam rubbed his trembling hands together. “I will find her.” Wasting no time, he squatted and lifted Knobs from the floor. He carried his shrieking brother out of the room. Lips scuttled out behind them.

Semjaza returned to his corner. The burn and possession had drained him. He comforted himself with thoughts of Raam’s stupidity and his own cunning. Raam would be angry when he denied him the girl, but he would address that when the time came. Maybe he would throw one of the useless women at Raam for pleasure and let him take his frustrations out on her. The idea excited him, and he let his hand trail down his abdomen. He closed his palm around the only perfect part of his body and stroked it, losing himself to pleasure and visions of the girl with the bronze hair and green eyes.

Chapter 3

Somerled pushed through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the off-kilter mast rising up from the waters of the sound. Just beyond the jetty, Godred’s ship threatened to keel over under the weight of its sail, which—still attached by its rigging—had fallen into the water and tugged at its splintering mast. “Down the mast,” Somerled said to Hakon, who gathered up a handful of men and tools and rowed to the ship.

Hakon and his men chopped at the mast, scattering gulls and onlookers as it fell. It took the port rail with it on its way to the waters of the sound, but the vessel righted, and the sail floated away on the tide.

“Haul it in,” Somerled said to the shipwright, who tossed a grappling hook from the jetty to the ship.

Despite being free of its sail, it took many men to haul Godred’s ship to the jetty. Its ballast had shifted, and the ship still leaned a bit to port. Somerled climbed onboard with Maguire, their torches illuminating the damage. The decking—what remained of it—was tacky with blood. Gulls swooped in and out of the exposed bilge, where body parts floated in sickening islets. A grappling iron and several axe heads forged from a strange metal were stuck in the wood. Swords and shields were gone, along with all but one warrior. He lay draped over a bench, his fingers clutching the wood.

“He will not let go,” Hakon said. “I was just about to wallop his noggin to see if I could convince him to release his grip.”

“No,” Somerled said. “Your lightest tap would cave in his skull.” He sank to one knee, trying not to think about the fluids soaking into his tunic. “Who are ye?”

The oarsman’s riot of black curls trembled. He looked through Somerled to some far-off place, teeth chattering as he spoke. “G–Gunnar, my l-lord. D-Dublin.”

“Gunnar,” Somerled said, loading his voice with calm, “ye are safe here.” He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, near a blood-trimmed slice in his aketon. “Sit up, the ship is righted.”

To Somerled’s surprise, Gunnar complied. “Get this man a cover,” he ordered, “and a drink.” A villager handed up both items.

The oarsman leaned over the heated tankard of ale. He stank of urine.

Pissed himself.

“It is important for us to know what happened, Gunnar.”

“R–Right,” Gunnar answered. “I’ll do my b-best.” Fear and too many generations in Ireland tainted his native Norse.

Maguire, Hakon, and a handful of others leaned in with torches. Gunnar wrapped his bloodstained fingers around the tankard, downed its contents, and inhaled deeply before starting his story.

“G-Godred sailed to M-Man, but Olaf was not there. No servant would say where he was or when he would return. We set c-course for Ireland to retrieve our tribute and bring it here for the g-gathering.”

Olaf was probably in Norway, or perhaps visiting King David in Roxburgh. Hopefully, his absence from Man did not involve his daughter’s engagement.

“Th-Three days ago, we left our b-bay. We hit b-bad wind and was tacking b-back and f-forth.”

“How many of ye?”

“There was this ship and t-ten curraghs.”

Jaysus. Eleven vessels was an enormous loss. “Go on.”

“We was near G-Galloway when someone says, ‘There’s a lassie.’ She was on the shoreline wavin’ us down like she was in trouble.” He pulled more of the blanket over his shoulders. “Now mind ye, nobody cared about a lassie on a shoreline, but the wind changed direction at the very moment Godred spotted those dogs. It was a g-good omen—one Godred could not ignore.”

“Dogs?” Somerled asked. Battle madness. It happened to all of them at some point.

“Aye, dogs, my lord, finest dogs ye ever seen. Big things wi’ wiry brown coats. Or gray. They was about waist high. Four of ‘em, she had. Never saw dogs so big. Big as ponies, just.”

“Did ye pick them up—lass, dogs, and all?”

“Aye. She was a pretty, wee thing, worth a heifer or two. Once onboard, she started babblin’ a wild tale about men wi’ hollow eyes and such, and we began to think she was mad.”

“Aye,” Somerled said. “Hakon, another drink.”

Hakon snapped his fingers, and a slave scurried.

Gunnar continued. “We began to notice that the lassie was worse than odd.”

“Women are the devil’s ballast,” Maguire muttered, crossing himself.

Gunnar continued, clearly lost in memory. “She started actin’ like . . . well, a dog. We noticed her liftin’ her nose to the wind, sayin’ things like, ‘They’re comin’ from the north.’ Things like that.”

Och, the Norse and their superstitions. Somerled began to wonder if there was ever going to be an attack in the story.

As if sensing Somerled’s impatience, Gunnar spared further embellishment. “Well, they did come from the north.”

“Whose men? Olaf’s?”

“No. In some ways, they looked like the Jarl of Orkney’s crowd, but these was massive warriors, all dark-haired. Orkney men are usually fair or ginger. And the lassie was right. H-Hollow eyes. Never seen nothin’ like ‘em in my l-life. Like d-deep h-holes.” Gunnar’s body resumed its convulsions.

“When I say massive, I mean they was massive, my lord. Not a one of ‘em shorter than our Hakon, and disfigured . . . all of them.” He shook his head, as if to rid himself of the memory. “They met us wi’ a sizeable ship. Our curraghs was undermanned to make room for the tribute.” He cast his eyes downward. “We should have brought wooden ships, not the skins,” he said. “Anyway, the men was lost, and I suspect the ships and tribute, too.”

“What of Godred?”

“Dead.”

“Ye sure?” It was unlike Godred to die.

“Aye, my lord. I seen him sliced and thrown overboard. He fought well.” Gunnar looked at Hakon. “Surely feasting in Odin’s hall now.”

Somerled did not feel it important to remind Gunnar that Godred had recently converted to Christianity. “And the lassie and her dogs? What of them?”

Gunnar took a long drink. “Canny say for certain, but the dogs fought well and then jumped overboard wi’ her. I hope to the gods she’s feedin’ the fishes, as her comin’ aboard wi’ them dogs marked the end of us.”

“Devil’s ballast,” Maguire repeated.

Somerled stood and stretched his back. He spotted the blacksmith below. “Murchad, have ye room?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“You’ll sleep with the blacksmith’s brood, Gunnar. His wife’s a fine cook, and they’ve a warm fire.”

Gunnar stood and lifted the borrowed blanket from his shoulders.

Somerled raised a hand in protest. “Keep it.” He turned to Hakon. “Maguire and I will inform the nobles.”

The knock came just before dawn.

Somerled’s feet hit the floor before his eyes were open. “What is it?” he muttered, stumbling to the door. “Hakon, come in.” He returned to his bed and sat on it, certain by his guard’s gloomy expression that the news was bad.

Hakon’s lower lids sagged. “Just before dawn,” he said, turning his palms toward the dying fire, “a longship appeared on the horizon.”

“Under whose banner? Is it Olaf?”

“It is Fergus of Galloway. He claims to have one of the Dublin curraghs.”

Somerled ground his teeth together. “Was it he who attacked Godred?”

“I don’t think so,” Hakon said. “He questions how our dead ended up on his shore.”

“Questions it, surely, but offers no sympathy or aid. Same old Fergus, aye?” His thoughts drifted to his youth, when his father’s words echoed nightly off the cave ceiling, Fergus will help us. Fergus had helped . . . himself. While Vikings planted their seed in Gillebride’s fields and clanswomen, Fergus made clever ties with Man, Scotland, and England.

Somerled stood and rubbed his forehead. “I despise Fergus, and he knows it. He may think I tried to invade Galloway. Last thing Argyll needs is an enemy in eastern waters.” Especially one with the backing of the Manx, Scottish, English, and Normans.

Somerled had always expected that such a war would come, but he had hoped that it would be of his own design. He was not ready. “Where is he now?”

“He refuses to enter the sound. Asks to speak to ye personally.”

“Then I will go to him.”

Fergus stood near his mast in a fluttering tunic. Time had streaked his once-ginger hair with white. The wind tousled it, and he gathered it up with a hand that Somerled had always thought too small.

“Drop anchor,” Somerled directed his men.

Fergus ordered the same.

Both ships drifted leeward in the tide. A grappling iron reeled in Dragon’s Claw for lashing. Warriors sparred like terriers across the few feet of water separating the two vessels. Somerled strutted to a gangplank; Hakon followed.

“No, Hakon,” Somerled whispered, facing him, “I go alone.” He saw his own reflection in the nose guard of Hakon’s wolf-adorned helmet.

“My lord king, ye are not mailed.”

“Neither is he.”

“But, ye have no son. If ye die here, who will lead?”

He felt the familiar stab in his gut. “I do not intend to die, Hakon.” He patted the blade sheathed in the belt beneath his cloak. “But, if I go, Fergus goes with me, which will leave Maguire of Fermanagh as your next king.”

Hakon said nothing, but caressed his sword hilt as he always did when praying to the pagan gods in Asgard.

Fergus extended a hand as Somerled negotiated the plank and dropped down onto the decking of the Gallovidian ship. “Fate has crossed our paths again, my young cousin,” Fergus said, eyeing him with the vain countenance that Somerled had always despised. It had been annoying before Somerled’s rise from obscurity, and it was no less grating now. “Some time has passed since we last saw each other at David’s court.”

“A night tainted by ill-bred lassies, as I recall.”

“I seem to remember a baron’s daughter who caught your eye,” Fergus said.

Somerled winced. The girl had feigned interest and lured him into an ambush. Her friends had inspected him, fingered his garments, and laughed at the gap between his front teeth.

Fergus changed the subject. “How is your father?”

“He is well,” Somerled lied. Gillebride’s frail body lived, but his mind had set sail years ago. Exile had weakened him, and his wife’s death had struck the final blow.

Somerled offered no concern for Fergus’s wife and children. It would have been the genteel thing to do. Although Fergus was to be hated for marrying the daughter of the English king, he’d taken a woman of native blood as his most recent wife. Or so Somerled had heard.

“I believe ye have something that belongs to me,” Somerled said.

“Do I?” Fergus smirked. “I believe it’s mine now. Perhaps, you could explain to me how it, and many dead men of Dublin, came to wash up on Galloway’s shores?”

Somerled stiffened. “I could ask ye the same.”

“We could both make assumptions and send many more men to their deaths. I suggest instead we talk the matter over with sense.” Fergus stretched an arm toward the benches. The gold embroidery on his sleeves reflected the sun.

They seated themselves on two chests near the bow.

“Cousin,” Fergus said with contrived softness, “I always knew you would make something of your—”

“Och, are ye now gonny blow peat smoke up my arse, Fergus? Your flattery is as valuable to me as that glob of floating seaweed.”

Fergus leaned forward and exhaled. “I do not blame you for being angry.”

Somerled’s cheeks heated. “Angry? Ye abandoned your kin. Left us to die or scatter like willow seed.”

“I introduced you to genteel society.”

“David’s? I have my own society. I have no need of his.” Careful.

“I did not have to return your curragh,” Fergus said. “I did so because it gave me an excuse to visit. I have been meaning to discuss something with you.”

“There seems to be a great deal of people wishing to discuss things with me these days. I have become quite popular.”

Fergus opened his mouth to speak, but stopped short of saying what was on his mind. After a long pause, he said, “News of your sister’s marriage has traveled far, and as Galloway sits between King David and your new good-brother, I have reason for concern.”

“Your own kin concerns ye, Fergus? Do ye not think perhaps ye should be more concerned with your good friend, the king, who populates Galloway with foreigners?”

Fergus’s cheeks flushed. “I have no quarrel with King David. He is a good man—a religious man, determined to spread the word of God.”

“I am no fool, cousin. David is a decent king in many ways, but I canny abide by his spreading a Norman scab over Scotland. He constructs abbeys in the name of God and villages to spring up around them—all populated by foreigners. His Roman church will swallow up our Columban one. Our church and lands will be gone and eventually, our culture and identity. It is a peaceful conquest, aye, but a conquest just the same. Even if David never lifts a sword against us, we will lose.

“And then, what happens when David dies?” Somerled asked, fueled by his outrage at Fergus’s weakness and stupidity. “His successor may not look so kindly upon us, and by then, our lands will be entirely populated by men loyal to a foreign king and a foreign church. He will succeed where the Vikings could not. I will not tolerate it.”

Fergus looked surprised at Somerled’s understanding of the matter.

“Aye, I can see what ye are thinking, Fergus, and ye’re right. Your young cousin is not as slow as ye thought.”

“Nor as modest, though you’ve never been that, have you, Somerled?”

“Why should I be? I have risen from exile to recover not only my father’s rightful lands, but those of the other clans as well, using nothing more than my wits, a few cow hides, and a sharpened stick.”

“One day, your ego will be your downfall.”

“And David will be yours.”

Both men fell silent, and Somerled considered that perhaps he had gone too far.

“I will admit to you,” Fergus said at last, “that I share many of the concerns you have mentioned. David has indeed given large estates in eastern Galloway to his friends.”

“How can ye tolerate it, Fergus? David’s Norman friends have no right to Gaelic lands!”

“Part of me knows you are right,” Fergus said, his gaze earnest. “Though you probably do not believe me, I am a Gael at heart. The settlements worry me. Maybe my advancing age and fear for my children rattle my peace. Perhaps I owe my anxiety to my new wife, who is herself a pure Gael.”

“I have heard, and I congratulate ye for coming to your senses, at last,” Somerled said.

Fergus nodded. “She has been pressuring me to approach you for some time now.”

“Aye? Now, this woman sounds like one I would like to know.” Somerled laughed. “Perhaps there is hope for Galloway after all.”

“At her bidding, I bring you the curragh and your men’s remains in hope that you might remember Galloway if the time comes.”

An earl, taking orders from a woman. It probably wouldn’t last, and it was pure madness. He hoped that he would meet Fergus’s wife, whom he expected would be very much like his mother.

Mother. He winced, remembering her uncovered hair, glued by her own blood to the forest floor. “There was a time when your kin needed ye, Fergus. Ye turned your back on us.”

“Something for which I have been truly repentant for many years.”

“I would like to believe that, but my gut says otherwise.”

“Think what you want,” Fergus said curtly. “God alone knows my heart.” He plucked at something on his tunic.

“I am a bit surprised,” Somerled said, “that your daughter’s marriage to King Olaf of Man is not enough to secure Galloway’s safety.”

“At one time, Somerled, when the dangers came from the sea, it would have been. As you yourself know, Olaf is happy to spend his time building abbeys these days, not ships. That leaves David’s protection only, and he has promised it, but as you have suggested, I am finding difficulty in trusting a king who seems inclined to give my lands away to strangers.

“I know you hunger for power,” he continued, “and I can guess by your sister’s marriage to that rebel from Moray that your plans include the Scottish mainland. I believe it is only a matter of time before Galloway becomes the battleground where your good-brother and David will clash. Should that day come, I can promise you that Galloway will not defend David against whatever hell you and Malcolm bring. I cannot say Galloway will join you, but I can promise that Galloway will not stand in your way.”

“And what will ye want in exchange for Galloway’s blindness?” Somerled asked.

“Men. I have spent too many years building a fleet. I need men for Galloway’s inland borders.”

“Allow me to discuss the matter with MacGillivray. His men are born fighting in the heather and gorse.”

“I would also like assurances that if Galloway calls for aid, you will answer.”

He would enjoy ignoring that request when it came. “Agreed.” He smiled wryly. “David knows of Bethoc’s marriage, then?”

“Aye, he does. His patience grows thin, Somerled. Be careful.”

“Without my protection, his abbeys are vulnerable,” Somerled said. “He will not only tolerate me, but encourage me, same as Olaf. In time, King David will approach me about Argyll’s vassalage.”

Fergus grinned. “He says you are like an annoying bit of shite that he can never kick off the tip of his shoe.”

Somerled threw back his head in a hearty laugh. “I may have Dugall compose a saga using those very words.”

He sobered. “I will require a hostage.”

“Aye,” Fergus said, “I knew you would.” He whistled toward the stern and an adolescent boy stood up behind two oarsmen and approached the bow. He was of average height, but of solid and athletic form. When he dropped his hood, Somerled saw a younger version of himself. His wavy hair was pulled back from his face, revealing hazel eyes full of intellect. Time would cover his strong jawline in a patchy beard. The only real dissimilarity was the boy’s perfect nose; his own had been broken many times.

“I offer my son as a hostage,” Fergus said.

“This is not Uchtred,” Somerled said. Uchtred’s hair was as red as Hakon’s.

“No,” Fergus said, “the lad’s name is Erc. David knows nothing of him. He is mine, born of a native woman, and he is much loved by his people.”

Somerled inspected the boy. “I must admit, Fergus, I am impressed that ye would keep such a secret from someone ye call friend.”

“Perhaps underestimated intelligence runs in the family.” Fergus winked.

The two men stood and clasped arms in settlement of the matter.

“Remove the banner from your masthead and row in,” Somerled said. “Join us for a feast.”

“I would be honored.” Fergus bowed. As Somerled pivoted to return to his own ship, Fergus said, “Och, there is another wee thing. I nearly forgot.”

“Aye, name it,” Somerled answered, wondering if Fergus might help him negotiate a marriage to Ragnhilde.

“The curragh held a lassie and some dogs. Of course, I recognize the curragh is yours, but I should like to keep the lassie and the dogs if you do not mind.”

It was not a large request. Women were worth a few cows at most, and dogs were dogs. “Consider them yours.” Somerled vaulted over the rail and dropped onto the decking of his own ship.

Fergus replaced his masthead banner with a saffron cloth. A vessel sailed from behind a headland, towing a curragh. Its crew struggled against weight and a side wind.

Somerled marveled at the curragh, which threatened to flood at any moment. Its skins were slashed, but miraculously, not all the way through. He recognized the carvings on its frame; he had delivered the vessel, along with ten others, to Godred last year.

Swollen bodies filled the bow, their faces grimacing at the sky. A body lay off to one side of the heap. Its feet, which stuck out from under a piece of old sailcloth, wore new shoes. Above them, steel shin plates reflected the sun. Fergus had given Godred due respect.

The girl sat near the stern, as rigid as a gravestone, staring beyond the horrors in the bow. She looked cold, even though she wore a quality tunic. Three dogs lay curled up near her feet. A fourth stood directly in front of her. Gunnar had been right; they were nearly as big as ponies.

Though he had never seen her before, she seemed somehow familiar. As he studied her, his shaft swelled, and he shifted to avoid embarrassment. She was unlike any woman he had ever seen, though he could not determine how. No wonder Fergus wanted her.

When the curragh passed his stern, he threw his cloak to her, a gesture meant to show Fergus that he intended to care for Galloway’s new property. The largest of the dogs pounced and thrashed the garment against the curragh’s moist ribs. The girl could not reach for it anyway. Someone had tied her to the ship’s frame.

Who are ye, lassie?

She looked at him as though she had heard, and her gaze cut him like an axe blow. Her eyes were frightened and searching. They were green—vivid green—like Islay’s fields in mid-summer. Above them, her hair gleamed like a polished hazelnut.

She must be embarrassed that her hair is uncovered.

“Look at those dogs,” Hakon said.

He heard himself whisper, “Aye.”

Tiny and surrounded by death and dogs, she closed her eyes and strained against the ropes bloodying her, as if she wanted her face to be as close to his as possible. Her mouth fell open, as though she had suffered a bewildering shock.

His insides churned and re-inflated his shaft, annoying him. He willed her to look at him again. When she didn’t, he shook his head. “Hoist the sail.” As they passed the wounded curragh, Somerled ignored the girl, concentrating instead on the best way to break the news of Galloway’s alliance to the nobles.

Chapter 4

An elderly woman dropped sticks onto the central fire, sending sparks racing for the smoke hole. She shuffled to the far wall and selected rolls of linen and a pot from a crooked wall cabinet. These she arranged on a worm-eaten table, one of three pieces of furniture in the hut.

Breagha alternated her gaze between the woman’s back and the front door. There was no lock, only a single drop-bar. The copper-haired giant who had delivered her to the hut had not returned. She shifted her weight on the bench and prepared to run, but stars streaked in front of her eyes, and a wave of nausea roiled her belly. She steadied herself, hunching over her lap and pressing her injured wrists against her breasts.

The old woman hurried over. “Och, ye poor, wee thing.” She slid a crock next to Breagha’s soaked feet. “Don’t be worryin’ now. If somethin’ comes up, just ye use that pot and think nothin’ of it. There’s naught ye can spew up that ol’ Elisad hasn’t seen before.” She petted Breagha’s still-damp head.

Breagha took a deep breath and sat up straight.

“Ye all right then, lassie?” The old woman’s eyes were kind and concerned. Her hair, streaked with silver, had probably been the color of a raven’s back in her youth.

She must have been pretty.

Breagha nodded, and the action brought a fresh surge of nausea. Her mouth watered excessively, but nothing came up from her stomach. How could it? Her last meal—raw mussels she had pried loose from the rocks days ago—were long gone.

“Now then, let’s have a look at ye,” the old woman said, sliding her hand under Breagha’s arm and lifting it for inspection.

Breagha screeched and jerked her wrist back to her belly, where it daubed a fresh bloodstain on her tunic.

“Och, I’m sorry, dearie.” The old woman embraced her and pressed Breagha’s cheek against her belly. “I know it must pain ye.”

Constant trauma had wrung Breagha out. She wailed against the woman’s apron.

“There, there,” the old woman cooed.

Breagha savored the comfort of the rocking embrace. She stopped crying when she heard the unmistakable sound of a dog shaking itself outside the hut. Relieved that no one had harmed her furry companions, she sat up, wiped her tears away, and eyed the door. It opened, and Rowan trotted in, his coat curly with dampness. An elderly man followed, swinging a limp hare in front of him. His waddling gait suggested that the years had not been kind to his knees.

Breagha stiffened and drew in her limbs. He was old, but he was still a man—a frightfully scarred one.

“It be all right, dearie.” The old woman patted her back. “Just me husband. No harm in him.”

“Those are some dogs ye had wi’ ye, lassie.” The man flung the hare onto the table. Something scratched at the door, and he waddled over to open it. “Wee Thor,” he mumbled to a terrier that scampered into the hut amid a smattering of windblown leaves. The terrier nosed up to Rowan and wagged his stumpy tail. Both dogs bowed to their elbows before darting back outside.

“Would ye look at that?” The old man laughed.

Breagha shivered, both from the sudden chill and renewed fear.

“Between ye and those dogs, we’ve lost all the heat,” the old woman scolded.

The man dismissed her complaint with a wave of his hand.

“Harald?”

“Aye, Elisad.” He uncovered a basket sitting on the table, exposing a loaf of bread.

“Go to Macken’s and see if they have a wee comb. Give them the hare in trade.”

He shot his wife an incredulous look. “Woman, ye canny be serious.” He tore a hunk of bread from the loaf. He was missing a finger on his right hand. “The dog and I just spent all day killin’ the thing.”

Elisad stamped her foot and pointed at the door.

Harald shoved the bread into his mouth and muttered something, spitting crumbs onto his beard. Still glaring and chewing, he tottered out.

When the door slammed shut, Elisad lifted Breagha’s chin. “That’s him gone then, aye? I wasn’t hungry for hare anyway.” She winked. “Now then, we’re gonny need to clean those wrists. I know they pain ye, but we must.” She held out her hand, inviting Breagha to submit her wrists for inspection.

Gille always said to trust kindness. Breagha surrendered her left wrist, laying it in Elisad’s open palm.

The old woman smiled. “That’s a good lassie.” She examined the rope burn, which was dirty and speckled with hemp fibers and bits of grass. “Have ye a name, child?”

“Breagha,” she whispered.

“Och, aye, fittin’, for ye are a lovely lass. A lovely, wee lassie indeed, wi’ eyes the color of the grass at mid-day. Never saw such eyes.”

Elisad lifted a cauldron from the fire and poured steaming water into her pot. She fished a wad of cloth out of the liquid, allowing it to cool a bit before wringing it out. “This is not gonny be pleasant, lass, but we must do it.” Pity etched her brow.

She pressed the hot rag against Breagha’s wound.

Breagha jumped to her feet, yelping as the heat seared into her wound. She reached instinctively for her wrist, but the old woman pinned down her arms with surprising strength. Hot liquid dripped off her fingertips. As it cooled, the pain eased, and she wilted against Elisad’s apron. The old woman smelled of dog.

“There, there.” Elisad patted her back. “There, there.”

The room spun, and Breagha’s legs failed her. Vaguely, she heard the skid of a righted bench and felt her rump plonk onto it. She felt a crock’s rim at her mouth and offered no resistance when its bearer used it to pry open her lips. Bitter liquid spilled into her mouth, and she swallowed it just as the room went dark.

When she returned to her senses, both wrists were bound in clean strips of cloth, and someone was combing her hair.

“Ye all right then? Och, lassie, I’m sorry, but I had to hurt ye,” Elisad said.

“I thought ye had no comb,” she heard herself say. The cunning woman had sent her husband out for no other reason than Breagha’s comfort.

Elisad offered no reply. She scooped porridge from a pot sitting near the fire and handed a crock of it to Breagha along with a bone spoon.

Breagha gobbled it up, stuffing her cheeks like coin bags. How long has it been since I’ve eaten? Two? Three days?

“Now lassie, slow down,” Elisad warned, as she limped away to the table, “or it’ll be right back up. Ye keep that down and I’ll gi’ ye a bit of bread later, if that grubby husband of mine left ye any.”

Breagha obeyed. What a wild sight I must be.

Elisad gathered up the cauldron and bits of bloodied cloth from the table. She tossed the liquid outside before hobbling back to Breagha. “Och, lassie, ye must be worn out. Let’s get ye tucked into bed, aye?” She gestured to the corner, where an animal’s hide stretched over a platform. When Breagha collapsed on it, Elisad covered her with a sheepskin. “On the morrow, we’ll clean up your tunic. For now, just rest.”

Rowan returned with the terrier at his hocks. Harald followed them in with an armful of items wrapped in a cloak. Breagha recognized the purple stripe in its weave; it was the one thrown into the death boat. She was glad the dogs had not destroyed it.

Harald dumped the cloak and its contents on the table. Rowan sniffed the pile, hackled, and curled up on the floor near Breagha’s bed. She reached out from under the covers to pat his wiry coat with an arm still thumping with pain.

Elisad gaped at the items on the table. “Ye got all that for a hare? Was there silver shoved up its arse?”

“No, wife. Macken did not have a comb, so I went in search of one lest ye take your wee pot to the side of me head.”

Elisad picked through the pile and lifted a silver comb, rolls of linen strips, sachets of herbs, wrapped slabs of meat, and fresh vegetables. She pinched the cloak between her knobby fingers and stared at her husband.

The elderly couple regarded each other silently for a moment. Harald spoke first. “He caught me near Macken’s as I was comin’ out. Asked about the lassie, and I says to him that ye was tendin’ to her.”

“Did he now?” Elisad fingered the comb. It reflected the firelight.

“Aye, he did, wife, and he says to me that of all the folk here, he would not trust her to anyone else’s care.”

Elisad sat down as though the compliment had weakened her.

“He asked me if she gave a name,” he continued, “and I says to him that I did not know. I says to him that I was sent for a wee comb, but that Macken could not part wi’ one.”

“Go on, husband,” Elisad urged.

“So he says to me that if I could wait, he would see to it that ye get one. And he did just that, so he did, only as ye can see, wife, he gave well beyond what ye asked for.”

“Aye, Harald, me eyes be old, but they can surely see that. And though ye’re old yourself, I’m sure ye know that none of this be for us.” She laughed.

Harald took her hand in both of his. “I remember what it feels like when love kicks your teeth in. I’d take another sword blow to the face before I’d fall in love a second time.”

Breagha closed her eyes, embarrassed by their intimacy. She was losing the struggle to keep them open anyway. Elisad covered her with the cloak. It was musky and smoky, with salty undertones, an odd combination that enveloped her in a comfort she had never known. Sheltered under the heaviness of its scent, she felt as though she had been on a long journey and had, at last, returned home.

Chapter 5

Rain dripped through the smoke hole and hissed in the dying embers.

I could run.

She drew the cloak up to her chin and sniffed it. Where would I go?

Rowan’s jaws snapped shut, severing the whistle that always accompanied his yawns. She smiled, amused that a dog of his size could make any shrill sound. He stretched up his hind end and groaned. Harald’s terrier, curled up near the hearth, sprang to all fours and trotted across the room to weave around Rowan’s hocks.

Breagha slid out from under the cloak and tiptoed to the door to let the dogs out. She held it ajar, inspecting the village she had been too frightened to notice yesterday. Somewhere beyond the huts, hammers pounded at metal. Drenched hens scratched in mucky roads. Cattle in stone enclosures waited for someone to tend them. A stone building and carved crosses rose above the rooftops at the far end of the village. Christians. Beyond that, a high castle with corner turrets loomed over all.

Wind slapped rain against the hut. She shivered and closed the door.

Harald and Elisad snored on a pile of sheepskins. She wondered how anyone so old could make it to the floor. It must be cold there. She dropped a lump of dried turf onto the fire. Peat, Elisad had called it yesterday. When it began to smolder, she recognized its smoke as one of the scents infusing the cloak.

Elisad yawned and wriggled out from under Harald’s withered arm. “Och, lassie, ye don’t need to do that. I can—”

“I’m glad to help if I can.”

“But your arms.”

“They’re not bad today.”

It took her a while, but Elisad climbed to her feet. “Och, gettin’ old, lassie,” she said. “I must get rid of some water.” She opened the door and said, “Rotten day. Pishin’ down, just.”

When she returned, she sat next to Breagha. “Look at me husband,” she said, gesturing toward Harald, whose toothless mouth gaped as he snored.

“What happened to him?” Breagha asked, staring at the scar raked across the old man’s face.

“Well, ye would not know it by lookin’ at him,” Elisad replied, “but that man was a savage warrior in his day.” A smile pushed the wrinkles from her cheeks to the corners of her eyes. “When I was about your age, I lived far from here.” She hooked a cauldron of porridge onto a tripod and slid it over the fire. “Our village was small and unprotected. We was attacked by Norsemen. Such men . . . I pray to God ye never see such men.”

I have already seen such men, Elisad.

“After they killed most of our people, they took the rest of us—like ye was taken, I suppose—and they put us in a boat.” She stirred the porridge. “I was unused to boats, ye see, and I was horribly sick. Spewed day and night. One of the warriors took pity on me and cared for me.”

“Your husband,” Breagha guessed.

“Aye, Harald the Dread, that bag of bones over there,” she said, pointing a dripping wooden spoon at him. Her voice began to tremble. “Next thing I know, a fleet was swarmin’ around us and men was droppin’ dead again. ‘Twas the men of Dublin, I learned later. Harald defended me until an axe sliced his face like a turnip. He fell on top of me, and I stayed there. They found me, of course, pulled me out, and took me to a tradin’ market.

“I was weak and gaunt from sickness and fetched no price. They threw me into a filthy byre. I had no food or water, and very little light.” She stared blankly at the wall of the hut, evidently lost in memory. “I can still see the sun streamin’ through the cracks between the boards . . . Anyway, two days later, at the end of the sale, they chained the unsold in pairs and re-offered them. They shackled me to a man I thought I’d never see again—”

“—Harald.”

“Aye, and when I saw him, I expected it would take three or four more wretches chained to us before we’d sell.”

Breagha looked again at Harald’s scar, which stretched diagonally across his face to just below his right ear. The blemish remained raised and wide in spite of the passing years; it must have been a mighty slash when fresh.

“When I left the boat,” Elisad said, “he had one wound, a bad one across his face. When I saw him again in the market, he had new injuries. I barely recognized him as a man. I thought they was chainin’ me to a skinned seal. The savages had taken his tunic and armbands, even his hose. I’ll never forget those meaty legs, sliced to the bone wi’ filth in the wounds. He would surely have died, and I have no doubt I would have been thrown into the grave wi’ him, but we was lucky, for the Maguire chieftain was in the crowd that day. He bought us for Gillebride.”

Gillebride?

Apparently sensing her confusion, Elisad provided an explanation. “Gillebride was Thane of Argyll, but the Norse took his lands from him. Maguire offered him shelter in Ireland. It was Gillebride’s son, Somerled, who got the family’s lands back. It was Somerled who gave ye the cloak.”

Somerled. She liked the sound of his name. “What does it mean?”

“Eh?”

“Somerled’s name. What does it mean?”

“It be a Norse name meaning Summer Wanderer. Those who love him just call him Sorley, though.”

“He’s Norse, then?”

Elisad laughed and shook her head. “Goodness, no! He hates the Norse. Killed enough of them to prove it, too. His mother was of Norse blood, raised in Ireland. She probably thought a Norse name would serve her son better than a Gaelic one, since the clans were all under Norse thumbs. She was a wise and kind woman, so they say.”

“So ye just stayed with Gillebride? Ye never tried to escape?”

“And go where, lass? I was far from my home, my kin dead. Gillebride was good to us, and we was grateful. Besides, Harald saw the good in belongin’ to the Argyll clan.

“Oh, in his day,” she continued, “Gillebride could convince anyone that all of Scotland belonged to him. Harald believed him. He swore his loyalty to Gillebride and convinced me that I should do the same.” She lumped porridge into two crocks and sprinkled dried apples on top.

“Harald fought beside Gillebride for many seasons tryin’ to win back his lands in Argyll.” She handed a crock of porridge to Breagha. “Never succeeded, but thankfully, Somerled recovered what his father could not.

“And now, enough about old Elisad,” she said. “What about ye? What be your tale, lassie?”

Breagha stared at the crock of porridge in her lap, remembering the swarm of dark warriors fluttering through her village like giant moths.

“It be fair enough, lass, if ye don’t want to tell me. It might be too soon.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell ye. I’m afraid if I do, ye may think me mad. Ye are the first kind person I have met in a long while, and I don’t want to risk ye thinking ill of me.”

Elisad spread her warm palm over Breagha’s fingers. “Lassie, I’ll not think less of ye no matter what ye say. ‘Tis for God alone to judge others.” She nodded in Harald’s direction. “I’ve loved that man for years despite him tryin’ to kill me. I’ll judge ye not.”

Breagha wrapped one hand around her crock and the other around her injured wrist. “I come from a village filled with tall dogs and surrounded by standing stones. We are a peaceful people, devoted to learning. I am a torc-wearer there.” She shifted her neckline to reveal her torc.

Elisad nearly choked on a half-chewed mouthful of porridge. She swallowed it quickly. “Where did ye get an item fine as that?”

“I have had it since birth. There are three others in my village. Those who wear them are different.”

“Different, meaning rich?”

“Different, meaning gifted. There’s Nairna, who dreams up new and better ways of doing things. She designs things, useful things that the villagers then build. Sika can see things nobody else can see. Naaja has been talking since birth. She hears even the slightest whisper and must sleep in a padded box.”

She hesitated, searching Elisad’s face for judgment. There was none.

“Ye be the fourth,” Elisad said.

“Aye.”

“What be your gift?” Elisad asked.

“I scent. Each person, each thing, has a unique scent.” She waited for the question she knew would come.

“What do I smell like?”

“I mean no harm in telling ye this, Elisad, as I love dogs, but ye smell a bit of that terrier ye keep close by, and there’s a hint of peat about ye, and an herb I can’t name.”

“Sage. I was bundlin’ it wi’ the blacksmith’s wife.” Elisad scrubbed her hand across her face. “Two days ago . . . at her house.”

“It is still pungent upon your apron—an altogether lovely smell.”

Elisad stared at the torc. “’Tis an incredible gift, lass.” Her expression turned serious, and she tugged Breagha’s neckline upward. “Let’s us keep that item covered, aye? Especially this week of the clan gatherin’ when there be strangers in the village. Some of them have wiped out entire clans to claim an item fine as that.”

Breagha squeezed the old woman’s hand. Elisad could be trusted.

“The scribbles on the torc look like the ones on our standing stone.”

“And on ours,” Breagha said. “The marks identify it as mine.”

“Beautiful, so it is. Are the other torcs the same?”

“Each is unique to the one who wears it. Our souls are connected to them. When we die, the torcs attract us back to where we last trod, so that we may begin our learning where we left off.”

“I should think, then, that ye would want to leave it in a good place.”

“Aye,” Breagha said, “when we die, we hope to leave our torcs with loved ones, so that in our next life, we will return to them.” She stared at the peat, which glowed orange, the color of Nairna’s unusual hair. “I don’t know where the rest are now,” she said, her chest aching, “or even if they survived. We had no weapons. Even if we had, I’m not sure they would have been effective against the men who attacked our village.” She shook her head. “Men . . . I don’t know if it’s right to call them that. Men do not have holes where their eyes and mouths should be.”

Her pulse throbbed in her aching wrists. “The dogs tried to defend us, but most of them died, too. Gille, my teacher, grabbed my hand and dragged me into the forest. Four of the dogs followed us.”

“The ones ye have wi’ ye.”

“Aye, we ran. The warriors followed. Gille hid me in a cave with the dogs and said I would be safer if he left me. He thought they were after him, ye see. He told me to find my way to a place called Iona.”

“Iona? Our Iona?”

She sat up straight, her body floating with hope. “Ye know it, Elisad?”

“Aye, lassie, it be the island of our blessed saint, not a day’s sail from Finlaggan. All the ancient kings be buried there.”

“Oh—” A rising lump in her throat stole her words. She was nearly there. Even if Gille hadn’t made it . . . oh, to lay her head down at night without worry of ever seeing the dark warriors again.

“The Dublin chieftain—the dead man wi’ silver shin guards in the curragh—will probably be buried there. Perhaps ye could go along if King Somerled permits it.”

King Somerled. He’s a king.

“He’s obviously fond of ye,” Elisad said, “so maybe he would allow it.”

“If I could get there,” Breagha cried, “maybe Gille would be there. I know there’s little chance, but . . .”

The old woman gathered her into her arms and rocked her. “There, there, lass. We’ll ask Aud, the judge, to plead for ye at the night’s meetin’.”

“Thank ye, Elisad,” she said, sniffling and wiping away tears. “Gille might not be there, but I would like to try. Even if he’s not, he said the dark warriors may not set foot upon the island.”

“Ye be safe here, lass. Nobody’s gettin’ past King Somerled and Argyll’s warriors.”

“They are no match for these warriors, Elisad.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, lass. Our Somerled defeated the Vikings. Besides, maybe your dark warriors have given up the chase by now.”

“They’ll never give up. If ye could have seen them, the way they looked at me, if ye can even call it looking . . . Oh, I pray ye never know what I mean. I really must get to Iona, if not for my own safety, then for yours, Elisad. Just look at what happened to the kind men of Dublin.”

Elisad laughed. “Sorry, lass, I’m not laughin’ at your story. I’m laughin’ because it be the first time anyone’s called the men of Dublin kind. I still canny believe Godred’s dead. What happened to him at Galloway?”

“Is that what it’s called?” Breagha asked. “I didn’t know.”

“Aye, Galloway. Its king is called Fergus.”

“Oh, aye, him . . . smells of bad fish and strong drink.”

Elisad patted her hand. “I’ve never been close enough to him to smell him, and now I’m grateful for it. Was it he who attacked the Dublin chieftain?”

“No, it was the dark warriors. Fergus merely collected the dead.” She covered her face with her hands. “I tried to warn them. They thought me mad.” She squeezed her eyes shut and doubled over, weeping into her lap.

Elisad enveloped her and rocked her back and forth. “Shush, Breagha, shush.”

“What be wrong wi’ her?” Harald asked, having appeared next to them.

Breagha tensed at the sound of a man’s voice. She squealed, her body convulsing with sobs.

“Go on outside, Harald,” Elisad ordered.

“But it be pishin’ down, woman!”

“I’ll not be tellin’ ye a second time.”

Harald’s footsteps stamped away, and the door slammed.

“There now, lass, dry your eyes.” Elisad lifted Breagha’s chin and wiped the wetness from her cheeks. “Ye be safe here wi’ Harald and Elisad.”

“But ye are not safe with me, Elisad.”

“Now, now, ye let us worry about that. Eat the rest of your porridge, though it likely be cold.”

She had to get to Iona, for herself and for these kind people. “Elisad, who will decide if I may go to Iona?”

“Ye leave that to me, dearie. One thing ye’ll learn is that in order for a woman to gain anythin’ in this life, she has to bend a man’s ear. Ye go on outside for a spell, and send Harald back to me. I’ll do the askin’ for ye.”

Harald had not budged from the doorstep. He stood scowling with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“I’m sorry ye had to come out here because of me,” she said.

“Not the first time that woman’s thrown me out. Won’t be the last.”

“Go back in, Harald. I’d like to take a bit of fresh air.”

“Right, ye promise not to run?”

“No, Harald, if ye didn’t, then neither will I.”

Harald stared blankly at his wife. “She’s mad.”

“Harald, I believe her. I sense that she be different.”

He stood with his hands on his hips. “And based on this belief, ye want me to ask the judge to haul a newly acquired slave to Iona wi’ Godred of Dublin’s corpse?”

“Aye, that’s it exactly, husband.” She patted his shoulder and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Hrmph,” he snorted. “Elisad, even if I had the balls to ask such a thing, I canny.”

“Why not?”

He rubbed his scar with a pair of fingers. “Why, Elisad, I did not say anythin’ in front of the lassie, but I have it on good authority she will be leavin’ shortly.”

“What do ye mean?” Elisad demanded.

“Woman, I mean that she’s promised to Fergus of Galloway. Sorley himself told me as much yesterday when he gave me the cloak. He says to me that we’re to get her lookin’ fine for the night’s meetin’ and that we should care for her properly, as she belongs to Fergus.”

Elisad turned her back to her husband. “Who will tell her?” she asked.

Chapter 6

“Fine, woman, I’ll ask the judge to hear her if it shuts your yap!” Harald stormed out of the hut.

He returned from Eilean Mor a short time later. “The judge will hear her.” He left with a violent heave of the door, lifting it off its lowest hinge pin and scattering chickens outside.

“Come, lass,” Elisad said to Breagha after returning the door to its hinge pin and closing it against the wind, “let’s get ye lookin’ fine.” She patted a bench, and Breagha, who had watched the drama from her bed, slid out from under the covers to take the offered seat.

Elisad ran the king’s comb through Breagha’s hair, tugging through the tangles. Her fingers knocked against Breagha’s skull as she twisted strands into braids. She fitted a crisp headcovering over all. It smelled of the king’s cloak. “Ye be the loveliest lassie in the whole kingdom,” Elisad said. “Such milky skin . . . and those eyes.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “What would I give for a day of youth again?”

As Elisad fussed over her, Breagha daydreamed about Iona. She imagined crystalline waves fizzing onto white crescents of sand. Would there be others on the island seeking sanctuary? Would Gille be among them? She had given up hope of finding him, but here was hope, rising again. That was the thing about hope: it smoldered like embers, needing only a stir to ignite again.

Elisad hummed as she tucked stray hairs under Breagha’s headcovering.

Was this what mothers did? It was as close to maternal tenderness as Breagha had ever experienced. “Ye are a kind woman, Elisad. When I am able, I will repay ye.”

“Och, lassie,” Elisad said, dismissing the compliment. She put her hands on Breagha’s shoulders, and her expression hardened. “Now, Breagha, Harald merely set about to get ye an audience. He canny argue on your behalf. The law be the law, and nobody be better at the law than our old Aud. Slaves be the only ones wi’ no rights, so—”

“—I understand,” Breagha said. Her stomach knotted, and she bounced her knee nervously. “Surely, he will take pity on me.”

Elisad’s expression said otherwise.

“Will he make the decision on his own?” Breagha asked.

“If Aud has any doubts, he will discuss it with the lesser judges, and of course, he has the ear of the king—though even King Somerled himself canny overrule a judge.”

She stilled her jiggling knee. Somerled. The flames of hope licked higher.

Harald returned at sunset, wobbling and reeking of ale.

Elisad snorted her disgust. “Ye been out drownin’ yourself, old man?”

He waved her inquiry away, plonked down by the fire with a bowl of porridge, and belched.

“Come and eat something,” Elisad said to Breagha.

“I’m not sure it would stay down,” Breagha said.

“Eat, lass, if only for me. They’ll not be feedin’ ye at the meetin’, and I don’t want to be sittin’ here thinkin’ of ye chained there wi’ your belly bitchin’.”

“As if the ropes weren’t bad enough, now I’m to expect chains??”

“Aye, I’m sorry, lass . . . Ye do understand that ye be a slave, aye? It does not mean ye’ll be treated harshly, but ye be a captive.”

Breagha drew herself up. “In my village, I am a queen among women.” An idea occurred to her. “What if I showed them the torc as proof?”

“Wha’ torg ye on about?” Harald asked, his voice slurred with ale.

“Eat your porridge, old man,” Elisad said to him. She whispered to Breagha, “I’m afraid they’d just lift it off ye, and ye would still be a slave.”

She felt dizzy. “There’s no chance I’ll be allowed to go to Iona, is there?”

The old woman’s hand brushed against her cheek. “Now, lass, don’t lose heart.” Her voice was strained and weak. “Square your shoulders. Go into that meetin’ proud and beautiful. Look King Somerled right in the eyes. He’ll respect your bravery. Make your request carefully. Let him think that sendin’ ye to Iona be his idea. Don’t go makin’ demands or ye’ll find yourself on Fergus’s ship before the night’s out.” She wagged one of her bony fingers. “Now when they chain ye, ye tell the man named Hakon that Elisad says she be real upset if ye be chained at the wrists.”

“Aye, Elisad,” she said, feeling as though she floated outside her own body.

Breagha wondered if she would ever enjoy a pleasant walk through Finlaggan. Harald waddled beside her, tightly gripping her arm. The ale had worsened his rocking gait, and he stumbled, laughing as he nearly toppled them both.

The four dogs jogged beside them, looking up at her expectantly.

Women gathered in doorways. Children ceased playing and doing their chores. Even the sheep halted mid-chew to stare at her as she passed. She was a spectacle, an oddity, paraded for the village’s amusement.

They passed the chapel and headed toward the loch where causeways stretched out into the water, the first leading to an island supporting the castle. Beyond that, a second causeway led to an islet dominated by a stone hall, smaller than the castle, but still grand by comparison to the huts in the village. Warriors teemed everywhere—on boats gliding around the islands, at tents and campfires lining the beaches, and in groups near the castle and hall.

The road nearest the causeway was paved with stones and crowded with women struggling to hold up drunken men. They shot haughty looks at her. She smoothed her tunic and felt the torc’s hardness beneath it. No matter what these people thought, she was no slave.

Harald delivered her to the water’s edge where two warriors stood guarding the causeway. “Hakon,” he said to one of them, “I be deliverin’ the lazzie.”

“Aye,” the guard muttered, “I’ll take her in.” He was the stern, but kind giant who had delivered her to Harald and Elisad’s hut. He smelled of leather and hot iron.

“The dogs cannot come,” Hakon said.

She panicked. “Oh please. Please,” she begged.

Hakon’s eyes offered no mercy.

“Lazzie, I’ll loog after ‘em,” Harald reassured her, thumping her back too hard.

Hakon took her elbow and led her onto the causeway while the remaining guard blocked the dogs. Rowan leapt into the water and swam alongside them, much to the delight of the crowd. Villagers cheered as the guard fell into the loch while trying to hook Rowan’s collar. By the time Breagha and Hakon reached the first island, all four of the dripping dogs stood waiting to greet them.

One small victory.

“Those be some dogs,” Harald called from the village.

They passed the castle, which was new and of innovative design. She wondered if he had designed it. Was it opulent inside? Was he watching her from one of the arched windows? She sensed that he was and searched the windows for him as Hakon dragged her past the building.

No one prevented the dogs from crossing the second causeway, and their toenails clicked on the stones behind her as they crossed to the islet. When they reached the causeway’s end, Hakon said, “Lassie, the dogs cannot come into the hall.”

“But—”

“No. The dogs cannot come in.”

She recalled Elisad’s warning. Don’t go makin’ demands or ye’ll find yourself on Fergus’s ship before the night’s out. A wave of anxiety cut through her middle. “Stay,” she said to Rowan, who pressed his rump into a mound of pebbles at the building’s front wall. The others took a tentative step toward her, then turned and melted at Rowan’s side. To the warriors loitering near the hall, the dogs probably looked happy enough, but Breagha knew better. They watched her go, their haunches tense and ready to drive them forward.

Hakon led her into the hall where long slabs of creamy, green marble served as tables. Their edges were carved with concentric circles like the standing stones in her village. She tried to read them and then realized they said nothing. They were ornamental only.

Against the far wall, below three sets of stag antlers and a massive battle-axe, a silver-haired man in a saffron tunic sat in a hefty chair. She guessed him to be Gillebride. He did not appear to be animated. Is he drunk?

To the old man’s left, past an empty chair with arms tapering into carved boars’ heads, two elderly men engaged in animated conversation. They looked scholarly, and she guessed them to be judges. Handsome men in pristine tunics stood with tankards or cups in their hands. Others looked weary or drunk—or maybe both—and spoke in seated clusters at the tables. She searched for the king, but he was not among them.

Hakon delivered her to a corner, past a row of sweaty musicians balancing harps on their laps. A man handed him a collar and a length of chain, reminding her to relay Elisad’s instructions. “I am to say that Elisad will be angry if ye bind me by my wrists.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Hakon said, unhooking the collar and spreading it out in front of her face. Though his eyes lost no chill, he stopped short of ringing it around her neck. He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her onto the tips of her toes. “Do ye expect me to believe ye’d stay here without being chained?”

She tried to nod, but couldn’t. “I do,” she said, her words distorted by the pressure against the underside of her tongue. She met his probing gaze and ignored the pain in the arches of her feet.

At last, he released her and said, “We would not want Elisad to be angry, would we? Would not be good for Harald.”

She swallowed and rubbed the fleshy area under her chin.

“Do not make me regret this kindness,” he said, as he bent forward and tidied the chain into a loop.

“What would be the point in trying to escape?” she asked. “Where would I go, when the causeways only lead to another island?”

“Indeed.” He turned his back to her. “Ye are a brave and sensible lassie,” he muttered. “I hope the king allows ye to stay.” He strode away without waiting for a response. He did not seem the sort of man who complimented often, and she saw the value in his opinion. If she impressed the king as easily, the night would be a success.

While the harpists plucked a tune not intended for her enjoyment, she inspected her fellow captives. The scent of fear hung over them like a sodden blanket. Two women shivered at her feet, their golden hair spilling to their waists. The boy from Fergus’s ship stood beyond them. She realized now that he resembled the king, except his nose was straighter. The gold stitching on his neckline, hem, and sleeve ends gleamed, even in the feeble lighting. He wore no chains. Why was a boy of his status in the slave corner? She sought an answer in his eyes, but he turned away.

There were others in the corner, but Breagha could not make them out, and her proximity to the musicians prevented her from hearing anything else.

She turned her attention to the center of the room. The sole survivor from Godred’s ship—the oarsman who had hidden under the dead while the dogs fought on—rested his chin on one hand and pushed food around a platter with the other. Men patted him on the back as they passed. His responsive smiles were fleeting and incapable of wiping away the expression seared onto his face by his last battle.

Ye believe my story now, don’t ye?

Fergus was there, too, alternating his gaze between her and the boy with the gold stitching. She backed away from his leer, deeper into the shado—

Somerled.

She froze. His scent coiled around her and overpowered all others. It pinned her arms to her sides, turned her knees to soup, and drifted up her nostrils, nudging her memory and begging her to remember another time and another place.

It made no sense. He was a stranger, and a dangerous man.

Blackness closed in around her until the room disappeared and took the music and murmur of the crowd with it. She rocked on her heels, unsteady in the infinite shadow, with nothing for company but the king’s scent and her own thrashing heart.

She knew when he moved closer. The heat of him seared her back. Her ears rang, and she felt sick. She could stand no more. She fell into the blackness.

“Ye all right, lassie?” A voice came from some echoing recess. Someone’s rough palm brushed against her cheek. “Lass, are ye hurt?”

The floor was hard. She heard someone’s quick gasps and then realized they were hers. A broad forehead came into focus, then an off-center nose and lips framed by a patchy wheaten beard.

“I’m all right,” she heard herself answer.

An arm as solid as a tree branch slid under her back and helped her to sit up. The king took her hands in his. His callouses and twisted fingers were at odds with his fine garments. He was on his knees, his pained expression exaggerated by a swollen vein over his right eyebrow. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple rose and fell between the two pulsing cords that flanked it.

Ye feel it, too.

They were silent as they measured each other. His eyes were deeply set—sailing eyes, the kind made for scanning horizons and seeking out the world’s edge. She saw intelligence in them, and experience beyond his years. She saw, too, infinite responsibility and conflict. His eyes were like doors, locked doors, to a chamber never visited. She caught the flicker of deep pain just before he blinked and shook his head.

“Lassie, are ye sure ye are all right? I could send for a—”

“—No,” she said, “I’m all right.”

“They tell me your name is Breagha.” Her insides quivered at sound of his tongue rolling over her name.

“Aye, my lord,” she whispered.

He looked disappointed and stood, as if hearing his title had returned him to his senses. “Ye know who I am then.” He lifted her from the floor.

Ask him.

Her head thumped, and she rubbed the back of her neck, trying to remember what Elisad had suggested. She had just settled on what to say when a warrior brushed past them.

Somerled jerked his hands away from hers. “If ye have suffered no harm, then I am away,” he said. “I must not neglect my guests.” He disappeared like a gust of wind, taking his scent with him and leaving her with empty hands and heart.

Bitterness fell like raindrops and formed a trickle that quickly turned to a torrent of resentment. She balled her fists and looked to see where he had gone. He had taken his place on the throne next to the old man. A crown now ringed his head. His hands palmed the boars’ heads at the ends of his chair arms. He held his chin aloft, anger flickering in his eyes.

Had he not been tender? Had he not trembled when holding her hands? Had he not searched her eyes and found longing? Aye, he had, she was sure of it, but she had offended him somehow. Or else he had deemed her unworthy.

Me? Unworthy?

She brushed the matter aside. Now was not the time for bruised feelings. She would ask her question and hope the judge did not ask for the king’s opinion. If he did, she was certain she would never see Iona.

Chapter 7

The years had not stripped Aud of his powerful voice. His words, always delivered with commanding pitch and tone, were like a blacksmith’s hammer on molten iron. When he shouted orders, men cast themselves into whatever shape he wanted. “The meeting will begin!”

Conversations reduced to a low hum as nobles staggered to the tables. The musicians lifted their harps and flutes from their laps and filed out of the room. Bards dashed to the northern wall and prepared to memorize the events that would unfold in front of them and form their next sagas.

Aud’s iron rod struck the floor. Servants rushed to refill tankards and cups before scurrying out of the room. “Again, I say, the meeting will begin!”

Somerled avoided the slave corner. His balls ached, annoying him at a time when he should have been enjoying the first meeting since the restoration of the clans. He had done this; he would savor it. The girl had weakened him, just like the baron’s daughter had at King David’s court. He would not allow it. Not now, not ever.

He seized the carvings on his chair arms, welcoming the pain as the boars’ oaken ears dug into his palms and distracted him from thoughts of the girl.

“Are there any among Argyll’s guests and nobles who wish to be heard?” Aud asked the crowd.

Fergus stood.

Aud raised an age-spotted hand and motioned for him to approach.

Somerled glared at his cousin, longing to slice his throat and kick his head back like a hinged gangplank. Fergus had tricked him into promising the lassie to him before he had a chance to see her. Harald the Dread had alleged she could scent as well as any dog. Is that why Fergus wanted her? Did he plan to sell her? Make her his mistress?

What difference does it make? She is just a lassie, with no land or title.

“Fergus of Galloway,” Aud announced, “welcome to Finlaggan. State your business.”

“Thank you. I wish to offer my sincere gratitude to the people of Argyll, and especially to its king.” He bowed to Somerled before continuing. “I wish to thank him for the assurances he has given Galloway.” He faced the nobles, his grace and cultured upbringing evident.

I’d share your fine manners if I hadn’t been raised in a cave.

Fergus continued, “I am pleased to leave my son among you.” He gestured toward the slave corner with a wave of his hand. Somerled did not follow it.

“I wish to solidify our understanding with regard to my son’s care,” Fergus continued, “as he is loved by both myself and his people.”

Somerled said to Aud, “If there’s no legal objection, I will promise to look after . . . what is his name again?”

“Erc,” Fergus replied, bending forward in a cock-eyed bow.

“Erc,” Somerled repeated. “I will look after Erc as though he is my own brother. That’s what family does . . . looks after one another.”

Fergus’s ears turned crimson as Somerled hammered away at his conscience. “He will be treated as a noble and occupy a chamber within my own castle. I will return him to ye at the next meeting. Satisfactory?”

“And you will see to his training?”

“Aud and the monks of Iona will see to his education, and Hakon will train him as a warrior. That is, if Aud sees no legal reason why this should not be so.”

“No reason,” Aud ruled.

“Then it shall be so,” Somerled said. “Get my new brother a chair.” He nodded to Hakon, who disappeared into the corner and reappeared with Erc, who was given a seat in front of the bards.

With Fergus satisfied and re-seated, Aud moved on to other business. There were matters of tribute, protection, and supplies for discussion and ruling. The lesser kingdoms had sent several cases of assault, insult, and petty theft for hearing, as the inferior judges from the distant lands had no precedents on which to base their rulings. On these matters, Aud conferred with Beathunes, the ancient judge from Suibhne, and the two set the new laws that would serve as precedent.

When they had settled all matters pertaining to free men, Aud announced that it was time to address the slave tribute. Hakon delivered the captives singly to the front of the hall for judgment, except for two women whom even he, with his vast strength, could not separate.

“With their golden hair, they will be worth much in the eastern market,” Aud said.

Somerled regarded the uncovered hair gleaming about their shoulders. His mother’s had been the same color, though he had only seen it uncovered once—on the day her blood and brains glued it to the forest floor.

The older of the two women glowered at Somerled and locked her arms around a hysterical girl who was surely her sister. Hakon, who deemed their fate in the east decided, pulled the chains attached to their neck collars to lead them away.

“Wait,” Somerled said, facing his palm to his chief guard. “Not so fast. I have something else in mind.”

“They are worth twice the price of the others, my lord,” Aud said, raising an eyebrow.

“Are ye Norse?” Somerled asked the woman in her native language.

“Yes,” the woman said, her scowl fading. “I am Runa. This is my sister, Dalla.” The younger girl, hearing her name and native language, peeked at him through her tear-soaked hair. “I beg you, sir, do not send us to the eastern market.”

“The route to that market is well-watered with Gaelic tears,” Somerled replied. “Why should I show mercy when your people offered none to mine?”

“I suspect not all of your dealings with the Norse have been unpleasant. This dog pinching my arm is Norse,” she said, looking at Hakon, “but he holds a position of authority in your hall, and your own fair hair and face are not so different from mine.”

She would raise fearless sons. “Send these two with Maguire to the new Dublin chieftain with instructions to treat them well,” he said to Aud.

Hakon translated Somerled’s judgment into Runa’s ear. Her eyes brightened, but she stopped short of a smile.

“But, Sorley,” Aud whispered, “think of their value.”

“No,” Somerled said, “they go to Thorkill as an expression of sympathy for Dublin’s loss.”

Aud shook his head. “So judged,” he said, waving the women away.

“I shall never forget this kindness,” Runa said, as Hakon handed her chains to another guard.

Kindness begets kindness, his mother used to say. Kindness got her killed, that’s what it did.

Hakon brought a Norse boy forward for judgment. He was a boy any man would be proud to sire, wide and sturdy, facing uncertainty with balled fists. “Do ye understand me, lad?” Somerled whispered.

The boy glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Yes.” His voice was unshaken.

“Ye seem to be a brave lad, and a wise one, I would imagine. I can send ye to some far-off place to be sold for Odin-knows-what and maybe the Fates will smile and weave ye a happy destiny. Or ye can stay here, live with a kind family, eat and sleep well, and train in the arts of war. In this way, ye can shape your own destiny. Which do ye choose, lad?”

The boy bit his lip as he considered. “I will stay.”

Somerled patted him on the back and smiled at Aud. “Good choice, wee lad. What is your name?”

“Skald.”

“From now on, ye will be called Skald the Blood Axe.” He motioned for one of his specialized warriors, who approached at once. “Take him into your home. He is now your son. Ye are to train him as a berserker. Understand?”

“Aye, my lord.” The man nodded, took the boy’s hand, and led him out of the room.

“There’s only one more,” Hakon said to Aud. “Her fate is decided, but she begs to be heard.”

Somerled’s heart thundered in his chest as Hakon headed for the corner. Be still, man. She’s a lassie, not a wall of Norman knights. He tightened his grip on the boars’ heads so no one would notice his trembling hands. The oak was tacky with what was probably his own blood, but he dared not look.

When she stepped into the torchlight, he exhaled as though someone had punched him in the gut. She glided between the tables with the elegance of a queen. Her hair was covered, but he remembered that it was the color of a polished coin. There was something about her, something unique and ethereal. Even at a distance, her eyes radiated like Iona greenstone held in front of the sun.

Her pallor increased as she approached, her nostrils flared, and her knees appeared to buckle. She braced herself against Hakon’s arm. He whispered something to her, and she replied, “I cannot. Please, this is close enough.”

Hakon looked at Aud and shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s fine,” Aud announced, raising a palm, “as long as she can hear from there, let’s just get it over with.” He leaned over to whisper to Somerled. “This is highly irregular, Sorley. I pray pardon, but Harald the Dread requested a hearing on her behalf. He has only ever asked for one other thing in his life, and I agreed to hear her for his sake. Her fate is already sealed, as ye know.”

Aye, he knew. His haste had sealed it. “I will allow it,” he replied, curious what the girl wanted. “Just get on with it. For Harald’s sake.” Harald may have requested the hearing, but Elisad was likely behind it. The old woman’s heart was as soft as fresh butter.

“Ye may proceed,” Aud advised. “What would ye wish us to consider?”

Somerled strained to hear her, but her voice was lost amid the rising murmur of the disinterested crowd.

Aud rammed down his stick three times. “A bit of patience and honor! We have agreed to let this lassie be heard.”

The crowd fell silent, thoroughly chastised.

“Thank ye,” she said. “I wish to go to Iona with Godred of Dublin.”

Somerled leaned forward. What was her connection to Godred?

“What interest do ye have in Dublin’s dead?” Aud asked.

At last, she looked at Somerled, but it was only a darting glance. “It’s . . . I have no . . . It is only that I must go to Iona.”

Aud exhaled loudly. “Lassie, unless ye give me some compelling reason . . .” Aud had never been a patient man.

She took a step forward. Hakon grabbed her arm. “I— Please!” she cried, wrenching free of his grip. “Let me explain—” Hakon grabbed her tunic and yanked her back. She rubbed the back of her neck.

Somerled suppressed the urge to rush to her.

The now-rapt crowd stared open-mouthed at the events unfolding in the hall. A slave girl shrieking demands was unheard of. Whatever reason she had for going to Iona was important to her, but Somerled’s nobles would soon begin to wonder why he was tolerating a slave’s request. Maybe she was a devout Christian, a lost follower of Saint Columba. That was admirable, but the spectacle had gone on long enough.

Aud sought direction. “How shall I answer her, Sorley? There is no law pertaining to slave wishes, and we cannot set a dangerous precedent.”

“This lassie and her dogs were promised to Fergus of Galloway. It is his decision alone. If he allows her to accompany Godred’s body to Iona, then we can offer no objection.” There. It would not be his decision.

Her lips parted in apparent disbelief.

Fergus rose to his feet. “No, King Somerled, I cannot allow it.” He sat down as quickly as he had stood.

Aud’s rod struck the floor. “The matter is then decided.”

The shock spreading across her face was like a sword through Somerled’s belly. Hakon tugged at her arm, but she held her ground, her watering eyes locked on Somerled’s. Hakon scowled, muttered something, and lifted her from the floor. He threw her over his shoulder, much to the amusement of the nobles, who laughed as she beat her fists against his back. Fresh blood blossomed on the bandages covering her wrists.

“No!” she cried, trying to look up as Hakon hurried toward the door. “Please, do not sentence me to this fate, I beg ye! Somerled! Somerled, please! Do ye not feel—”

Hakon cut off her plea with a slam of the door.

The room turned eerily quiet before erupting in raucous laughter. Men shook their heads and slapped their thighs.

Somerled stood. He longed to draw his sword and charge along the tables beheading men. The bastards were cruel for delighting in her suffering. He drank a tankard of ale in its entirety and waved for more, fighting the impulse to run outside. A woman arrived with a flagon to refill his tankard. She was one of twenty formerly gaunt souls he had rescued from the Viking stronghold at Loch Shiel and one of many more relying on him to marry well.

His attraction to Breagha was a fit of passion, nothing more, just as his attraction to the baron’s daughter had been. At King David’s court, passion had stripped him of sense, and he had suffered the consequences. He could afford to be a little reckless then, when so few people depended on him. Things had changed.

He would fight the growing obsession with Breagha. She would soon be gone from Finlaggan and he could concentrate on securing a marriage to Ragnhilde, who would know her place, and whose actions would be guided by her desire for his success.

He ran his hands through his hair and the action stung his injured palms. He was sweating. His balls ached miserably. It was hot.

He could just take Breagha, make her his mistress. Aye, he could do that. He would marry Ragnhilde, but keep the lassie as his mistress. No, that wouldn’t work. One woman never tolerated another. He’d end up with nothing but incessant bitching. Besides, Breagha was Fergus’s property, and Argyll needed a friendly Fergus.

Suffer it, this is madness!

“The meeting is ended,” Aud announced with another tap of his rod.

Chapter 8

Waves rocked in rhythmic thrusts against Eilean Mor’s fire-speckled shoreline.

Somerled staggered and swayed in the darkness, not caring that his boots were wet. His mind replayed Breagha’s plea.

Again and again, Hakon dragged her away. Again and again, she asked, Do ye not feel? before her question dissipated like sea spray, just as it had at the meeting, just as it had a hundred times since.

Feel what? Anger? The chill of the air? The ache in my balls and shaft?

The matted cape he wore smelled of another man’s sweat. It was too heavy for a night that mixed ale and regret, but it allowed him to weave anonymously among his men.

Do ye not feel?

Rows of tents stretched along the loch in jagged silhouettes against a starry sky.

Somerled flopped down next to an abandoned fire and picked up a charred stick he found there. The bleeding on his palms had stopped, but they were sore.

The meeting had been a success. Galloway and Argyll were secretly allied. Bethoc was likely married to Malcolm by now. Father was fed, warm, and dry. The kingdom was thriving, right under the noses of the Scottish, Norse, and Manx thrones. I should be happy. He poked at the embers with the stick. What is wrong with me?

Do ye not feel?

In the tent behind him, a man’s grunts kept time with a woman’s rising moans. Somerled sprang to his feet and hurled the stick into the fire, sending sparks racing toward heaven. He headed for loch, racing along its edge in an attempt to outrun the arousal that had harassed him all night. His swelling shaft outpaced him and dampened his tunic with secretions it failed to contain. He did not know how long or how far he had walked, but when his senses returned to him, he had crossed the causeway to Finlaggan and was facing Harald the Dread’s spinning door.

Do ye not feel?

His breaths puffed in front of his face. He owed Breagha no explanation, and she owed him no completion of the question. He raised a hand, but stopped short of knocking. She almost certainly despised him. She was not a fitting match for him, offering no land or political gain. A woman like Ragnhilde would never tolerate her. “What are ye doing? Ye’re drunk,” he whispered to himself. He dropped his arm to his side, pivoted on his heels, and began to stagger away.

Mruff.

Those damned dogs.

The door squealed on its hinge pins. “My lord king,” Elisad said, “ye be out late, and on this cold night, as well.” She opened the door wide, revealing a snarling, waist-high dog. “Go on ye out,” Elisad ordered, slapping its rump. The animal brushed past him, ears pinned back, with a terrier at its hocks.

“Come ye in, my lord,” the old woman said. She shuffled away from the open doorway to stoke the fire.

He entered without a word and dropped his borrowed cape onto a bench.

“Harald,” Elisad croaked toward a heap of furs. When there was no response, she raised her voice. “Husband, get up.”

Harald moaned. His white hand flashed in the darkness.

“Harald!”

“Och, woman. Let me sleep. Whatever it is, get it yourself.”

She lifted a rod from a peg and hobbled to the pile of furs, whacking at it until Harald sat up.

“What, woman! What the—” Harald’s toothless mouth fell open. “Sorley, my apologies.” He snatched the rod from Elisad and used it to push himself up.

Somerled scanned the dim corners of the room. Elisad lit a lamp, and Breagha’s face brightened above a bed, her shadow decorating the wall behind her. She rose up onto an elbow, accentuating the concave arc that dipped between her ribs and hip. Her eyes were puffy, and her hair was wavy from undone braids. It brushed over shoulders he imagined were as smooth as primrose petals.

“Come, husband,” Elisad said, “I bent the rod on ye. We’ll be needin’ to see Murchad about a new one.”

“What do ye mean, woman? At this hour?” the old man exclaimed. “It be the middle of the night!”

She shoved a fist into his side and flicked her chin toward Somerled.

“Oh,” Harald said, as the two of them hobbled outside.

She was a slave. He could take her if he wanted. He moved toward her and she backed away, pressing her body against her shadow on the wall. She lost her grip on the cloak she held in front of her—his cloak, the one he’d sent with Harald. It slipped from her fist, exposing an obviously borrowed, threadbare tunic. At its gaping neckline, a torc reflected the lamplight.

On any other day, he would ask how a slave owned such finery. He would rip it from her neck and demand to know where he could find more like it. But tonight, he barely noticed the gold, finding greater value in the swanlike neck it ringed. He took another step toward her, loosening the belt and blades at his waist. They clattered to the floor.

“Aye,” he said, rocking unsteadily on his heels.

“Wha—?” Her voice was hoarse. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

“Aye,” he repeated, “I feel as ye do. Is that not what ye started to ask me at the meeting?”

Her lips stretched into a tight line. The lamplight accentuated the glints in her welling eyes, and she stared at him, unblinking. Her resolve not to cry was as evident as her pain, but at last, two tears escaped, betraying her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting harder than he had intended on the edge of the bed. He was lightheaded and floating outside himself, saying things he shouldn’t say.

She searched his face, and he hoped she found honesty in his apology. She laced her fingers into his and pulled him toward her. “I forgive ye,” she said.

A mixture of relief and shame washed over him. There was no time to explore why; his overwhelming need for her overpowered him. He braced himself on his elbows above her and traced her jaw with his finger, closing one eye to stop her face from spinning. His palm grazed her throat and slid past the torc. Her skin was as soft as he had imagined. He plunged his hand deeper inside her warm tunic, found her breast and squeezed it gently. The salt on her skin stung the cuts on his hand.

Her expression was both passionate and fearful. “I . . . I don’t know what ye do to me,” she whispered. Another tear slid out of her eye, and he wiped it away.

“If your mind is as muddled as my own, then I am indeed sorry,” he said, tracing her eyebrow, “but I confess I am relieved to know that I do not suffer alone.” He studied her face, desire incinerating him. His rigid shaft throbbed miserably as he awaited a signal from her giving him permission to proceed.

She looked at him tentatively, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the thong at his nape. His loosened hair spilled onto her face. She plowed her fingers into it, at first stroking the strands and then twisting and tugging until he was no longer able to tell the difference between pleasure and pain. She was angry and hurting him—inflicting pain on him, the King of Argyll!—and he didn’t want her to stop.

His lips met hers, and the kiss was anything but gentle. They clawed at each other, frantic and breathless. It was familiar somehow. He recognized the feel of her arms and legs around him. He knew the slippery heat he would find when he entered her. He would spill inside her as he had before, countless times. Ragnhilde, be damned; he would do it. He would spill into Breagha, and a child would grow—an embodiment of their inexplicable affection for one another. She would give him a son, a fearless son, one like Skald the Blood Axe, the brave, stout lad at tonight’s meeting.

The meeting . . . Fergus.

“Wait,” he said, easing his mouth away from hers. “We canny.”

She moaned and lifted her head off the bed to find his lips again.

“No, wait, we must not,” he repeated, sitting up. “There’s Fergus to consider.”

The passionate glaze in her eyes vanished. “But I . . .” Her eyebrows knitted together. “But we . . .” She closed the open neckline of her tunic and backed away from him.

“I’m sorry.” Embarrassed, he rose and threw on his clothes. He bolted to the door, charging past Harald and Elisad, who huddled under a fur just outside. Harald muttered something, but Somerled jogged past without caring. He stormed through the sleeping village until he reached the chapel. There, he leaned against a high cross that marked the final resting place of a long-dead Christian. The surface felt cool on his forehead.

“Are ye all right?” a woman’s voice asked in the darkness.

He drew his dagger and jumped into a defensive crouch. His assailant screamed and covered her face with her hands.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered for the third time that night, returning the dagger to its sheath. “Ye startled me.”

“Deepest apologies, my lord king.”

Her face was pale. He could not see her uncovered hair but guessed it was black.

“Well, are ye all right?”

He nodded and rubbed at the vein on his forehead. “What are ye doing in the graveyard at this hour?”

“I could not sleep,” she replied. “I came to visit my husband.” She gestured toward a flat, unadorned grave slab.

“I’m sorry,” he said for the fourth time that night.

“It is incredibly lonely, ye know, to lose the one who completes ye.”

“I can only imagine,” he replied, thinking the widow in the graveyard was very pretty. “I confess I know not who ye are.”

“I’m a stitcher from Suibhne, brought by my chieftain to repair sails.” She stared at her husband’s grave for a moment before continuing. “My husband was a good man, but he was a thief. My village accused him, but our judge could not come to a decision. He was brought here for Aud’s ruling.” She sighed and bent to rip a weed away from the stone. “While he was here, he tried to steal something and was struck down by a warrior’s sword.”

“Was it he who attempted to lift the Gospels from the chapel?”

“Aye,” she said, “that’s right.” She turned her face to the sky, as if searching for her husband in the stars. “I loved him in spite of his stealing. When love finds ye, it takes away all your good sense. The worst is when ye need that person . . . in that way, and ye lie there in the darkness with such want that ye canny sleep.”

The throbbing in his shaft had not subsided, and his balls and belly ached. He needed relief, and he was just drunk enough to suggest it. “I could ease your suffering if ye wish. I do not care if ye imagine that I am your husband.”

It took only an instant for them to fall to the wet grass. He lifted her tunic, and she clawed at his. He plunged his shaft into her, not caring if he skinned her back on the grave of her dead husband. He rammed his shaft in and out, and when her breaths came in rapid succession, he spilled into her with a groan, then laughed wildly and sagged on top of her.

He kissed behind her ear. “Breagha . . .”

“No,” she whispered between gasps, “my name is Mersin.”

“I’m sorry,” he said for the fifth time that night.

Chapter 9

“Come, lass, ye need to be gettin’ up now,” Elisad said.

Had it been a dream? The dried tears at the corners of her eyes indicated that it had not been.

“Ingeborg will be here to collect us soon,” the old woman announced. “We’re to help wi’ the sails.” She tidied her few pieces of furniture and hobbled to the low fire to give some porridge a stir.

He said he feels as I do. Breagha’s throat tightened. What did I do wrong?

“Lassie, I do know a bit about how ye must feel.” The old woman’s voice was barely audible over the scraping noises made by her wooden spurtle in the cauldron.

“It’s hopeless.”

“I would not give up just yet. I’ve seen the way the king looks at ye. He may just find a way to let ye stay.”

“If ye had been at the meeting, Elisad, ye would not be so certain.”

“Lassie, a blind man sittin’ in a cave in the Orkneys could see he be in love wi’ ye. Everybody be talkin’ about it.”

Breagha’s cheeks stung. “He has an odd way of showing it.”

Elisad paused her stirring. “Harald was tellin’ me that our king be in a bind where ye are concerned. He promised ye to Fergus before he ever clapped eyes on ye. Harald was told the king’s head nearly twisted off when ye sailed past.”

Breagha recalled the image of Somerled, open-legged and surrounded by brightly colored shields and flashing weaponry. Men had towered around him, and yet, he was somehow the tallest man onboard. Her fingers stroked the fur neckline of his cloak, the very hairs that had tickled his jaw that day. He must have been cold after he threw this to me. She lifted it to her nose.

Elisad abandoned her stirring and crossed the room to sit beside Breagha on the bed.

“Elisad, his scent. It does something to me.” The old woman’s mottled hands enveloped hers. “I lose all reason. I become like an animal that cannot help but follow a trail.”

“Maybe love has a scent,” Elisad said.

“I loved Gille and never experienced anything like this.” She searched for an explanation Elisad might understand. “It’s as if his scent has roused a sleeping memory. I remember him somehow, which is impossible, since I’ve never met him before I arrived in Finlaggan. His scent calls to me . . . like summer calls home the swans. I am powerless against its pull. I feel as though my soul is awake now and knows it is only half of a whole.”

“Anamchara.”

“What?”

“Anamchara. It means soul mates. Maybe Somerled be yours. Or, maybe ye just be love-struck. Ye’ll not be the first to go weak in the middle on seein’ him.”

Breagha was not innocent enough to think Somerled had never been with another woman, but the thought of it instantly heated her cheeks.

Elisad said, “Ye just need to remember that in spite of his power, Somerled is an ordinary man. Probably easier for me because I remember him as a knobby-kneed lad. For a while, the missus was concerned he wouldn’t grow into his knees.” She cackled and slapped her thigh. “Looked like a newborn colt for a good portion of his youth, he did.”

It was amusing to imagine the King of Argyll on spindly legs.

“Always has had that presence about him, though,” Elisad added, her smile fading. “Carries himself in a manner that commands respect. He’s as changeable as the wind though, wi’ a violent temper ready to boil over at a moment’s notice. Men fear him as a result and, for the most part, keep their distance.”

“Has he never married?”

“No, nor will he, not until he finds a marriage that brings him more property or a title.”

“I have neither.”

“Aye, that be true. But I’ve known him most of his life, and I’ve never seen him gawk at a woman as he does at ye. His sufferin’ must be great, for he believes he must marry well for Argyll. I’d rather he follow his heart. His heart has served him—and us—well so far. Ask anybody and they’d agree, but King Somerled believes what he believes.”

“Elisad, how many nights do ye suppose I have left here?” Breagha fixed her gaze on the purple stripe in Somerled’s cloak.

“Well, I canny imagine Fergus stayin’ longer than a week.”

A week. “I wish I could stay here,” she said, then remembered that it was probably best for everybody if she went away. The dark warriors were still out there . . . somewhere.

“Me as well, lassie, me as well. Always wanted a child, but God never blessed me wi’ one. Ye’d be a lovely child to have, too.” The old woman gave her a squeeze and stood from the bed. She shuffled over to a cupboard and returned with a basket. “Come now,” she said, lifting Breagha’s chin with her knobby hand. “Best be takin’ your mind off things. I remember when I first went to Dublin, stayin’ busy eased the hurt. Don your tunic, grab the cloak the king gave ye, and let’s be away.”

Breagha eyed the garment steeped in Somerled’s scent. “If it’s all the same to ye, Elisad, could I borrow a simple blanket or a fur?”

Elisad scowled. “Be wise now. Ye do not wish to offend the king.”

“Why, what will he do? Send me to some far-off place as a slave to a man who reeks of bad fish and drink?” The thought of Fergus’s stench nearly made her retch. “He’s already done that. No, I’d rather wear a fur if ye do not mind.”

“Perhaps it will not be as bad as ye think. Fergus is a powerful man. If ye can charm him and stay in his good favor, and if ye be crafty, he may eventually take ye to that island ye be wantin’ to see.”

Breagha hadn’t considered that. As she dressed, she pondered the possibilities of winning favor with Fergus. Certainly, he had been curious about her scenting ability. “Perhaps if I could use my talents to Fergus’s advantage somehow . . .”

Elisad winked and tapped her forehead. “Now ye be usin’ your noggin’. Ye may be a slave now, but only by circumstance, not by crime. There be a huge difference. Ye can work your way to a higher station if ye be careful, and wi’ them green eyes of yours, there may be no limit for ye.

“And ye know what?” she continued. “Maybe ye’ll find that your heart softens toward Fergus. Look at me an’ that wretch I’m married to. Do ye think I was anxious to join him in his bed at first? No, but I grew to love him over the seasons, and as he grows more wrinkled, I dread the day his dead heathen relatives come to escort him to Valhalla.”

Impressing Fergus was a good plan, but if the dark warriors appeared, it would be a waste of time.

A scuffling noise outside the door caught their attention.

“We’d better go. Here’s Ingeborg.” Elisad slipped her arm under the basket’s handle. “Grab one of the furs if ye be wantin’ it.”

Breagha did just that, throwing a scornful glance at the cloak that lay crumpled on the bed.

As they walked, Elisad and Ingeborg chattered, but Breagha was far away, silently implementing a plan to make herself indispensable to Fergus of Galloway. She would be so precious to Fergus that he would refuse to travel without her. And maybe if she secretly killed him, she could accompany his body to Iona.

She saw Gille in her mind, surrounded by the children in the forest, his tunic so white it glowed. Never kill, children. She pressed her torc flat against her chest. Where were the others who wore the torcs? Most likely all dead.

Gille had also said they should only give themselves fully to the one who completes them. When she had asked how they would know, he had said, You will know, child.

At the time, it had sounded silly. She and Nairna had giggled. It wasn’t funny now. I found him, Gille, and I tried. See how well it worked for me.

“Breagha,” Elisad said, “are ye plannin’ to walk all the way to Loch Indaal?”

Ingeborg laughed as Breagha returned to Elisad’s side.

“What a day, aye, Agnetha?” Ingeborg asked a woman seated on a flat rock barely accommodating her wide bottom. The rock was just one of several encircling baskets of fabric, thread, needles, strips of sealskin, and buckets of what appeared to be grease.

“Aye,” Agnetha replied. “When that sun breaks over those trees, it’s gonny be a day to remember.” Her cheerful face was pudgy and spider-webbed with pink. Red curls, which she had not been careful to hide under her headcovering, sprang merrily as she talked.

Elisad and Ingeborg set down their baskets and selected their seats. Breagha chose the rock closest to Elisad. Cool but comfortable, worn smooth by countless backsides. She was still smoothing her apron when Agnetha craned her neck and announced, “Och, here they come.”

A crowd of men carried heaps of sails toward them. One of them berated a boy who fumbled with the tail end of a sheet. “Ye snag that sail, lad, an’ I’ll beat the hide off ye.”

The boy skipped ahead on his wobbly legs.

“Where do ye want ‘em?” a barrel-chested man asked.

“Flop ‘em there next to yon lassie”—Agnetha nodded toward Breagha—“only save yon rock, Bjorg. I’m told we’ve another stitcher joining us. Though, from what I understand, her activities of the last night may make her a bit late.”

“Aye,” Bjorg replied, “I heard that as well.”

Elisad’s eyes darted to Breagha. She blushed and brushed at something on the fabric covering her knees.

The men dumped the sails next to Breagha, and the scent of salt and sea wafted up to her.

A thick shock of hair and an equally dense beard hid most of Bjorg’s face. From somewhere inside the mess, his voice commanded, “Now, missus, most of these are intact, but the wind has stretched ’em out some. You’ll need to stitch ’em at the seams an’ stiffen ’em up some if ye can.”

“Oh aye, Bjorg, I’ll stiffen ’em. Is there anything else ye’d like me to stiffen for ye while ye’re here?” She batted her eyelashes and doubled over her lap in laughter.

Bjorg reddened, turned on his heels, and stormed away amid taunts and smacks on the back. When they were nearly out of sight, he turned and shouted, “I’ll be back to get the sails in two days.”

“Ye believe that?” Agnetha whispered to Ingeborg. “Been repairing sails all my life, an’ never had a man tell me how to do it before.”

“Aye, Agnetha, it was an insult,” Ingeborg spat. “Every woman in this an’ the lesser kingdoms knows ye’re the very best stitcher.” She waved at a midge flitting in front of her eyes. “Why, did ye not just finish the most magnificent sail for King Somerled’s new bìrlinn?”

Bìrlinn?

Elisad provided a definition for the word. “Breagha, ye should see the king’s newest galley.” She inhaled dramatically and rolled her eyes. “Och, ye have never seen anythin’ as lovely. Harald tells me it is steered differently. There be no steerboard at the side.” She shook her head and threaded a needle. “Somerled’s been inventin’ things since he was wee, really useful things, too. Never does anythin’ half-arsed.”

Breagha thought of Nairna and her inventions. She hoped her friend had survived the invasion.

“Have ye seen the galley in the sun?” Ingeborg asked. “The gilt of the eyes an’ teeth of the dragon. Ye’d swear it’s alive. It’s frightful on its own, but imagine the sight of it filled with Argyll’s warriors. Enough to scare entire villages off.”

“An’ Agnetha here”—Elisad nodded in the direction of the woman straddling the rock opposite her—“sewed the most glorious sail for it. ‘Tis blood red, and the seams are stitched wi’ saffron thread.”

“I’d like to see it,” Breagha replied. “Perhaps he’ll sail it to Galloway someday, and I’ll see it there.”

“Aye, perhaps,” Ingeborg said, merriment leaving her eyes. “I hope he does. I am told the king is fond of ye.”

An awkward silence followed, broken only by approaching footsteps. A petite woman carried her basket to the stones. “I’m Mersin,” she announced, “of Suibhne.”

“Aye, we were told ye’d join us,” Agnetha replied. “Welcome. I have heard ye’re an able stitcher. We were just about to begin. Thread a needle and let’s be on wi’ it.”

Breagha assisted as well as she could, holding the sail taut while the women reinforced the seams with strips of sealskin. Eventually, Elisad showed her how to dip the thread into the fat and sew some stitches. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, sitting there in the sun listening to the punch of the needles through the wool. The afternoon passed quickly, with long stretches of pensive silence broken by periods of merry chatter.

“Och, would ye look at that? I broke me needle,” Elisad said. “Breagha, be a dearie and fetch one from the bucket.”

Breagha lifted the sail from her lap and bent over Mersin’s legs to hook the bucket’s rope handle.

Somerled.

She gasped and looked excitedly toward the path. There was no one there.

“What’s the matter wi’ ye, lassie?” Ingeborg inquired.

“Nothing,” she replied, “just a bit dizzy.”

“Ye have had no sleep,” Elisad said. “I always say to Harald, ye canny do a day’s work wi’out a complete night of sleep.”

The women replied in unison, “Aye, Elisad, ye are so right.”

While they discussed the benefits of a proper night’s sleep, Breagha arched her back as if she wished to stretch. She inhaled, sifting through the scents in the air. His was not among them. She was confused. She was quite certain she had smelled him. Maybe he had come to apologize and changed his mind, or perhaps he wanted to tell her that he had decided not to send her with Fergus after all. It was just as likely she was losing her mind. Or, perhaps as Elisad had said, she needed sleep.

“I hardly mean to criticize,” Agnetha said to Mersin, “but I canny give this sail back to Bjorg wi’ a seam going directly down the middle of the sheet.”

“Oh!” Mersin exclaimed. “I’m sorry. I was not paying attention.”

“Ye have hardly said much since ye arrived,” Agnetha said. “What’s got your thoughts?”

“Och, ’tis nothing. I think I’m just tired.” She kept her head bent over her work.

“Seems we have another among us needing sleep, Elisad.” Agnetha winked at Ingeborg before continuing. “Tired, are ye? Would that have anything to do wi’ ye grieving so late in the graveyard the last night, now would it?”

Mersin’s needle popped through the fabric and halted mid-stitch. Ingeborg stifled a giggle with her hand, leaving greasy fingerprints on her cheeks. Breagha was appalled that the women found humor in Mersin’s grief.

Agnetha pressed on. “The shipwright’s wife was telling me this very morning that she was helping her husband home from the fires an’ she witnessed your grief.”

Elisad’s effort to change the subject was evident. “Dearie,” she said to Mersin, “ye’d better rip that seam out an’ start it over. Pull it a wee bit tighter now. Breagha, give Mersin the ripper. It be the sharp piece of bone there.”

Breagha stretched out to hand the ripper to Mersin. The weight of the sail pulled her off-balance and the ripper clattered to the ground. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Both she and Mersin leaned off their stones to reach for it, nearly knocking their heads together.

Mersin. Mersin smelled of Somerled.

An unseen assailant kicked Breagha squarely in the belly. She grew faint, then furious. She wanted to take the ripper and gouge out Mersin’s eye. Gille’s words echoed in her head. It’s fine to be angry, Breagha, but never kill. Give yourself fully to the one you love.

I did. Look how he rewarded me.

Chapter 10

Ribbons of smoke in the corridor writhed as Somerled passed through them. He stopped short of the feasting hall, narrowly avoiding notice as the chieftain from Suibhne passed by. Shame stabbed at his middle, but reason instantly healed the wound. He could lay with the widow from Suibhne if he wanted. His nobles would think no less of him if they knew. Suffer it, most of the virile barbarians would respect him for it. Still, remorse bubbled at a slow boil. He could not explore it now. There would be time for that later.

In the castle’s feasting hall, Dugall recited his newest saga, his voice rising and falling in pitch and intensity until the story breathed. By the time Dugall’s last consonant echoed, he had lifted the King of Argyll to godlike status.

To think that a few years ago, my only possessions were an aching belly and a bitter heart. I wonder what the baron’s daughter would think of me now? He hoped she had married a man thrice her age and died giving birth to his ugly brat.

A crosier clacked behind him. Aud was always on time. “Ye ready, lad?” A fatherly hand touched his shoulder.

“Aye,” he answered.

Aud gave him a firm pat and brushed past, shedding the casualness the two men shared in private. The nobles, seeing Aud enter the hall, ended their conversations and selected seats at the tables. Somerled waited a respectable moment, and then followed him.

“To the king,” someone shouted.

“The king,” the rest echoed, their toast lacking its earlier fervor. They looked as rough as Somerled felt. His thumping head was as unwieldy as a soup cauldron.

Somerled nodded his acknowledgment and took his seat beside Aud on the dais built against the western wall. He silenced his nobles with a raise of his palm. “Our meeting has been both trying and satisfying.”

Trying and Satisfying . . . Breagha and Mersin! His chest tightened and for a moment, he was at a loss for words. Concentrate!

“I, eh, will not subject ye to a speech. I suspect your heads are every bit as sore as my own.” He waited for the polite laughter to diminish. “I believe our private conversations over these past few days have addressed all concerns. However, if any still exists, I ask ye to make it known to me before ye swear your oath.” No one spoke. Men with full bellies rarely complained. “When this matter is finished, I have something to show ye.”

Men looked at each other, their whispers rising to a low rumble. He was aware of his reputation as an inventor. When he was a child, the local abbot claimed his innate knowledge of design was a gift from God. Maybe it was, or maybe he just hated doing things the hard way.

Like most of his ideas, his latest had come to him in a dream. It surpassed anything he had ever shown them and would change the way men sailed. It would remove all doubt as to his competence and worthiness, and he would take great pleasure in wielding it like a club, but Aud was a stickler for procedure, and procedure dictated that those who had not sworn fealty must do so now.

Aud leaned over and gestured toward Fergus. “Sorley,” he whispered, “what of Fergus?”

“Ours is a loose alliance,” Somerled said. “His oath is neither expected nor demanded.”

“But should he bear witness to the swearing of oaths?”

“Let him see what loyalty looks like,” he said through clenched teeth. “He may learn something.”

“But Sea Eagle? Fergus will surely inform our enemies.”

“So much the better. Let them know what we are capable of building.”

Aud tapped his stick on the floor. “Nobles,” he said, “it is time to pledge your allegiance to Argyll.”

One after another, the men came forward to kneel, place their hands on Somerled’s sword hilt, and pledge their lives and loyalty to Argyll. With Aud satisfied, Somerled stood. He nodded to Hakon, who whirled outside. Hakon never tired.

“Argyll is grateful for her family. Family is everything,” he said, riveting his eyes on Fergus. “As ye pledge your loyalty to me, I return the same to ye. He raised his tankard. “To Argyll.”

“To Argyll,” the men echoed.

“Now, then,” he said, standing and slipping his crown from his head, “I promised ye a surprise.” He scanned the excited faces. “Come. We will need to go to the sound.”

It is a good sign, he thought as he stepped outside, that the wind is favorable.

They crossed the causeways and walked through Finlaggan, where the villagers grinned and joined in the procession. They were in on the secret. By the time the crowd reached the jetty, it buzzed behind Somerled like a wicker bee basket. It quieted a little as they passed Godred’s ship, which had been forced to bare its belly for salvage on the beach.

MacIan gasped when they reached the jetty. “What is that?”

Men at the rear of the crowd craned their necks and stood on tiptoe to view Sea Eagle gliding around Jura’s bluff. Agnetha’s blood-red sail puffed out like a warrior’s chest, and the men onboard doused it and took up the oars. They chanted a rowing song, a slow and rhythmic prayer for a blessed journey.

As Sea Eagle neared, Somerled wondered which of his chieftains would first notice the double-handled tiller at the stern. He guessed Maguire and was not disappointed.

“By Jaysus, where is the steerboard?” Maguire asked.

Somerled grinned. “Gone. Replaced with a moveable stern rudder. She turns quicker.”

“A stern rudder?” Fergus asked, his voice going high-pitched. “Amazing.”

Sea Eagle’s helmsman twisted the tiller, and she responded sharply. The oarsmen docked her at the jetty where she bucked like a pony as men climbed onboard. They scratched their heads and fawned over the new invention.

“Look at the gilt,” one commented.

“Aye, that dragon is alive wi’ the golden eyes,” another said.

From the stern, Maguire’s voice rose above the others. “Well what did ye expect, lads? He was educated in Fermanagh, after all.”

He overheard a whisper that was as welcome as sunshine. “His mother’s clutch was a shower of Godless heathens, but by Jaysus, they could build a ship.” There would be no more criticism of his mother’s blood.

They returned to the castle, renewed by Sea Eagle. Somerled eavesdropped from the head of the table. Maguire faced him from the opposite end. “King Somerled, how many of these can ye be makin’?”

“Depends upon how much oak ye can send me,” he answered, tearing a hunk of bread from a loaf.

“Och, I’ll be sendin’ ye oak,” Maguire said. “Only thing better than the oak in Fermanagh is the women—or maybe the horses.” The men around him laughed.

“Pfft,” Fergus scoffed, “why, wasn’t it Saint Columba himself who banned cattle from Iona because where there are cattle, there are women, and where there are women, there’s trouble?”

“Aye, somethin’ like that,” Maguire answered, “but then maybe the Blessed Saint never gained a full appreciation for the softness of a woman under him.”

Somerled winced, remembering Breagha’s soft breast in his palm.

“Women are useless,” Fergus said, “unless they come with a title or territory.”

Somerled raged. Mere days ago, he would have agreed. He shoved the slice of bread into his mouth and sawed off another. His fingers tightened around his knife handle as he recalled Fergus’s words: I should like to keep the lassie and the dogs if you do not mind. Fergus had tricked him.

“Women are hardly useless,” Maguire said, apparently intent on fanning the flames. “What about the nice, wee lassie the king has given ye? Will ye be considerin’ her useless?”

Damn ye to hell, Maguire!

“Now that I think about it,” Fergus replied, “the Tánaiste of Fermanagh may be correct. There are some women who are quite useful.” He looked at Somerled and took a noisy sip from his beaker. “We shall see yet what she yields me.”

Is he suggesting he would trade her? Somerled wanted her back, if for no other reason than to deny Fergus ownership of her. Hope took him by surprise as an idea occurred to him. He spoke before he could change his mind. “Do ye suppose she could yield more than the new bìrlinn in the sound?”

The room fell silent. At the far end of the table, Maguire’s teeth gleamed. Fergus set his beaker on the table and twisted it. “Are ye saying that ye would trade the bìrlinn for the slave?”

“Well, she seems to be more than a common slave, doesn’t she? We both know she has a few, shall we say, useful characteristics?” He was aware that most of his men’s minds would leap into the gutter. His assumption was confirmed by whispers and jabbing elbows.

“Aye, King Somerled,” Fergus replied, “she does.”

“If ye wish to trade her, I would be willing to discuss the terms in private.”

All eyes were on them as they stood. Somerled snapped his fingers at the gawking musicians. “Suffer it, play something!”

The flautists lifted their instruments and played a loud and lively tune. The nobles, unable to hear anything over the music, pursed their lips and returned to discussions that likely centered on the proposed trade.

They swaggered to a table near the hearth. Fergus drummed his fingertips together. A woman filled their beakers, lingering far longer than necessary. Somerled was keenly aware of the gossip in the village, which was never more interesting to his people than when it involved a possible love interest. He could not blame them. They needed an heir for their future security. If he did not provide them with one, they would select one from his remaining male kin. Thanks to Harald the Fairhair’s murderous invasion—the deadly rampage that scattered the clans—there were few of them left.

Somerled sweated. Before droplets could form on his forehead, he leaned forward and whispered, “In very simple terms, I will trade ye one bìrlinn for the lassie and her dogs.”

Fergus sneered and gulped some ale. “I am sure ye are aware by now, Somerled, that the girl has certain talents,” he said.

“I am.”

“And I’m certain ye can understand how she might be useful to a kingdom where attacks from the forests have become the norm.”

Somerled wiped his forehead. His angry vein was up. “Aye, I can, but when I promised ye the lassie, I was not fully aware of her value. Such a trade is unfair and dishonest. Honesty and fairness are important in any relationship, especially one between newly allied kingdoms, do ye not agree?”

Fergus sucked his cheeks in and brushed his fingers through his hair. He was buying time.

Ye need this alliance as much as I do.

“I do not wish to jeopardize our new friendship,” Fergus said, “or give you reason to doubt the validity of my promises. Send the bìrlinn and her shipwright.”

Somerled rubbed his beard. “Shipwright’s the only man in Finlaggan more magical than the blacksmith, and I canny spare either. What if I delivered the parts for two such vessels, minus the iron, along with an apprentice skilled at assembling them?”

Fergus cocked his head. “Two?”

“Two.” He knew it sounded mad, and it irked him that he was arming Fergus with Argyll’s newest weapon. “It will take about a year to gather the oak and make the parts.”

“And the former promise of warriors?”

“The offer remains valid. I have spoken with MacGillivray, who expects ye at Loch Mudle on Ardnamurchan to collect the men.” It was a generous offer, and Fergus would be stupid to refuse it.

“Also valid is my promise that Galloway will not interfere with an advance on King David. I accept your terms,” Fergus said.

“She will remain untouched?”

“Aye, cousin, I’ll see to it.”

“We have struck a trade.”

They stood and clasped arms.

“I must pish,” Somerled lied and stormed outside. He was relieved that nobody was at the water’s edge, where he sagged over his knees and exhaled.

Footsteps crunched on the pebbles behind him. Maguire flung an arm over his shoulder. “I take it by the lightness of Fergus’s step that he’s the owner of a new vessel.”

“Parts for two,” Somerled said, “and a shipwright’s apprentice.”

“Jaysus, Sorley, she’d better be worth it.”

“She must be. I canny get her out of my head, and I’m rarely wrong about things I canny get out of my head.”

“Sorley, I hate to be tellin’ ye this, but the reason ye canny get the lassie out of your head is because”—He made the sign of the cross in front of Somerled’s face—“ye love her. May God be havin’ mercy on your soul.”

“Ye ridiculous arse, I only wish to explore this supposed scenting ability of hers. Harald the Dread swears it’s true.”

“God’s fingers, Sorley, admit ye have feelings for the lassie, just.”

“A man in my position canny afford feelings, Maguire. Feelings fade, feelings make a man reckless, feelings lead a man into a dark room for a kiss, only to have the lamps lit by a crowd of ill-bred lassies waiting to mock him.”

“Och, at some point, ye really need to be lettin’ go of the baron’s daughter. Not all lassies are vicious.”

“I will wait for Ragnhilde. Or another woman of equal breeding and title.”

“If ye have to spend your life wi’ a woman, ye should probably choose one ye can stomach, don’t ye think?” Maguire asked.

“I will stomach the woman who brings me the best alliance and the most land. Argyll—and all of Scotland, eventually—depend upon it.”

Maguire rubbed his temples. “Och, Somerled, I pity ye. Ye’re missin’ the best part of life.”

“Says a man with no wife of his own.”

“I don’t mean the marryin’ part, I mean the lovin’ part. Why not just take a mistress?”

“Even a mistress would have expectations, especially if she bears me children. I do not wish to have a mistress making demands and causing trouble, especially when I am trying to negotiate a marriage with another woman.”

Fear washed over him in a crashing wave. What if he had impregnated Mersin?

Maguire looked up at the dimming sky. “I have always thought it best to marry only when I find the one who makes it impossible for me to notice anyone else. She’s out there somewhere, maybe thinkin’ of me right now.”

Somerled burst into laughter. “God help that woman,” he said.

“One day,” Maguire said, looking disapprovingly at him, “ye’re gonny meet some lassie who wipes that smirk right off your face. I hope to Jaysus I’m there to see it.”

Chapter 11

No one knew how or why the standing stone had been erected on the hill overlooking Loch Finlaggan. A long-dead carver had chiseled symbols into the stone’s face, but their significance had been lost to time. At the stone’s base, a urine-soaked ewe ripped away a mouthful of grass and sawed it between her jaws. Somerled saw his reflection in her glassy eyes just before she bolted to the rest of her flock. He scanned the ground and stepped onto a dung-free patch of earth, turning to rest his back against the limestone slab. The stone, warmed by a day of sun, would have been pleasant against his muscles had it not been for the sharp ridges of its carvings.

In the village below, the holes in the thatch were smokeless. Hens scratched half-heartedly. Cattle basked in the rare post-harvest sun. Even the loch was placid. Had it not been for an occasional cheer from the games on the far common, Somerled would have thought Islay completely abandoned.

Breagha emerged from the village, her elbow gripped by one of Maguire’s men. She jerked her arm free, lifted the sides of her tunic, and stormed up the path leading to the standing stone. The man followed, red-faced.

Her boots popped in and out below a tunic too fine for a slave. They were high and lined with squirrel’s fur, with well-made laces crisscrossing up her shins. He remembered her torc, which would be resting against her chest, just above the swells of her breasts. Whoever she was, she was uncommon.

“Ye may go,” he said to Maguire’s man.

The man nodded and walked a respectable distance away.

Her green eyes fumed. She folded her arms across her chest and shifted her weight onto one leg. There were none of her nostril-flaring antics, and she seemed normal, though quite angry. Maybe Harald the Dread was wrong about her.

He stepped away from the rock, leaving the carving exposed.

Her jaw fell slack, and her arms dropped to her sides.

“It’s lovely, I know,” he said, noticing her awe. “I’ve always wondered about it.”

She glided to the stone and traced the spirals with her finger. Her palm slid over its ridges, and her head fell forward. She trembled and sniffled.

Is she crying? He went to her and flattened his palm on her shoulder.

“Do not lay a hand on me!” she shouted, whirling around to shoot him a malevolent look.

He recoiled like a child touching flame for the first time. In spite of the distance, Maguire’s man could see. “I could have ye beaten for that,” he spat.

Her eyes were glittering slits. “Then do it.” She looked at his hand, which rested instinctively on his sword hilt. “What are ye going to do? Kill me?”

This was going to take a bit of finesse. He dropped his hand. The stone had affected her. Perhaps he could lighten her mood by discussing it. “Have ye ever seen a stone such as this?” he asked, taking pains to sound tender.

“Many.” Her lips barely opened to utter the word.

“Always wondered what the carvings meant.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ye mean ye cannot read it?”

He took a step back. “It says something?”

She pointed at the circles and dots. “Right there, do ye not see?”

He was lost in the giddiness of discovery. There had been many theories as to the purpose of the stones found in abundance throughout Argyll’s landscape. Aud thought a dying race had erected them to serve as proof of their existence. Somerled had even heard someone speculate that the symbols on the stones might be a form of writing, but he had never met anyone who claimed to be able to decipher them.

“The smallest child in my village could read this one,” she said.

He returned to her side, careful not to touch her, and inspected the concentric rings more closely. “It’s a form of writing . . . but whose?”

“The People of the Torc, of course. My people.”

“My father once told me the fairies made the stones.”

“Ha!”

Anyone else’s laugh would have been cut short by his sword. He wondered why he let her get away with it. She avoided his eyes, appearing instead to concentrate on the stone.

“I would like to know more about these stones and their language.” The day grew instantly hotter, and his body tensed. He steeled himself and whispered, “I would like to know more about ye as well, Breagha.”

He heard her breath catch in her throat, and she winced as though he had struck her.

His pulse raced as he reached for her hand. She allowed it. Her breaths grew clipped. He wrapped his hand around her fingers and squeezed, running his thumb over her knuckles. He thought of his scabs and callouses, and heat swept up the back of his neck; his hands were probably rough against hers. For a while, she offered no resistance, but when he reached for her other hand, she wriggled out of his grasp.

Frustration packed a basket and skipped to some hellish region to spread out a banquet of rage.

“What?” he demanded. “What is it with ye? The other night, ye pulled me on top of ye, and now ye will not allow me to touch ye at all?” He drew his sword and realized he had nothing to kill. “Och”—He kicked a rock lying innocuously at the edge of the path—“woman!” The rock bounced across the grass and thudded against a clump of gorse.

Her frown returned. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to strike her or grab her and kiss her until she yielded. Her lips were distracting. They turned up in a smirk just as he heard growls behind him. He did not need to turn to know that her dogs crouched behind him, the largest at the lead, ready to lunge with a word from her.

“Lassie,” he seethed, with a trembling hold on his sword, “it’ll take more than a few dogs to put me down. I’ll get one by the throat and shove it up another’s arse.”

“Pfft,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“Back them off or I swear to Saint Columba and Jaysus Himself, I’ll hand ye a pile of guts.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maguire’s man creeping toward them, sword drawn. He raised a palm, and Maguire’s man halted.

Breagha’s body shook, and the knuckles of her balled fists turned white. She muttered something to the dogs in a language Somerled did not know, and the growling ceased. The largest dog trotted past with his hackles standing on end. He sniffed the base of the stone, urinated on it, and bounded off into the brush with his mates.

“Ye could have had them kill me.”

Her voice was flat. “Aye.” She brushed a dried leaf from her tunic sleeve, as if it was more important than anything he might say to her.

He took a step toward her. “Ye want me around yet.” He smiled. “Is it because ye love me?”

“Oh aye,” she said. “Do ye even know what love is?”

“I might.” He wanted to sprint past the stone, up onto the road, and run until he reached the jetty. Instead, he whispered, “Ye interest me, woman, with all your madness and your wicked temper, and your dogs that could tear my throat out, and—”

“Ha!” She lunged at him and shoved against his chest. He didn’t budge, and her ineffectiveness set her to screaming. “Ye left my bed and climbed onto the widow Mersin!”

“Wha? How—? No, Breagha, ye see—” He quickly sheathed his sword, took a step toward her, and grabbed her wrist.

She writhed like an eel on a cooking stone. “Let go of me! My wrist still hurts.”

“Breagha, listen,” he pleaded, trying to snag the hand flailing at him. “Let me explain.” She caught him on the cheek with a sting that surprised him. His patience was lost, his blood boiled to pudding. “Listen, lassie, I am the King of Argyll, and I may bed whomever I choose.”

She nearly pulled him off balance with her squirming. He grunted, wrestled her to the stone, and slammed her against it, pinning her arms at her sides. A squeak seeped through her lips. She sagged against him and sobbed.

Jaysus, the stone is rough. It had to hurt. What have ye done? She is but a lassie. He released her arms. She wilted into him and he held her, pressing her forehead against his chest. His fingers spread over the back of her skull, inspecting it for signs that he had cracked it open. Finding no injury, he stroked the back of her head. Her headcovering, knocked loose in the scuffle, fell to the ground, freeing her hair. He held her then, strangely remembering an injured songbird his mother once cupped in her hands.

“What do ye do to me, woman?” he whispered. He kissed the top of her head. “What do ye do to me?”

She offered no reply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Are ye all right?”

“Aye,” she squealed against his chest.

He lifted her chin and covered her lips with his, banishing the rigidness of her body. He backed her against the stone, carefully this time. He kissed her again and then stood for a moment just looking at her, tracing the edges of her face. It was looking more and more like Ragnhilde would have to tolerate another woman in their marriage.

“Breagha,” he said, “Mersin meant nothing to me.”

She stared past him toward the loch.

“I mean it, woman.” Why is this so hard? He fumbled for the right words. “Breagha, I . . .” He remembered that Maguire’s man was watching. He cleared his throat and leaned in so close that his lips brushed against her ear. “Breagha,” he whispered, “I do not have the words to explain what ye do to me. I struggle to think of anything else. My eyes rest upon a hen’s back, and I see the tints of your hair. I inspect the commons and see the green of your eyes. The glints on the loch have become the light in your eyes.” He pointed to the round mountain peaks fading to purple in the late afternoon sky. “Even the Paps of Jura have become the swells of your breasts.”

Her expression turned soulful, like the seals that sunned themselves on Iona.

“Take my sword and run it through me,” he said, “and I will suffer less pain than ye bring me by your unhappiness.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and her nostrils flared, ever so slightly. “I should not be so quick to forgive ye . . . I came here thinking I had been torn from my home, but now I feel like I’ve found it.” Her palm brushed his cheek, and her fingertips kneaded into the beard at his jawline. “Your scent fills me. It adheres me to ye in such a way that I never want to be away from ye.”

Guilt clenched his heart in a vise. “Ye must listen to me now, Breagha. Though I canny bear to think of it, ye must go with Fergus.”

“Wha?” she exhaled hoarsely. Lines formed and deepened between her brows.

To hell with Fergus. Tell him he canny have her.

The sun went behind a cloud, taking its warmth with it. “Fergus,” he repeated. “Ye have to go with Fergus. I will come for ye, but—”

She shrugged off his hands.

“Breagha, listen. I promised ye to him before I ever even saw ye, and I canny go back on my word. As it is, I have had to go to great lengths and expense to ensure Fergus returns ye to me at all. I will do my best to see that it happens quickly, but ye must—”

“Ye cannot be serious.” Her voice had turned gruff.

“I’m sorry.” He meant it, and he wanted to show her. “Ye must go with Fergus for just a wee while, a year at most. He will not harm ye. He has promised.”

She looked at the ground, shook her head, and uttered a false laugh.

He tried to lift her chin again, but she flicked it away. He said, “The other night, when I left your bed, it was because ye belonged to another man, one who offered my people an alliance they need. The situation has changed. Ye are no longer his property.

“I am a warrior, Breagha, poorly suited to tenderness. Everything I have ever loved has been taken from me, even my father, who lives but may as well be dead. I am begging ye now, let me hold ye in my arms, just for tonight. I love ye. Let me show ye. Come with me to my bed. Let us give each other something to remember, something to hold onto.”

Her eyes hardened. “Is this how ye got the widow to open her legs for ye, aye?” The muscles at her jaw flinched. “I nearly fell for it as well.”

“No, lassie, I—”

“Save your breath, King Somerled, I shall happily go with Fergus or anywhere else ye cannot be found.”

“Breagha, don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing this.”

They stared at each other in silence.

Go to hell, then. He would not lower himself again, not even for her.

The sound of approaching men provided a welcome distraction. Two Columban monks climbed up from the village, their crosiers stabbing at the path and crosses slapping at their chests. Cowls hung behind their heads like empty scoops, exposing heads shaved from forehead to crown, a rebel tonsure that would have displeased King David and his Roman church.

Somerled waved Maguire’s man over. “The monks are here to collect Godred.” He flicked his chin toward Breagha. “Take her to Harald’s.” He recovered Breagha’s headcovering, which she knotted hastily behind each ear. She marched downhill without waiting for Maguire’s man and without a word to Somerled.

The short monk’s jaw fell slack as she passed him on the path. Somerled was not surprised; a corpse would notice her. Her dogs slunk out of a patch of gorse and bounded to her side.

Somerled turned away. Collect yourself, man.

The stone stood witness to his torment. A lump rose in his throat as he stared at the rings she had traced with her finger. He spun around just as the tall monk opened his mouth to speak.

Somerled shouted past him, “Breagha, the stone . . . What does the writing on the stone mean?”

She stopped and turned slowly, presenting him with an image that would haunt him forever, his soul mate and her dogs on the windswept slope with the waters of the loch glinting behind her. “It says, ‘Remember me.’”

Chapter 12

Building a campfire so close to the main footpath was dangerous business. Thick oak stands were the favorite haunts of wolves and thieves. On any other day, Peader would have been frightened . . . and much more careful. Today, he didn’t care so much. No, today, he supposed, he deserved to die. God alone would decide.

The smoke assaulted him. He gave the boiling turnip a stir and moved to the other side of the fire. His rump had barely settled onto the mossy log when the smoke found him again. He flipped up his cowl and pinched its sides under his nose. The smoke follows me, he thought. I am damned.

His wool cowl still smelled of the mint he had harvested only a few days ago on Iona. Brother Maurus would have to bundle the rest of the mint alone. Brother Maurus, who pleaded so fervently with the abbot . . . Brother Maurus, who insisted I would be helpful in collecting the body of the Dublin chieftain. The abbot would be furious. Brother Maurus would pay for Peader’s sins.

A twig snapped behind him. He whirled and nearly kicked over the cooking turnip. “Who’s there?”

A towering monk stepped out from behind a tree trunk. A sack hung over one of his broad shoulders. Fear sparked to the ends of Peader’s fingers and he jumped up, quickly scanning the monk’s undyed habit. Order of Saint Benedict. “Peace in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord,” Peader said, addressing the stranger in Latin.

The monk, whose oversized cowl concealed his face, nodded but offered no greeting.

He has taken the vow of silence. Peader smiled, not only because he was relieved to have company, but also because nobody would ever force him to be silent again. He motioned for the stranger to take a seat, and he pulled two cups from his satchel, careful to avoid revealing the chalice he had stolen from the abbey.

The stranger seated himself on a log, and the smoke immediately wafted toward him.

Peader scooped some turnip slices and broth into the cups. “I have been silenced more times than I can count,” he said in his native English, handing a cup to the stranger. “No more.”

The stranger took the cup with a large, scarred hand.

Peader blew on his own steaming broth and eyed his guest, who held his untouched meal at his knees. Face is probably scarred, too. Probably how he ended up in a monastery. Parents couldn’t stand to look at him.

“No, I will be silent no more,” Peader repeated. “It’s not my fault, really,” he said, hoping to lure conversation.

The monk did not take the bait. The silence was awkward, and Peader fidgeted. What was the sense in having company if nobody talked? Waste of a perfectly good turnip, if you ask me.

He decided to press on, no longer caring if his companion participated in the discussion. “I’ve seen women with their hair uncovered before, you understand.” He did not know why he was openly confessing. Whom would the silent monk tell, anyway? “I could easily have forgotten about her hair, but her eyes—those green eyes.” He stared into the licking flames, remembering how the girl had looked at him. His shaft began to swell. He shifted on the log and held his breath until his troublesome appendage wilted again. Starve it of air, was always Brother Maurus’s advice for killing a swollen shaft.

The stranger’s voice jarred him. “Green eyes?” He spoke in heavily accented English, and it sounded like something sticky boiling in a pot.

Peader shivered, though he was not cold. He strained his eyes, trying to make out the monk’s facial features. “Brother, have you just now broken your vow of silence?”

“No.”

“But, you did not speak earlier when I addressed you.”

“I have been in seclusion and have not spoken for . . . I do not know how long it has been since I last spoke to another.”

“Why do you hide your face?” Peader asked, embarrassed by his own directness.

“I am scarred.”

I knew it. Peader sipped at his broth and raged that he had not pilfered some salt from the seaside pans.

The monk said, “I gather that a woman caused you to leave your abbey.”

“Indeed.” Peader sighed. “None of it was my fault.”

“I believe you,” the monk said. “Women are always to blame.”

“Oh, dear stranger, how right you are,” Peader replied, leaning toward the fire, glad for the opportunity to proclaim his innocence. “How can I be blamed? I knew there would be women at Finlaggan, but this girl—this girl was different.”

“Indeed,” the stranger replied, “it must be so, for you strike me as a sensible man, and pious. Perhaps she was a witch, and she put a spell on you.”

Peader had not considered that. “Yes, yes, you know, now that I think on it, I believe she did just that. There is no other explanation for it, for I would never have pleasured myself unless I was under the spell of a witch.” He waited for the stranger’s reaction to the admission of his sin.

The monk sat as still and straight as a ship’s mast. “I have heard others speak of a witch in these parts,” he said. “One who travels with large dogs.”

Peader gasped. “Indeed! This girl was surrounded by the beasts.”

The stranger put his untouched broth down on the leaves beside his feet and leaned forward over his knees. “Where did you last see her?” he asked.

Peader was not sure if he should mention Finlaggan. Perhaps the Benedictine monk would return him to the abbot in hopes of gaining a reward.

“I only ask,” the stranger said, “so that I might avoid crossing paths with this witch.”

“Oh,” Peader said, “then tread carefully, hermit, for she is to be brought to these very lands.”

“To Galloway?”

“Yes, but first to Ardnamurchan.”

“Who has her?”

Peader scowled. He did not mind talking about the girl in general terms, but he was not going to hand her over to this monk or to any other man for that matter. Perhaps he would sell the chalice, go to Fergus himself, and bargain for the girl. “I don’t know who has her, to be honest.”

He had barely leaned over to scoop another slice of turnip into his cup when the Benedictine monk was on him, straddling his chest and battering his face with his fists.

“Wait! Wait!” Peader screamed.

“Tell me,” the angry monk spat. “Tell me or I will twist your tiny head off your neck.”

Peader began to cry. He felt the pressure of the monk’s hands on both sides of his skull. His arms went numb; his neck bones seemed dangerously close to their breaking point.

“Tell me,” the monk demanded.

Peader sobbed. God had judged him and he was damned, both for touching himself and for stealing. He thought again of the girl’s green eyes and they somehow brought him peace. “She is at Finlaggan, on Islay, in the Inner Hebrides. With the new moon,” he shrieked, “she sails for Ardnamurchan with Fergus of Galloway.”

There was a loud snap.

Chapter 13

Raam flipped the cowl off his head with enough violence to tear it in two. “You piece of maggot-infested dung!” He kicked the monk’s corpse, still raging over the dead man’s infatuation with the girl. “May the kites”—he booted—“peck out”—he booted again—“your eyeballs!” Its gaunt limbs flailed as it rolled into a ditch, its expression testifying to the forest canopy that death had come as a terrible shock.

Raam scowled at the monk’s tonsure, disgusted that anyone would purposely shave off a perfectly good mane of hair. Some of his brothers complained that his own black hair was too long, but it was his only attractive feature. He would never part with it.

The girl was his. Father had said so.

He returned to the fireside, where Lips and the others were busy rummaging through the monk’s satchel. Lips, who did not possess a single hair on any part of his body, uncovered a chalice and whirled away with it. The hideous hole below his nose widened as he skipped away and tucked his find into his belt. “I told you,” he hissed, his sliver of tongue poking in and out. “Did I not tell you? Monks travel, and monks that travel have either news or riches. This unlucky fellow had both.”

Raam sat on the log and finished the monk’s broth, which was now barely warm. A book caught his attention, evidently deemed valueless and flung aside by his men. He swallowed the last of the broth, tossed the cup to the forest floor, and picked up the book. It opened across his lap, presenting him with swirling colors that framed rows of precise black marks on the vellum.

He flipped to the first page. The detailed image he found there stunned him. At the center of the page, a woman sat on a throne holding her child. Interlacing spirals and vines coiled around them to form a perfect frame. Winged creatures hovered at the corners of the page, gazing worshipfully at the woman and her child.

Her head glowed within a golden light. She was lifelike and vibrant, and Raam expected her to rise from her throne to greet him. Who was she? He inspected the baby cradled in her arms. Raam had never known his own mother. He doubted she had ever held him like this. Nearly all mothers died giving birth to brats. The ones who were hardy enough—and unlucky enough—to survive childbirth usually went mad, eventually requiring execution. Raam had often thought it unjust that they should survive something as horrible as childbirth only to find death waiting for them anyway. Father said they were better off dead. He was probably right.

“Father would not want you looking at that,” Lips hissed above him.

Raam flinched and slapped the book shut. “He’s not here.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll know.”

No, he will not. During the plentiful days between raids, Raam practiced shielding his mind. No one knew he had perfected it. As far as anyone knew, he excelled only in language and strategy. He told no one, for if anyone ever found out, death would come swiftly.

He waited while Lips turned away and then quietly tore the first page from the book. He folded it and tucked it inside his tunic. “We go to Ardnamurchan,” he said to Lips, who was busy staring at his own reflection in the chalice. Yes, you are that ugly.

“You are the strategist, Raam, but I’m not stupid. I did assume as much,” Lips answered. “I’d feel better about going with Knobs by my side.”

“He isn’t, so you are going to have to rely on me for orders. This is not our first voyage. The men will remember how to row without Knobs’s shouting.”

“Still—” Lips was not going to let it go. His affection for Knobs was unprecedented, and admirable, in Raam’s opinion. Father would kill them both if he knew. “Human weakness,” Father would say as he kicked their broken bodies over the cliff.

If Lips’s attention could not be diverted, he would be a liability. Raam decided to use Lips’s weakness against him. He feigned outrage and concern. “Lips, would you have Knobs out here in his condition? His skin has peeled no less than three times.”

Instead of taking the bait, Lips turned on him. “Careful, Raam. You know what happens if Father catches the slightest hint of compassion.”

“He’s not fond of fear either, Lips, so, you’d be wise to hide yours. We’re fortunate that he didn’t kill us already.”

“I knew no fear before we attacked the ships carrying the girl.”

He could not blame Lips for being afraid. The battle off Galloway’s coastline had been the first time any of them had fallen.

“I always thought only Father could take our lives,” Lips whispered.

Raam picked up a stick and used it to dig in the embers of the monk’s vanishing fire. He didn’t want to admit to Lips that he once held the same belief. He had not known what to do, and if he was honest with himself, he had been frightened, too. Many things made no sense these days: his ability to shield his mind, his curiosity about the woman on the page, and the fluttering in his belly that accompanied every thought of the green-eyed girl. Maybe these were signs that his life was nearing its end. Father said the good ones bloomed quickly and went to seed too early to be of any real value.

“We should not have fled,” Raam said. “There was but one man left alive.” He threw the stick aside.

Lips spat on the chalice and wiped it with his sleeve. “It was those dogs.”

“No, it was our mistake,” Raam said. “One we won’t make again.” He stood. “It’s getting dark. Have the men gather some wood. We’ll camp here tonight, and before the sun rises, we’ll return to the ship and sail for Ardnamurchan.”

When the fire was blazing and men snored around him, Raam slid the picture of the woman from his tunic. The winged creatures and the woman’s halo gleamed in the firelight. He noticed that if he moved the picture from left to right, the child’s eyes blinked at his mother’s adoring face. What must that be like? To look up and see a woman smiling at you, concerned for you? Oh, to be cradled in the milky, unblemished arms of a woman. He would be. Father had promised. Oh, she would be frightened for a while, but he would be tender toward her without letting Father know, and she would grow to love him. She had to, because he had already fallen in love with her.

Chapter 14

Three hulking men could not pry Breagha away from Elisad. The warriors were used to a different kind of battle; their menacing carriage and weaponry were useless against feminine resolve. They looked perplexed, glancing at each other and then appealing to Harald, who stood near the table, biting his lip and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Elisad, please,” Harald said, taking a step forward and offering his hand.

Breagha squealed and tightened her embrace. Elisad pulled her deeper into the corner. “Ye’ll be takin’ this lassie out o’ here o’er my festerin’ corpse!” She shrieked the words, but they sounded muffled to Breagha, whose right ear pressed against the old woman’s bosom.

“Wife, ye old fool,” Harald said, taking another step toward the corner, “the king has sent—”

Breagha heard the scrape of iron as Elisad lifted the fire poker from its peg.

Instantly, the room rang out with the high-pitched sing!-sing!-sing! of three drawn swords.

“Woman!” Harald’s voice raised an octave. He placed a hand over his heart. “Odin’s lost eyeball, ye know as well as I that they’ll kill ye dead!” He turned to the warriors, “Gi’ me time to reason wi’ her. The woman’s got a wicked temper.”

The threat of violence and Harald’s frenzy served as the impetus for Breagha’s surrender. She dropped her arms and wriggled out from under the crook of Elisad’s arm.

“Lassie, get ye behind me at once,” Elisad shrieked in a half-sob. She was shaking, her eyes bulging.

“No, Elisad,” Breagha said, endeavoring to load calm in her voice. “I must go.” She ignored the ache in her chest and feigned a smile, looking deep into Elisad’s welling eyes. “It dawns on me that the sooner I go, the sooner I may return.” She laid a palm on Elisad’s withered cheek. “I shall not delay. The king has taken great pains to ensure my return. My refusal to go would only bring shame upon him—and upon ye and Harald, who have been so very kind to me.”

“Och, lassie.” Elisad began to cry.

Breagha slowed her breathing to thwart the wheeze of her constricting throat. “There’s no need to cry, Elisad. I’ll be back soon. The king will see to my safety, and I’ll have my dogs, after all, so stop your worrying.”

Elisad wiped away a tear and sniffled. “Aye, ye be right. I know ye be right. I just . . . I’ll—I’ll miss ye, lassie. Och, lassie . . . I love ye.”

“I love ye too, Elisad.” She returned her cheek to Elisad’s apron and inhaled slowly, savoring the homey scents she found there . . . and committing them to memory, confident she’d never smell them again.

Despite Breagha’s objections, Elisad had insisted on seeing her to the jetty. Lassie, ye keep yourself alive and be comin’ back to us, the old woman managed to say before collapsing. A brawny youth rushed to her aid, but Harald waved him away. The old Viking sank to one knee, no small task for a man of his age and condition. He grimaced, lifted his wife from the stones, and hobbled away with her. The thick mist swallowed them up. Breagha had seen little else since.

She sat in the moored bìrlinn, weeping and rubbing a lump on her forearm—an injury she had received in the scuffle at Harald and Elisad’s house. The air was still, but the water was choppy and slapping against the galley, causing the vessel to lurch against its restraints like an anxious horse. One of the warriors sent to retrieve her leaned over a rowing bench to thrust a blanket at her. Below his left eye, four welts streaked toward his ear where she had caught him with her fingernails. She scowled, snatched the blanket from him, and whirled it around her shoulders.

Rowan leaned against her knees, and she patted his shoulder. His tail thumped against the deck boards and spattered water on her shins.

“Lie down,” she whispered to him.

He obeyed, wedging himself into the heap of dogs competing for the spot closest to her.

Though she could see little past the bìrlinn’s top rail, she knew men gathered on the jetty. They were perceptible by their scents and sounds: tinkling iron, squeals of sheathed swords, and the occasional clang of a dropped helmet. Her belly fluttered when she heard Somerled’s voice, and the mist thinned long enough for her to catch a glimpse of him strutting between the guardhouses. She had endured many disappointing days since their argument, certain he would find his way to Harald’s door. He had not.

Dressed in a pristine aketon and fine hose, he wove among his people like a tendril of wood smoke, stopping to encourage a warrior or pat a child’s head. She wiped away her tears and sat up straight, certain he was making his way to her, but when he reached the jetty outside the galley’s stern, he turned away.

Her cheeks heated. Look at me.

He cocked his ear. For a moment, she thought he had heard her thoughts, but he carried on with his business, conversing with Hakon, who stood fingering an amulet at his throat.

“Olav will be back before the calves are born, I promise,” she heard Somerled say to a young woman pressing a wailing toddler’s face against her belly.

The woman nodded and smiled weakly. Her husband took her free hand and looked apologetically at Somerled. Like Hakon’s, the warrior’s black hair was braided at the sides of his face. A scar bisected the thin beard he was barely old enough to grow.

The mist amplified the sounds of farewell. Husbands assured their wives they would return. Children cried. The seasoned warriors said very little, their hearts calloused by innumerable partings. Their equally stoic wives pressed sacks of provisions against their husbands’ chests and walked away, wordless.

She should have been more sensible, Breagha realized suddenly. If she had joined Somerled in his bed, he would have let her stay, she was sure of it. Even if he had made her go, at least she would take the memory of his touch with her. It would have sustained her until they saw each other again. She had nothing now, nothing but regret and a stabbing pain in her chest.

He said he would come for her. Maybe he meant it.

Fergus and Erc swaggered onto the jetty, both men dressed in their usual finery. Somerled said something to Fergus, who nodded. The Gallovidian embraced his son and climbed aboard alone.

“I see my cargo has been loaded,” he said, eyeing Breagha as he stepped over a chest near the mast. He sat down, and his fishy scent wafted over to her. Rowan bared his teeth. Fergus narrowed his eyes and turned away.

The bìrlinn shuddered as oarsmen climbed aboard. Breagha stared at Somerled’s back until her eyes dried out, willing him to face her. He didn’t. He studied Jura’s southeastern headland instead, his chin too high, his jaw too set.

I know ye are thinking of me, ye stubborn arse. Look at me!

The longship Fergus had sailed to Islay—undermanned and ready to receive the promised Ardnamurchan warriors—was the first to shove off. Panic tightened its vise on Breagha’s throat. The bìrlinn would be next to depart.

Her heart pounded at an alarming rate. Somerled, say something!

The oarsmen settled onto their benches while aged men outside the hull stiffly cast off the ropes. The helmsman shouted, and the bìrlinn, free of its restraints, jerked forward. She gripped the rail.

They were underway.

Her eyes clouded over, and when the portside oarsmen shoved off, she lost sight of Somerled. She stood to find him again, no longer valuing her pride or her safety. She wobbled on legs that were not accustomed to boats, and her blanket dropped to the deck. He was on the jetty just past the top rail, finally looking at her and keeping pace with the galley’s bow. Sorrow had dealt his arrogance a mighty blow; his face was awash with distress.

“Somerled,” she cried, wondering if he had heard.

He swallowed hard. “I will come for ye,” he said, twisting his hand on his sword hilt.

She started to whimper and leaned over the rail for his hand, finding the roughness of it for just an instant before it slipped away.

“I will come for ye,” he repeated.

Ropes fell around her. She flinched as oars clattered into their locks. Somerled grew smaller on the jetty. The helmsman began to sing a Psalm, and sixteen of Argyll’s men put their backs into their work, their oars boiling the waters of the sound. She fell backward against an oarsman’s knees. In the moment it took to regain her balance, the mist had taken Somerled from her.

Breagha protested when Fergus suggested she move to a safer area of the bìrlinn. Now as the bow twisted on the swells, she was glad she had relented. She was comfortable near the mast, even though it meant sharing the space with Fergus.

With Agnetha’s sail full of good wind and casting a red sheen on their cheeks, the men stowed their oars. The helmsman gripped the tiller and shouted orders to men tugging at ropes or bailing water. Somerled’s magnificent vessel skimmed across the water, its bow raising and slamming against the swells, spraying mist over the forward rails.

Rowan’s fur beaded with moisture. She stretched the blanket around herself and her dogs, and tightened Somerled’s cloak at her throat. She dipped her nose into its neckline. His scent was faded. Even if it had wholly dissipated, she could sense him everywhere. His ingenuity and love of fine workmanship was evident in every curve of the bìrlinn. As it negotiated the swells, she closed her eyes and imagined that he cupped her in his hands.

She awoke with a start when the keel hissed up onto a gravelly beach. The dogs stood and shook water droplets from their coats, then stretched and jumped overboard to relieve themselves.

Fergus yawned and stood. “We’ll make camp here. If ye have to relieve yourself, lassie, now would be the time. Do not think of running. Even those dogs of yours are no match for the wolves that prowl the forests of Ardnamurchan.”

She leapt over the rail, landing awkwardly on stiff legs. To her left, the coastline stretched out in sheer cliffs. Ahead, the beach gave way to sloping, grassy hills leading to a series of mountains, each higher than the last. To her right, a verdant peninsula stretched eastward into a sea loch.

She considered running or hiding in the grass, but Fergus’s warning about wolves dissuaded her. Instead, she relieved herself in the trough of a dune and returned to the beach just as Fergus’s under-manned ship sidled up to the bìrlinn and spilled out its men.

Fergus offered a genuine smile. “I am glad you were wise and returned to us.”

She ignored him, stepped over the tidemark, and searched for Rowan.

Fergus snapped his fingers at a group of men loitering near the newly arrived Gallovidian ship. A stocky man with prematurely whitened curls jogged over. “Aye, lord?” he asked, his voice breathy. A slender scar slashed across his Adam’s apple.

“What’s your name?” Fergus asked.

“Angus,” the man answered.

“Overnight here, Angus. I’ll be back with MacGillivray’s warriors in the morning, so try not to shite yourself when you see the glints of weaponry coming at you with the dawn.” He shoved Breagha against the warrior’s chest. “And keep her safe,” he said. “Not one hair on her head had better be out of place when I return.”

Fergus left only a few men to guard the ships. He took the rest inland to retrieve warriors and supplies from MacGillivray’s. Those left behind built fires and pitched tents in the fading daylight.

“There ye are, lassie,” Angus whispered to her, smiling as he held aside the tent flap. As he leaned forward, she noticed a cross dangling on a cord near the scar at his throat.

“Thank ye,” she said, ducking under his arm.

“All right then?” he asked.

She nodded, the tent flap dropped, and he walked away, pebbles crunching under his feet. She covered herself and lay wide-eyed in the tent, wondering where Rowan was. It was unlike him to stay away so long.

Those dogs of yours are no match for the wolves that prowl the forests of Ardnamurchan.

Frightening shadows gyrated on the tent’s walls. Together with the crackles and snaps of burning wood, they were her only company, the men having gone to sleep in their own tents. His men.

Is he thinking of me now? She imagined him struggling to sleep, guessing that his bedchamber was plush and warm. If she hadn’t been so stubborn, she would probably be there now, her cheek resting on his bicep, her heart full to bursti—

A-roo! Rowan’s howl pierced the night.

She sat upright and pressed Somerled’s cloak against her chest. There was no mistaking the dog’s meaning, and the men did not ignore his alarm.

Silhouettes streaked past her tent, their shouts punctuated by the hiss of unsheathing blades.

Rowan bawled again, closer this time, with the three bitches joining him. By their bays and snarls, she knew they were lunging and snapping at whatever worried them. When a long howl ended in an abrupt yelp, her fear turned to unbridled panic. She had only ever seen one dog die and that had happened on The Day of Dark Warriors.

Her teeth chattered, and she crawled to the tent flap. Her hands shook as she eased it aside. Bulky shadows leapt from the bank behind her toward the fire, kicking up sand as they ran. Somerled’s warriors, who had shed their mail for the night, scrambled to put it on. Some fought without it. Some brandished their swords wearing nothing but loose tunics and hastily donned helmets. They looked puny and exposed.

Angus had managed to don his mail shirt, but he lacked a helmet and boots. His sword and mail glittered in the firelight, and he swore at his enemy. He swung his sword at a warrior twice his height. His enemy parried with an axe handle. Angus fell back on his heel and raised a shield that somehow took the blows of the dark warrior’s axe without splintering. The action saved his neck, but exposed his bare feet. The tall warrior seized the opportunity presented to him, bringing his axe down across a foot that a prepared warrior would have protected with a plated boot.

Angus fell to his knees, and his shield dropped to the sand in front of him. He struggled to rise on a foot that was half-absent and pumping blood. The dark warrior spun, and in a single swing, hacked off Angus’s head.

Breagha watched in horror as the kind man’s head rolled onto the beach and bounced off debris heaped at the tideline. His headless body stayed upright for a moment, as if it had not yet realized it was dead. A single kick in the chest felled it. It twitched and spurted blood from its neck onto the sand.

The dark warriors swarmed around the fires like giant moths. Rowan and his mate snapped at them, occasionally sinking their teeth into arms or thighs while Somerled’s men fell around them. The dogs soon stood alone inside a tightening circle of evil. They darted through the ring of warriors and positioned themselves at the entrance of her tent, lowering their heads and dripping saliva.

She dropped the flap and hid under Somerled’s cloak, crawling as far away from the tent entrance as she could. She could hear little else but the rush of blood in her ears. She was dizzy, and her body convulsed. She whimpered, trying against all odds to remain quiet. She covered her ears, and then uncovered them, unable to decide if she wanted to hear anything.

Rowan and his mate mustered more ferocity than she had ever witnessed, and she knew by their vibrato bays that they had lunged and sunk their teeth into something. Rowan’s mate fell sharply silent. He fought on with renewed ferocity. There was a sudden thud followed by a yelp. With his last effort, Rowan leapt inside the tent. His bloody face dropped in front of her. His exhales came in gurgles, and he blinked twice before the light in his eyes dulled and went out. She crawled to his body, buried her face in his blood-soaked fur, and clutched gobs of it in her fists. She sobbed openly, no longer caring what happened to her. “Rowan! Rowan!”

Shadows enlarged on the sides of the tent until they plunged her into total darkness. Hands ripped her away from Rowan’s body and stood her upright. She was weak with fear and sorrow, and staggered on legs threatening to collapse beneath her.

Why did I not scent them?

The warriors towered around her. Someone pulled her by her arm, dragging her through a maze of bodies. She fell to her knees. A man above her shouted a word she did not know. When she didn’t answer him, he kicked her in her ribs. She squealed and fell, coughing, onto the sand.

Boots appeared just beyond her nose. A sword squealed from its scabbard. This is where her life would end and where she would leave her precious torc; this is where she would return. A strange peace washed over her. She held her breath and waited for her execution.

A sword whooshed, and a severed head plunked onto the sand next to hers. As it rolled away, she recognized it as belonging to the warrior who had kicked her.

Someone jerked her to her knees. She winced; it hurt to breathe. A trembling hand lifted her chin toward the new moon. A warrior with long black hair and eyes like bottomless pools leered at her.

“Oh no,” she said.

He licked his lips and said something she didn’t understand. He groaned and traced the edge of her cheek with his granite finger. She remembered him from her village and from the attack on the Dublin ships. Some of the others were familiar, too, their deformities hard to forget. Not one of them was without blemish. Some had knobby foreheads and twisted limbs. Others were marked with patches of raised, scaly skin. One had holes in its hairless head where a mouth and ears should be.

She felt faint, and her head was heavy. She turned it weakly toward the water. Somerled’s warriors lay strewn across the beach. Beyond the dying fires, his bìrlinn’s dragon watched helplessly, its eyes and teeth reflecting the firelight. She thought of the women who had only today kissed their men goodbye, and of the children who would never see their fathers again, or mothers their sons.

The tall warrior wrapped his fingers around her arm. When she purposely went limp, he lifted her and carried her across the sand and up onto the grassy bank. She fixed her gaze on the dragon’s eyes and teeth. The light in them held fast until the darkness overpowered it, and then, it was no more.

Chapter 15

“What?” Somerled’s chair tipped over and skidded across the floor behind him. He fisted the fabric covering Hakon’s shoulders. “What?” he shouted again before sprinting out of the hall and across the causeway, his constricted breaths wheezing.

He mounted a pony and thundered across Islay to the jetty. There, Fergus and a handful of dour-faced men chatted beside the moored bìrlinn. Several women had fallen to their knees on the jetty. They sobbed into their hands while children tugged at their arms.

“What has happened?” he demanded over their wailing.

Fergus looked dazed. “We . . . beached at Camus nan Gael. I went to MacGillivray’s . . . to . . .” He rubbed at his brow and then his eyelids, but it did nothing to remedy his distant stare. “When we returned the following morning, the men had been slaughtered, and–”

“Breagha.” Somerled shoved Fergus’s chest, sending him stumbling backward a few steps. “Tell me ye took her inland with ye!”

Fergus’s gaze lowered to Somerled’s boots.

“Ye stupid bastard!” He dropped Fergus to the jetty with a punch to the temple and was on him before he could roll. He straddled Fergus’s pelvis, clutching his cousin’s throat with one hand and punching his face with the other.

Fergus shielded himself with his tiny hands. “Stop! Wait, stop!”

Somerled discharged a lifetime of resentment, cursing and pounding until Fergus pleaded no more. Then, it was over. Fergus lay bloody and beaten. Somerled sat heaving on his chest, his arms and legs quivering, his fury unrelieved.

The men Fergus had brought with him were on their knees, blades at their throats. They stared wide-eyed at their lord, who moaned where he lay.

Harald the Dread spoke first. “Sorley,” he said, extending a hand that Somerled did not take for fear of pulling the rickety man off balance, “come.” He used a calming tone Somerled remembered from his youth. “This be good for nobody, and now ye have beaten him so bad we canny get more of the story.”

Somerled’s thoughts were fuzzy. He charged on unsteady legs to one of the guardhouses, where he waited while men tended Fergus’s wounds.

Somerled gripped the tiller and raced Sea Eagle north over the Firth of Lorne on strong flows of tide and wind. The signal towers on the passing coasts of Mull and Morvern smoked in the dismal day, the alarm having gone out as soon as Fergus had returned to Finlaggan.

They passed Lismore Island at the mouth of a sea loch Somerled knew well. He wondered, as he looked northeast into Loch Linnhe, if his carvings still decorated the cave wall. An oarsman interrupted his musing by pointing at an approaching forest of masts. They belonged to Somerled’s Lorne fleet, which MacIan was sailing south on Loch Linnhe against a north-going tide.

“Will we wait for them?” Hakon asked.

“No,” Somerled said, glancing up at a dark corner of the sky. He steered Sea Eagle northwest into the Sound of Mull where a funneling headwind ruffled the tide. “Douse the sails,” he ordered. It would be a long haul over the narrow strait’s sixteen miles.

They inched past the promontory where Somerled’s ancestral home lay in ruin. His father claimed Ardtornish had been grand in its prime, teeming with trade and visitors. Only a sliver of it remained upright now, its southwestern corner reaching skyward like a dying man on a battlefield. Men eyed the ruins as they rowed or bailed, but stopped short of discussing it. A swift journey to the bottom of the sound was to be avoided.

Their slow progress galled him. He fidgeted at the stern, biting the insides of his cheeks until he tasted blood. He stood up and sat down compulsively. When his irritation boiled into rage, he handed the tiller off to Hakon and paced the length of the vessel, stepping awkwardly over the rowing benches.

At last, they passed Calve Island and Somerled had something else to occupy his mind—the hazardous rocks and shoals littering the mouth of Loch Sunart. He steered Sea Eagle through them without a single bump, turned east into the loch, and found shelter from the prevailing winds. “Hoist the sail,” he ordered.

A golden eagle screeched above them as they cruised past the southern headlands of Ardnamurchan, the wild peninsula where the MacGillivray chieftain and his clan survived on salmon and stag. Fergus’s abandoned longship rested on the half-moon beach of Camus nan Gael—Bay of Strangers—just before Ardslignish, a lush peninsula jutting out into Loch Sunart. It was here that Somerled had launched his first attack against the occupiers of his father’s rightful lands. The houses of that Viking settlement were long gone, but their footprints remained as dimples in the braes. Time would fill in the dents on Ardslignish before Somerled would forget the atrocities he had committed that night. Perhaps he was paying for his sins now.

MacGillivray’s villagers were already on the beach dragging Finlaggan’s dead into piles, one for Christians and one for men who feasted with Odin. There would be fresh graves on Islay tomorrow.

Although Fergus had sworn that Breagha was not among the dead, Somerled dashed from body to body, brushing away seaweed and collapsed tents to expose their ashen faces.

“My lord king,” a man said, waving him inland. The short jog up the bank sapped the strength from Somerled’s legs. He sank to his knees in front of two gutted dogs. Behind them, a skewed tent leaned against a tussock. His breaths came in spasms as he crawled over to lift its flap. Inside, crumpled on a heap of blood-soaked grass, was the cloak he had given Breagha.

He stood up and rubbed his forehead, feeling faint and struggling to form a plan. “We, eh . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a slow exhale. Panic would gain him nothing. There were footprints, large footprints, and a blood-smeared path leading up a grassy brae.

He thought of Gunnar, the single Dublin oarsman who had survived the attack on Godred’s ship, an event that seemed as though it happened years ago. When I say massive, I mean they was massive, Gunnar had said.

“Did any of ye drag a man off the brae?” he shouted toward two men busy stripping the dead of their weapons and armor.

“No,” one of them replied.

The other said, “Saw that blood smear on our way here. It veers off and heads up Ben Hiant.”

Somerled and Hakon scrambled past the tidemark and up the brae together. At first, the path looked as though it would lead directly to MacGillivray’s hall, which sat on Loch Mudle’s southern shoreline. At a third dead dog, though, the trail veered west and ascended a series of hills rising up toward Ben Hiant. The blood had been painted on the path after the enemy had trampled it flat. His stomach twisted as he guessed how.

“Someone’s been dragged,” Hakon said, conjecturing the same.

There was a lot of blood. They would find Breagha dead.

The wind battered them when they reached Ben Hiant’s summit, where they were rewarded with a panoramic view. Below them in a deep valley, Loch Mudle sat like an impossibly blue footprint in Ardnamurchan’s dense woodland. To the northeast, the Isles of Eigg, Rhum and Skye stood in layered shadows in the Hebridean Sea, barely visible through an approaching gale.

In the south, Sea Eagle sat next to Fergus’s abandoned longship at Camus nan Gael. The Lorne fleet was just entering Loch Sunart. Judging by the number of masts on the near side of Calve Island, he guessed his Loch Indaal fleet had made it to the Sound of Mull. They would arrive within the hour. Ardnamurchan’s southern bays would be crowded tonight.

There was no other sign of shipping in any direction. Maguire, who had gone to Iona, was probably just now getting the news. If Somerled’s messenger had reached Maguire in time, the Fermanagh fleet would reverse course and sail up the west coast of Mull. They would head off any enemy sailing south out of the Hebridean Sea, but they would also face the brunt of the approaching gale.

“There’s a gale coming, my lord,” Hakon said. “We’re going to have to go to MacGillivray’s for the night.” They had not prepared for bad weather.

“Aye,” he agreed, walking faster. He pointed to a bit of brush about a third of the way down Ben Hiant’s western slope. “Let’s go to that bit of scrub and call it good. If we don’t see anything by then, we’ll head back to MacGillivray’s.” They would find her in the brush. She had lost too much blood to go any farther.

They picked their way down the slope to a patch of shrubbery thriving between two outcrops of rock. There, the blood smear ended against a clump of dead grass. A dog of nearly the same color lay on its side, pushing with its hind legs to propel itself forward. It smeared another few feet of path with blood and sent weed seeds fluttering into the air.

“Jaysus,” Somerled whispered. His blades jangled as he rushed to the dog. He knelt and wiped bloodied sand from its nostrils. “Easy,” he whispered. Rowan ignored him and pushed ahead another few feet.

Somerled stood and shouted toward the last man on the path above, “Ye there! Bring a plaid. And water!”

“Get the hag,” MacGillivray ordered a boy who darted out of the room and into the howling wind.

The dog filled the length of the table. His barrel chest heaved labored pants that echoed off the walls. Beneath him, melting hailstones mixed with urine and blood and erased the stripes on the plaid that had carried him from Ben Hiant.

The gale pelted the thatch above them with sleet. On Ben Hiant, it washed away vital clues. Somerled paced the length of the table, dripping rain and ice pellets onto the floor. “I should have sent the dog back and kept going,” he said.

“It is not a day to be out, my lord,” MacGillivray said.

“She’s out there. They’re out there, whoever they are.”

“If they are, then they are paying the price. It is not a day to be out,” MacGillivray repeated, dropping a load of wood onto a blazing fire. The flames already licked dangerously close to the thatch near the smoke hole, but the MacGillivray chieftain seemed intent on combatting his angst with fire. Somerled’s men gathered around the hearth and held their fingers out to thaw. They were undoubtedly exhausted. After a day of rowing, they had carried the dog a fair distance in wretched conditions.

Somerled whirled off his cloak and moved to a chair at the far wall where he dropped his head into his hands. “For God’s sake man, does the healer live in Norway?”

“She is old and slow, my lord,” MacGillivray said. He changed the subject. “Any sign of the enemy?”

Somerled looked up in time to see Hakon shake his head and spray water from his braids.

“If they crossed to the western side of Ben Hiant,” MacGillivray said, “then they meant to stay out of view. That side of the mountain presents its challenges on a good day, let alone in this weather. They will have to wait for the storm to pass before they can attack us.”

“They will not attack,” Somerled said. “They have what they want.”

MacGillivray dumped another armful of sticks on the fire. “And what is that?”

Hakon waved away smoke and answered for him. “The lassie sent with Fergus of Galloway. She was on the beach.”

“There was no lassie found on the beach.”

“Exactly,” Somerled said, leaning back and rubbing his forehead. He opened his mouth to say more, but decided against it. The tale Breagha had given Elisad was hard to swallow, yet Gunnar had used the same words to describe Dublin’s attackers. His own personal motive aside, finding and destroying Argyll’s new, elusive enemy was essential.

“God’s tears, why didn’t Fergus bring the lassie to Loch Mudle?” MacGillivray asked. “I would have cared for her, my lord. Ye know I would have.”

No one replied.

Somerled rubbed his knuckles, still sore from pounding Fergus’s face.

“What I can’t figure out,” Hakon said, “is why they didn’t take the ships. It would have been a simple matter of just boarding and sailing away with the lassie. Why cross the width of the peninsula?”

“A question I have asked myself,” Somerled said. “My best guess is that they have their own ship in a northern bay.”

“Aye,” MacGillivray said, “and that gives us an idea as to their number. If they only have enough men to handle one ship, then there are—”

“Not many,” Somerled said.

“No, not many at all,” MacGillivray said.

The door opened, and MacGillivray’s boy led a drenched hag into the room. “What’s this about a dog?” she asked, handing a basket and her cape to the boy. Her eyes were alarmingly white. She patted across the table to find the dog, and gasped when her yellow-nailed fingers felt the size of him. “Who found this dog? Were there others? Was there anyone with him?”

“Can ye help him?” Somerled asked as she palpated the dog’s shoulder blade.

“Och,” she whispered, ignoring his question, “it’s been ages since I seen one.” She shuffled to the head of the table and cocked an ear over the dog’s mouth.

“Old woman,” Somerled said, shooting out of his chair and charging over to her, “do ye plan to sniff this dog’s arse all night, or are ye gonny fix him at some point?”

She snapped upright, much quicker than he would have thought possible. “Laddie,” she said, her rotted teeth stinking as she leaned toward him, “ye should learn to control your anger in matters that require tenderness. A blossom does not attract a butterfly by swatting at it, does it?”

Somerled threw his cloak against the wall. “Who is this woman to address her king with such insolence?” He ground his teeth together and glared at MacGillivray, whose face betrayed his mortification. Somerled leaned in close to the woman’s face. “I could have ye beaten for that,” he seethed, and then frowned as he remembered the last time he uttered those words.

“Did that threat work the last time ye made it?” she asked.

She knew. Somehow, she knew.

MacGillivray’s eyes were wide. “I—I apologize, my lord king. I have never known the woman to be disrespectful. Perhaps age has worn down her propriety. I assure ye, she is skilled with potions.”

“Then get on with it, woman!” Somerled paced the room, eyeing her suspiciously and flinching with each raindrop that hissed into the fire. Breagha’s trail was growing colder.

The old woman lifted Rowan’s lip and asked, “Lad, what color are they?”

“What?” the boy answered.

“His gums, lad. What color are the dog’s gums?”

The boy leaned in. “Gray,” he replied.

“Is there no red?”

“A little red. Maybe light red, but mostly gray.”

“Jaysus, we’re discussing colors,” Somerled raged. He leaned against the wall, his head on his forearms.

“My basket,” the hag ordered. The boy handed it to her, and she lifted bundles of dried leaves out of it, sniffing them and setting aside those she intended to use. These she ground into powder. She added liquid from three bladders. “One . . . two . . . three,” she whispered as the drops fell into the bowl. “Wad that clean cloth and wick up the potion,” she said to the boy. He did as she ordered and handed the sopping cloth back to her. She lifted Rowan’s lip, exposing his tongue behind a row of teeth, and squeezed the potion from the cloth. Rowan’s tongue lapped sluggishly.

“Now, we wait,” she said as the boy helped her sit.

“That’s it? We wait?” Somerled returned to his chair. He sat down, and then stood and charged toward the door. The storm rattled it, and he returned to his seat. He imagined Breagha, cold and frightened, seated on the icy ground, surrounded by towering men. They closed in on her. One of them dropped to his knees in front of her and grabbed her breasts with many-fingered hands. She backed away, slamming against the shins of another warrior who laughed maniacally. She screamed, “Somerled!”

He awoke with a start when his head fell forward. The room was stifling. He wiped saliva from his chin and looked around to see if anyone had noticed it. Sleeping men covered the floor. Some snoozed on chairs tipped back against the walls. Night had fallen, and MacGillivray’s inferno had reduced to coals. Outside, the gale still howled. He thought briefly of Maguire and prayed he had found a sheltered bay.

At the table, the woman’s sightless eyes stared past Rowan to the far wall. She reminded him a bit of his father, and he was suddenly sorry he had spoken harshly to her. She turned her face toward him, and her milky eyes glowed. “It just be us now, lad,” she whispered. She hooked a finger on her tunic’s neckline and pulled it down. There, below prominent tendons and bones, a torc reflected the firelight.

His breath caught in his throat, and he leaned forward. At first, he thought it was Breagha’s, but then he noticed the difference. Two gold leaves held an amber stone at the torc’s lowest point. Breagha’s stone was green and sandwiched between the jaws of two dogs.

“Permit an old woman to speak,” she said.

He nodded.

“Your life has been shaped by women,” she whispered, “three of them, the same number as there are Norns weaving your destiny at the Well of Fate. The Norns know ye are an inventive man, a benevolent man, a man with much responsibility, a man who has not yet found himself. They know who ye are and . . . what ye are, even if ye don’t yet, but ye will.” She paused, and he saw pity flit across her face.

“I see the first woman, frantic and dragging ye through an autumnal forest. She has golden hair that has fallen loose from her headcovering. Ye are quite small. The woman stumbles, and . . .”

He turned his face away and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry, lad,” the old woman said. “Your mother’s death was not your fault.”

The forest from that day returned in flashes. He heard the screams of his kin racing past them through the ferns. He felt the pain in his shoulder as his mother dragged him over a mossy log. They fell next to Thorvald Ironhand, whose eyes and brains bulged out of his broken skull. Mother’s head burst open like a rotted turnip. Her blood puddled on the leaves under her cheek—those brilliant leaves . . .

“It was no accident that your mother fell beside her guard. She knew her son well. Ye did exactly as she had hoped.”

He had been nine years old. He could still smell the breath of his mother’s murderer. He ran his thumb over the brooch pinned to the cloak lying across his lap. He remembered how it had gleamed on the Viking’s chest that day . . . before he had tarnished it with the murderer’s Norse blood.

“I see another woman . . . no, a mere lassie.” The old woman pursed her lips. “My, she is beautiful! And clothed in fine silks.” She covered a gasp with her gnarled hand. “Oh, but her heart is black.”

His face heated. Stop, he thought, but he could not bring himself to say it aloud.

“She damaged your tender heart. It was a deeper wound than the one ye suffered in the forest. It hurt worse and for longer. To this day, it pains ye, because ye can do nothing to avenge it.”

“Stop,” he said finally.

“She was not meant for ye, lad.”

“I said stop.”

MacGillivray snorted and shifted in his chair, but returned quickly to sleep.

Somerled examined the woman’s lined face. Was he dreaming? He pinched his arm. It hurt. The legend of mind readers was only one of the myths old men loved to tell in Fermanagh, a land teeming with otherworldly beliefs. His uncle had told him of fairies, giants, banshees and witches. Somerled had dismissed them all. They were stories, nothing more, concocted to entertain children or frighten them into obedience. But here was a sightless woman who could see his past, who saw despite useless eyes, and who could read his mind. Are ye reading it now, old woman?

She smiled.

“Jaysus,” he whispered.

She stroked Rowan’s neck. The dog’s breathing had regulated. He looked comfortable, but exhausted. “What do ye do when ye face an enemy?” the old woman asked.

Somerled lifted his chin. “I kill him.”

“Then do the same with the black-hearted lassie’s memory,” the old woman said. “Don’t run from it. Face it. Tear it down like an advancing shield wall and it will be no more. A nine-year-old lad can kill his mother’s murderer but canny defeat the memory of a wicked lassie?”

He had never seen a lassie as finely dressed and as beautiful as the baron’s daughter. When she showed him favor, he had been flattered and aroused. In the castle corridor, she had kissed him with her painted lips. He could still feel her pelvic bones pressing against his. Meet me later in that room. Her breath had been hot on his ear. He did not want to remember what happened next. “Tell me she died screaming,” he said to the woman.

“She did. The man she married beat her to death.”

There was not as much joy in knowing that as he would have thought.

“She altered your path more than ye know. I am surprised that a man of your intelligence and benevolence would pass that hurt to another.”

“I have done nothing of the sort,” he said, realizing as the words left his mouth that she was right.

“Aye, but ye have, and I think ye know it. Do ye not remember what it feels like to be deemed unworthy by someone ye love? To leave yourself vulnerable and open only to be ridiculed and rejected?”

“Breagha,” he whispered. The word squealed through his tight throat. “I had no choice, old woman. I made an alliance with Fergus of Galloway, one my people need. I could not break—”

“Nonsense. Tell yourself what ye wish,” she said, “so that ye can sleep at night, but we both know why ye let her go. Admit it, lad, ye were afraid of being hurt again. Ye were unwilling to risk losing what ye’ve gained, not only for your people, but because ye have no desire to go back to living in a cave on Loch Linnhe.”

He turned away from her and drew his elbows to his sides.

She addressed the dog then, but he knew she was really talking to him. “Lost your soul mate, didn’t ye, pup?”

“Is she alive?” he asked.

She exhaled and rubbed her chin. “She is alive,” she said, “and still on Ardnamurchan.”

“Tell me how to find her,” he said.

“Lad, I . . .” She shook her head.

“There has to be a way. Tell me. I’ll do anything.”

“Ye can try, lad, but . . .”

“Anything, I’ll do anything,” he said again.

“I don’t think ye realize what it is ye face . . . out there.” She sighed. “If it is to be, it will take lifetimes of patience, my lord,” she said, “and much depends upon your lover’s own actions. The Norns will be of no use to ye now, angry as they are that ye wasted the happy fate they knitted ye.”

“To hell with the Norns!” He despised Norse gibberish.

Men jumped to their feet.

MacGillivray’s sword squealed out of its sheath. “M’Wha?” he mumbled. He looked at Rowan and said, “He lives.”

“Aye,” Somerled answered, “and we’ll leave as soon as this gale passes, so be ready.” He turned to the woman. “I will find her and make this right,” he whispered, “without the Norns.”

Pity returned to her face and she bowed her head. “I hope ye do, lad. Love can be a powerful weapon, and it lasts for an eternity. Remember that if ye can.” She patted the dog’s neck. “Trust this dog. He loves her too, and he will not fail ye. Be prepared to believe in the unbelievable. Oh, and lad, when ye find the one named Gille, and I promise that ye will, tell him that Padua is alive and well.”

Somerled was too tired to ask who Gille was. He staggered toward the bedchambers, drunk with exhaustion, only vaguely aware of Rowan’s toenails clicking in the corridor behind him.

Hold on, Breagha, I’m coming.

Chapter 16

Though Breagha could not understand their language, she gleaned that their leader’s name was Raam. She remembered him from that awful day in her village, and then later, at the cave when Rowan held him at bay while she ran. He had also been on the Dublin ship, where she witnessed him felling men two at a time.

She was accustomed to her captors’ fetid odor and well past the point of crying. Her sorrow and terror had turned to numb acceptance hours ago. She had resisted capture at first, refusing to walk. Then, she simply couldn’t walk. Her knees had buckled, and she lay on the ground, willing it to swallow her up. Raam had towered above her, his eye sockets like two windows that allowed her to see through his skull to the night sky. The hairless, scaly thing next to him had pitched a shrill fit, kicking dirt at her and dancing around as though the ground had turned to coals. In a single motion, Raam had grabbed the scaly thing’s throat and lifted it from the ground until it settled. When all was quiet, Raam had knelt and scooped her up into his arms. She had mercifully lost awareness after that.

Her head was heavy—too heavy for her neck to bear. It flopped against the leather at Raam’s chest as he walked. At times, it fell backward so that the night was upside-down. Raam hoisted her higher, and her cheek fell back against his jerkin.

A storm howled around them, occasionally pelting them with hail and heavy downpours. For a while, she clung to the hope that the weather might force them to stop and take shelter, but Raam showed no signs of fatigue or fear, and they trudged onward through the night despite the hostile conditions.

There was no reason to cry anymore. Her life was no longer worth living. Her village was destroyed, its inhabitants butchered or scattered. The dogs were dead, Gille had abandoned her, and Somerled would never find her. Please, do not try, my love. A rescue attempt would not end well for him, and she would rather go to her death knowing that he lived. In some distant time, he would forget their love and find another. Maybe, in a quiet hour of his old age, he would remember her and smile. That was all she could hope for now, and strangely, it was enough.

The storm should have frightened her. The soulless monster carrying her should have terrified her. Instead, she felt nothing but an apathetic curiosity about her captor. She studied the pallid face above hers, its chin jutting out toward his intended destination. Its most striking feature was the complete absence of expression. She had never given much thought to how important eyes were for conveying emotion. Somerled’s hazel eyes glittered in her memory, and she shoved them away.

Raam looked down at her and squeezed her against his chest as if he had somehow read her thoughts and wanted her to know that she was his now, not Somerled’s.

Lightning crisscrossed overhead like a fiery spider’s web. Hail pelted her face and she closed her eyes, thinking that it should probably hurt. A clap of thunder rumbled away toward the edge of the world.

Raam stopped, knelt, and balanced her on his knee while he loosened his hair. He hauled it over his shoulders and tented it around her face. Balls of ice exploded on his head and rolled down the mane protecting her face. She blinked as it spattered and melted on her cheeks. He brushed the water off her skin. A flash of lightning revealed no tenderness in his expression, but by his actions, it was evident that he did not mean to harm her.

The hail shower passed, and they slogged on in wind and rain. They walked a lengthy stretch beside a swollen river. Its roar grew deafening before giving way to the sounds of an angry sea. Rain hissed, and pebbles rolled under Raam’s boots. She smelled smoke. Tall shadows glided around fires protected by lean-tos.

Another flash of lightning illuminated a beach where a ship’s bow rested beyond the thrashing tide. A few tents shouldered against one another between tall rocks where scattered pine saplings had taken root. It smells nice, she thought, as Raam’s shoulder brushed against a bough. It was the first pleasant thing she had experienced since Finlaggan. As Raam carried her toward the tents, she expected that it would be her last.

He laid her down on a sheep’s skin. She was drenched, shivering, and wondering how she would survive the horrors that would take place in the tent before the sun rose. She thought of Rowan, dead in the tent on the far side of the peninsula, and it turned her heart to granite in preparation for what she assumed would happen next.

The fires on the beach provided just enough light for her to see Raam strip off his jerkin and belt. His tunic fell loose and accentuated the bulge at his groin. She whimpered and rolled onto her side to face the tent opening. Raam shouted something into the night, and a shadowy figure opened the tent flap and dropped a blanket onto her. Raam covered her, tucking the blanket’s edges under her before he eased down behind her with a groan. She felt the heat of him. The tent flap opened again, this time with enough force to shake the whole structure, and the scaly thing shook a fist at Raam and hissed something she could not understand. Raam spat something back at him, and the scaly thing dismissed his words with a wave before dropping the flap and whirling away.

She held her breath as Raam nuzzled closer. He rose to an elbow, smoothed her drenched hair away from her face, and traced her hairline with a finger. He shifted and moaned behind her, and she braced herself for an assault, but it did not come.

Though he disgusted her, he had not harmed her. Eventually, she relaxed and settled into his heat. He had not forced himself on her—not yet, anyway—so maybe there was hope. If she could stay alert, watch them and learn, and not succumb to fear or despair, maybe she could find a way to escape.

Chapter 17

In spite of Raam’s unnatural heat, she was still damp when dawn painted a pale strip on the edge of the world. The wind and rain had cleared, but the sky remained angry above the tents. Raam pulled her toward a fire. He sat her on a rock next to it and tossed a piece of a dismantled lean-to into the flames before seating himself on another rock across from her.

She studied him in the mounting light. If he had been standing, facing the islands rising out of the sea beyond him, she would not have guessed he was deformed. In fact, she would have considered him handsome. His hair gleamed like polished onyx. It cascaded over broad shoulders and thick muscles bulging on his arms. His calves were meaty, and he carried himself with a confidence that any woman would find eye-catching. His front, however, was a different matter. His face was pallid and as wrinkled as elbow skin. He had eyes, but they lacked pupils and were so black and sunken back into his orbits that he may as well have had none. His nose was smallish and wide, and although his lips were faultless, they held back a split tongue that slipped out when he spoke.

If he slept, she did not know when. She had drifted off a few times during the night, but every time she had awakened, hoping to slip out of the tent, he was either watching her or staring at a piece of vellum.

She drew in her arms when the scaly thing appeared and shoved a piece of bread at her. She stared at the hole below the elongated slits that served as his nostrils. He hissed and narrowed his perfect eyes, which were rimmed with long lashes and as blue as a bellflower. He shoved the bread at her a second time.

Raam nodded, convincing her to accept the bread from the scaly one, who whirled on his heels and stormed away to help the others ready the ship. Raam nodded again and said something that sounded like a curse. He pointed at the bread, then his mouth, and nodded again. She took a bite and chewed. The corners of his mouth turned upward, but his eyes conveyed no emotion.

A waist-high man shouted and waved from the water’s edge. Raam looked at him, then her. He barked something to the little man, who waddled up the beach carrying a rope. Raam tied one end of it to her ankle. He lifted the rock she had been sitting on as though it weighed nothing and tied the other end of the rope around it. She sat back down.

He looked back at her once on his way to the ship, and she obediently took another bite of the bread. When he was busy at the ship, she inspected the rope and considered whether she could fling it over the fire and burn it. Her foot only reached to the outer stones of the fire ring before the rope tightened. She considered using a stick from the fire to burn the rope, but she couldn’t reach any. She examined the pile of wood beside her, and decided to ignite one of the lean-to legs and use it as a torch. She grabbed a piece the length of her arm and dipped the end of it into the fire.

Raam stood ankle deep in the azure sea, surrounded by men and inspecting something on the side of the ship. His head rose above the others to check on her. When he began to push through the crowd toward her, she checked the wood. It had not ignited. She was out of time. She desperately tried to use the stick to flip a coal out of the fire ring. She failed.

Raam jogged toward her. She feigned a cough, bent low, then slipped the torc from her neck. She flung it into the fire, and threw as much of the dismantled lean-to on top of it as she could before sitting up and nibbling at her bread.

When Raam reached her, he looked at the fire, then her. He clenched his fists.

“No, no,” she said. “I was cold.”

He offered no reply. His fists unclenched, then clenched again. A tiny muscle near his jaw twitched.

She crossed her arms in front of herself, simulated a shiver, and rubbed her arms. “Cold. Ye understand?” she asked, feigning a smile.

His brow uncreased, his mouth went slack, and his arms fell limp at his sides.

Ah, so a smile is my best weapon.

He shivered, rubbed his arms, and repeated, “Cold.”

“Aye,” Breagha said, and smiled again, though his voice caused the hairs to stand up on the back of her neck.

“I know your language,” he said. He seemed anxious to remedy what ailed her, and despite the already blazing fire, he heaped more wood upon it. Breagha watched as the flames leapt high into the air and prayed that one day, rain would wash away the ashes and reveal the proof that she had existed. She was going to die. She knew it. When she did, she wanted her soul to come back here, to her torc. Maybe then, she could find her way to Islay. With a little luck, Somerled would still be alive. With God’s blessing, he might even remember her.

Chapter 18

Maguire and his men arrived before dawn. They were drenched, but energetic and thirsty for revenge.

“How did ye get here through that storm?” MacGillivray asked.

“By the grace of our father in heaven.”

Hakon grunted and rolled his eyes.

“Is MacIan still at Camus nan Gael?” Somerled asked. “Did the ships fare well?”

“Aye, the ships are fine. Tossed a bit in the surge, but not battered. The loch side of Ardnamurchan fared well, but I wouldn’t want to be on the north or west coast. We barely made it past the shoals before the gale turned real ugly.”

“Any sign of shipping?” Somerled asked.

“None, Sorley, except the Lorne an’ Islay fleets. I got the message to change course too late. We followed ye through the Sound of Mull.”

Servants brought dry tunics for the Fermanagh men, who stripped naked in the hall. A woman stooped in front of Maguire to retrieve his wet tunic. She inspected his physique, as women always did. “What’s the plan?” Maguire asked, meeting the woman’s lingering gaze.

“We think they stuck to the west, out of view. I plan to follow the dog, but my gut tells me he’ll lead us to Port Ban,” Somerled said.

“Dangerous waters in the best of weather. If they tried to sail in last night’s storm, we’ll find nothing but splinters among the skerries,” Maguire said.

He and his men dressed quickly.

Somerled was the first to duck out of the hall and into the crisp morning. The sky above him was clear except for a few crossed linear clouds.

Maguire pointed up at them. “A sign of our father’s blessing,” he declared, crossing himself.

“Or Thor’s anger,” Hakon said, nodding toward the north where clouds still obscured the Isles of Rhum and Eigg.

“Jaysus, look at that,” Maguire said, gesturing to Loch Mudle. “I’ve only ever known it to be blue.”

“Aye, well it’s the color of calf shite today,” Somerled said, climbing the bank behind MacGillivray’s hall.

They walked across a meadow that re-wet their boots and tunics. At the foot of Ben Losgann, they entered a dense coniferous forest and headed north. Birds chirped alarm in the light-deprived undergrowth, fluttering from one brittle twig to another, and scattering dead needles onto a forest floor that the rain had turned to muck. Somerled’s hips and knees ached as he slogged through it. All around him, boots made sucking noises as men lifted their feet out of the mud. At his side, Rowan, who had responded miraculously to Padua’s treatment, eyed the mire and wisely planted his paws in the footprints left by the men in front of him.

MacGillivray’s warriors outpaced the Finlaggan and Fermanagh men. They were useless on a boat, but their skill at traversing unforgiving terrain was superior among the clans. It was why Fergus had wanted them.

Fergus. Argyll’s alliance with Galloway was as damaged as Fergus’s face. Surely, the two rulers could negotiate new terms. There would be no let-up in the flow of Norman knights gathering at Galloway’s backside. Fergus would need Argyll’s help, especially now that Somerled could summon the boarskin-clad barbarians of Moray whenever he wanted.

The forest’s end brightened ahead like a star in the night sky. The muck turned shallow, then pebbly. Somerled stepped out of the woods and into full sun. He staggered to a stump and sat down to scoop mud and pine needles out of his boots. His men did the same.

“Jaysus, man, ye got ugly feet,” Maguire said to Hakon.

“Up your arse,” Hakon said.

“Shite, Sorley, look at this pagan’s green toes. Jaysus, man, no wonder ye have no wife. No woman in her right mind would crawl into bed wi’ those ugly stumps. Cover ‘em up before ye scare the dog.”

Hakon punched Maguire’s shoulder.

Normally, Somerled enjoyed his men’s caustic wit. There were even times when he had used it to diffuse tense situations. Today, it irked him. How could they understand what he was suffering? Maguire bedded anything with a hole he could stick himself into, and Hakon had never loved anything but combat.

Rowan had been out of sight. He returned at a trot, brushed against Somerled’s knee, and whined. The dog’s impatience was an added pressure Somerled did not need. He was already aware of the consequences of any delay. The sky was clearing in the northwest. The enemy ship would sail.

He shoved his blistered feet back into his boots and whispered to the dog, “Where is she?” Rowan bolted partway up the mountain and stopped to look back at him. “We follow the dog,” Somerled said to his men.

They marched on sore feet with Rowan circling and quartering in front of them. The dog sniffed until he sneezed at times, and he sometimes licked the ground to taste what he could not decipher by scent alone. It was a steady and unrelenting trek up the hill with no rest unless the dog needed time to commit to a direction.

“He could be chasing a stag, ye know,” Hakon said.

“No,” Somerled said, “he’s not.” Padua had said to trust the dog. “We know they stayed out of view. They had to come through here.” The rain had pounded the grass flat and obliterated any evidence of a trail. He expected the dog to lead them farther west, but Rowan turned east just before the landscape began to rise into Ben Leathaid.

“Rain coming,” Hakon said when they entered a wide valley. As if announced, rain pelted them. “Under the shields.” The men spread tarps over the shields and brush and crawled underneath. Hakon glared at Maguire. “Sign of your god’s blessing, indeed.”

“Jaysus, man, it’s rain,” Maguire answered. “The father sends it to feed the earth so ye have somethin’ to stuff in that ugly mouth of yours.”

“It’s a bad omen. We have angered Thor.”

“Holy shite, man,” Maguire said, sniffing noisily, “lick that dog’s arse an’ freshen up your breath, would ye? Jaysus, the pagan stench under this tarp.”

Somerled smelled nothing but rain and crushed heather.

When the shower passed, Maguire burst out from under the tarp and threw his hands skyward. “Thank ye sweet Jaysus for savin’ me from the fires of hell an’ that man’s breath.”

Hakon took a swing at him.

Maguire grinned and ducked just in time.

“Enough,” Somerled said, “let’s move on.”

The dog circled ahead of them in the valley and headed for the Achateny River, a salmon-filled torrent that flowed from Loch Mudle to Port Ban.

“Och, the devil’s hairy arse-ring, we’re nearly back where we started,” Maguire said.

“Let him work it out,” Somerled said.

Maguire rubbed his ankle. “I’d give anythin’ for a Fermanagh horse right now.”

“If the enemy crossed the river,” Hakon said, “we will not be able to follow. It’s too high.”

“Aye,” Maguire agreed. “But by Jaysus, it looks like he’s turnin’.”

The dog loped downhill until he was a speck in the distance, darting back and forth, weaving between exposed rocks and shrubs. He stopped just before the river and crouched wide-legged with his nose against the ground. His tail sprang wildly, and he bolted to the northwest, stopped, and looked up at them.

“We go,” Somerled said. “I knew they’d head for Port Ban.”

They followed the dog, the dog followed the river, and the river raced toward the sea. At a narrow section of the Achateny, they flushed a stag and five hinds. The animals crashed through the brush, scattering songbirds and flushing out a pine marten. The men drew their daggers and crouched, their arms shivering from the shock.

Hakon blew out a deep breath and returned his battle-axe to its place behind his back.

“Nearly shat myself,” Maguire yelled over the roar of the Achateny.

“Smells like it,” Hakon said.

Somerled sheathed his sword and walked into a patch of swaying brush at the river’s edge to relieve himself. Across the water, three standing stones poked up out of the heather. Time had whittled them down, but he wondered if they had once contained a carved message like the stone at Finlaggan.

Remember me.

The memory of Breagha at the standing stone flashed in his mind. She had known about Mersin. He imagined how he would feel to know that Breagha had lain with another man. His chest ached. He considered donning a mail shirt and jumping into the river.

“Sorley?” Maguire called into the brush.

“Pishin’,” he said, returning to his men.

“Gale’s gone,” Hakon said, pointing to the north. Ahead, the sun lit up the Isle of Eigg, which sat six miles off Ardnamurchan’s north coast. To the northeast, the peaks on the Isle of Skye were still jagged shadows.

Somerled called Rowan to his side. “Keep him here,” he said, “I’m gonny have a look.”

“My lord,” Hakon said, “I cannot—”

Somerled shot Hakon a look that said he was getting tired of protests.

Hakon grabbed Rowan’s collar and stepped aside.

Somerled jogged across a shallow creek and up the western rise of the knoll overlooking Port Ban. When he neared its crest, he took his shield from his back and drew his sword. He could hear the sea thrashing against the skerries. Eiders chattered like gossiping women. Ahh, they said. Ahh. He crawled a few feet ahead, careful to avoid rustling the weeds and brush.

His mouth was dry as he peered over the knoll’s crest. The storm had strewn dead man’s fingers and bladderwrack across the rocks and beach. Gulls hunted in heaps of it drying at the tidemark. Two otters chased each other across a flat rock before splashing into the water. Nothing else moved. There were no masts, no men, no Breagha.

Black circles dotted the beach. Firepits. Cold firepits.

He stood and waved for the others. Rowan passed him before he had made his third stride. The dog was already sniffing the firepits by the time Somerled reached the beach.

“They camped here,” Hakon said, breathless from jogging up and over the knoll.

“Aye,” Maguire agreed, setting down his shield and kneeling to poke at some embers. “No warmth to it, but the rain would have made handy work of puttin’ out the fires, so no real way to tell how old they are.”

Rowan sat beside one of the firepits. Somerled went to the dog’s side and placed a hand on his withers.

“No way to know if it was them or not,” Hakon said.

“It was them,” Somerled said.

“Somethin’ that’s been buggin’ me all day is how they knew she’d be here,” Maguire said.

Somerled was embarrassed that he hadn’t given the matter any thought. “I suppose they could have followed Fergus in.”

“No,” Hakon said, “Islay’s waters are well watched. The deceit had to come from within. Had to be someone who came and went with permission.”

Somerled kicked a pile of dead man’s fingers. “The monks.”

“Jaysus, no, not men of God,” Maguire said.

“Who else could it have been?” Hakon asked. “No one else left early enough.”

“Jaysus,” Maguire repeated, “men of God.” He crossed himself and shook his head.

“Hrmph.” Hakon shoved his hands inside his tunic and frowned at Maguire.

They stood in silence for a few minutes. “When I catch the wee shite, I will crucify him m’self,” Maguire said, red-faced. “Nail his arse to the first tree I can find.”

Rowan whined.

Somerled knelt beside him. “Sorry, lad, she’s gone,” he whispered.

The dog pawed at the ashes in the firepit.

“What is it?” he asked, feeling silly talking to a dog.

Mruff.

Rowan pawed again at the firepit. One of the stones that had contained the enemy’s fire clattered away and revealed something shiny. Somerled dug through the ash until he found the edge of Breagha’s torc. He lifted it out of the mess and held it to his chest, where it deposited a wide smear of soot. The enemy would not have left an item of such value behind in the fire. She must have taken it off and hid it for him to find.

He sat on a rock next to the firepit, knowing she must have sat on it, too. He imagined her there, terrified and clinging to hope that he would look for her.

She had asked for a simple thing. Where would the harm have been in letting her visit Iona? Guilt rained down on him then, harder than any hail shower, soaking him so that he would never dry. He hung his head and prayed.

If God ever sees fit to bring ye back to me, he thought, I’ll take ye to Iona myself.

Chapter 19

Semjaza knew her name to be Breagha, which Raam had determined meant “beautiful” in her language. It was a fitting name, for she was lovely despite the grime coating her. He despised her even more for it.

She sat in the dark against the far wall of her cell, her tunic muddy and torn. Her arms encircled her knees, and she rested her forehead on her kneecaps. Her hair tumbled forward in a bronze waterfall.

The roots hanging from her cell’s ceiling delivered a fresh burst of rainwater. She stood and shuffled toward its sound, crisscrossing her arms in front of her. When it splashed on her hand, she leaned into the flow to lap at it. The water washed her chin, but when she dried her mouth on her sleeve, her chin was dirty again. She returned to the bench and sat next to last evening’s bread, which was untouched and surely stale.

Semjaza raged at the waste. Though he had no sense of taste and had never once eaten, he was eternally hungry. Hunger in his formless state was worse than the pangs he experienced when manifested. It went beyond the need to fill his belly, presenting itself as an unrelenting craving to fill the emptiness at his core. Starvation was just one of the punishments he and the others had received when they fell from grace.

He hovered like vapor at the cell door, ravenous and looking from the bread to her, unable to decide which he’d like to devour first. He wondered which Watcher had sired her. She must be one of Hamaziel’s offspring, he decided. The smell of her frenzied him. He had not enjoyed scent-driven euphoria since the days of the fragrant sacrifices. That was before their fall. Nothing on earth compared to that heady rapture. Until now.

He had spent many hours since her arrival considering how he would take her. Some of his fantasies involved taking his time, savoring her. Others went so far as to imagine her clinging to him, her eyes misty with want, her pouting lips begging him in desperation to satisfy her without delay. That was an impossible dream, he knew. She would writhe in horror beneath him like all the others. Still, it would not diminish his pleasure.

If the bitch would only ripen.

The fiery-haired lunatic in the adjacent cell distracted him. She had survived the mating, but her mind was gone. Once content to while away the hours reclining on her bench, she now spent her days racing around the perimeter of her cell. He knew her bloodline well, and he doubted she would survive the birth. As long as the child in her lived, her death was of no consequence to him. She would be born again, maybe into better circumstances. In fact, he was probably doing her a favor. She was clearly one of Azazel’s get, and though he had been hopeful due to her reputation as a visionary, she had been a disappointment. At the rate the child inside her was growing, it was almost certainly going to be another witless giant, a bad hybrid with the wrong recessive traits.

He had taken her during a gale, when her screams were lost amid the wails of a ferocious wind. Raping her while formless had been risky, and he had paid the price with acute exhaustion, but it had been worth it. He could still see her face, contorted by confusion and terror. . . . He delighted in the memory of that night, but apparently, she did not. She had raced around her cell ever since, as if trying to outpace her recollection of the encounter.

A door squealed open at the end of the corridor. The bread man was on time. He must have forgotten something, because he swore and left again. The crossbar slammed down, and a gust of fresh air coiled down the corridor.

Semjaza watched Breagha carefully. In the singular moment when his scent had been available to her, her nostrils flared, and revulsion crossed her face.

Are you thinking of me, you filthy bitch?

Had he been manifested, he would have sneered. He scanned her thoughts, but found only a young man with hair the color of dead grass sitting at a ship’s helm. The image infuriated him, and for a moment, the jealousy nearly caused him to take her immediately, ripe or not.

He searched her mind again. This time, he saw an old man with a contrived, gentle expression.

Hamaziel.

He’d been right! Semjaza suppressed his rage, knowing anger would sap him of precious energy. He laughed inwardly, wondering what Breagha would think of Hamaziel if she knew that he, too, had once raped the daughters of man.

What would she think of your real face, Hamaziel—the one given you as you fell? Oh, Hamaziel, inventor and rapist, you with your heightened senses and your acquired pureness of heart. . . . You, who dirty your wings by gathering your brood under you like a common hen . . . . You, who protect your embodied sins in the hope of forgiveness. He has cast you out with the rest of us. When I have used your living sins to create one greater than he is, I will see that you are thrown into the fires of hell.

Hamaziel had done well to hide his offspring in the far-flung regions of the world, but he had underestimated the peril of settling among the mobile and superstitious Norse. Eventually, their sagas and myths trickled out of the north, presenting Semjaza with a trail to follow. He could not ignore the legends of giants and fairies, stones engraved with pleas to heaven, banshees, saints, and miracles. It had taken time to find Hamaziel’s clutch, but time was one thing Semjaza had in abundance. And since Hamaziel had kept his descendants close to him, his bloodline was tight, not watered down like Azazel’s.

Breagha sighed and stretched out on the bench. He longed to float into the cell and ease onto her as she slept, teasing her body while she dreamed of her young man. She may never know the difference. He was growing bored with forcing himself on the women. Their expressions were always the same. Even ugly Aengus had the ability to paint lovely expressions on a woman’s face during coupling. He wondered what that would be like—to give so much pleasure to a woman that her eyes rolled up in her head.

He would try it. He would seduce Breagha while she dreamt of her sailor. He would slip inside her and laugh as she begged him for more.

Just as soon as the bitch ripened.

Chapter 20

“He’s gone,” Breagha whispered to the wall at her head.

A girl’s muffled voice answered her from the other side. “Are ye certain?”

“Aye, Kata, I’ve no doubt.” The sound of scraping commenced in Kata’s cell. “The torches have been re-lit. He never comes when there’s light.”

Though her captor was never visible, she always knew when he was there. The first sign of an impending visit was the snuffing of the torches. The second was an absence of sound. Occasionally, she smelled him—his was a putrid odor that burned her nostrils like cat’s urine.

His observation of her had become routine, easy to predict, allowing her to prepare. During his first visit, he had pried into her thoughts. She had felt him shuffling through her mind, an unpleasant violation that required a quick defense. It was a simple matter, really, and one she enjoyed, for combatting his assault involved shielding her mind by conjuring up pleasant memories.

She had lost count of the days since Raam had delivered her here. She had been here long enough for her senses to become accustomed to the stale air and humidity that had overwhelmed her during the first weeks in her cell. The drafts that nearly cut her in two at times had eased in recent days, and the rainwater that dripped from above felt warmer. These subtle changes, unworthy of her notice before her confinement, were of paramount importance now, for they were something new, and anything that broke the monotony of her confinement was a rare and welcome gift.

She had grown comfortable in her miserable surroundings, which allowed her to take delight in simple things, like the scuttling rat that sometimes sat on his haunches to lick his front feet and preen his ears. Her greatest joy, though, came when the torches in the corridor burned high and illuminated the velvety moss thriving on the roots above her. In those moments, her cell was as vivid as the slope at Finlaggan, where Somerled had kissed her. Neither Kata nor the redhead in the cell next to her had such color in their cells. She alone had the company of plant life, even if it was only visible on occasion.

She slept a lot, which meant daily headaches and a chronically stiff neck. She rarely ate, despite the pleas of the deformed man who brought her the morning bread. He hobbled in each day, kicking his left foot out with each step to compensate for his crookedness. Lassie, ye must eat something, he always said. Her usual response was to turn her back on him. There were times, of course, when she had to eat, but she never did so in front of the bread man, no matter how sweet his plea.

The bald man with the lumpy head who brought her evening bread was less kind. If ye do-nae start tae eat, I will ram it doon your neck, he threatened nightly, shoving his filthy finger stump at her nose. It was hard to take him seriously, as his eyes were crossed, and she was never sure if he was talking to her or to the pregnant girl in the next cell.

His name was Aengus. She knew that from Kata, who giggled and moaned, Oh, Aengus, during what had become increasingly longer evening visits by the bread man.

The squeal of an opening door echoed into the corridor for the second time that morning. “Kata!”

“Aye?”

“The bread man is truly coming this time.”

Kata’s scraping ceased.

Keys jingled, and cell doors opened and slammed as the crooked bread man made his morning deliveries. The moans of many hungry women echoed.

How many of us are there?

The bread man’s lamp brightened the corridor, and Breagha glanced at the roots above her. She smiled, and for a moment, she was outside, leaning into Somerled’s chest at the standing stone at Finlaggan. Out of habit, she reached for the stone at her breastbone, forgetting it was not there.

The cell door next to hers had barely squealed open when the redhead snatched the bread from the man’s stubby hands and shoved it into her mouth. “Lassie, ye’d swear ye never clapped eyes on bread afore.” His expression softened, and he exhaled loudly. His eyes, bulging under his bushy, gray eyebrows, darted to the girl’s belly. “I should-nae, but—” He handed her a second piece of bread and exited her cell, twisting his key in her door.

When he entered Breagha’s cell, he took note of the crust on her bench. “Tsk, tsk,” he said, shaking his head, “lassie, ye must eat something.”

“I will.” His surprise at her answer was evident. He smiled, deepening the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He nodded, tossed her a piece of bread, and closed her door. His clumsy steps carried him on his way until she heard no more doors.

When she was certain he was gone, she whispered to the wall, “We’re alone again.”

Kata’s scraping resumed. “What of the lass next to ye?”

“Still pacing.” She looked at the girl’s belly. “I’ve seen ewes pregnant with triplets that weren’t as swollen. She has got to be ready to go at any moment.”

“Poor thing,” Kata said.

Breagha rose. Her legs were stiff, and with her first step, a hot pain seared into her hip. She limped to the bars separating her from the pregnant girl. “Lassie,” she whispered when the girl neared her on her circuitous route around the cell. A mass of springy curls hid the girl’s face. “Psst,” Breagha whispered, this time thrusting the chunk of bread through the bars.

The girl moved faster than Breagha would have thought possible given the size of her belly. She ripped the bread from Breagha’s hand and shoved it into her mouth, peering through her tangled hair with wild, crystalline eyes. Her expression tamed and she swallowed. Breagha seized the moment to touch her hand. The girl studied the fingers covering her own, her eyebrows skewed.

“It’s all right, lassie,” Breagha whispered. “What’s your name?” She pressed harder against the bars, and reached upward to brush the girl’s hair away from her freckled cheek. It was too much. The girl ripped free and resumed her pacing at a feverish rate, side-eyeing Breagha when she neared the bars dividing their cells.

Breagha returned to her bench, dejected, and stretched out on it. She wadded up a blanket, the only item of comfort given to her, and used it for a pillow, pulling her arms inside her tunic and across her prominent ribs. She watched the girl race around her cell to the rhythm of Kata’s scraping.

She was sick. Her belly hurt, and early this morning when she had used the bucket, she noticed blood.

“Breagha,” Kata whispered near her head.

“Aye.”

“Ye sleeping?”

“No.”

“Did ye check the root?”

“No.”

Kata’s scraping paused. “Is it still there?”

Breagha knew it was there, but she thrust her arms back through the holes of her sleeves and felt behind her anyway. Wedged between the bench and the wall was a slender root that Kata had asked her to break off when she had first arrived. “Aye, it’s there.”

“Is it any drier?”

Breagha sat up and unwedged the root. The weight of the bench had pressed it straight, but as she gripped both ends, it still bent. “It’s a bit drier. Not much.”

“Shite,” Kata said. “Well, put it back. It will dry eventually.” Breagha did so and reclined again on the bench. “We’ll get out of here, lassie. Don’t ye worry,” Kata said.

During their many unsupervised hours, Kata had shared her life story. According to her, she came from a race of people known for their weaponry. Kata claimed that she knew what to melt, how to forge it, and just how deep it would slide into a man’s belly.

“This is nearly done,” Kata said, “and then we will just be waiting on the stick.” Her scraping resumed. “Are ye not working on the hole today?”

Breagha glanced at the shadow between the stones in the wall. “It seems rather pointless, Kata. I have been clawing at it forever, and it is no bigger.”

“Don’t get down now, lassie. The day will come when that stick will be dry and the hole will be big enough for ye to slip it through to me. I promise ye, I have a plan, and it will work. Put your hand inside.”

Breagha stuck her hand into the crack and bent her finger around a sharp angle. She found Kata’s finger there and pressed against it so that their pads were flat and warm against each other. “I feel your finger,” she said, but her spirits were low.

“Just ye give me another wee while, and lumpy-headed ol’ Aengus will be getting something in return for what he has been giving me.” She laughed aloud, and the sounds of her scraping hastened.

Breagha tried to imagine Kata. They had described themselves to each other during one of their many conversations. Tiny, Kata had said, worthy of no notice, which gives me an immediate advantage. Kata had claimed no beauty other than her hair, which she said was as shiny as a raven’s back. And a heart the color to match it, she had bragged.

Breagha doubted it. In fact, by her daily inquiries regarding the redhead’s condition, Kata gave herself away as the caring individual Breagha suspected she was. Tiny warrior or not, Kata’s heart was soft.

Though the effort seemed a waste, Breagha picked up the pebble she kept hidden and began picking at the hole in the wall. The tiny tool was not particularly efficient for the job, but it was the only hard thing she had been able to find. As she rubbed at the hole, dust flaked away, which meant there was less barrier than before, even if it was only the depth of a grain of sand.

“That’s it, lassie,” Kata said, “keep at it. In time, we’ll get through.”

Time was one thing they all seemed to have, and at least she was doing something other than sleeping.

When the day gave way to evening, Aengus arrived to deliver his bread and giggles to Kata. Shortly thereafter, the two women who gathered the dung buckets made their nightly rounds down the corridor. One was ancient, well past the age of carrying anything. The other was young, but hideous, and apparently mute. Had it not been for the pendulous breasts that her filthy apron could not disguise, Breagha would have sworn she was a man. Her face was manly, and her oversized hands grew thick patches of hair between their knuckles.

The old woman hobbled into Breagha’s cell with a greasy lantern and picked up the bucket to empty it into a larger one that the man-girl lugged. They looked at its contents, then each other, then at her. The old woman’s thin lips stretched into a smile, exposing a few yellowed stumps that remained in her mouth. “Someone will be very happy at this news,” she said, “very happy indeed.”

Chapter 21

Damn her! Semjaza had stayed too long at her door. How could he help himself? She was nearly ready. Her fertile scent hung in the layered dampness. On the gentlest draft, it coiled seductively around him, crazing him. Warm and womanly, her body’s hormonal fragrance dizzied him, tempted him, stripped him of reason, made time stand still, and nailed him to the floor. If he didn’t know better, he would swear their roles had been reversed, and he was now her captive.

He tore his gaze from her and glided away from her door. Her scent tugged at him, enticing him to return to her warmth. Damn her! He broke away from her hold and headed for his chamber, but his movements were rigid, as if he was trying to swim through stone. You’re in trouble. This was as close as he had ever come to total energy depletion. He needed his shell. His reserves were too low.

He should have used a host. One ray of light would finish him. Hurry! No, conserve and concentrate. He was almost there.

A floating sensation assaulted him. His vision blurred around the edges and then snapped off and on, delivering images in abstract flashes. He was no longer grounded. This was dangerous. Nearly . . . there.

Deeply grained, worm-ravaged wood and iron hinges swirled in front of him. Someone had closed his door! Rage ignited in his core and compounded his already perilous situation. Anger and anxiety were greedy, demanding he feed them no matter what the circumstance.

He worked hard to remain calm. Who would do this? Raam, that’s who. Raam had not been the same since he had delivered the girl. It would be like him to find a sneaky way to annoy me, Semjaza thought. As soon as he was safe, he would decide whether he was angry or proud.

He stared at the door, knowing that relief lay crumpled in a scaly heap on the other side. He would have to pass through, and it would hurt. The iron would pose the biggest challenge. He had to go as low as he could, beneath the lowest strap hinge.

The floating sensation intensified, and he flailed wildly against it in order to reach floor level. He was well past the point of exhaustion, but it was now or never. If he did not pass through the door soon, it would be too late. He thought of Raam’s trickery, and his son’s deceit fed him. He shoved ahead and heard his own distant screams as the splinters tore at him.

The ancient oak, ecstatic at having company, seized the opportunity to tell its unjust tale. It assaulted Semjaza with its history, frantic to share the agony it had suffered from dull blades and sharp nails. Semjaza felt the hot saw ripping into his own flesh and the nails impaling him, shackling him for eternity between rigid hinges so that he was unable to scratch at the worms that chewed holes in him. He squealed and writhed, and the oak began to lose its grip on him. It clawed at his hocks, desperate to keep his company after having been alone for so long.

Semjaza shimmied and gave a final push, popping free of the oak and rolling onto the floor of his chamber. He slithered the rest of the way to the corner and slipped into his shell. It gasped, shivered, and began to recharge him.

He was weak, but strong enough to rise up and pull the cord that hung from the ceiling. A bell rang. Shuffling footsteps echoed in the hall, and a stumpy, crooked man with a single, bulging eye opened the door.

“Shuffles, send for Raam,” Semjaza said, noticing that his voice sounded as though he spoke into an empty tankard.

A few minutes later, Raam, cat-like since birth, slunk through the doorway. He had tied his mane away from his face. He hung his head, sending his loose facial skin to gather in many wrinkles around his nose.

“Stay there,” Semjaza said, observing Raam’s normally ochre aura turn to crimson. By the time it had cooled to pink, Semjaza had regenerated enough to pry. He sifted through the images in Raam’s mind, searching for anything that might hint at deception. “Did you close my door?” he asked.

Raam gave him nothing. “No.”

He would have to watch this one. Something was not right. He needed to put Raam in his place.

“The girl is ready,” Semjaza announced.

Raam’s aura glowed red.

Semjaza pried deeper, but found only images of rocks, one after the other, all different types and sizes. Is he blocking me? “I will soon impregnate her,” he announced.

Raam’s face remained expressionless as always, but his aura turned a deep shade of crimson.

Semjaza pried again and found more rocks. He is! He is blocking me. The treachery! He would need to knock Raam’s insolence back a bit. “When I am finished with her . . .”

Raam quivered and shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and Semjaza knew that he awaited news of the reward he had been promised.

“As you may remember, I told you that if you brought the girl, I would allow you to take a turn at her.”

The iron on Raam’s jerkin tinkled as his body convulsed. He licked his lips and swallowed.

“Well, I have changed my mind.”

Raam looked up at him, sending the wrinkles on his face back to his hairline. His defenses fell, and Semjaza seized the opportunity to pry again. This time, he found an image of Breagha smiling beside a roaring fire. He laughed, and it reverberated in the chamber. “Of all the things you could fantasize about doing to her, you want to make her smile?”

Raam took a step back, his hands balled into fists.

Semjaza rose up on his hooves and leaned closer to Raam’s face. “What are you going to do . . . hit me?” He cackled again. “Do you fantasize that she cares for you, that she could ever touch you without vomiting?” He searched Raam’s thoughts again, tossed the rocks aside, and struck gold: Breagha’s face with Raam’s dirt-encrusted fingers smoothing her wet hair.

Semjaza sneered. It was so fun to play with their emotions. “Until this day, I meant to keep my promise and allow you a night with the girl,” he said. “I could have taken pride in your lust, but not this. This,” he said, thrusting a talon into the air, “is human weakness and a sign that I have failed again. You are a failure, Raam. Consider yourself lucky that I let you live.”

Raam’s body slackened.

“I could forget you lying to me about my door. I could laugh at your attempt to harm me. In fact, I could even respect you for it, but this . . .” Love. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word that was simply too disgusting. “It is more than I can bear. It winnows you out and names you chaff among the wheat. Now, go away, or I will allow Lips to have his way with the girl and make you watch.”

Raam wasted no time. He charged through the doorway like an angry bull.

Won’t cross me again, will you, you mindless nothing?

Chapter 22

The pebble was worn and difficult to pinch between her fingers. Breagha bit back a low moan. Her hands were already sore and bleeding, and the continual scraping had ground her nails back to their tender beds. Still, she picked at the fissure between the stones with her pitiful tool.

“Kata,” she said, rising up to her elbows on the bench.

“Aye?”

“He stayed an awfully long time this morning.”

“I know,” Kata said. “Corridor was dark forever. Maybe he’s making up for not being here the last wee while. Guess what Aengus told me?”

“What?”

“His name’s Semjaza.”

What kind of name is Semjaza? Breagha wondered, just as her pebble snagged on something and skipped out of her fingers. She retrieved it and resumed her scraping. It caught again, rolled out of the hole, and disappeared into the slime beneath her bench. She did not relish fumbling through the slick filth to retrieve it. “Shite, now I got to look through God-knows-what.”

Kata laughed. “What’s wrong?”

Breagha was annoyed, and her cheeks flushed hot. “My knuckles are worn to nothing, and now there is something in the hole catching my pebble.”

Kata paused her scraping. “Stand back,” she said. Without waiting, she blew into the hole, and showered Breagha’s face with grit.

“Kata!” Breagha rubbed at her eyes.

“I told ye to stand back. Ye all right?”

“Aye.” She blinked. “Ye could have given me a moment to fully hear what ye said.”

Kata’s voice was closer to the wall. “Here is the problem. Och, Breagha, there’s a stone wiggling loose! If I could just get . . .” Stone abraded stone. “Stick your finger in opposite mine,” she said. “Maybe we can free it.”

Breagha probed inside the hole and found Kata’s finger at the sharp edge of a rock. She pushed, then relaxed. Kata matched her movements until clouds of mortar puffed out of the hole. At last, the stone gave way and clattered into Kata’s cell.

“Och, ye sweet, sweet lassie,” Kata squealed, “what gift ye have delivered to me this glorious day!”

“Is it good?”

“Aye, lassie, it’s good. It’s very, very good.”

Breagha wriggled lower on the bench and jostled close to the wall. She blew into the hole, which was big enough to see through. She saw Kata slumped over her prize. “Ye told me ye were not worthy of notice, but ye are lovely, Kata.”

Kata smiled. “Ye can see me?”

“Aye, and I know plenty of men who would notice ye, too, Kata. Probably forgive ye for being a liar, as well.”

Kata’s grin widened, revealing badly overlapped teeth. “Move back. Let me see ye,” she said.

Breagha moved to the opposite side of her cell and stood for inspection.

“Och, Breagha, ye are so thin! Ye really must eat.”

Her face must have betrayed her embarrassment, for Kata tried to salve her bruised feelings. “Lassie, make no mistake. Ye are a beauty. Ye just need some food and sun. Aye, ye need sun, and we shall soon have some, thanks to this lovely, lovely item I warm in my bosom.”

It was impossible to stay sad amid such optimism and genuine concern. Breagha had asked countless times, but when she returned to her bench, she asked again. “Kata?”

“Aye?”

“Just how are ye planning to get us out of here?”

Kata sighed. “I want to say. I really do, but . . .”

“I know, I know, it’s best if I don’t know.”

“Breagha, my mind is like a warrior’s shield against the one who watches. He gets nothing from me, but if I share information with ye, and ye are not strong, we risk him prying it loose, and then we lose everything. Please, just trust me.”

“At least tell me how long?”

“I cannot tell ye that, lassie, but trust me, it will not be long.”

“I hope not, Kata.” The sense of urgency had begun just after her monthly bleeding had stopped. It had been a while since she had experienced a normal cycle, nearly long enough to forget how rotten it made a woman feel.

Semjaza had thankfully stayed away during the days she bled, but he had returned this morning, and she had felt something new and unwelcome. His putrid odor was heavier and closer, and she experienced a new depth of violation, as though he had entered, uninvited, into that personal space around her where only those closest to her were welcome. She had defended herself by remembering her dogs until he had gone.

“Try the stick. Does it fit through now that the hole’s bigger?”

She unwedged the root from behind the bench and slid the tapered end into the hole until it became stuck. She pushed harder, and it began to bend in the middle.

“Wait, wait,” Kata said. “If I can get hold of the end, I’ll pull. Brace it along the sides and push. Gently, now. Don’t risk snapping it.”

Breagha squatted near the wall and wrapped her fingers around the smooth root. Her knees ached. “Ready,” she said.

“Push!”

She pushed, but the root did not budge.

“Right, Breagha, try twisting it as ye push.”

“Which way?”

“Toward the rear wall of your cell. Now!” The stick turned, but mostly in her hands, the end closest to her.

“Kata, it twisted, but only nearest my hands. The hole is not yet big enough.” She sat on her heels, staring at the root, now stuck in the wall.

“Shite,” Kata said. “We got to get it out of the wall, or it will be noticed. If we only had something to grease it with, I know it would slide through.”

Something greasy. She had that. “I know where to get something slippery,” she said, “and by God, woman, if I stick my hand in it, it had better free us.”

“Tell me.”

“Below my bench, there is foul slime. I do not know what it is, but it is slippery and smelly, and I would rather do anything else than touch it.”

“It’s probably just decayed plants or moist clay. Let’s get the stick back in your cell, and then slick it up with whatever ye have and try again.” The root began to jiggle in the hole, and Breagha tugged on it until she held it in its entirety.

She leaned to the right, held her breath, closed her eyes, and reached into the moist corner, trying hard not to think about the goo she scooped into her hand. “Ack, it’s disgusting,” she said.

“No, lassie, disgusting is wrapping yourself around a cross-eyed eejit and pretending ye like it while he saws away at ye. Trust me, scooping up pure shite is better than what I’ve been doing to free us, so just ye reach in there and slather whatever ye got on that root and get it back into the hole.”

Breagha hazarded a glance at the slime in her hand. It oozed out between her fingers and dangled like long strings of saliva. It was impossible to miss its stench as she rubbed it on the root.

“Rub some into the hole if ye can,” Kata ordered.

She gagged and followed Kata’s directions.

“Jaysus.” Kata coughed. “Holy God, that is foul. Try to push it through now.”

She was only too happy to comply. She wanted rid of the root and the stench that coated it. She put the tapered end into the hole and heaved with all her might. When the tail end of it disappeared into the hole, shavings of it dripped off the wall along with globs of slime.

The unmistakable sound of vomiting ensued. Kata spat and said, “Got it!”

Breagha rose and slung as much of the slime off her hand as she could. She stood on her bench and wiped the remainder on the roots above her. She would not drink from them again.

“Jaysus,” Kata repeated, “what in hell is that?”

Breagha laughed. “Still rather put your legs around Aengus than handle that?”

Kata giggled. “I thought ye were just squeamish.”

“Will it help?”

“Aye, it is perfect. Could have used a bit more drying, but I can work with this. Now just ye empty your mind of this event, lassie. Semjaza must not find out about it.”

Semjaza. The sound of his name was as foul as the slime that now coated the roots above her. Kata’s scraping changed to light tapping. Breagha stretched out on her bench and closed her eyes.

Tap-tap-tap.

She imagined herself back in her village, snuggled in her bed with the scent of birch and wintergreen drifting through the window.

Tap-tap-tap.

The stone carvers were already busy with their hammers and chisels. It was peaceful, so peacef—

“Aengus, I will have a surprise for ye soon,” Kata muttered, giggling. “Real soon.”

Chapter 23

Somerled emptied a cup of ale and reached for a jug to refill it. The jug was empty.

“Sorley,” Bethoc said, her eyes glassy, “I can bear no more. Let me go home. I assure ye, I will die without my husband.”

“Och, the devil’s scabby ballsack!” Somerled shouted, hurling the jug to the corner of his bedchamber. It shattered on an ankle-high pile of last week’s vessels. Bethoc flinched, and Rowan slid off the bed. The dog skulked to the unlatched door, tail between his legs. With a shove of his head, he opened it and was gone. “The king’s constable watches your keep in Moray, Bethoc. Do ye wish to rot in King David’s prison?”

“I am rotting already, slowly, from the inside out.” Sorrow wilted the corners of her mouth and drew vertical lines above the bridge of her nose. “At least tell me where Malcolm is, or better still, allow me to join him in his exile.”

“Ye’d be sleeping under your own roof tonight if ye’d sent word of your husband’s impatience for rebellion.” He charged to the stand next to his bed and shook a jug he found there. Empty. He threw it across the room and sat on his bed. “His timing could not have been worse.”

Bethoc rubbed her arms. “He was anxious to avenge his brother’s death. He thought with King David pre-occupied in England, the time was right.”

“He was wrong. Had he consulted me, I could have told him so. I am furious with ye, Bethoc, furious! Ye should have sent word of your husband’s plans.” He scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “His rashness has not only endangered your life, but also placed me in an awkward position. I have only just received word that King David is considering my right to Arran and Bute. If he finds out I am sheltering a claimant to his throne, ye can be sure he will refuse my offer. Those two islands are the back door into Argyll. We must have them if we wish to pressure the King of Man into buying peace by offering his daughter.”

Bethoc rolled her eyes. “Och, that old song again, Sorley?”

He resisted the urge to slap her. “Life in the wilderness has slackened your tongue, lassie. Your bad manners are an insult to our parents and will not be tolerated here.”

She rushed to his bedside and dropped to her knees in front of him. “I’m sorry,” she cried into his lap. “I didn’t mean that. Forgive me. I am not myself.”

Poor Bethoc. Poor Malcolm, for that matter. The man from Moray had sent so many messages from the Isle of Rhum inquiring about his wife that Somerled had been forced to isolate him on Godmund’s Island. The local chieftain on nearby Ulva saw to Malcolm’s comfort and sent messages at a safer frequency. The messages were always the same: Malcolm of Moray suffers lovesickness and inquires as to the welfare of his wife and son.

Bethoc’s sobs were warm against his knees. He stroked her head a little too heavily in his inebriated state and accidentally brushed her fillet askew. He gasped when he saw her naked scalp. “Bethoc, your hair!”

A lesser woman would have scrambled away to hide her baldness. “It started falling out the day Malcolm left,” she said, rubbing a palm over her head. “As bad as it looks, I assure ye, Sorley, the inward symptoms of my sorrow are far worse.”

“God Almighty,” he said, as he frantically sought ale. He found another jug sitting on the floor and was relieved it was half-full. He took several gulps and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

Bethoc returned her fillet and barbette to her head. She crawled up from the floor and moved to a bench near the fire, where the light accentuated the shadows of her sunken temples and eye sockets.

Somerled sighed. “Godmund’s Island,” he said.

She raised red eyes to him. “What?”

“Malcolm is on Godmund’s Island.”

“The tidal island? Green tears of our blessed saint, Sorley,” she said, standing, “let me go to him.”

“Bethoc, ye would have little comfort with Malcolm. There is only a hermit’s cell for shelter.”

“I need no other comfort than my husband’s arms around me.” Her expression softened. She sat on the bed beside him and took his hand. “Love is more important than anything. I think ye know this, don’t ye? That is, if the rumors are true.”

“What rumors?”

“They say ye loved a lassie . . . and lost her.”

He had just taken a swig of ale. He swallowed, and the liquid barely made it through his constricted throat. “Tell me who ‘they’ are, so that I may have them flogged.” After a long silence, he said, “Her name was Breagha.”

“I am sorry I never met her.” Bethoc laid her head on his shoulder. “She must have been wonderful to win your heart. I am even sorrier for your loss. There is nothing worse than wondering where your loved one is. Thank ye for taking that pain from me.”

“Bethoc, I am glad ye have been rewarded for your bravery and obedience with love.” His voice was strained, his words slurred.

“They have rewarded me surely. I was terrified the day Malcolm sent for me, but I did as ye wished.” She knelt in front of him again and took both of his hands in hers. “And now ye have done as I wished. At least now, I no longer have to wonder where my beloved lays his head at night.”

His chest ached. “Would ye really trade all comforts to be with Malcolm?”

“Let me answer your question with another, Sorley: if ye knew where Breagha was, would ye not crawl there on your hands and knees? Would ye not risk your life for one last embrace, one last kiss?”

Somerled ran his fingers over Bethoc’s; they were tiny and smooth, just like Breagha’s. Something dripped onto the back of his hand. He wiped his cheek and found wetness there. Bethoc flung herself around him. She needed a bath. He patted her back and found a shockingly prominent spine hidden beneath her tunic. She was right; the separation from Malcolm was killing her. He peeled her arms from around his neck. “I will have Cormac take ye to Godmund’s Island, but I canny even send a handmaid for your comfort. The local chieftain sees that Malcolm eats, but that is all. We must not draw attention to the island. And ye must promise me, Bethoc, to stay hidden.”

“I can only go to Malcolm if ye promise me to look after Donald.”

“I will.” It was not much to ask. He adored his nephew, who was in his company more often than not.

His cheek was wet again, but this time, the tears were his sister’s. “I shall never forget this kindness,” she sobbed against his ear. “May the Fates bless ye for it.”

A storm howled outside. The villagers were likely snuggled into their beds or beside their fires. Somerled leaned forward over knees made hot by his own fire, clutching both his head and Breagha’s torc in his hands. Through matted ropes of hair, he studied the two spinning benches where Bethoc had been sitting. He closed an eye and one of them disappeared, though it still spun.

He rubbed the torc and imagined it lying against Breagha’s skin. He had cleaned the surface countless times, and it gleamed as a result. Its knots writhed like passionate lovers. Pride had denied him physical entwinement with Breagha, but nothing had prevented her soul from tightly knotting with his. He cherished her, even though she was gone, dead probably. At least he hoped she was dead. Dead was better than being held against her will and clinging to the hope that he might one day find her.

He traced the carvings on the torc and wondered what they meant. The image of Breagha standing on the slope flashed in his mind. Remember me.

A baby cried in the bedchamber across the corridor.

Somerled saw his own pained reflection in the gold as he returned the torc to his neck. His stomach was sour. When had he last eaten? He stood to seek food, and the night’s ale assaulted him. He staggered toward the doorway and smacked against the wall instead. The stones were cool against his cheek. He closed his eyes, and kneaded his fingers along the wall until he found the doorframe. He fell through, landing on his hands and knees.

The baby cried again. Two bare feet appeared in front of him. “My lord?”

His head bobbled as he looked up. Mersin’s nipples were erect beneath her silk nightdress. She squatted in front of him and offered one of her hands. “My lord,” she repeated, “will ye come to my room this night? Gillecallum would be glad to know his father’s touch, as would I.”

He flung her hand away. He had touched her once. He would not do it again. “Le’ me alone,” he muttered as her feet disappeared.

A door slammed. In the chamber behind it, she soothed their bawling son.

He crawled outside, where the storm soaked him and blew him sideways. Halfway across the causeway to Council Island, he vomited into the loch. He sat on the stones and wiped his mouth, looking back at the castle on Eilean Mor. A woman’s shadow blocked the light at a second floor window. Mersin probably hoped he would drown. He did, too.

Somehow, he made it to the dim meeting hall on Council Island. His hip collided with the corner of a table, and he squinted and dropped into the chair from which he had sealed Breagha’s fate. He rubbed his hip and tried to focus. He remembered how it had looked on the night of the first meeting. He saw Breagha again, her lithe body gliding toward him with the elegance of a queen.

Do ye not feel?

He staggered into a dank room where servants had shelved jugs and root crops. He passed over the ales and retrieved one of the jugs of uisce beatha the Cistercian monks had sent as thanks for his protection.

The room turned sideways when he passed his chair a second time. He fell onto the seat and shouted, “To the King of Argyll!” before downing half of the jug’s contents. A mouthful escaped and dribbled off his chin. He laughed and tried to pin down the spot in front of his chair where she had stood, as if she might somehow reappear there. His laughter turned awkward, then gave way to sobs.

“No,” a familiar voice said from some far-off place. He bobbed his heavy head toward its sound. When had he last heard his father’s voice?

“No,” Gillebride repeated, this time from the chair beside him. “Enough is enough.”

Somerled gasped. “Foller.”

His father scowled at him.

Grief and shame rolled across him like the rogue waves that sometimes toppled a ship. Somerled threw himself to his knees and buried his head in his father’s lap. He was unsure and uncaring whether the moisture he found there was from his tears and snot or his father’s drool. Someone dislodged the jug from his grip and lifted him as though he weighed nothing. His arms bounced as he was carried, sobbing, from the meeting hall.

He was horizontal then, encircled by familiar arms. A hand stroked his hair. He fought to pin down his father’s face in the spinning room, closing one eye and searching with the other. How many seasons had it been since his father had expressed confidence and clarity? For that matter, how long had it been since his father’s face had expressed anything?

He hiccupped. “Foller,” he said, “I thought I’d ne’er see ye . . . ’gain.” His words were no more than a whisper.

Gillebride pointed at his own forehead.

Somerled heard the words, I will always be in here, as surely as if his father had shouted them. He buried his face in his father’s chest and wept. Suddenly, they were in the cave again, warmed and fed only by their determination to recover their lands. “It will be ours again by right and might, Sorley,” his father had said, “right and might. Fergus will come.”

Somerled clung to his father and listened to the beat of the old man’s heart. It was strong against his ear. When its rhythm became irregular, he lifted his head to look at his father and found only his pillow. The pounding continued, not at his ear, but at his bedchamber door.

“Come,” Somerled said, squinting his eyes and pressing his palms against his temples. He sat up, caught the acrid scent of the ashes in the hearth, and vomited onto the floor. He coughed and wiped his mouth with the hem of his tunic, filthy and still soaking wet.

Hakon peered around the open door, one of his braids dangling like a fuzzy rope.

“Come,” Somerled repeated in a gritty whisper.

Hakon’s eyes darted to the shattered cups and jugs in the corner. He padded into the room looking like a man coming to apologize for impregnating another man’s daughter. He set a lamp on a stand. Its light magnified his already massive shadow on the far wall. He sat down, took a deep breath, and exhaled.

“Out with it, Hakon. What is it? Have ye never seen a man vomit before?”

“It is not that, my lord. It’s—” His gaze dropped to the floor. He announced in a voice as tender as Somerled had ever witnessed from his chief guard, “Somerled, your father is dead.”

The monks of Iona and the nobles of Argyll gathered around the new grave in the Street of the Dead. It was here, on a crisp and sunny day, near the azure waters of Saint Columba’s island, that Gillebride received a Christian burial. The box containing his remains lowered into the earth in the shadow of Saint Martin’s cross. Here, it joined not only the decayed bodies of his kin, but also the bones of noble strangers from distant lands and long-dead nations. Though pagan and Christian seldom agreed on how to live, they both considered Iona the most sacred place one could rest for eternity.

Evil may not set foot on Iona, his father had once told him. He had heard the same statement in no less than three languages since.

Across from him, Maguire and a handful of monks held up Fermanagh’s chieftain. This would be hard on the old man. He teetered in the slightest breeze, his body shaky with sadness and the need for more drink. Maguire had brought keeners—those women of Fermanagh whose professional specialty was grieving. They engaged in their vocal lament, shrieking the sorrow that Somerled felt, but could not display.

When the abbot, who had been ferried from Tír Chonaill, made the final sign of the cross and uttered, “Amen,” Gillebride’s funeral was over. The bereaved stood listening to the whipping of their tunics and calls of cuckoos. The abbot walked away with the monks following behind him in a line, their heads bowed and their hands clasped in front of their chests. The few monks that remained began to fill the hole that now held his father’s bones forever.

“Somerled, the mists of sorrow cover the world this day,” Maguire said, as he approached, his hand gripping his father’s elbow. “Ye have our deepest sympathy.”

The old man leaning against Maguire for support shivered. His blood-shot eyes were sunken in their sockets, and his skin and lips were dry. Somerled’s uncle was not the man he remembered from his youth, when he and his father had refuged among the Maguires. That man had a keen and educated mind, a quick wit, and a sharp tongue. He was a fiery and ruthless warrior whose weapon of choice was a horse trained to break through shield walls and to rear and slam down upon the heads of his enemies. He spent his seasons perfecting the hard-boned animals that grazed on Fermanagh’s limestone pastures. The trembling man before him was nothing like the man Somerled remembered.

Maguire’s embarrassment was evident.

Somerled shouted at an idle monk, “Get The Maguire of Fermanagh to a fire, and give him a drink.”

As the monk led the chieftain away toward the ruins of Saint Columba’s abbey, Maguire moved to Somerled’s side. They faced Gillebride’s grave together and watched the sandy mound grow higher.

“It will soon be my turn to stand before my father’s grave,” Maguire said.

“Your father was, and is, a great man. He just lost himself to drink.” His face warmed with guilt. He dropped an arm around Maguire and led him toward Port Rònain, where Sea Eagle awaited him. When they reached the sacred stone where Saint Columba last sat, Somerled turned and looked back at his father’s grave. The keeners saw him and launched into a fresh lament.

Father had been right. Enough was enough.

Chapter 24

If it was a dream, she didn’t want to wake.

Breagha wiggled the toes that Somerled cupped in his hand. He teased and tickled her arch, his eyes twinkling with mischief. She giggled and yanked her foot away.

His lips stretched into a devilish smile and he pursued her, retrieved her foot, and used it to pull her toward him across the bench as though she were weightless. He rubbed his cheek against her heel and brushed his lips against her ankle. Her belly roiled, and she exhaled and squeezed her eyes shut. She clamped her hands on both sides of the bench while he kissed up the inside of her leg. He paused at the tender flesh behind her knee, sucking and nibbling. A groan escaped her mouth.

“Somerled,” she whispered.

“Aye, my love.”

“I knew ye would come for me.” Tears escaped the corners of her eyes and trickled across her temples toward her hair.

“Aye, Breagha, at last.”

She released her grip on the bench and loosened his hair. The strands cascaded forward and tickled her thighs. She twirled his tangled mane around her fingers and wrists.

He moaned and burrowed his face between her legs, prying them apart until her outside foot dropped from the bench to the floor. His thumbs hooked her linen hem and shoved it upward.

Lightning struck her core and rippled outward, turning to liquid between her thighs. “What took ye so long, my love?” she moaned.

“I am here now.”

She lifted her hips so he could better slide her tunic. He hovered over her, his eyes crazed with want. “Don’t cry, lassie. I’m here.” He wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, and her neck, seeming to be everywhere at once. She reached for his tunic and slid it up over his backside, pressing her fingertips into the hard muscles she found there. They tensed when he drove into her.

Something tore, and she yelped.

He smiled and kissed her. “Shush, my love.” He gave her a moment to catch her breath and then eased his shaft deeper inside her. She winced when she felt herself tear again. “Shush,” he repeated. “Trust me. Relax, and it will go easier.” She yielded to his lips when they kneaded hers. Her pain numbed, and she soon found her pelvis meeting his thrusts with an exuberance that mystified her.

She clung to him, dazed and uncertain how he had found her, and not caring. She was desperate for him to fill her, and she found herself begging for it. “My lord king, I want your child.”

He reacted by thrusting faster and harder. His grunts turned savage and he lost rhythm and control. His body stiffened, and he arched his back and spilled into her.

She laughed and kissed him as he wilted onto her. “Somerled,” she whispered. “My Somerled.”

“Breagha,” he answered. She found it hard to breathe under his weight.

“Breagha,” he repeated, louder. “Breagha!” His voice was nearly a scream now, yet he was facedown and relaxed on her. “Breagha!” He lifted his head and glared at the wall nearest her head. “Breagha!” His lips hadn’t moved. He was not the one shouting her name.

The room whirled, and, dazed and hyperventilating, she tried to sit up, but couldn’t. She felt as if she were strapped to the bench. This was no dream. Someone was on her.

“Somerled?” She placed her hands on the sides of his head to try to force his gaze back to her.

“Damn you, you filthy bitch!” he raged at the wall. His dialect had changed. His accent was all wrong. Gone also were his hazel eyes, replaced by glowing slits of yellow fury. She held a head, a hairless one, as cold and bumpy as an oyster shell.

“Wha—?” She gasped and released the skull.

“Shut your hole, you filthy, stinking bitch!” he shouted to the wall.

“Breagha!” Kata shrieked.

The stench of charred guts and rotten teeth assailed her. “Get off me!” she screamed and writhed under him. His eyes cast their sheen on the rest of his face, illuminating a perverted smile made by a lipless mouth. She screamed and clawed at him.

He pinned down her thrashing arms. “Too late, bitch, too late!” The scent of his breath was like that of a bloated corpse.

She kicked at him, and one of her heels connected with something scaly.

“You bitch!” He lifted himself off her and shoved her away so violently that she slid on the bench and struck her head against the wall. He mocked her in a high-pitched voice. “I want your child. Ohhhh, Somerled.” His laugh made her flesh crawl. “You think he’ll want you now?”

Kata was still screaming her name, pounding at the wall near her head.

Breagha rubbed her aching head. She was dizzy. When she was sure her rapist was gone, she cried into her hands as his seed oozed out of her onto the bench.

Think he’ll want you now?

Chapter 25

The roots dripped. Somewhere above her, it rained.

“Come on, lassie,” Kata urged. “Up with ye. Take ye a drink.”

“Let me alone, Kata.” Breagha rolled on her bench to face the wall.

“Ye cannot give up.”

Breagha sat up and turned to the pregnant girl in the next cell. Her mess of red tangle hung over a stomach that was twice the size it had been yesterday.

She stretched a palm over her own belly. In the days following the encounter with Semjaza, she had done everything in her power to deny his seed fertile ground. She had pushed and strained to rid herself of every remnant of him. She had stood naked beneath the dripping roots and washed herself until her skin burned. She had begged Kata to return the stick to her, so that she might gouge her insides out.

Kata had refused. It might not take, Kata had said.

It had. A second presence had already made itself known. She knew now what had driven the redhead mad. She was sorry she’d tried to cajole her neighbor out of her insanity, even sorrier she was unable to join her in it. No, sadly, she remained in her right mind. The most she could hope for now was death by childbirth, the unhappy fate for many woman.

“Lassie, take ye a drink. I insist. Ye must be strong this night.”

“Why, Kata, what is so important about this night?” She made no attempt to hide her sarcasm. “Is this the night we escape using weapons made by your legendary hands?”

Kata was silent.

“Just let me be,” Breagha said.

When Aengus brought the evening bread, she threw it back at him. He cocked a fist to strike her, then looked at her belly and restrained himself.

“Go on,” she screamed. “Hit me. Hit me as hard as ye can, right here!” She pointed to her belly. He discharged a low growl. “Go on!” She pounded herself in the abdomen.

“Stop,” he ordered. When she refused, he backed out of her cell, muttering to himself. She heard his keys rattling in Kata’s door. “The one next to ye is as mad as the redhead next to her,” she heard him say.

“Aye, Aengus. I am mad, too . . . mad with want of ye.”

“Och, are ye hungry for what the bread man has to give ye,” he teased.

“Oh, aye, I am. I’m starving for it.”

“Well then,” he mumbled, “let me put my bucket down and take away your pangs.”

Breagha heard the bucket plunk against the floor. There was a period of silence before Kata squeaked and Aengus shouted, “Oh!” A sound somewhere between gurgling and coughing followed a thud.

Kata whispered, “Seems I gave ye something instead, aye Aengus?”

There was no reply.

Keys jingled. Breagha’s jaw dropped when she saw Kata’s hand whirling at her open cell door. “Come on, come on!”

She raced into the corridor.

“Be very quiet,” Kata whispered. “If we wake the others, they will give us away.”

“What about the lassie beside me? Can we not take her with us?”

Kata placed a warm hand on each side of her face and leaned in close so that her seriousness was evident. “We must leave her behind,” she whispered.

“But—”

“Breagha, she will only slow us down, maybe even get us caught.”

Kata was right. A surge of guilt washed over Breagha as she cast a final glance toward the poor soul who would likely die in the coming days.

The corridor was dark between the torches, and they had to feel their way. An occasional rat scampered over her feet. Her pulse throbbed in her limbs and chest, and she fought the urge to rush back to her cell. At least there, she knew what to expect. There was comfort in monotony. But outside, there was color, sunshine, smells—oh, delicious and varied scents—and places where she could rip Semjaza’s growing monster out of her belly.

Kata’s grip was tight on her hand. Breagha’s weak legs shook like a spring lamb’s. The corridor seemed endless, and as they passed one door after another, she saw women of all shapes and ages; most were pregnant. Those who were awake stared vacantly overhead.

When they reached the door at the end of the corridor, Kata pushed on the wooden surface. “It’s locked.” The keys jingled in the shadows, and she tried them one at a time in the lock. “It has to be here somewhere,” she mumbled.

“Hurry,” Breagha urged. “The dung woman will be coming soon.”

“Oh, shite,” Kata said. “It’s not locked, just heavy.” She pushed again, and the door cracked open.

“It is yet light outside,” Breagha said, her eyes watering from the glare.

“We must have had our days and nights mixed up,” Kata said. “I thought Aengus came at dark.”

“Aye, me as well. What do we do now? We canny go out into blazing daylight.”

Kata opened the door a bit wider. She squinted, as did Breagha. “We have no choice. The dung woman will be coming, and if we wait here much longer, the women in the cells will make a ruckus. We have to chance it, but first, try to get your eyes used to the light.”

It was painful. She blinked and rubbed her watering eyes. A sneeze threatened, and she pinched her nose to stifle it.

“I see a rock enclosure and not much else,” Kata said.

“I smell the sea,” Breagha said. Oh, the delightful smell of the sea. She imagined Somerled upon it with his sail billowed in the wind. Think he’ll want ye now? She shoved the thought of him away. Her belly twitched. The monster was already able to move.

Kata slid a short weapon from her waist. Breagha recognized the root that had been fashioned into a handle. The crafty woman had even taken the time to carve a scene into it. It held a sharpened stone. “I should have brought the spear,” she said. “Too late now.”

“We can go back for it.”

“Too risky. Do ye smell anything else?”

Breagha lifted her nose to the air and resisted the urge to cry aloud when the scent of life above ground reached her. “Grass, fresh rain. Life. Kata, I smell life.” She smiled. She was suddenly very sorry for doubting the girl who had freed her. “Kata?”

“Aye?”

“I am sorry for what I said.”

“Shush, ‘tis nothing. Besides, we’re not free yet.” A grin stretched wide, and for a moment, she was quite pretty, despite her overlapped teeth.

“We must go in different directions to better our chances,” Kata said. “They will assume we are too frightened to separate. I will go to the left and ye go to the right. If they catch me, ye go on without me, understand?”

“Aye.” Breagha nodded, suddenly realizing that she may never see Kata again. “Are we to meet up somewhere?”

Kata patted her shoulder. “God willing, we will, but make getting out of here your only thought for now.”

She braced herself for what she must do. “I will go to the right. God go with ye, Kata.”

“And ye as well, Breagha. Now, go!”

The door opened wide, and she found herself bathed in sunlight for the first time in . . . she simply didn’t know how long it had been since she had enjoyed natural light. She wanted to savor it, but when Kata sprang forward, she leapt in the opposite direction. The grass grew high in places, and she used it for cover, creeping low to the soggy ground, stopping to rest between tussocks. She peered above the clumps of vegetation, scanning the area for guards or other signs of life. The wind brushed across the grass and scattered drops of rain from an earlier shower.

Though she knew she had to hurry before the dung woman found them missing, she needed rest. Her atrophied arms and legs shivered with fatigue. She looked back toward the prison and was shocked to find no evidence of it. Unless he knew better, a passerby would only see a grass-covered mound surrounded by a crumbling stone enclosure and a patch of gorse. A path meandering through reeds and gorse could have been worn into the landscape by deer or sheep. Unworthy of notice and easily missed. He hid us in plain sight.

She crawled to the far wall of the enclosure, dangerous territory now, as she was in open view, with no more vegetation to hide behind. She found a break in the wall and slipped through. The sea thrashed somewhere, and she lifted her head just high enough to see it. Below her and to the far left, where Kata had gone, time and rain had worn a passable slope into the landscape. Directly in front of her and to the right was nothing but a sheer drop of basalt cliffs. She would have no choice but to go back and take Kata’s lucky route.

She was dizzy and wishing she had listened to Kata and drank some water this morning. A curled leaf held a sip of rainwater, and she emptied it into her mouth. Her soaked tunic plastered her legs as she gazed out toward the sea. White gulls fluttered above the tide. The reflection of their wings twinkled on the small waves. Were there now gulls hovering over Somerled in these waters? The sail from Ardnamurchan to this wretched place had not been long. At this moment, he could be just beyond the horizon, his mast ready to pierce it and bob into view.

Her belly twitched again. Ye think he’ll still want ye?

She would rest and allow Kata a fighting chance. Then, she would have no choice but to retrace her steps and pray the dung woman was late.

Would ye, Somerled? Would ye still want me?

Chapter 26

Raam leaned against the wall of his cave beside a crackling fire he did not need. Unlike some of his brothers, he rarely suffered discomfort of any kind. He could sleep on solid rock, take a blow to his body without pain, and kill without experiencing a single pang of guilt. The only thing he had ever sensed with regularity was shame; shame that he was inferior, shame that he was a disappointment to his father.

The fire was not there because he was cold. It was there because it reminded him of her. She was forever linked with fire now. She had been beside one when she’d first smiled at him. She had ignited one within him.

Water dripped somewhere and echoed into the labyrinth of passageways. He turned the monk’s page left and right to make the child blink in time with the dribble. Drip-drip. Drip-drip. It became a heartbeat, first the child’s, then Breagha’s.

Breagha. She had awakened new and exciting feelings that warmed him and some that infuriated and frustrated him. Father had taken her. He had ruined her, and now, she was broken. Raam forgave her, but he would never forgive his father. He imagined the terror that had probably stretched upon the tender face he’d stroked at Ardnamurchan, and his insides clenched. He dropped his head into his hands, and his thick hair spilled forward. His cheeks felt hot. That had never happened before.

He would love her in spite of Father’s foul touch and growing seed.

He unfolded and smoothed the vellum page, which he had unwittingly crumpled up inside his balled fist. Look what you’ve done. Father was right. He was an idiot. You can’t even keep a vellum page from harm. How would you care for a woman? He shook his head and flung the negative thoughts away.

He felt his cheeks again. They were burning. Infection. His cheeks were probably hot from infection. She had somehow infected him. He knew this because he had seen the infection in Knobs’s burn. It had spread a little more each day, burrowing deeper and deeper into his brother’s decaying flesh until Knobs succumbed to its putridness. On a black night, they had unceremoniously rolled Knobs’s seeping body over the cliff’s edge. Before it burst on the rocks below, Father had announced that Knobs had been unable to combat the infection because he was weak, useless, and flawed, just like the rest of them. Another failure, was the two-word eulogy Father had delivered for Knobs.

Yes, she had infected him, he was sure of it. If Father found out, he would see it as a sign that Raam, too, was a failure. Father would have him killed, or probably do it himself. He didn’t care so much about that, but if he died, what would happen to Breagha?

Smoke coiled toward the cave ceiling in gyrating tendrils that fondled the stalactites. His groin stirred, and he allowed his mind to wander. What would it be like to have her caress him . . . especially . . . there? No. There would be no caressing. Father had broken his promise.

He wondered about her mental state and rose, vowing he would check on her no matter what the consequences. He tucked the monk’s page into his tunic and walked out of the cave mouth onto the grassy landing that faced the sea. The wind tugged at his hair. None of his comrades would notice his absence, but he found he could not budge. Father had forbidden any of them from entering the prison without permission. He had gotten away with it once, when he had closed his father’s cell door, but Father was more vigilant now. Father no longer trusted him, with good reason.

He went back inside his cave and returned to his seat. He pulled the monk’s picture out again and stared at the woman on the page, her eyes fixed in adoration on her child’s face.

Breagha could be crying. He stood and immediately sat again. I need to see for myself how she’s coping. He stood again, his agitation and despair building. He could not help himself; he had to risk it. Father would kill him, but he had to try. Life without her was death anyway.

This time, when he stepped outside, he wasted no time. He turned away from the sea and scrambled up the bank roofing his cave. The wind was at his back, pushing him onward, and no one crossed his path. By the time he reached the stone enclosure ringing the prison, he was convinced he could not fail.

He brushed aside a gorse branch and stared at the door. Father would be resting. He opened the door a crack and saw a lantern burning on a table in the corridor. Father never entered the corridor with the lanterns blazing. Just in case, he lit two torches. If Father rushed from his cell, the torches would repel him.

Father would never pursue anything unmanifested, Raam knew. It used up too much of his energy. He could use a host, but the only hosts available in the prison were behind bars. Of course, Father could possess him if he thought quickly enough. That was the worst possible scenario. Although, Raam thought, maybe I should allow him to possess me. I could throw us both over the cliff. He liked the idea.

He sneaked past the cell doors, inspecting the women through the bars. A few of them rose to their elbows, squinting from the brightness of his torches. It was not right what Father did to them. Somewhere, someone loved them as he loved Breagha. Father would kill me for thinking that. Breagha, where are you?

“What are you doing here?” a voice demanded from the far end of the hall. An ancient woman plunked down a bucket and hobbled toward him, her hand gripping a ring of jangling keys. A mannish girl with too-large breasts pointed a hairy finger at him.

Raam drew his sword and charged them, skewering both in a single stab. Keys jangled as he withdrew his weapon and the old woman fell over her bucket. The girl draped over top of her, resting on her enormous breasts for a moment before rolling off to one side.

Now I’ve done it.

He ran along the corridor, frantically searching the cells, finding one empty and unlocked and another with a dead man sprawled next to a half-open door.

What has happened here?

He checked all remaining cells, but there was no sign of Breagha. Perhaps she had not survived the mating, after all. Perhaps Father had not finished with her, or worse, he might have allowed Lips to enjoy her just to irritate him. There had been no warriors outside the caves. Maybe, to punish him, Father had allowed each of them to take a turn at her. He clenched his teeth together and stifled what would have been an ear-splitting roar.

He glared down the hall toward his father’s cell. He longed to kill him. Instead, he did something that surprised himself. He sprinted back to the heap of dung women, located the keys, and used them to unlock each door. Women whispered in low rumbles and hisses. Just as he freed the last, they began to tentatively step out of their cells and into the corridor. He darted past them and rushed outside into the safe daylight.

Run!

He could never go back. Father would know he had done it. He raced across the yard, and a new emotion weighed him down as his first tears trickled from his eyes. He would never see Breagha again. He launched himself over the crumbling stones of the enclosure, not knowing where he would go or how he would get there.

A fox darted in front of him, and he watched the sleek animal while he ran. The canine slunk under a low-lying branch and into high weeds. He never noticed Breagha until it was too late. He collided with her and knocked her to the ground where she lay, unmoving, next to a gorse in full bloom.

Chapter 27

Breagha smelled the hot leather of the monster’s jerkin. She was back in his arms, weak and dizzy, with her head sore and flopping against his chest. This time, though, as he carried her, he was alone, and his face bore a single, unmistakable expression—fear.

His mouth gaped open, its edges downturned, and he mumbled the same phrase repeatedly. “What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?”

She was too weak to fight him. Kata, I hope ye fared better.

He sprinted toward the enclosure ringing the prison. Instead of leaping over it, he ran alongside it and charged toward a seemingly impenetrable thicket of gorse that leaned up against the enclosure’s outer edge. She closed her eyes and winced, bracing for the spiny branches. When no harm came to her, she reopened her eyes. She was surprised to find that they were in a passageway that looked as if someone had bored it through the grove.

Where are we going?

“What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?”

Her arms and legs flopped wildly as he ran, and she feared they would tear off when he made a hard left turn into a narrower tunnel. Though her scenting ability was weak, she caught the aroma of strange men as soon as he changed direction. Raam halted so abruptly that she nearly rolled out of his arms. He set her down on the path.

Someone shouted. A broad warrior and four of his comrades faced them like dark gravestones. Their eyes darted from her to Raam and back again. One of them stared at her and licked his lips. He moaned, thrust his pelvis forward, rubbed himself, and took a step toward her.

She cringed and mustered the strength to slide a few feet off the worn path into a patch of stinging nettle. She only slightly felt its burn on her arms.

The wide warrior blocked his leering comrade with an outstretched arm. He shouted something at Raam, who offered no reply.

The warrior had just turned and bellowed into the gorse behind him when Raam’s sword squealed out of its scabbard and flashed above him. A severed head bounced in her direction, and she shrieked and kicked it toward the body that fell and spurted blood from its neck.

Blades clanged and mail jingled as grunting and cursing men whirled in front of her. The leering warrior abandoned the fight and seized the opportunity to dive on top of her. She screamed, but he cut her off mid-cry by planting his mouth on hers. He forced her mouth open and probed inside with his split tongue. A fluttering pain crossed her belly as the child inside her reacted to her horror. They were both dead, she knew. Worms were eating her body, mouth first.

Suddenly, the heaviness of him was gone. Raam’s usually pallid face was like beetroot. He held her attacker by the ankles, reminding her of the day that Harald came into Elisad’s house carrying a hare by its hocks. Raam flung the man overhead and hammered his face against the ground. When the man teetered to his hands and knees, Raam knelt beside him and twisted his head. A gag and a series of loud cracks ended the man’s life, and he fell limp beside the others, his tongue slack at both corners of his gaping mouth.

“Are you hurt?” Raam asked.

She shook her head. Her teeth chattered, and her body quivered. Her breaths came in convulsive wheezes.

The gorse became alive with footsteps closing in on her from every direction. Raam lifted her off the ground too quickly and strained her neck. She had no time to consider her pain; they were running again. He darted on one path and then another. She lost track of time, but he must have run for hours. When the gorse thinned and gave way to tall trees, they were far from the prison.

Her neck hurt, and she was nauseated and weak. “Put me down,” she said, wriggling.

“In a while,” he replied without looking at her. He squeezed her against his chest, as if to say, “Don’t try.”

As long as he put space between her and those who chased them, she was not going to argue with him. As frightening as he was, he was running away, and for now, that was good enough. He had become her legs. Besides, he had been kind to her so far.

The forest grew thick and dark. Raam stopped and seemed to consider the rutted path ahead, which disappeared into a stand of conifers. “Too dark.” He changed direction and backed through a hedge of overgrown yews.

They were in a stand of young oaks that grew beside the mossy stumps of their forebears. Raam skipped over the stumps with the ease of a grasshopper. In a verdant clearing, they passed a group of beehive-shaped structures. They were manmade, but derelict, and she saw no evidence of recent occupation near them. The oak saplings ended at a vast hill of fragmented limestone. On its face, it looked to be a barren landscape, but upon closer inspection, she saw that lush vegetation thrived in the cracks between the rocks. There, high above the sea, Raam finally set her down on limestone warmed by a day of sun.

She felt exhausted and sick.

He gathered soft, fragrant grasses for a pillow and sprinkled them with blue gentian flowers.

“You know that death comes to anyone who picks those,” she said, noticing that her speech was slurred.

He fluffed the grasses beneath her head. “Death comes to all of us eventually,” he replied. “We are dying from the moment we take our first breaths.”

She searched for his eyes, but he was backlit by the sun, and his sockets were like empty pockets. She soaked up the sunlight and goosebumped in response to its deep heat. “Where are ye taking me?” she whispered, falling asleep before he answered.

When she awoke, the sun had gone down, leaving only its dull light. Raam hunched over the piece of vellum she had seen him reading at Ardnamurchan. His hair spilled around his shoulders and back, and he concentrated on the page, dipping it left and right. When he noticed her watching him, he quickly folded the vellum and tucked it inside his tunic.

“We go,” he said.

Her abdomen twitched, and a sharp pain stabbed her below her belly button. “Can we not just rest for a while?” she asked. “The rock is warm. I need water. I don’t feel—”

“No,” he said. “The others will follow. Besides, Father can travel at night.”

“Father?” she asked, trying to stall him with conversation. She was tired. She wanted to stay on the warm rock. It was a good place to die.

“If you cannot walk, I will carry you.” Without waiting for argument, he lifted her from the ground. On the way up to his chest, she noticed a bloodstained slice in the leather just below his right breast.

“Have ye been harmed?” she asked, surprised at her genuine concern. In spite of his hideousness, being without him in this wilderness would be far worse than being with him.

“It’s nothing. I feel no pain.”

They traveled into the night. She scratched at the nettle stings on her arms until they seeped. Her stomach throbbed with hunger, and the child inside her made its displeasure known by constantly jiggling. It needed food, and she would eat anything to stop its revolt. “I’m so hungry,” she whispered.

He stopped, lowered her to the cool forest floor, and pulled wilted greens from his tunic. She recognized the plants as some of those that had found vigor between the rocks. “Lamb’s lettuce,” he said, thrusting the leaves at her. He walked a few feet away into the shadows and returned cupping something in his palm. “Bilberries.”

She ate the greens and the berries, which were very sweet. When she had swallowed the last of them, Raam asked her, “Can you walk?”

“Aye, for a bit.”

“It’s just a little farther,” he replied, his hand closing around hers. “Then, we can rest again.” He pulled her arm toward him to inspect her stings in the moonlight. “Nettle?”

“Aye.”

He squatted and snapped off several flat, spade-shaped leaves that grew along the path and mashed them between his fingers. They were fragrant and fresh. He gently dotted her nettle stings with the crushed leaves as they walked. The itch disappeared.

She smelled the sea long before Raam led her into the mouth of a cave that faced it. Now, as waves thundered against the landscape below them, the salty scent clung to her. Somerled. A lump formed in her throat. Even if she found her way to him, he would never want her. Not like this.

Chapter 28

Semjaza crouched in the corner, his buttocks resting on his sharp hocks, with his torso flexed forward over his kneecaps. His blade-like sternum tucked perfectly into the space between his knees, and his arms rested at his groin. A sizzling buzz reached a crescendo, and his body vibrated, letting him know that he had reached maximum charge. He eased himself out of self-hypnosis.

He had not experienced this level of gratification since his fall from grace. He thought of the girl again, her face passionate and pleading. He had done that to her, and he wanted more of it. She had probably conceived, but he could not be too careful. He had to make sure.

Her bloodline was so tight he could smell it. Hamaziel, you have done me the greatest favor by keeping your progeny close. Hamaziel’s face flashed in his mind, and Semjaza seethed in response. No. Conserve your energy. He sluggishly unfolded himself and stretched upright, blood rushing to fill his limbs. His balls dropped, loose and heavy, between his legs. They ached, and he reached for his sack, lifting it and cupping it in his palm. His fingers encircled the throbbing appendage jutting out just above it. He fondled it, careful not to scratch himself with his talons. A low growl escaped his throat. He was desperate for relief.

Finding Breagha mid-dream had been a wild stroke of good fortune. This time, he didn’t care what she was doing. His only priority was to empty himself into her. It didn’t matter to him if she screamed, cried, vomited, or passed out. He headed for the door to unbolt the lock, but a thin strip of light glowed at the bottom of the oak and halted him. The bread man should have left hours ago. Probably on top of that black-haired one again. Semjaza would kill Aengus for leaving the torches lit.

He listened at the door, leaning carefully to avoid the light. “Asanath!” he called. The dung woman did not answer. The hallway was silent except for the sounds of dripping water and the patter of a scuttling rat. Even the usual shuffling of the women in their cells was absent. “Aengus!” he roared. Still nothing.

Energy-draining fear sparked in him, and he deliberately snuffed it out. He released his mind to trawl past the door for a live mind. He located someone’s thoughts and explored them, seeing only terror and fragmented images of his own yellow eyes. The redhead. He searched beyond her for someone sane, but found no one. He returned to her, shuffling quickly through the nonsensical images. He was about to give up when an image of Raam holding two torches in the hallway flashed and then disappeared.

Raam!

If Raam had been here, it meant one thing; he had come for the girl. Semjaza had no choice. He had to leave the cell. He paced, and a rat scampered past him. He considered using it for a host. Too small. He glared at the light framing the bottom edge of his door, despising it for preventing him from charging ahead in his own skin.

Even though it would use up a vast amount of energy, he decided he had to go formless to gather information. He rushed back to the corner and returned his body to its former position, careful to tuck his sternum between his knees. When it clicked into place, he rose out of his shell.

Wretched hunger ravaged him immediately. Sounds came to him in muted snaps and tones as though he had stuffed rags in his ears. He threw himself at the door, quickly so the ancient oak would not have time to notice his presence. He glided down the hallway. The torches burned close to his cell, but soothing darkness bathed the hallway at the far end of the prison. Semjaza headed toward it, passing open doors and empty cells, concentrating hard on suppressing his rage. Save your energy.

Just beyond the last flickering torch, the dung woman and Sabeen, the idiot who assisted her, were dead and gathering flies. Just beyond them, the redhead paced. Though her door was ajar, she continued her circuitous waddling around the cell’s perimeter with her hands holding her belly.

He threw himself at her and prepared for the whoosh and crowding. Then, he was inside her, looking through her eyes at the borders of her cell as she paced. He felt terribly constricted, sharing her space not only with her, but also with the child who pounded at him. He stomped on the brat, and when it quieted, he forced the girl to walk through the open doorway. Moving the pregnant body was hard work. When he got hold of Raam, he would delight in bestowing upon him a slow, agonizing death.

The girl’s disjointed thoughts pummeled and confused him as she fought for control of her own body. He needed to shut her up. He conveyed a graphic image of the monstrous being growing inside her, and she lost consciousness. It made the going easier.

He considered rushing to the caves and possessing a warrior, but decided against it. It would take too much time and energy to jump from one host to another. No, he thought, I will go, steady and slow, and find them. They could not have gone far.

He stepped into the gorse, and it scratched the redhead’s arm. A trickle of blood dripped off her wrist as he forced her onward. A dying warrior lay among a heap of bodies. Semjaza recognized him as Baraka, his most skilled mind reader.

“Where is he taking her?” Semjaza used the redhead’s voice to question Baraka.

Baraka’s head bobbled as he lifted it from the ground. Tiny dried leaves and sticks stuck to his cheek and in his matted hair. It was evident by the color of his blood that his injury had occurred hours earlier. “Lassie, help me.”

Semjaza snarled, and Baraka recognized the sound. “Father, please. Help me.”

“I will heal you,” Semjaza lied, “but I must first know if you gleaned from Raam where he was taking the girl.”

“He shielded his mind, but—” Baraka grimaced, pain apparently ramming through him. He writhed and arched his back.

It was dangerous for Semjaza to split himself, but any delay would mean Raam’s secret would die with Baraka. Semjaza probed the dying warrior’s mind and gathered the information. He stepped over Baraka just as the dying man uttered a final gurgle. Being in death’s presence always energized him, and he paused to enjoy the sensation.

Semjaza urged the pregnant body forward, not caring that he was pushing it to its physical limits. He felt none of the pain, and if she died later, it was of no consequence to him, so long as she lasted long enough for him to return to his own skin. Her endless pacing had unintentionally kept her fit. He had been fully charged when he had entered her. He was certain he could find useful energy to feed him along the way. He could go like this for a considerable time.

Raam was wisely running toward Goill. There would be boats, and he would need one to escape with his prize. Semjaza could not help feeling pride at his son’s deceit, and it fed him. He smelled something sweet in the musty undergrowth and assumed it was the redhead’s scratched arm. It was only after she passed a cluster of abandoned huts that he realized someone else bled. Red-brown drops sprinkled the path. He plucked a clump of moss from a stump and lifted it to the redhead’s nose. Raam.

He’s injured.

Raam couldn’t just walk into a well-armed village and steal a curragh in blazing daylight. He would need darkness, which, judging by the buttery strip of light in the eastern sky, he was out of. He would have to wait until the following night. If Raam was stupid—and Semjaza knew he was—he would stay stationary, rest, and perhaps nurse his wounds.

Had he been in his own body, Semjaza would have laughed. His idiot sons always made mistakes. They could not seem to help themselves. He would delight in toying with Raam before he killed him.

Chapter 29

Raam slung the freshly killed lamb over his shoulder. Its head slapped his back as he walked. He followed a worn livestock path that meandered between a series of grassy hills. He veered sharply off the path and climbed up and over a small, stony bank that hid the cave from the sea.

The roar of the waves muffled when he ducked through the slanted cave mouth. Breagha lay just inside, right where he had left her, weak and pale, on a bed of dry grass. Her arms were limp at her sides, and the rise and fall of her chest was barely noticeable. She had not budged since he had stacked an armful of wood next to her earlier.

Something’s very wrong.

He dropped the skinned and gutted lamb down on a clean rock and snatched a handful of grass from under Breagha’s back. She did not stir. He stepped over her with an armful of twigs pressed to his chest and climbed up a heap of rubble to an elevated shelf, where he found evidence of a previous visitor’s fire. He tossed the grass and sticks onto the blackened rock, and laid a flat piece of pine on top of them. He carved a divot into it with his knife and inserted one of the sticks into the hole, twisting it between his palms. He monitored Breagha while he waited for friction to ignite the grass. Her breathing was too shallow, and her face lacked any color. He hoped he hadn’t pushed her too far.

Food might help.

The grass began to smoke, and he puffed on the pile until it burst into flames. Before long, he had a blazing fire, a lamb roasting above it, and a bed for Breagha beside it.

He knelt on one knee beside her and carefully slid his arms under her body. She moaned just as he spotted the blood. She’s losing the child. Had he not been concerned for her welfare, he would have leapt for joy. Father’s brat was as good as dead.

He carried Breagha to the shelf and laid her on the soft bed. She sipped a bit of water and mashed nettle from his palm. It seemed to invigorate her. She stirred and rubbed at her belly. Her voice was barely audible. “Have I been stabbed?” she asked.

“No.” He did not know if he should tell her she was bleeding and losing the child. Perhaps she wanted it.

Her nostrils flared, and she licked her lips. “Something smells good.”

She’s hungry. A good sign.

“Lamb. I’ve stuffed it with nettle, woodbine and purslane. They will make you feel better.” He sliced a bit of meat off the carcass. Its fat spattered in the fire. He eyed the smoke nervously, calming only when he was satisfied it dissipated before reaching the cave mouth. He blew on the piece of meat to cool it and held it to Breagha’s mouth.

“So good,” she said, closing her eyes while she chewed. When she swallowed, she looked at him and opened her mouth for another bite.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten meat?” Raam asked her.

“I don’t remember,” she said. “A long time.”

Raam fed her another bite, this time wrapping a few wilted greens around the meat. “You will need to eat slowly or your body will reject it, and you will be worse off than before you ate it.”

“Just a bit more. Please.”

Her eyes were as large and innocent as the lamb’s had been before he had killed it. How could he refuse her? She spared him the need to deny her by falling asleep.

He kept the fire hot, and as the hours passed, color returned to her cheeks. Her breaths were deeper and more regular. He feasted on the lamb, passing the time by planning their escape.

Father said the nearby village was called Goill. Raam had only seen it a few times, and even then, only at night and from a distance. He did remember, though, that they possessed a vast shoreline full of boats of varying sizes. He needed only a small one, which he planned to steal at nightfall. He had not yet decided what to do with Breagha. He could not risk taking her with him, as a single scream would bring the villagers upon him.

The blood staining her tunic was a vivid shade of red. She winced occasionally, moaned, and rubbed her belly. He doubted she would be well enough to travel. Will you run in my absence? He would have to chance it, as soon as the sun fell into the sea.

He slipped the monk’s page out of his jerkin and unfolded the weathered vellum. His blood had spattered one of the winged creatures at the top of the page. He brushed at the droplets, and they smeared.

“What is on that page?” Breagha asked, startling him. She looked alert and refreshed. “I’ve seen ye looking at it several times now. May I see?”

He turned the page toward her, and she smiled. “Ah, it’s the Virgin and the Christ child.”

He gasped. “You know them?”

“Not personally,” she said, “but, I know of them.”

He leaned forward. “Tell me. Who are they? What is their story?” He licked his lips and waited.

“Come closer,” she said, “so I can show ye.”

Raam slid across the rock and held the picture above her. She took it. “Her name is Mary,” she said, pointing an abraded finger at the woman on the page. “She was a pure woman chosen by God to give birth to his only son, the child on her lap.”

Raam did not know the word. He scratched at his cheek. “God?”

“Aye, God,” Breagha said. “The great spirit who made all of us.”

“Father made me,” Raam said.

“And God made your father,” Breagha said.

“No, there is only Father.”

Breagha shook her head. “No. God is the Supreme Being. He knows all. He sees all.”

“If there is such a being, he would never have chosen to create someone like my father.”

“Your father must not have been very kind to ye,” she said, rubbing her belly.

Raam pressed his hand against her abdomen. “He has not been kind to you either, Breagha.”

She recoiled from his touch, and he jerked his hand away. Her eyes widened and her lips trembled. “Are ye saying that he is your father?”

“So he says.”

“Is that why ye are so—”

“Ugly. You can say it.”

“But, how is this . . . Who is your mother?”

“I never knew her. Most of the women . . .” He did not wish to frighten her.

“Die,” she finished for him. “Most of the women die.”

Raam said nothing. He was sorry he had brought the matter up. She would probably despise him even more now. She lifted the piece of vellum from her chest, where it had fallen.

“I like to look at her,” Raam said, gesturing toward the page. “You can see that she adores her child, and I sometimes imagine what that is like—to be adored by someone.”

“Have ye never been loved by anyone?” Breagha asked.

“No. Have you?”

“Aye. There are different types of love, though. My family loved me, of course, and my dogs. That kind of love is like a warm, comfortable blanket. And then, there’s another kind of love—the love between a man and a woman.”

I know this love. “Have ye loved a man?”

“I have, but I discovered it . . . too late.” A tear slid from the corner of her eye. “And then, ye took me from him.”

He hung his head. “Was he on the beach at Ardnamurchan?”

“No.”

“Then he lives?” His heartache quickly morphed into jealousy that surged over him like high tide.

“I hope so.” She grimaced and clutched her belly. “Something’s happening.” She squeezed her eyes shut. The bloody patch on her tunic grew larger.

“You are losing your child,” Raam said.

“Good.” She panted, spread her legs, and pushed. “Face away! Do not look at me!”

He did as she instructed and sat cross-legged, facing the opposite cave wall. He wrung his hands over his lap while she moaned and grunted behind him. He wanted to turn and comfort her, but he respected her demand for privacy. She wailed a long, high-pitched whine and fell silent. When he heard her softly whimpering, he guessed that she had expelled the child. “May I turn?” he asked.

“Get it away from me,” she said between sobs.

She had rolled away from him, onto her left side. Something resembling a red jellyfish lay at her back. He scooped the remains up into his palms and carried it outside, careful to stay low to the sunny ground. What do I do with it? He was about to hurl it over the hill and onto the rocks for the gulls to eat, but something stopped him. Instead, he placed it on the grass. The sun illuminated the fetus within it. He hated it for what it was: his father’s child and the product of rape. He loved it for what it also was: Breagha’s child and his half-sibling.

He pitied the innocent child. Curiosity got the best of him, and he inspected it. Its head was large with the expected black eyes and tiny fins where its arms and legs should be. Something else was different. He rolled the sac over and examined what would have been its back. There, just behind the stumpy arm-fins, two nodules protruded and tapered: embryonic wings.

He used his sword to dig a hole and shoved the jiggly mess into it. He patted a clod on top, sheathed his sword, and instantly began to worry. The sword had likely glinted in the sun. He should have been more careful.

Chapter 30

Semjaza needed to conserve energy and rest his host. Sending her into early labor would not only delay him, but also risk his very existence. Women died so often in childbirth, even under the best circumstances.

The redhead ate a few bilberries before lowering her ungainly body to drink from a stream meandering through a stand of second-generation oaks. She plopped down on a moss bed, open-legged, moaning and massaging the bottom of her belly as she leaned back against a tree. She was strong. He would give her that.

Semjaza allowed her a moment to enjoy the sunbeams streaming through the rising mist. Women found such things pleasant. Her tunic was soaked with rust-colored water, but she probably didn’t notice. She was already wet from urine she had been unable to hold.

The forest floor had been disturbed, and not just by Raam. Snapped twigs lay with their tiny, gray-green lichens overturned. Tufts of moss lay upside-down with their exposed, shallow roots already showing signs of drying. More than one man had stomped through this forest, and not at a leisurely clip, either. He hoped it had been his warriors, already pursing Raam on his behalf. With a little luck, he would meet them on their way back to the prison, dragging Raam and Breagha behind them in chains.

The fetus had been still since Semjaza’s earlier punishment, but it now stretched and kicked against him. The redhead’s body was already too crowded, and the useless brat was making it worse. Semjaza stomped again, hard. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! It stilled, and he immediately regretted his actions, not because he had probably killed it, but because something gave way. The redhead’s hands reached between her legs, returning with mucus and blood. She closed her eyes and cried.

By the time the sun had risen high, she was deep into labor with strong contractions. In the moments when she bore down, Semjaza expected her to sever him in two. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, allowing her body the freedom to perform its primitive duty.

Sweat beaded on her brow, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. She rolled to her side and rocked up to her hands and knees, panting and moaning.

It’s about to happen.

He grew nervous. Accept it. Fear uses less energy than the fight to suppress it. A little anxiety was warranted, not that he needed to justify it to anyone. If his host died, it would be the end of him. It was as simple as that. He scanned the forest for a boar, a wolf, or anything else he might temporarily possess if she failed to survive what was about to happen. There was nothing but round, stone huts that had outlived the pious souls who built them.

If only she would scream. A woman’s cries might bring some forest hermit or traveler to her aid. Women burned alive screamed less than those in childbirth did, but no, this one preferred sighs to screams. If he did not hate her so much, he might have respected her ability to handle what was surely an overwhelming landslide of pain.

Her belly bulged. She exhaled through a contraction and shifted into a squat. A tree supported her spine while she kneaded her fingers into her low back. Another contraction rippled through her. They were coming closer together now. She sighed loudly and puffed breaths of steam. She bore down and pushed until her body quaked. Semjaza feared she might expel him along with the brat. The contraction eased, and she rested, whimpering softly with the back of her head against the tree.

Semjaza felt the next contraction before she did and braced for it. She ground her teeth together and held her breath, pushing until Semjaza thought he might pop. Something moved, and he felt less constricted.

Head must be out.

She felt between her legs and recoiled at the knobby skull that had split her open. She tried to bolt upward in her terror, but her quivering legs failed her. Tree bark abraded her back as she wilted back down to a squatting position. Another contraction gripped her, and she delivered the infant onto the forest floor in complete silence. She gasped for breath and eyed the motionless infant lying on the blood-soaked moss, still attached to her by a ropey cord.

Semjaza hoped she did not panic and run, dragging the gelatinous mess behind her. She needed to rest. He would force her to do so if he must. He was relieved when she slumped down to the moss and lost consciousness.

While she was out, he inspected the bluing infant that lay sprawled between her knees. Its tiny body looked as if all nutrition had gone into growing its head, which was vastly oversized and completely encased in a magnificent, lacey caul. Semjaza had not seen a caul in a long time. The last son born in one had died too, though not by his own hands. His former dung woman had stolen the caul for good luck. She had died when he stuffed the caul down her throat. So much for her luck. The memory of her painful death energized him.

The infant’s limbs were spindly and drawn inward, as though protecting its own corpse from him. Semjaza leaned the exhausted redhead forward and moved aside one of the newborn’s slippery legs.

No! Female? It couldn’t be!

Of the countless offspring he had sired, there had never been a female. A caulbearer, too—a sure sign she would have possessed great power and vision. Had he mated with her, she would have produced offspring of nearly pure blood, and yet, here she was, dead on the forest floor. He wanted to thrash against the redhead’s insides. Careful. Save energy. He cooled his rising anger, promising himself he would unleash it later on Raam. After all, it was Raam’s fault that his first female child had been born here and not in the prison.

He would try again, taking better care of the redhead, and she would produce another female. He would sire a son through Breagha, whose bloodline was already tight. Then, he would mix the two. The resultant offspring would—

The redhead stirred and moaned. She writhed in the grips of a sudden contraction and pushed hard. A large amount of red-brown fluid gushed from her, carrying with it the rest of the cord and something that looked like a rotted bag of barley. It mounded on top of Semjaza’s lifeless daughter before sliding off to one side.

The redhead stared, vomited, and crawled to a clean bed of sun-speckled moss. She lay on her side and rested. Semjaza made no attempt to wake her, biding his time by deciding which slow method of torturous death would be best for Raam.

Chapter 31

A mounting sense of dread pursued Raam throughout the long day. Using his sword in daylight to bury the miscarried child had been stupid and could have brought the village upon them. Father was right; he was an idiot.

The sun had slid into the sea hours earlier, but the day had not yielded to nightfall, and the sky remained bright. He was hopeful that a storm would build and obscure the remaining light. Clouds were gathering, and occasional gusts of wind blasted their way into the cave to tease the fire. The burning wood shifted and sent sparks flying. He tensed and reached for his sword.

Jumpy, he watched the light dim outside the cave while he tore a strip of cloth from the hemline of his tunic. He dunked it into a puddle of icy cave water, wrung it out, and climbed up to hand it to Breagha, who used it to clean herself.

Her eyes were puffy and red, but she seemed a little better overall. She handed him the rag, and he rinsed and returned it repeatedly until she said, “I think I’m clean. Nothing I can do about my tunic, though.”

He climbed up beside her and placed a few more sticks on the fire. Must keep it hot, or it will smoke. “I will get you a clean tunic.”

“Where?”

“We are near a village.”

Her eyes widened, and the fire reflected in them.

“Before you think about running,” he said, “you should know that your only hope in escaping Father is to stay in my company. He will never stop pursuing you.”

She dropped her gaze, and her shoulders sagged. “Aye,” she said. She paused and appeared to be deep in thought. “I must relieve myself.”

He helped her stand and lifted her off the shelf, over the rubble, to the uneven cave floor. Her legs were as shaky as a fawn’s. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Do you want me to go wi—”

“No!”

“Then, go. Back there.” He pointed toward the recesses of the cave. “There’s a puddle just around the bend. If it would please you, you could take off your tunic and rinse it.”

She tensed, and he clucked his tongue. “I won’t look at—”

She dug her fingers into his arm and stared past him. “I smell something,” she whispered, slowly backing into the shadows, “something bad.”

Raam unsheathed his sword. He padded toward the mouth of the cave just as the first shadow crossed in front of it. Several others followed. Hissing whispers mixed with tinkling armor, and then, all was quiet—too quiet. Raam backed against the cave wall and looked for Breagha, who had hidden herself well. His face boiled. He would not let them take her. She was his.

Along the right edge of the rock framing the cave mouth, a bump grew like a mushroom cap emerging from the forest floor. A skull, a hairless skull.

Lips.

Raam’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. Father could be in any one of them, or he could have traveled by night in his own body. What if he jumps from one of them to me or to Breagha? Could he? No, I can’t remember him ever jumping from one to another.

Raam slowed his heartbeat and breaths, poised against the cave wall with his sword ready. They would have to come through the narrow opening, and their eyes would not be accustomed to the darkness, which would work to his advantage.

The silence was oppressive. He grew impatient and was about to lower his sword when two of them rolled through the opening and jumped to their feet. They wore their helmets and slashed wildly with their swords, striking nothing. He sprang from the wall and shoved the tallest of them with his foot. The warrior stumbled backward and fell. His helmet clanged as it hit rock. He did not rise.

The shorter warrior lunged.

Raam swung his sword. His arms vibrated when it met his enemy’s blade. He twisted away and jumped up onto a stalagmite. He leapt to another. Two more warriors rolled in. He pounced, landing flat-footed in front of them.

“You can’t . . . have . . . her,” he shouted, as he slashed his sword, hacking off their heads before they could rise.

Another two crawled over the bodies of the fallen just as the short warrior grunted and lunged with his sword. Raam twisted his hips to the right. The warrior’s blade sparked against the cave floor. Raam jumped in front of him, cursed, and sliced his throat open with an upswing.

They swarmed in, shoving and crawling over the twitching bodies blocking the cave entrance. Raam kicked at one and sent him reeling. He grabbed another by a nose guard and flung him to the far wall. They kept coming. A warrior cursed and ran at him with a spear. Raam swung his sword high and shifted his weight, but the warrior’s spear punched in and out of his leather jerkin. Though he felt no pain, he dropped to his knees. “No!” he shouted, rolling and jabbing upwards with his sword, impaling the warrior from the bottom up.

He was winded. Exhaustion was new to him. He rolled on the cave floor, smearing it with his blood and cursing his body for its sluggishness. With one final heave, he leapt to his feet, split one warrior’s helmet and skull with his sword, turned, and impaled another.

Only Lips remained. Raam took a feeble step toward him, but his knees buckled. What is happening? He teetered over his sword, which he used to help him stand. He heaved gurgling breaths and spat blood.

The hole that served as Lips’s mouth widened in his grotesque version of a smile. “Brother,” he hissed, “I would imagine Father will be quite pleased with me when I bring him your head.”

So, Father is not among ye.

“Lips, if you take one step closer, I will tear your tiny tongue from the hole you call a mouth, and—” His words were lost to coughs, and he sunk to his hands and knees, his sword falling uselessly beside him. A long line of bloody saliva dangled from his mouth.

It was over. This is how he would die. Never expected it would be Lips. He wanted his last thought to be the memory of Breagha’s smile. He tried to remember it, but when he thought of her, fear surged through him. What will Lips do to her?

He grew faint, sat back on his heels, and waited for Lips’s sword to end his life.

The slits that served as Lips’s nostrils widened, and he rose up on the tips of his toes to swing his blade high. A sharp point burst forth from his exposed belly, and his arms fell limp. Like a sawn tree, he fell forward, exposing his killer. She stood trembling in her bloody tunic, her hands covering her gaping mouth.

She rushed to Raam just as his shoulder hit the hard cave floor. “No, no, no,” she repeated, crying and rocking on her knees above him. Her warm hands were smooth on the sides of his face, and her eyes were full of concern. She brushed his hair away and cradled his head in her hands. He thought of the woman on the monk’s page. How often had he wished for this moment?

He writhed and arched his back as his first pain seared through him like molten silver. It did nothing to weaken the joy that swelled his heart. Her face swirled above his, and her tears splattered against his jerkin. He closed his eyes. If death is the price for even a single moment like this, he thought, it is worth the cost.

Chapter 32

The redhead staggered through a dense fern bed and painted the fronds with blood. If she had it her way, she would lie down. Semjaza was certain she needed the rest, but he could not allow it. Infection would soon set in, and even if it didn’t, he was draining fast. He thought he would have caught up to his men by now. He needed a new host. Obtaining one would not be easy. The villagers of Goill took superstition to the extreme, partly due to their proximity to the prison. They listened for the sounds of banshees on the wind and gave wide berth to caves they believed inhabited by giants. They were wary of the unknown, and their fondness for storytelling perpetuated and magnified their legends surrounding the creatures that washed up on their shores every generation or two.

Semjaza cursed the tides, which had a habit of delivering the remains of his worst failures to Goill. Its inhabitants would be apprehensive when the redhead stumbled toward the village, bloodied and pale, swaying on weak legs like tide-swept kelp. The archers would think her a witch and shoot her, leaving Semjaza out of range with no host.

He inspected the redhead’s arms and legs, wondering if he could clean her up. Welts and scratches crisscrossed her limbs. They would not wash away. Her tunic was stained and stiff with dried blood and birth fluids. No, she would not be welcomed, not in this village.

The canopy eventually lowered to shoulder height, blended with short conifers, and then disappeared altogether at a grove of scrub brush. Semjaza shoved the redhead’s body through it. Her jerky movements alarmed flocks of roosting birds, which flushed in loud bursts. They congregated a short distance away and chattered their annoyance and panic.

The scrubland yielded to heath, and then grass. Here and there, the landscape’s limestone bones protruded out of its flesh. Somewhere, a ewe bleated miserably, either caught on something or separated from her lamb. Prey animals made the worst hosts due to their constant state of panic, and by the sounds of this one, she was already in the grips of some calamitous event. But sheep were food, and the redhead needed sustenance.

Semjaza headed toward the racket, cautiously weaving in and out of tall heath. He peeked between two clumps of dried grass. The ewe streaked by, bleating. She’s not caught. Semjaza leaned around the grass. The ewe paced back and forth at a wind-swept slab of exposed limestone. In the middle of the stone was a day-old gut pile. Probably her lamb’s. A liver poked through the tiny pile of intestines. Just what the redhead needed to fortify her blood.

He brushed aside the grasses and stepped into the open, scanning the horizon for danger. A buzzard swooped overhead and startled him. No. Mine. He rushed forward. The ewe panicked and scampered a short distance away. The rest of the flock behind her paused their grazing and inspected him with waving ears.

The ewe bleated again and took a step toward him. “Mmmlah!” he shouted, stretching the redhead’s arms wide. The ewe abandoned her mourning and joined the gaping flock while Semjaza used the redhead’s hands to sort through the lamb’s entrails.

Chapter 33

Breagha piled the last of their wood supply onto the fire. She picked up a dagger from the cave floor next to a dead warrior. Its curved antler handle felt cool in her hand, and as she inspected the angled blade, the steel reflected the firelight. Raam lay where he had fallen. For a moment, she considered using the dagger to finish him off. Instead, she carried it over and used it to slice open his jerkin.

Sticky blood coated the leather. She peeled away the tunic that had scabbed fast to his skin in places. The wound she had noticed the previous day was swollen and streaky and oozed something that smelled like Semjaza. No. Do not think of him.

Raam’s newest injury was about a hand’s width below it. The barbed spear had impaled him and made a messy exit, leaving a deep laceration with ragged edges. Part of his pink gut was exposed and threatening to emerge.

Had she been stronger, she would have either killed him or left him to die on the cave floor. He was right, though; she needed him. Her abdomen still cramped, and her bowels were watery. Raam was her only hope of escaping Semjaza. She would have to tolerate him until she didn’t need him anymore.

She was tired, and it took more effort than it should have to slice strips of cloth from corpses so disfigured they looked as if they had been dead for days instead of hours. She robbed them of their wool and linen, crawled back to Raam with an armful of cloth, and used it to wipe blood and bits of tissue away from his wounds. She folded some linen into a thick pad and pressed it over the largest gash, sopping up his blood. “Ye need to live,” she whispered. “The sun is coming up. More of them might come.”

She dabbed at him and thought briefly of Elisad, remembering the old woman’s kind hands on her wrist wounds at Finlaggan. If only Elisad were here now. She would know what to do.

Breagha considered walking to the village for help, but did not know where it was. Even if she could find it, it was unlikely that she could convince anyone to tend a monster’s wounds.

Raam’s face was as white as lamb’s wool. With each exhale, fresh blood filled his laceration. The skin on his face was slack and gathered at his ears. She could see his black eyes in their deep sockets. They blinked peacefully as he studied her face.

She packed a fresh cloth into his wound. He stilled her hand with his cold fingers, tenderly rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. She moved her hand away, and he looked as though she had given him a fresh stab wound.

“The sun is up,” she said. “I can go for help. Tell me—”

“Who would help me?” He laughed and then coughed and held his belly. “You’d only run anyway.”

He was right. Nobody would help him, and she would run as soon as she didn’t need him anymore. “Ye aren’t bleeding as much.”

“Because I’m out of blood.”

“Or because ye are healing.” She sat next to him, her hand pressing linen against his wound, surrounded by bodies that looked as though scavengers had already picked at them. “Do ye know all of these men?” she asked.

“They are my brothers.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

She thought of her dead fetus. “They’re disgusting.”

“So am I.”

She offered no argument. Elisad boiled water. We need boiled water. She reached over Raam, lifted a helmet from the cave floor, and began to scrape out the leather lining with her knife.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Scraping out this helmet.”

“Why?”

“So that I can boil water in it to clean your wounds.”

He wrapped his fingers around hers. “Rest. When I die, you will need your strength to save yourself.”

“If ye are going to die, why not tell me where the village—” She stopped short and whirled her head toward the mouth of the cave. No. It couldn’t be! She started to shiver, and her teeth chattered. She did not want to, but she forced herself to flare her nostrils and inhale. Blood. Death. Infection. Smoke. Wet wool. Sea. That was all.

“What is it?” Raam asked, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Breagha held a quivering finger to her lips and stared at the mouth of the cave until her eyes dried out. She leaned in close to Raam’s ear. “I caught the scent of your father,” she whispered. “I am sure of it.”

Without warning, Raam sat up and shook the damaged jerkin and tunic from his shoulders. He grimaced and clutched his wound as it spurted a fresh supply of blood through his fingers.

“No, ye mustn’t,” Breagha said, turning away from his nakedness.

“Quiet,” he whispered. “Give me a wad of cloth.”

Breagha handed him a thick pad, which he laid over his wound. She was relieved she had not tried to kill him, for she was suddenly aware she would have failed. “That’s as miraculous a recovery as I’ve ever seen. I thought ye were as good as dead.”

“Bind me with the rest of it,” he said, ignoring her words. He held the end of a strip against his belly, and she took the other end and walked around him, stepping over his legs, and returning to her starting point. When she reached the end of a strip, she tied another one to it and repeated the process until she ran out of strips. He took the end from her, tucked it in, and rose to his knees, his abdomen fully bound.

He limped to the tallest of the dead warriors and stripped him of his tunic. It was short, but it covered the part of him she did not want to see. He gathered up his thick hair and tied it at his nape. “We must go,” he said, tucking knives beneath his belt and sheathing his sword.

She did not argue. Her belly cramped, and she was weak, but she was more than ready to leave the cave of corpses. They both groaned as they stooped out of the cave into daylight.

The sun above them brightened the mist shrouding the coastline, but provided no heat. She was stiff, and her muscles ached. They climbed a small hill, and the sea grew louder. Raam walked ahead of her on a path that dangerously hugged the edge of a cliff. His stolen tunic whipped in the wind. His strides slowed, and he stumbled a few times, but his hand never left his sword hilt. Annoyed gulls voiced displeasure at their presence, swooping in and out of the mist above them.

The path dead-ended at a sheer drop, and for the first time, Breagha began to question whether Raam knew for sure how to get to the village. “Have we gone the wrong way?” she asked when he turned in front of her.

A bloodstain blossomed on the front of his tunic. “Wrong path,” was all he said as he shimmied past her. She followed him, fear rising from the pit of her gut. They had only taken a few steps when he stopped ahead of her so abruptly that she rammed into his back. He crouched, and she did the same, uncertain if he was growing weaker or if he had seen something ahead. She peered around his meaty arm. There, on the path ahead, the redhead from Semjaza’s prison crawled toward them on her hands and knees. Blood covered her tunic and legs, and her belly was smaller than Breagha remembered. Her face was filthy behind her wild tangle of hair, and strained by what appeared to be unbearable pain. She vomited, wobbled, and flopped forward, then struggled to her hands and knees again and crawled forward a few more feet. She panted loudly, and her eyes pleaded for aid.

“We must help her,” Breagha said, trying to brush past Raam’s arm.

Raam grabbed her by the elbow and violently flung her back behind him.

“Raam, I know her. I left her once. I will not do it again. We can take her with us to the village. She’ll die if we don’t!” She beat her fists against his shoulders, but he blocked her way.

“What is wrong with ye?” she asked. “This lassie needs help!”

“Hold your tongue. Sometimes, things are not as they seem.”

“Not as they seem? She’s dying in front of our eyes!” He ignored her pleas. How can I get him to listen? “Raam, look at me,” she said. He turned his head, and though he crouched, she was eye-to-eye with him. She smiled and stroked his hairline. “Please.”

Raam placed his hand against her cheek. She smiled again, and he sighed. He did not resist when she brushed past him.

Breagha was an oar’s length away from the girl when she realized her error. Semjaza’s stench slammed against her, and she stopped so quickly on the path that she sent pebbles tumbling over the cliff. “No.” She began to shake, and blood roared through her ears so that she could hear little else. She searched the path and the hill, but did not see him.

The redhead wobbled to her feet and fell limp again from standing height, striking her head on a jagged rock. Blood trickled onto the path beneath her matted hair. She didn’t take another breath, and her eyes stared at the sky. Breagha stood frozen on the path, confused and terrified.

“He’s here. I can smell him,” she said, whirling quickly and slamming into Raam, who stood behind her wielding a short blade. He smelled of charred bodies and rotted teeth.

Breagha backed away from him, crying. “Raam?”

He said nothing, but held out an upturned hand and nodded. She shook her head and ran as well as she could while holding her cramping belly.

Raam staggered after her.

She reached the dead end and searched for another path. There was none. Raam halted a few feet from her, his body jerking back and forth. He dropped to his knees, and then rose again, looking strong and angry.

She stood at the path’s end with Semjaza’s scent swirling in front of her and a sheer drop at her back. She could hear the sea boiling over the rocks below. Raam, who had been walking toward her with purpose, stopped and shook his head. His perfect lips smiled, and he extended his hand, but the action brought Semjaza’s scent with it.

Her mind eddied like foamy waters. Her terror had spiraled so far beyond control that she was numb to it. She froze, and stood as still and silent as the black rock under her feet. And then, a warm acceptance washed over her, thawing her, as if a kind stranger had draped a blanket over her shoulders.

Somewhere, high above her, a sea eagle screeched. Gulls answered, and she lifted her chin to search the mist for them. She leaned back, watching them flutter as she fell. Raam disappeared, and the cliff face streaked past. She flared her nostrils and inhaled, savoring the many odors of the sea. She was not prepared to find Somerled’s scent mixed among them. Her peace shattered, and she flailed wildly, flapping her arms and clawing at the sky. With her final breath, she isolated his scent from the others and inhaled deeply, desperate to take it with her into eternity.

She was a gull then, an acrobat twisting and turning in the shifting wind currents that skimmed the waves. She circled and climbed until she eyed a ship’s mast, then folded her wings and plummeted toward it, hovering for a moment near its stern before an updraft veered her into the burgeoning calm that awaited her.

Chapter 34

A herring gull hovered near Somerled’s face, close enough that when it cocked its head, he could see his own reflection in its yellow-rimmed eye. He could have grabbed the bird for sport. Instead, he stared at it, mesmerized, holding his breath until it veered away with a whisper of its wings. It was one of those moments in life worth savoring, like when a butterfly settles on the tip of your finger, or when you fall in love for the first time, or when someone lays your child in your arms and you see your father’s face reflecting back at you.

Mersin had promised not to interfere with his plans to marry Ragnhilde. He didn’t love the woman from Suibhne, and he hadn’t touched her since that fateful day in the graveyard, but he tolerated her for the sake of their son. Gillecallum was only the length of Somerled’s thighbone, but he had already achieved his first victory, conquering the barren wasteland of Somerled’s heart. Gillecallum, he knew, would be a legendary warrior.

Somerled watched the gull until he could no longer find it among the clouds. Losing Breagha had taught him to relish the things that silver could not buy. Father’s death had punctuated the lesson. Enough is enough, Father had said.

The men were sore and complaining from hours of rowing and bailing in treacherous waters and wind when the cliffs of Oileán Thúr Rí rose out of the waters.

“Balor’s Warriors,” one of them said, nodding over the port rail toward the toothlike pinnacles of rock facing them from the island’s eastern peninsula.

“Balor of the Evil Eye,” Somerled whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

A young oarsman gawked wide-eyed at them. “Imagine if he’s still there somewhere,” he said.

The men around Domhnaill laughed. “Hard for a one-eyed giant to hide on a bald island, isn’t it?” one of them teased.

Domhnaill blushed and locked his gaze on the island while he rowed, as did some of the more seasoned oarsmen, Somerled noticed. Good. Their minds are on something other than their aching backs and arms.

Balor’s Warriors stirred a sense of dread in most sailors, he knew, although none would ever admit it. Some men refused to look at them, fearing that theirs might be the gaze that weakened the rocky husks and freed Balor’s trapped sentries. Somerled, on the other hand, regarded them with alacrity. They marked the halfway point to Maguire’s, and they usually brought him good wind. Today was no exception. As Raven’s Eye rounded the northwest corner of Oileán Thúr Rí, the men stowed their oars and relaxed between the thwarts.

During the hours that passed, Somerled required nothing further from them. They lolled on chests or the deck and admired the scenery. When Raven’s Eye passed three sea stacks jutting out of the water near Árainn Mhór, several of the men eyed them suspiciously.

“What if they really are pagans turned to stone by Saint Columba?” Somerled heard Domhnaill ask.

Raven’s Eye skirted a ridge of serrated rocks, the kind that boil the sea and take the lives of careless men. Her shipwright had not built her for speed, but Raven’s Eye skimmed the water at a respectable rate. Somerled stood at the helm, full of the wild exhilaration that always accompanied a swift, easy sail. The air tore at his hair and coaxed tears from his eyes. His fingers curled around the carved raven’s head that served as a handle for the ship’s tiller.

They passed Tír Chonaill’s rugged coastline, and he grew nostalgic, wondering how many lands Raven’s Eye had visited. How many weeping, frightened people had she carried from these shores, chained in the very cargo area in front of him, until he wrenched her from the hands of her barbarians?

For the first time in recent memory, he felt unfettered, as if someone had found and used a key to unshackle him from his grief. Perhaps the Norns were at last weaving him a happy destiny. He was weightless, a mere thought away from floating into the clouds, where he would find the herring gull. They would—

Thunk! The tiller slammed down against his thighs.

“Shite!” he said, wiggling out from under it. “The withe broke!” With its lowest tether gone, the deep end of the steer-board floated out and away from the ship, increasing the stress on the lashing at its throat. “Douse the sail!” he ordered, leaning against the tiller to return the runaway blade to its proper place below the waterline.

Palms had barely brushed against the halyards when Somerled heard a sound that was every sailor’s most feared: the creak-snap-snap-snap of splintering wood, faint and distant at first, then violent and immediate, like a falling tree.

Snap! The tiller fractured, and he fell onto the deck. The steer-board soared to the surface of the sea, snapped its lashing, and cracked several strakes. With each swell, water spurted through the starboard side into the hull.

Cormac sprang from the surface of his sea chest. He lifted its lid and withdrew bailing buckets, tossing them to the men who had already hopped into the cargo area. When he was out of buckets, he rushed toward Somerled, hopping over the thwarts bracing the ship between the cargo area and the stern. “Ye all right?”

“Aye. How bad is it?” Somerled asked, rubbing sore ribs.

Cormac leaned overboard. “Bad enough. Steer-board is gone.”

“I figured. I will fasten an oar,” Somerled said. His face boiled. “I told Eoghan to check the withe before we shoved off.” He would see to the shipwright’s new assistant when he returned to Islay. If we make it back to Islay. “Mail off,” he ordered. “Take turns bailing, but off with it. All of it. And hurry.”

He had ordered the men to wear their mail constantly since the disaster at Ardnamurchan. He wanted his men battle-ready at all times, even in the generally friendly waters between the Hebrides and Fermanagh. Now, the extra weight was unsafe; mailed men didn’t float.

They stripped off their mail shirts and heaped them on top of the greased sword blades in the cargo area. Giric, an oarsman whose freckled face bore the concern they all shared, pulled Somerled’s over his head. When it jingled to the deck, Somerled felt as light as air. He hopped over the thwarts and into the cargo area. Icy water filled his boots and reminded him of what awaited all of them if the sea claimed Raven’s Eye for its own.

Creak-snap-snap-snap!

N—n—n—no!

The mast snapped about an arm’s length above their heads. Panic replaced the heaviness of Somerled’s mail as the wind-filled sail floated down to cap the portside waves.

The combined weight of the broken mast and sail, still attached to the ship by its rigging, now leaned the ship so severely to port that the damaged starboard strakes rose out of the water’s reach. Several helmets and buckets rolled overboard. Somerled winced at the waste, then realized that unless they lived, they had no use for them anyway.

Though the perilous list to port halted the starboard leak, it also prevented them from using the oars. Worse, the sail was already pulling them farther out to sea. “Cut the rigging free,” he ordered, “but be careful that the mast doesn’t kick out and bust the port rail or knock anyone overboard.” His men complied, hacking at oak and mangled ropes until the sail and mast floated away.

The ship groaned, helmets rolled into the cargo area, and the starboard leak resumed. Cormac lifted more deck boards. “Here’s the worst trouble,” he said, pointing with a stump that used to be a finger.

Somerled leaned over his shoulder and inspected the leak. “Can we patch it?”

Cormac’s black braids dripped water. “Maybe. We could try to clamp it, bail, and pray we make it to shore. I can shingle her if we raise the starboard side above the waterline.”

There was no time to move the cargo to port, and they had removed most of the ballast stones to make room for the swords and provisions. “Everybody to port,” Somerled said, loud enough for all to hear. “Now!”

The men lined the port rail. Raven’s Eye groaned her displeasure once more, but exposed her starboard side.

“Gi’ me a clamp, some caulk, and a couple shingles,” Cormac shouted, and held out his arm, which quickly received the items from Domhnaill, who alone remained at his side. “Up with ye,” Cormac said to him.

Domhnaill threw a leg over the splintered rail and straddled it, holding caulked shingles in place with his hands and feet while Cormac tightened clamps over them. In no time, they had finished the job. “Get in with ye,” Cormac shouted.

Domhnaill flung himself onboard.

Cormac nodded to Somerled, and the men moved amidships, slowly righting Raven’s Eye on the water’s surface.

Somerled bailed and eyed Cormac’s patch cautiously. It leaked, but they were taking on less water than they tossed overboard. They would stay afloat. “I will flog Eoghan myself,” he promised Cormac. He meant it.

“Best get to him before I do, my lord,” Cormac muttered.

They were in choppy waters, off course and leaking, with no sail and no steer-board. Somerled ordered the men to remove the carved raven from the prow. There was no sense in sailing behind an obvious sign of aggression. Ui Niall’s territory loomed ahead, neutral thanks to Maguire’s tribute, but unsafe due to its expansive wilderness and pockets of renegade clans hiding within it.

Two bailers remained bent over their work in the cargo area. The rest of the men, already exhausted, picked up their oars. Somerled stabbed the sea with an oar where the steer-board had been and eyed the unforgiving water that roiled around it. He squinted and surveyed the approaching coastline, a solid wall of green-capped cliffs, useful only to birds that wedged their nests into its cracks.

Gulls scattered as something clawed at Raven’s Eye’s keel. Men instinctively lifted the oar blades and clenched their jaws as the ship rattled over something solid. Somerled cursed under his breath. He lifted his oar and glared at the water boiling between him and the cliffs ahead. The ship would likely smash against the shoreline, but if he could get them close, they would be able to swim. Hakon was due at Maguire’s tomorrow with an empty trader. He would know by their absence that something had happened. Hakon would find them.

Raven’s Eye was not easily maneuvered by oars alone, especially in angry waters with no steer-board, but Somerled and his oarsmen were skilled, and they managed to thread the ship between seemingly endless rows of reefs and skerries.

The tide pushed them toward a group of toothy crags. Waves crashed against the rock and spouted plumes of spray into the air. They rowed hard to break free of the rocks’ pull, and as they narrowly missed the lowest end of them, a flat half-moon of yellow sand ahead caught his eye. A sheltered cove.

When Raven’s Eye settled her bow on the beach, she did so with a bellyful of water. Somerled exhaled. Men slumped to the thwarts, bent over their laps, and groaned. Some fell overboard onto the sand, where they lay rubbing their sides. Others lifted their faces skyward to whisper prayers of thanks.

They were far from Maguire’s, which would mean tough walking over Tír Chonaill’s punishing terrain if Hakon failed to see the signal fire Somerled intended to build. There was nothing but frothy water and walls of rock around them, but at least they were alive. Grass speckled the cliff with green as far up as he could see. A pile of tumbled cliff pieces lay in the cove’s deepest recess, deposited there by the merciless battering of wind and rain. Its collapse had created a nearly vertical route out of the cove. It was slick and steep, but half a day’s careful journey on the crumbling incline would see them to the lush green that capped the terrain above it.

The cove reduced the waves’ pounding to muted whispers. No birds chattered or swooped. It was as if they had somehow sailed into the mouth of a jug, and someone plugged it shut. Something felt wrong. He opened his mind, as he often did in times of peril, to scan the scene and locate the source of his agitation. A boulder caught his attention. It lay in front of the tumbled section of cliff, guarding it like one of Balor’s Warriors. He would have sworn something watched from its shadow. Perhaps it was another pagan, turned to stone.

Who’s there?

As if in answer, a black-haired girl in a torn tunic slipped warily out of the shadows.

Chapter 35

No! She was right over—

Semjaza stared in disbelief at the exposed pebbles where her small feet had been.

How could—

She had been an arm’s length away, with no escape. Panic engulfed him, then rage. He arched Raam’s back and roared at the sky, not caring that it sapped him of energy or that Raam’s voice rolled like thunder into the distance.

She was a weak and fragile female—a human—and she had defeated him. She was forever beyond his grasp now.

Maybe I could— No, she’s gone. She’s gone forever, along with your offspring. This is Raam’s fault.

Semjaza peeled away Raam’s thoughts like a bully yanking petals from a honeysuckle blossom. He found nothing except rocks. Raam was shielding again. He forced Raam a few steps ahead on the path and leaned him over the cliff’s edge. The mist rolled and parted, revealing the girl’s broken body on the rocks below.

Yes, Raam, she is dead because of you. Look at her!

Her arms and legs were sprawled at unnatural angles, and her hair rocked beneath her in the crimson water of a stranded tide pool.

Raam offered no obvious reaction, but Semjaza felt his temperature flare. Angry? This would be a massive blow to Raam. Semjaza scanned his son’s thoughts and found nothing useful.

Still blocking me, are you? Doesn’t matter. I know you hurt.

Semjaza shoved Raam’s body onward, tripping past the redhead who lay crumpled on the path. Also your fault, Raam. The redhead had been a worthy host, and while he did not regret her loss of life, he was sorry that she could no longer produce for him. He would lament it later, when he was safely resting in his own shell.

Raam’s steps slowed. “I . . . loved . . . her,” he said, his words slurred and barely recognizable.

It was the first time a host had spoken without Semjaza’s consent.

“I . . . loved her,” Raam repeated. “You . . . killed her. I . . . kill . . . you.”

This was not supposed to happen. Hosts did not speak without consent. Semjaza would have to punish Raam and show him who was in charge. How? He could not abuse Raam’s body. He needed it. He was too far from his own shell. Two days’ worth of repressed anxiety flooded into him, further weakening him and using up vast chunks of precious energy. He was in real danger. He kicked inside Raam’s body to make it go forward, but it did not move.

Semjaza spoke, but the voice was Raam’s. “Raam, let us go home. I will find you another girl, and she will be yours only.”

“No,” Raam replied. “Enough lies. Look around you. You have no host. I am the last. I die . . . you die.”

He knows too much. “You’re wrong,” Semjaza lied. “I cannot be destroyed. You will only kill yourself, not me.”

Raam took a step toward the cliff’s edge.

Semjaza wanted to squeal. He sought anything he could use as a host. “Don’t do this, Raam. What is it you want? Name it, and it’s yours.”

Raam looked at the path behind him. “I want her. Return life to her, and I will save you.”

Semjaza searched for a cunning reply. “Agreed.”

“The time it took you to answer tells me that it’s not within your power to do so.”

“I can. You misunderstood my pause. I was merely planning how I could grant your wish. Take me back to my shell. I will need to be strong to bring life back to her body.

Raam slipped a vellum page from beneath his tunic. Semjaza saw the image and felt the searing heat of its power. He recoiled, and shouted, “Where did you get that? Put it away!”

Raam flung the vellum over the cliff, and for a moment, Semjaza was confident he had won. Without warning, Raam jumped.

“Raam, no!” he shrieked, but it was too late.

Falling was the worst feeling in the world. It felt the same as it had the last time, on that terrible day when he had plummeted from the heavens shouting, “Save me! Forgive me!” and then—just before impact— “Have it your way! I will exact my revenge upon those you love!”

It was leap or die. Semjaza exited Raam’s body just before it burst on the rocks. The sun singed him, and he squealed and darted back and forth, desperate for anything he might use as a host. There was nothing.

The rock below Semjaza tugged at him, anxious to tell the story of its formation and lonely existence. He felt the agonizing heat of its volcanic formation as it began in earnest to assault him with its tale. It burns! It burns! The rock dragged him into its ancient interior, where it petrified him in basalt and made him a grudging witness to the rock’s eternal battle with sea and wind.

Chapter 36

The sight of the woman emerging from behind the boulder riveted Somerled’s boots to the ground. Was she was a banshee? A ghost who had snapped the withe so they would crash here? Was she a stone, turned back into a pagan?

Whoever or whatever she was, she was filthy and not well fed. A gaunt arm dangled out of the torn left sleeve of her tunic. He picked his way toward her over the rubble, wondering if she would run, and then realizing she had nowhere to go. She smelled bad, and her crusty skin looked thin enough to tear. Whose blood is on your tunic?

He was pondering what he would say to her when she spoke. “I know ye,” she said, rekindling his belief that she could be a ghost.

“That so?” He extended a hand.

“Aye,” she said, slipping her fingers into his and stepping forward, “I do.” Her eyes were serious in their sockets. His men recoiled when she approached the ship.

“Devil’s ballast,” one of them murmured, covering his nose with his hand.

Somerled frowned.

“I stink?” she asked.

“A bit,” Somerled replied. He moved slowly and methodically, reaching into a sack to retrieve a wedge of cheese. “Food?” With a knife that she watched cautiously, he cut a piece and handed it to her along with a crust of bread.

She frowned at the bread when he handed it to her and appeared as though she were about to speak. Instead, she took a bite of cheese and plopped her bottom down on a rock. “We must leave at once,” she said. “There’s no time to waste, and ye must be quiet.”

“We’re not leaving,” he said, sitting on a rock that faced her. “Whose blood is on your tunic?”

Her face, already pale, turned even whiter, and her eyes welled with tears. Her hands rested on her lap, one gripping the bread and the other holding the cheese. “Ye cannot wait,” she whispered. “Ye must go at once.” She shoved the last bite of cheese into her mouth and, still holding the bread, marched toward the ship with Somerled at her heels. She began to throw the offloaded provisions back inside Raven’s Eye’s hull. “Please,” she said, “don’t delay. I beg ye.”

He winced. Her panicked pleas were too close to another girl’s begging that time had not erased from his memory. “Lassie,” he said, taking hold of her arm, “I am not sure where ye think we ought to go, but there is no way out of here other than straight up. A village expects us today. When we fail to arrive, they will send men to look for us. We’ll light a fire. They’ll see the smoke.”

“No,” she said. “No fire. No smoke.” She returned to the rock, sat, and set the uneaten bread beside her. Her leg bounced nervously. She flinched when a warrior’s helmet rattled onto the stones.

She’s mad.

“At the very least, tell them to be quiet while I think.” Her brow creased and her eyes searched his. She looked toward the sea, and then to the ship. “Is there no way ye can—”

“None. We are lucky to be alive.”

She sighed heavily, as though she had suffered some great defeat. “It is not luck,” she said, leaning forward to take both of his hands. “It is fate, I’m afraid, and love—rare love that sometimes finds two people.”

“What are ye getting at, woman?” he asked, wondering if she was about to offer herself to him in exchange for his promise to sail her away in the damaged ship. Women did such things when they were out of options.

“As I said, I know ye.”

“That so?” They were back where they started.

“Aye, Somerled, I do.”

At the sound of his own name, his breath caught in his throat. “This is witchery.”

“I’m no witch,” she said. “I know your name because it was whispered over and over in the dark by one who loves ye.”

Breagha? Hope climbed out of confinement. Perhaps the Norns weren’t finished with him yet. No. Don’t allow yourself to think it.

Tears wiped dirt from the girl’s cheeks in two streaks. Her head slumped toward her lap.

Somerled placed his hands on her bony shoulders and pushed her upright again. He considered the stain on her tunic, and it nourished a growing sense of dread. “Who spoke my name?” he asked, his voice trembling.

The girl looked past him as if something on the sea behind him interested her. “Your soul mate.”

Madness! Somerled stood from the rock, frustrated that after all this time, his deepest wound could be reopened so easily. He paced a few angry steps away, whirled, and returned. This was witchery, plain and simple. “Tell me her name, then,” he demanded.

“Ye know her name,” the girl whispered.

“Tell me anyway.”

She set her jaw and narrowed her eyes. “Breagha,” she spat.

Unseen hands strangled him. He stormed away from the girl, rushing up the incline to the large rock where he had first seen her. He went behind it, grabbed his knees, and exhaled. He felt sick and faint. He reached inside the neckline of his tunic and slipped the torc from around his neck. Breagha. Breagha. Breagha. Her name rang inside his mind like a monk’s bell.

The words of the old woman at Ardnamurchan assaulted him. Be prepared to believe in the unbelievable.

Footsteps crunched in the pebbles. He stood and collected his wits. The girl faced him. “I was torn between telling ye and saving myself. I knew that if I shared my story, nothing would keep ye from climbing . . . up there.” She tilted her face toward the darkening sky above the cliffs. “Where would that leave me?”

“Awfully selfish of ye.”

“I came to the same conclusion. Try to understand, though, that my decision was also based upon my knowledge of what awaits ye up there. I asked myself what Breagha would want. She would want ye to find a way off this cursed coast. It seems the Fates will not let ye do so.”

Somerled returned the torc to his neck and stepped away from the rock. His men had already offloaded the sword blades and supplies and were attempting to erect the tents and gather firewood.

They could wait here until Hakon and Maguire came for them. That would be the prudent thing to do. But common sense had cost him Breagha once, and he would not allow it to happen again. He pinched the cloth of the girl’s blood-stiffened tunic between his thumb and forefinger. “Is it—”

“Not hers,” she said.

The lump at the back of his throat made it difficult to speak. “We will go at once,” he said, “but not by sea.”

“I thought as much. Prepare yourself and your men,” the girl said. “I will tell ye all ye must know, but I will not go with ye.”

Chapter 37

The girl’s name was Kata. “I will stay long enough to tell ye all I know, but not a moment longer,” she said. Her eyes darted to the shadows, and she fidgeted while she spoke. “I will bloody my feet on sharp rocks and live on mussels. If I must, I will swim, but I will not go up there with that . . . thing.”

“We can keep ye safe,” Somerled said. “Ye could help us find this prison.” And Breagha.

She shook her head. “No. Do not fool yourself into thinking that ye can fight what lives up there.”

Somerled raised an eyebrow. Clearly, the girl underestimated him.

“There is no way ye can imagine what it is ye face,” she said. The story of her capture and imprisonment poured from her mouth like a swollen river. When she had finished speaking, she stood and said, “If ye love Breagha, then I implore ye to run. Save yourself. Live. She would want ye to live.”

Somerled could not decide whether to punch something, laugh, vomit, cry, or do what she suggested and run. He was no stranger to fairy tales and legends. Did they not just sail past islands steeped in myths and legends? Even his own religion included an immaculate conception, resurrections from the dead, and angels and demons, though demons were something that appeared in Christ’s time, not his.

He sat in silence, searching Kata’s face. His mind reeled, and his stomach twisted. There was a chance Kata had fabricated the story, but why would she do that? No, she knew too many details about Breagha. He wondered whether Breagha had escaped. “Ye managed to elude them. Perhaps she did, too.”

“I do hope she did,” Kata said. “As I said, I went one way and she went the other.”

Somerled recalled the coastline from the sail in. There had been no other coves, only cliffs. If Breagha had traveled in the opposite direction, then it was likely she had no choice but to double back. She was either hiding, recaptured, or heading in Maguire’s direction.

Kata gave him the landmarks she could remember and stood. “May the Fates look upon ye favorably,” she said, walking past Raven’s Eye toward the cold sea.

Somerled followed her, walking as far as the ship. “Kata,” he shouted. She turned. “Are ye sure I canny talk ye out of this.”

She shook her head.

“Then at least grease yourself up and take something to float on.” He waved her back to the ship and handed her a pail of grease, knowing that what he offered her would only delay her inevitable drowning. “Slather it on ye. It will keep your heat in.” She did so while he sawed the blade off one of the oars. He handed it to her, and she took it with a greasy hand. “Birch floats,” he said. “Take it if ye insist on doing this.”

He reached inside his tunic and pulled out the pebble of greenstone he hid there when he sailed. “Take this as well.”

“What is it?” she asked, reaching for the glassy pebble.

“One of Saint Columba’s tears, found only on Iona. If ye carry it, ye will not drown.”

She nodded her thanks and left without another word. He knew she went to her death, but it was her decision to make. Whatever awaited them on top of the cliff had frightened her enough to take her chances in the furious waters off Tír Chonaill.

“I will avenge ye,” he whispered, just as the sea slapped foam against her shins. He would enjoy driving his sword through the so-called demon. He turned and faced the curious men gathering behind him. They watched as Kata waded into the sea.

“She will die,” one of them said.

“Aye,” he said, “and it’s her decision to make.” There was a long pause. “At last, lads, we find our dark warriors. He tried not to think about Kata anymore. “There is Godred to avenge, as well as our kin who lost their lives at Camus nan Gael.”

As if rehearsed, fifteen calloused hands reached in unison for their sword hilts. Those men stepped forward instantly, grateful for another chance to die valiantly.

The Christians hung back. To them, he said, “There is evil lurking in the shadowy recesses of Tír Chonaill, evil that must be rooted out and destroyed. Did Saint Columba shudder with fear when God sent him across the sea to the wilderness? No, he went by faith, landed on Iona and lit the lamp that illuminated the north. I will not allow it to fall back into darkness.”

The men crossed themselves and stepped forward.

“Take what ye can carry. Shields on your backs, and bring your weapons of choice. Bring our longest ropes. When a man passes it to ye, tie yourself. Leave plenty of slack between. Hand it to the man behind ye to do the same. I will go first.” He braced for Hakon’s objection, and then remembered that his chief guard was not with them.

Thoughts of Breagha climbed with him. The rocks cut his hands and forearms, and his legs quivered with fatigue. He climbed deliberately, testing each rock before trusting it with his weight. When he reached solid footing, he rested, and the men behind him climbed another few feet higher. Once, he succumbed to the urge to look for Kata, but evening had fluffed its hazy blanket over Tír Chonaill’s shores, and he could see nothing but a few feet of the cliff around him.

By the time night fell, they were nearly all the way up. His beard and face were damp with dew and sweat. He stepped onto the last jagged rock and threw his sword up onto the grassy flat. He boosted himself up and rolled onto his back. The rim of his shield dug into his backbone. He slipped his body out of its loops and stretched out, moaning and puffing hot clouds.

Cormac flopped beside him, nearly slapping his face with a wet braid. He gasped and groaned. “I’m getting too old for this shite, my lord,” he said. “Patching a leak with this hand is one thing; climbing a cliff is another.” He held his imperfect hand above his face and flipped it back and forth, as if checking whether he had lost additional fingers.

One after another, the men rolled onto the grass until Somerled was surrounded by heavy breathing and sweaty men tangled in ropes and shields. “Rest,” he whispered to Cormac.

Cormac covered himself with his shield and passed the instruction down the line.

The sky cleared at the eastern horizon and turned from star-speckled black to pink, and then to yellow. The sun rose, but proved powerless against the stubborn cloud hovering above them.

Somerled lay on the soggy ground, covered by his shield, and slept.

He awoke when someone’s calloused palm covered his mouth. He started and seized his oppressor’s hand, noting it was missing a finger. Cormac sat leaning toward him, holding an intact finger to his own lips. He nodded toward the mist, swinging his braids.

Somerled cocked an ear.

Voices.

Chapter 38

Somerled untied his cloak, sat up, and carefully reached for his sword and shield. His arm was stiff, and something clicked inside his shoulder. He grimaced and rose to a crouched position. He searched for Cormac and found him at the nearest end of a developing shield wall.

As he sneaked on aching legs to Cormac’s side, he noticed that his back was soaked from sleeping on Tír Chonaill’s boggy ground. He shivered from chill and unease, and was glad when a man filled the empty space to his left with body heat. Their shields knocked together. Somerled winced and waited. Nothing lunged for them.

The axe-men formed behind them with the archers to their rear. They were a single unit now, ready for both defense and slaughter. If they were putting into practice what Hakon drilled into them every day, each of them was, at this moment, deliberately slowing his own heartbeat.

Somerled drew inhales up through his nostrils and quietly blew them out through pursed lips. Anxiety sloughed away, leaving an odd peace and determination in its wake. A lull settled onto the grassy flat. He strained his eyes to detect movement in the fog, any shadow or swirl, but found none.

Something rustled. Faint hisses and taps turned to murmurs, then speech. Reeds swayed as a group of women and girls brushed past without noticing the shield wall. Either there were no men with them, or it was a trap. Renegade clans often sent their women ahead as bait. Honorable men condemned the practice, and although Somerled would never personally use the strategy, he could not deny its effectiveness. Any experienced hunter would affirm that even stags sometimes sent their females ahead of them.

“I canny go on,” a girl whispered, stumbling. She was far too young for pregnancy, but her protruding belly betrayed her condition. “Go on wi’out me.” She slumped to her knees.

“Keep your voice down,” a tall woman with stringy black hair chided. She reached for the girl’s elbow. “Get up.”

Somerled knew before her scream that the woman had seen them. Her eyes widened and she let go of the girl’s elbow. As he and the others dropped their shields and heavy weapons to chase them down, the women shrieked and ran.

“Don’t hurt them, but shut them up!” he ordered while sprinting ahead with his knife, feeling very much like a fox among chickens.

It took little effort to subdue them. There was no rush of victory as he straddled the tall woman and clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her screams. He held his knife to her throat as she writhed under him, spraying snot onto his hand with each of her exhales. Her cheeks caved in as she struggled to inhale. Though he could see only a few of his men, he knew by the silence that they had caught their own prey.

“We will not harm ye,” he said to the woman whose pelvic bones jabbed into his backside. When she stilled, he took the knife away from her throat and asked, “How many men are with ye?”

She could not answer. His hand was still across her mouth. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye and joined the boggy ground in soaking her hair, which was too thin in places. Her eyes were wild and frightened.

“How many men?” he asked again, returning his knife to its sheath.

She shook her head beneath his hand. He could feel her body quivering. “I’m gonny lift my hand from your mouth now. Don’t scream, or I’ll put it back in a way that won’t feel pleasant.”

She nodded.

Somerled lifted his hand away from her mouth. She gasped for air, but didn’t scream. “Good,” he said. “No men?”

“No,” she whispered.

“I’m gonny let ye up. Remember, no screaming.”

“Aye,” she said. “I won’t.”

A short distance away, Cormac pinned the pregnant girl’s shoulders against the rushes. She covered her belly as much as she could with her twig-like forearms. Somerled was glad she was too weak to scream. Cormac would not want to be rough with her.

Somerled stood and pulled the woman up from the ground, noticing that even though she was taller than he was, she weighed very little. He was disgusted, and gestured to the pregnant girl. “Your man spends too much time doing one thing when he should be doing another.” He squeezed the woman’s gaunt forearm. “All of ye look nearly starved.”

“We are,” she said.

“Ye should pressure him to pay proper tribute to his chieftain. A chieftain takes care of those who take care of him,” he said.

“I have no man. None of us do. Or, if we did, we don’t anymore.”

Somerled gestured again at the pregnant girl. “She didn’t do that to herself.”

“No, she didn’t,” the woman said.

“Then a man did.”

“No.” She brushed weed seeds from her tunic and squeezed dirty water from her sleeve ends.

“Who did that to her, then?”

She set her jaw and said nothing.

He glanced at the pregnant girl who moaned and rubbed at her belly. “Does she need help?”

“Probably. Your man seems to be doing a good job of it, though.”

Cormac supported the girl’s neck and stroked her forehead. He had two daughters of his own. Somerled suspected he now had three. Cormac was soft that way, which was acceptable, because he was heartless at all the right times.

They were talking loudly enough that if there had been any men, they would have attacked by now. Either the women had strayed too far from their village or they were escapees from the demon’s prison. If it were the latter, he guessed she would have said so. He sought an explanation for their presence on the cliff-top and decided that hunger had probably forced them to scavenge too far from men who were likely drunk or lazing by a fire. Somerled glared at the fog, silently willing the men to look for their women. He would delight in giving them a thorough kicking. Ui Niall would probably thank him generously.

None of his men held their shields or swords, and several of them rambled victimless out of the fog.

“Gather them together,” Somerled said to a man who appeared beside him. “Let the pregnant girl where she is and put them with her.”

There were seven of them. The pregnant girl looked to be the youngest and the tall woman the oldest. The rest fell somewhere in-between. As they huddled together on the ground, most leaned toward the tall one. She was evidently their leader.

“My name is Somerled,” he said to her.

“Eithne,” she replied.

“Same name as Balor’s daughter.”

“I am tall, but my father was neither a giant nor unkind.”

“Ye know of Balor, then?”

“Every child in Tír Eoghain knows the legend of Balor.”

“That’s where ye are from, then? Tír Eoghain?”

Her face lit up. “I am surprised ye know it. It’s a long ways off.”

“It’s not as far as ye think.”

“I had no idea. I’ve been underground for so . . . ”

Aha! Why wouldn’t she just say? He studied her face. How did one come out and ask such a thing? He supposed directness was the only way. “Have ye come from the demon’s prison?”

The younger girls pressed closer to Eithne, looking surprised and frightened.

“Please don’t take us back there,” one said, and began to cry.

“Shh!” Eithne scolded.

Somerled faced a palm to her. “I won’t take ye back to the demon’s lair, but I need to know everything ye know about it. I am looking for a lassie named Breagha. Do ye know her?”

“No,” Eithne said, “but we are only now learning each other’s names. What did she look like?”

“Nearly my height. Hair like a hazelnut. Eyes the color of new grass.” The woman shook her head, and Somerled noticed balding patches on it. He thought of Bethoc, whose hair had returned to its former magnificence. He wondered if Breagha’s lovely hair had fallen out as well. He would love her regardless, just as Malcolm had loved his sister in spite of her grief-induced baldness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I do not remember seeing her.”

“After I have fed ye, a man will take ye to a village where ye will be cared for.” Fattened up, they would be worth many cows, but he had decided it was not right to steal someone just to trade them for cattle. It was better to steal the cattle. “Once ye are well, ye may stay or go.”

“Ye love this lassie,” Eithne said.

“Aye,” he said. Pain stabbed at his heart.

“She is a lucky lassie indeed.” She smiled. “Come,” she said, “take my hands, and together, we will try to see her in our minds.” She reached into her tunic and pulled out a threadbare pouch. “I have some bones—”

Somerled panicked. He would go nowhere near the dark arts—not after what Padua had said to him. Her words, which his mind had repeated countless times since that awful night at Ardnamurchan, made it sound like he would never get Breagha back. If it is to be, it will take lifetimes of patience, my lord. If a man were to believe such things, he might stop trying. “Thank ye, but no. I must see about food.”

He retrieved his abandoned sword and shield. A warm wind blew in from the sea and rolled up the fog up for the day. It shoved against his back, urging him inland.

Hurry, it said. Hurry!

Chapter 39

“It isn’t going to gut and skin itself,” Eithne said, choking a silvery eel with one hand and extending the other, palm up, toward Cormac. She wiggled her fingers. “Either gi’ me a knife or I’m cooking them whole, though it will take more than a little luck to keep them on the stick. If your dinner flops away, I will not be blamed.” Her arm was only slightly thicker than the fish that coiled its elongated tail around it. She had swept her hair back and tied it with a ragged strip of cloth, leaving her severe facial features and receding hairline exposed.

Cormac tossed another slender fish onto the writhing heap at her feet. “Not sure yet if ye can be trusted with a knife.”

“Listen, I’m hungry enough to eat them raw,” Eithne said, “so make up your mind, but do it quick. They’re wriggling away.” When Cormac made no move, she faced Somerled and rolled her eyes. “Och, tell him to gi’ me a knife.”

Somerled tossed his own slippery catch onto the pile and nodded at Cormac, who reluctantly handed her a short blade. Eithne executed, gutted, and skinned an eel before the knife’s handle had warmed in her hand. When she had the entire lot cooking on thin stones over a roaring fire, she stormed over to Cormac and returned his knife, handle first.

Somerled had quickly deduced that Eithne was a leader among women. She was the type of woman a man could value, one who simply did unsavory things without complaint. Good women were like good ships; they met the swells bow-first and carried the rest of the ship over without so much as a creak.

Perhaps the tiny bones, which Eithne frequently sprinkled onto the ground, gave her confidence and strength. There was probably some power and comfort in thinking you already knew the future. She was not a handsome woman, but she was intelligent and fearless. The bulge that ringed her midriff indicated she had likely carried at least one child. He hoped that if her man still waited for her in Tír Eoghain, he appreciated her worth.

They ate their fill of tender, flaky fish as an early night fell over Tír Chonaill. With their bellies packed and their bones warmed by the fire, many of his men stretched out for the night. Several of the women and girls snuggled against them for heat and protection. Cormac sat dozing on the far side of the fire, his braids dangling over the pregnant girl who used his thighs for a pillow and his cloak for a cover.

Only Somerled and Eithne remained awake, although her eyes were drowsy. She appeared sated, and her cheeks reflected the warm glow of the fire. Two girls had fallen asleep against her, and she draped a reedy arm over each of them. Their heads raised and lowered with her breaths.

He thought of Breagha and hoped she had crossed paths with someone like Eithne.

“Ye may as well ask the questions that have been on your mind all day,” she whispered without looking at him. One of the girls stirred and pressed her cheek more firmly against Eithne’s ribs. Eithne rubbed the girl’s shoulder, lulling her back to sleep.

“I met a lassie yesterday who escaped the prison with another.”

“Your Breagha. The one ye look for.”

“Aye. The lassie I spoke to said she did not free anyone else. It was just the two of them, and they split up for safety. If what she told me is true, then I am left to wonder how ye managed to escape with these lassies.”

“I wish I could answer that, but I do not know. One of the lassies told me that a warrior unlocked our doors. I did not see him.”

Somerled considered this new piece of information. Kata had not mentioned a warrior. She claimed she had killed the bread man and sneaked out with Breagha. Why would a single warrior free the prisoners?

“I can only tell ye what I saw. And what I saw was two dead women outside the cells,” Eithne said, “the dung woman and the half-wit who followed her around. The bread man—Aengus, I think he was called—was dead in a cell.”

That was Kata’s work.

“No warriors?”

“Not that I saw, but then, I didn’t wait to find out. I gathered as many of the lassies as I could and herded them out. Got all but one, a redhead who could not be persuaded. I hope she got out, but I would imagine she didn’t, poor thing. Her mind had completely gone.”

It sounded like there had been some rebellion from within. If the enemy fort was already cracking, it would make Somerled’s job a lot easier. “Can ye tell me anything about the man who imprisoned ye?” Somerled asked.

The shadowy creases in Eithne’s face deepened. “He was no man,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Seems to be a common description.” Yellow slits for eyes, Kata had said. Somerled shuddered. While he had been negotiating alliances and delighting in his son’s first steps, Breagha had likely endured nightmarish fright and cruelty.

Eithne stroked one of the sleepy faces that had slid to her belly. “I have borne him two . . .” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, and an expression crossed her face that could only be likened to that of a woman in labor. “I canny name what I bore him.”

“What happened to them?”

She gazed at the fire. “I carried the first for a short time, though to look at me, ye would have sworn I carried it for a year.” She looked with pity across the fire to the pregnant girl. “Like her. When it was born, I thought I had gi’n birth to a lichen-covered rock. At first, I noticed only one feature—a tiny shaft—but then a hole appeared in what I suppose was its head. It gasped just a single breath and was gone. It turned a lighter shade of gray, and they took it away.”

“I’m sorry,” Somerled said.

“Don’t be,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m not.”

A chill raked his back as he tried to imagine a baby so grotesque that its own mother was glad it was dead. Its gruesome deformity was probably the result of poor diet and deplorable living conditions. He thought about suggesting it to Eithne, but her expression was that of a woman whose thoughts on the matter were fixed.

“And the second?”

Eithne wiped away a tear. “I had not yet healed from the first before he again entered my cell.”

“What did he look like?” There was a long pause. He waited for her to describe the scaly skin, the yellow eyes, and the talons.

“He looked like my husband.”

“Your husband?”

“Aye, he looked like my husband. I could not believe it myself. Long after I had gi’n up hope of my husband finding me, there he was.” The edges of her mouth stretched further downward, and she tightly shut her eyes. She looked as though she was about to openly wail, but instead collected herself by swallowing and taking a deep breath. “When I awoke and realized what was really on top of me . . . and to think that I was enjoying . . .” She could go no farther.

Somerled’s throat tightened. What if Breagha had spent night after horrific night hoping and waiting, as Eithne had hoped for her husband? I will come for ye, he had promised Breagha.

Guilt hacked at him like a dull axe, and he twisted it into rage. Though both Kata and Eithne had described an otherworldly creature, a demon, he expected that when he located the prison, he would find a mere man, one he would enjoy killing. The man was probably weaker than Eithne. He would probably scream and beg for mercy that Somerled would not give him. Somerled would make him writhe like the eels had writhed under Eithne’s borrowed knife.

“I found myself with child again,” Eithne said, jarring him back to their conversation. “I carried it no longer than the first, but when it—when he—was born, he was at least recognizable.”

“Did he live?”

“For a few days,” she said, “but he could not suckle. His tongue was split.” She carefully settled the two girls on a plaid spread out on the ground. “After that,” she said, “my body was tired and weak. My breasts ached with the need to feed my bairn. I became feverish. The demon did not torment me again.

“The old woman who used to collect the dung buckets—Asanath, I think her name was—said that the demon was well pleased with my most recent effort. ‘Effort,’ she called it, as if my wee ones were something I tried to make on my own. She said that Semjaza—that’s the name she used when referring to the demon—was anxious to try again. I vowed from that moment on that I would die before I passed womanly blood again. I know ye probably think women canny control such things, but I must have, because I have shed no blood since then.”

The enemy had a name. “What kind of name is Semjaza?” he asked her without expecting her to know.

“The kind that ye gi’ something so evil that another name canny be found for it. Naming him Shite Pond would have been too generous . . . and an insult to shite ponds.”

Somerled laughed. Eithne was a remarkable woman to keep her humor in spite of everything that had happened to her. “Did ye ever see his men? Or weapons?”

“Both. They are well equipped with armor, swords and axes, though I saw no archers and no horses. Not one warrior lacks disfigurement of some kind, and that has been my sole comfort when thinking of my wee ones. Had they lived, Semjaza would surely have counted them among his warriors. Their deaths freed them. And others, I suppose.”

“The lassie I met yesterday is named Kata.” And she has probably drowned by now. “Do ye remember her?”

“No,” Eithne said, “but as I said this morn, we are only now learning each other’s names.”

“Black hair. Crooked teeth. Very thin.”

Eithne tilted her head and shot a look at him that said, We’re all thin, ye dumb arse.

He chuckled. “Not a description that would make her stand out, is it?”

“No.” She laughed. Her smile slowly wilted as they sat together in silence. “I hope ye find your Breagha,” she said after a short time.

“I intend to,” he replied. “I promised her something.”

“She would probably want ye to run far from this place. I know I would not want my husband here. I hope he has forgotten about me and moved on with his life.”

“Eithne, any man able to forget about a woman like ye is not deserving of ye. Promise me if ye canny find your man, ye will return to Fermanagh. There is a man named Hakon I would like ye to meet.”

“A Norseman,” she said. “Not quite as bad as a demon, but about as close as ye can get.”

Eithne offered as much information as she could recall. “Hug the coastline,” she said. “Ye will see livestock paths, but no sheep or cattle. A section of cliff juts out and is hollow underneath in places. I remember thinking the large rock with its four columns looked like a giant cow standing in the sea. The prison is not far from that. Look for a large expanse of gorse that hides a stone enclosure. The cells are at the far end, buried in a hill behind a single door. It’s within sight and smell of the sea.”

Chapter 40

Hakon leaned his back against the starboard side of the old trader and stretched his arms along the smooth rail. He tilted his face toward the sun, which had risen into a cloudless sky. Njord had blessed them with a full sail and calm waters, which caused him considerable guilt if he thought too long about their cargo.

Thorvald was at idle at the helm, thanks to a superb steer-board. His arm rested lightly on the tiller, but the ship steered itself.

This is as good as it gets, Hakon thought. He should be content, but there was nothing for him to do, and he hated being idle. Inactivity left him too much time to dwell on things that worsened his already rotten mood—like the cargo. He had suffered terrible anxiety and a sense of dread since it had been loaded.

Thorvald nodded toward the dog that Hakon had tied to the heavy chest of tools on the half-deck. “The king would not be pleased wi’ that, would he?”

“He’d be a lot less pleased if the beast had jumped overboard,” Hakon said, inspecting the dog, whose brows tufted over his liquid eyes like thatch. The dog hung his head, looking miserable and resentful. “Sulk all ye want,” he said, ignoring Rowan’s irritating whistle-whine. “Only makes ye look like a heap of manure and straw.”

Rowan had driven them to the brink of madness near Oileán Thúr Rí. He had paced the length of the ship four times—all fifty-four feet of it—trotting tall, with his toenails barely grazing the boards and his neck outstretched over the port rail. He had leapt over boxes, thwarts, and cargo, tangling ropes and scattering provisions.

Njord himself must have whispered a warning to Ulf, because Ulf, who had been sitting on the foremost thwart, caught Rowan by the scruff of the neck just as the dog sprang from quivering haunches toward the rail.

Uh-roo! Rooooo! Roo-roo-roo!

He was at it again. Rowan reared up and met the resistance of the hemp rope. He arched his back and slammed his front paws back down onto the deck boards beneath them. He thrashed his shaggy head and tried to back out of the noose, but it only tightened around his neck.

Uh-roo! Roooooo!

His gravelly howl woke several men who sat up, still in their sleep sacks, to glare at him.

“What now?” Hakon asked. His heavy amulet thumped against his breastbone as he stepped over a thwart and stomped past the tethered dog to the port rail. The stone cross in the cargo area caught his eye. It was bright against the dark mats layered underneath it. The cross was a gift—an expression of sympathy and a suitable grave marker for Fermanagh’s recently deceased chieftain. Fermanagh had a new chieftain now, one with black hair and teeth as white as sea spray. He would meet them in the sandy estuary of the River Erne where, Hakon suspected, he would take great pleasure in tormenting them about delivering the Christian symbol for his father’s grave.

Njord is angry, he thought as the dog continued its incessant howling. It would serve Maguire right if Njord sent the cross to the bottom of the sea. The thought made him smile. He gripped the port rail and scanned the horizon, looking carefully for the source of the dog’s agitation. Others joined him.

“I see nothing,” Thorvald said.

“Nothing but a sandbar,” Hakon replied. A plateau of wave-rippled sediment stretched in an arc toward Tír Chonaill’s headlands. Its low-lying depressions were already submerged in the rising tide and reflecting the blue sky. Dark patches capped the windswept mounds remaining above the waterline. He guessed they were heaps of seaweed. “An animal could have stranded itself on the bar and died. Dog might smell it.”

Splash!

Hakon whirled and spied the frayed rope on the deck. Rowan was already circling behind them and crossing their wake with mighty strokes. His fur was slick against his skull, which appeared as small as Hakon had ever seen it.

“I can catch him,” Toirdhealbhach said, kicking out of his boots and fumbling with his belt. Toirdhealbhach had won every swimming race at the last games.

“No,” Hakon said, “we’ll find another way.” He quickly considered options. They could sail around to approach him windward and try to hook him, but the dog would be drowned or on the sandbar by then. “Douse the sail,” he shouted. “We’re rowing back for him.”

Men attacked the knots and rigging. When the yard rested fore to aft on the thwarts with the sail clumsily spilling over it, Hakon roared at the dog. His fists balled up as he walked toward the stern.

“We had better not miss high tide in the bay because of him,” he said to Thorvald. “If we do, someone is going to have to stop me from drowning that dog myself.” Missing high tide meant anchoring offshore. Anchoring offshore meant Maguire had to bring curraghs to get them, along with an intolerable volley of insults and ribbing.

Anchoring offshore also meant at least another day in Fermanagh, since they would have to wait for the next high tide to lift them into the estuary and low tide to settle them onto the sand. An extra day in Fermanagh was one too many. There were far too many Christian monasteries and abbeys there for Hakon’s comfort. The sooner he delivered the dog and cross, and the sooner Maguire’s horse tribute was loaded onto the trader, the happier he would be.

“Oars!” he shouted to the crew. Several had already anticipated his order and were sliding their paddles through the elongated holes. Thorvald jumped over a thwart and grabbed the sternmost oar. He shoved his paddle through and stood ready, with seven other men evenly spaced on the half-decks. “Keep them rowing,” Hakon said.

“Heave,” Thorvald shouted. At once, the men on the stern’s half-deck pulled on their oars, bent their knees and rose up again. “Heave,” he shouted again. The ship was undermanned for a rescue operation, and by the time they were under way, the dog had already reached the long sandbar.

“Thorvald, help me with the anchor. We’re windward from the bar. If we drop anchor, we can swing about and let out just enough chain to drift to the bar without beaching on it. It doesn’t look like shingle, but I’m not willing to risk it. Someone will have to wade in, get the dog, and find solid footing for the gangplank.” He hoped the dog didn’t keep running inland.

“I’ll go,” Thorvald said.

One of the men who rowed facing him shouted from the bow. “Hakon! Devil’s ballast!” The oarsman lifted his oar and used his free hand to point past Hakon’s shoulder.

A girl stood on the sandbar next to the dripping dog. She hid her nakedness behind an amputated oar blade.

A cloud covered the sun and blanketed the sandbar with a creeping shadow. “Njord has cursed us,” Hakon mumbled, recalling the story of another girl in trouble and the fate of the Dublin men who’d found her.

Chapter 41

Under an indigo and salmon sky, Hakon steered the trader east into Donegal Bay, a far-reaching inlet of the North Atlantic. They would make high tide, which was now more important than ever. The girl had wasted no time in disclosing Somerled’s intentions to scale the cliff. Knowing his impetuous lord as Hakon did, he had no doubt the man had done just that, leaving them no option but to search for him by traversing Tír Chonaill’s rigid landscape. The important thing now was to notify Maguire. Once they found Somerled and destroyed the enemy, they would return to Raven’s Eye and collect the sword blades, a task far more worthwhile than traipsing through the wilderness to rescue a woman.

There was a time when the king would have thrown women overboard to make room for weapons of any quality. But King Somerled was a changed man, one who found more honor in pursuing a single woman than protecting a trader full of superior steel blades. His transformation began the day Breagha arrived in Finlaggan, and Hakon was beginning to wonder if the Norns had somehow entwined her destiny with the king’s. It was the only explanation he could accept, and the only one that made any sense.

Hakon eyed Kata, who slept in a sack beneath a crude tent stretched over two thwarts. He had been unable to wrench the oar blade from her, and she clutched it, together with a greenstone pebble, even as she slept. Her free arm draped over Rowan, who pressed his spine against the length of her.

The dog had sniffed her obsessively, nearly knocking her off the gangplank during her climb up from the sandbar. He had scrambled unassisted behind her, finishing the job onboard, smelling the length and width of her. They had tied him to the anchor to settle and dry, secure in the knowledge that if he escaped, he would only run as far as the girl’s bed, which he soon did.

“It’s good that she sleeps,” Thorvald said.

“Aye, less trouble for us,” Hakon said. “Besides, it will be good if she’s fresh when we arrive. The chieftain will have many questions for her.” He scrubbed a hand over his mustache to suppress a smile. The girl’s arrival would leave Maguire with neither time nor desire to harass the pagan crew about their cargo. When his lord was safe, Hakon would thank the Norns.

Dolphins frolicked outside the hull, their glistening bodies only a shade darker than the water. “A good omen,” Thorvald said.

Their confidence faltered when Fermanagh’s grassy dunes appeared ahead. An alarming number of vessels crowded into Maguire’s bay, enough to ripple its usually placid waters. Even in the dimming light, Hakon could see men and carts rushing on the sandy roads flanking the estuary. They led spirited horses and carried timber and toolboxes toward the bay’s two jetties. Robed monks wove among them, ducking out of the way when necessary.

Hakon bristled. If the monks were yielding to common folk, then something was terribly wrong in Fermanagh.

A white horse was obvious among the others. Though he could not make out the face of the man leading the animal, he expected that only Maguire would choose such a showy steed.

By the time they reached the crowded bay, a swarm of curraghs had threaded out of the narrow channel in the estuary’s wide sandbar. The small boats made straight for them.

“Douse the sail,” Hakon ordered.

A man shouted from the first curragh closing in on them, “Don’t row in. Anchor deep and drift leeward to the first jetty.”

“Drop anchor,” Hakon said to Thorvald who, with an oarsman, tossed the iron overboard. The chain clanged against the rail as the anchor sought the sediment.

Kata sat up in the sleep sack and rubbed her eyes.

“Give her a mail shirt, or at the very least, a scrap of sail,” Hakon said. He had planned to lead her naked through monk-infested Fermanagh for his own amusement and Maguire’s chagrin, but there was no time for mischief now.

He leaned over the rail to address the ruddy oarsman kneeling in the curragh. “What has happened?”

“Broken mast on Raven’s Eye,” the oarsman said. “The king and crew survived, but they met a lassie who claimed to know somethin’ about that other lassie he fancied. Ye remember the one, don’t ye? The one from the first meetin’ who asked to go to Iona?”

Of course, he remembered. He had slogged through ankle-deep muck on Ardnamurchan looking for her.

“Aye,” Hakon said, deciding not to tell the oarsman he knew the story so far.

“They apparently found a way up some cliffs. Found some women on top who claimed they had escaped from a prison.”

Hakon grew more interested.

“Cormac brought them here. They tell a wild tale ye will not believe.”

Don’t be so sure. “And the king?”

“When Cormac left him, he was well. Was plannin’ to take the men and hug the coastline, lookin’ for the prison. Guessed it was maybe two days’ walk, if the weather holds.”

The weather never held for long in Fermanagh.

Chapter 42

Hakon would never admit it, but Maguire’s plan was a solid one, and after a torrent of questions for Kata, the Fermanagh chieftain wasted no time in implementing it. He arranged for the girl’s care, handed his reins to a groom, and headed for the trader. Hakon rushed after him.

Maguire chattered as he made his way along the length of the jetty. “Never saw so many gales on this coast. Lost my only trader in the last one, an’ decided to tuck my longships into bed on Loch Erne—too far inland to be of use now. No time to logroll them over the falls. Thank God ye made high tide. Thank God, Hakon.” He crossed himself.

Hakon owed Maguire’s god no gratitude, but he stopped short of saying so.

Men leapt from the rocking trader, offloading provisions into waiting carts. “Give them an hour, an’ they’ll have a temporary stall,” Maguire said as a group of men passed them with timber and toolboxes. “We’ll sail up the coast and ride inland when we find him.”

Hakon grabbed Maguire’s sleeve and halted him just short of the gangplank. He would have to let Maguire know that there was not as much room on the ship as he might imagine, which meant ruining King Somerled’s surprise. “There’s just one large and heavy problem. . . .” Deciding no words would lessen the risk of ridicule, he directed Maguire onboard to the cross glowing in its shadowy bed. “It’s for your father’s grave. I was not meant to be the one to show ye.” There, it was done. He braced himself for the onslaught of mockery, relieved that he and the cross would part ways, at last.

Maguire ran his fingers through his hair and stared into the cargo area. “I am certain Sorley will be forgivin’ ye, considerin’ what’s happened. It is a beautiful cross.”

Although Hakon despised what it represented, the cross was indeed beautiful. It had replaced the bìrlinn as the pride of Argyll and prompted the king to found a school of carving.

“How the devil did ye load it?” Maguire asked.

“A new type of lifter,” he said, grateful that Maguire was too stunned to tease him.

“I suppose Sorley invented one.”

“Aye.”

Maguire laughed and shook his head. “Canny say I’m surprised.”

“We logrolled the cross up to the thing, and the thing lifted the cross into the ship. The chains are still under it. The king was supposed to arrive before the cross. He wanted to be here when we ran aground in the estuary. I was to sail back to Islay in Raven’s Eye. He was going to stay until the cross had been erected on your father’s grave.”

Maguire’s voice was shaky. “No time to be offloadin’ it now.” He flattened a palm over his heart.

“No,” Hakon said, “and believe me, it’s too heavy to lift by hand. Even if we had the space to logroll it, we would wreck the rails getting it onto the jetty. We may have to head inland for your longships after all.”

“Too dangerous to haul horses on a longship. It’s this trader or none.” Maguire bit his lip, evidently rethinking his options. “We’ll worry about it later,” he said, apparently having determined the solution. “Carryin’ the symbol of our Lord as cargo can only assure our success.”

Oh, no.

“Build the stall on top of it,” Maguire directed the men ringing the cargo area with their toolboxes at their feet. “An’ hurry. Our Father will forgive us. Scrubbin’ it clean will be penance enough.”

Hakon’s only consolation was that the horses would stomp on the cross and stain it with their soupy shite.

Maguire spouted orders. “Bring the loadin’ planks an’ give them a fresh coat of pitch an’ sand. We only need a day’s hay an’ grain. No broken legs today, lads.

“I’ll be needin’ Arrow, Queen, Abbot, an’ Blade,” he said to a stocky man standing near several horses that nipped and chewed leaves from low-hanging tree branches. “Take the rest back to the village.”

The hammers were already pounding by the time Maguire and Hakon reached the hut standing guard over the estuary. Several monks with torches huddled near the door. They gave Hakon scrutinizing glances and scowled as he passed them. He narrowed his eyes at them and ducked through the doorway.

The hut smelled of cooking fish. Kata sat next to the fire in the center of the room, leaning her back against Rowan, who panted in the heat. A tall woman with her back to the door poked at something cooking on stones in the fire. She was in the middle of insulting Cormac when they entered. “—will like it a lot less if I ram it down your thrapple.” She shook her fist at Cormac, who rolled his eyes. “Eat it,” she insisted, unaware that Hakon and Maguire had entered.

Hakon smiled. Whoever she was, he liked her.

Cormac stood. “Hakon,” he said, “welcome to the hut of insults, where women can cook nothing but eel.”

The woman whirled and gasped. She had intelligent eyes that blinked and quickly measured the height of him. Her cheeks flushed, and she turned away.

Hakon’s own cheeks heated, and he stared at her back, wishing she’d face him again. She was damaged, but resilient. She was resolute—no, fearless. Something stirred in him—a curiosity he’d never known before—and for first time, he understood the king’s need to find Breagha.

Chapter 43

If they climbed any higher, they would find heaven. His father and mother would greet him with outstretched arms. Heaven is windy, Somerled thought, as another powerful gust pushed his shield against his back. His hair escaped its restraint and smacked at his eyes. All around him, cloaks fluttered.

Hurry! the wind said, slapping the back of his neck with ice pellets.

If his men or their weapons made any sounds, he could not hear them. His warriors held their caps to their heads and staggered past stunted ash trees that had somehow taken root but grew impossibly slanted.

He turned to look back at the wilderness they had already traversed. The edges of his cloak slipped from his numb fingers and whipped behind him, further exposing him to the cold. The brooch at its neckline choked him and gouged his throat. His shield caught the wind and nearly lifted him from the ground. He knelt and returned his garments and shield to their proper state.

They would soon crest the mountain and find shelter from the prevailing winds. He hoped the air was better there. The stuff he was gulping failed to feed his lungs.

The gorse and heather shuddering along the mountain’s spine were in full bloom, even in places where it peeked through leftover snow. He climbed over a water-streaked dome of rock and slid down the other side into a realm of green. We’re over.

He slipped his shield from his back and draped himself over a sunny rock.

“Don’t fancy doin’ that again,” Domhnaill said, dropping his shield beside him. His hair was the color of straw and as unkempt as a terrier’s. “How did those women manage that going the other way?”

Somerled offered no answer, but speculated that the women must have found another route. Walking into the mountain’s perpetual winds would be impossible, even for a strong man.

His men dropped to their rumps and blew into their hands. He sat up, tired, and admired the view. Clouds cast their shadows onto the wide valley below. They rolled across the pond-speckled landscape.

Senach flicked his cloak and sprayed some of the men with ice pellets. “Sorry,” he said as they groaned. His face was wind-burned above the cross hanging at his throat. “Ye’d think a man as powerful as Ui Niall would know what evil hides in Tír Chonaill’s dark places,” he grumbled, evidently blaming the independent Irish chieftain for the necessity of their climb.

“I spent much of my climb thinking the same, Senach,” Somerled said. “Ui Niall spends too much time harassing his neighbors in the east. He expects the wind to protect his western border and Maguire to protect his southern one.”

Senach raged like a lit signal tower. “He leaves Tír Chonaill vulnerable to renegade clans,” he said, gathering up his graying hair to secure it. “And evil free to hide in its dark places,” he repeated. Senach apparently believed they would find a demon. “The man ought to spend some time at home, or at least build some forts.”

“Senach,” Somerled said, “it is an idea I mean to discuss with Maguire.”

Ruaidrí, who rarely used the high-pitched voice that contrasted his commanding size, said, “There’s a ship.” His brown braids had come undone in the wind and hung in stringy ringlets at the sides of his face.

Somerled followed the direction of Ruaidrí’s gaze and found the gull-speckled mast on the sea. It was too small to tell whose ship it was, but it was too close to shore to be anyone other than Hakon or Maguire, who were likely aware of their situation by now. Cormac and Eithne should have arrived in Fermanagh a day or so ago.

“Glint everything ye have that’s shiny,” Somerled said. “I don’t care if they’re friend or foe. Let them come for us either way.” He was sick to death of trying to defend Argyll against an enemy he had never seen.

They twisted swords, axes and helmets to reflect the sun’s rays toward the ship.

“We need to keep going,” Somerled said. Breagha was still out there, along with an enemy he ached to destroy.

He waited for any complaints, but none came. His men, even young Domhnaill, knew better, even though they were tired and hungry. Warriors were used to choosing between rest and sustenance, but tonight, Somerled would see to it that they had both. When they made camp, he would borrow a bow from one of the archers and find venison for dinner. If he failed, there were always eels.

Chapter 44

The stump stood like a pulpit at the forest’s edge. Somerled checked for bees before sliding into its hollow interior. His boot sank into a spongy mound that was probably once the tree’s heartwood. It sent up clouds of ruddy dust as he leveled it. The wind had fluffed dry leaves against the stump’s worm-ravaged sidewalls. He kicked them outside; they would crunch if he needed to move about.

He leaned his bow and quiver against the punky wood, closed his eyes and exhaled. Here, in the stump’s crumbling interior, there were no voices asking for direction. No men looked to his resolute expression to bolster their own dwindling courage. Here, ringed by the last vertical remnants of an ancient oak, he was not the King of Argyll. He was only Somerled. And he was as tired and hungry as he had ever been.

As he waited for prey, his thoughts drifted to Breagha. He felt heavy and pressed down, as if the tree had somehow resurrected itself on top of him. He should have challenged Fergus’s right to Breagha. He had allowed selfish ambition and past hurts to rule his actions, and as a result, Breagha had suffered. If she was now dead, her misery was over; his was only beginning.

Breagha could have filled him. She would have filled him. She was his heartwood, the core that would have lifted him up and strengthened him. He hadn’t just let her slip away—he’d pushed her away. Now, without his heartwood, he was like the stump, solid on the outside, but hollow inside, slowly rotting, and lonely in spite of a forest around him.

Leaves rustled. Maybe the breeze. Years of hunting at Loch Linnhe had taught him to be prepared, just in case. Deer often took advantage of the wind’s movement to conceal their own sounds. He picked up his bow and nocked an arrow, careful not to ruffle the feather fletching. He raised the bow’s grip above the top edge of the stump and cocked an ear toward the wind.

The rustling grew louder and irregular: something trotted. Prey, betrayed by the forest. He pulled the bowstring back to the corner of his mouth. He looked down the arrow, past the swallowtail arrowhead, and waited for the source of the noise to trot into the open.

Chhht-chhht-chhht-chhht.

More leaf rustling. Something brown flitted between tree trunks and low-hanging limbs. He waited for a clear shot, but the animal kept itself well hidden.

Chhht-chhht-chhht-chhht.

It was heading straight for him now, following the same trail that had brought him to the stump. It was probably on its way to the meadow behind him. A single deer was unusual, but one was all the men needed. He hoped it was small enough to carry across his shoulders. He could not drag a mature stag back to camp by himself.

He adjusted his aim to the left, pointing the arrow at a clearing on the trail. More brown flashed, and the trotting grew heavier and louder. Herd’s coming. Good. I will have a choice. He heard the thumping of his heart and concentrated on slowing it, readying himself to release the string between beats.

The animal trotted into the clearing. He flinched and let go of the bowstring just as he recognized the dog on the path. The arrowhead veered sharply left of its target, severing a sapling midway up its trunk. Its leafy top shuddered and crashed onto the trail, barely missing Rowan’s back.

“Rowan!”

The dog bounded over, sniffed the stump, wagged his tail, and then trotted back the way he had come.

Patches of white flashed between the trees, then brown, then black, and then, a red that could only be Hakon’s hair.

“Sorley!” a voice called.

Maguire.

“Here.” He slipped out of the stump and brushed dust from his cloak.

When the men rode into the clearing, he saw that Maguire’s horse was not white, but dapple-gray, the type of fine beast he had come to expect from Fermanagh. It was muscular, with thick, feathered legs and platter-sized hooves meant for cleaving skulls. Hakon straddled a mare that matched the color of his hair. Somerled stifled a laugh, knowing that Maguire had selected the horse for that very reason. Hakon, who had burdened the mare with nearly every weapon he owned, shot him a knowing look. He thrust the reins of a riderless, black mare at Somerled. “I found Kata.”

Somerled’s hands froze midway to the reins. “Alive?”

Hakon tossed the leather into Somerled’s palms. “Aye. Some lassie, that.”

He marveled at Kata’s luck and strength. “I canny believe it. Thought she was gone for certain. Where?”

“Sandbar.”

“I’m glad. I’m in disbelief, but overjoyed.” He faced Maguire. “What of Cormac?”

Maguire said, “I brought him with us. He’s at your camp, fussin’ over a roast. Says he’s had nothin’ but eel for days.”

“He probably tells no lie,” Somerled said, laughing. “Still, eel is better than nothing, which is what we have had. I was out here looking for our dinner.” He led his mare to a fallen log, checked her saddle’s cinches, and flicked the reins over her head. His thighs were stiff, he noticed, as he stepped up onto the log and swung his leg over her back. They turned the horses back toward camp. Rowan, who had been standing patiently at the trail’s edge, bounded ahead.

“What about Eithne?”

“At Fermanagh,” Maguire said, halting his stallion to allow Somerled’s mare to reach his side. “Probably dreamin’ of a big pagan man wi’ fiery hair an’ green toenails.” He winked. “Hope Hakon likes eel meat.”

Ahead of them, Hakon sat taller in the saddle and stretched his shoulders, but said nothing.

“And the lassies?” Somerled asked.

“All well but one.”

“The pregnant one.”

“Aye. Not sure she’ll be makin’ it, to be honest.”

He hoped Maguire was wrong. “How did ye find us?” Somerled asked as their horses picked their way up an incline. He eased his weight forward to help the mare under him, taking the opportunity to slide his chilly hands under her warm mane.

“We knew from Eithne an’ Cormac that ye’d be stayin’ close to the coastline. Thought we saw glints from the mountain face this morn’ so we found the next beach, unloaded, an’ rode back. Was only Our Father’s favor that allowed us to find ye.”

“Or the smoke from the campfire,” Hakon muttered.

“No,” Maguire said, “our journey was blessed by our ship’s cargo.” He reached across the short distance between the two horses and placed a hand on Somerled’s shoulder. “Thank ye for Father’s cross. It is beautiful.”

“And covered in shite,” Hakon said.

Maguire’s face reddened. “Hakon has it occurred to ye that I might grieve the fact that Our Lord’s symbol—the very one meant for my dead father’s grave—is covered wi’ shite?”

Hakon grunted.

“I am truly sorry,” Maguire continued, “but we had no time to offload it, an’ we needed the horses.”

“It will come clean,” Somerled said.

“But will my soul?”

Somerled allowed Maguire to slip ahead of him on the trail. “I don’t know,” he said to Maguire’s back. “Are our souls ever clean after we’ve committed a grievous sin?” He had considered this more than once. He maintained an accurate, mental list of wrongs—those he had committed and those that had been committed against him. Like everyone else, he was guilty of lying, killing, theft, destruction of property, and selling slaves like common livestock. Those sins yielded little remorse. If one measured the degree of sin by the weight of guilt associated with committing it, then Somerled’s greatest wrong was in going about his life while Breagha suffered. He could not foresee a time when he would be free of that shame.

The scent of cooking meat met his nostrils, and his stomach rumbled. He would swallow a meal tonight, thank God, but it would be seasoned with no small amount of remorse. If Breagha was alive, did she have anything but bitterness and despair to fill her belly?

It was dark by the time they reached camp. His men sat around a smoking firepit, their forms shadowy against the horizon behind them. An animal’s roasted carcass lay picked apart on top of a pile of steaming rocks, garnished by the charred seaweed that had encased it during baking.

When his men saw him, they stood. He drew his shoulders back and changed his expression to one of determined confidence.

“King Somerled,” one of them said, “welcome back.”

Chapter 45

They were thirty strong, angry, well-armed, and following a dog. Maguire rode in front of Somerled wearing a cloak that covered himself and most of his stallion’s rump. White clouds obscured the sun, and although the elevated coastline was warm and still, it was moist with a fine drizzle that hung in the air and soaked everything.

Using the path familiar to Maguire and Hakon from their previous day’s journey, they had found the beached trader early. They were now crossing new territory with replenished supplies and fresh men who trudged ahead of the horses on a worn sheep’s path.

Ye will see paths, but no sheep, Eithne had said.

Domhnaill, who walked beside the stallion’s flank, gestured to a peninsula that spread away from the main coast and vanished into the mist. “Is that it?” he asked.

A series of “Whoas” rolled forward along the line. Rowan stopped ahead of them and looked back. Somerled scanned as much of the coastline as the drizzle would allow.

“Back,” Maguire muttered ahead of him. The stallion clomped his way backward until he stood beside Somerled’s mare. “What is it we’re lookin’ for again?” Maguire asked.

“A section of cliff that juts out and is hollow in places. Supposed to look like a cow with its legs in the water.”

Maguire leaned forward on the stallion who flirted with Somerled’s mare by feigning nips and tossing his head. “I can make out black rock, but I’m not sure that’s a cliff. Hard to say what’s at the end of it, though. This God-forsaken mist . . .”

Hakon twisted in his saddle to address them. “Shall we wait for it to clear?”

“No,” Somerled said while his mare pranced under him, flicking her head away from the stallion’s persistent nips.

“Arrow!” Maguire chastised the horse, punctuating his displeasure with a slap to its meaty neck. The horse flinched, but rebelled covertly by flashing the whites of its eyes at the mare while Maguire studied the peninsula.

“Coast turns northeast here,” Hakon said. “It would be a likely place for the sea and wind to chisel away at cliffs, if there are any out there.”

“Eithne said the prison isn’t far from there,” Somerled said. “I think we should assume these are the cliffs, and if we come across a large patch of gorse, we will need to explore it.”

“Could be the wrong gorse patch,” Maguire said.

“Could be,” Somerled said, “but I don’t see what choice we have.”

“Kata said the prison was not far from the coastline, at some cliffs,” Hakon said.

“Aye, Eithne said so as well,” Somerled said. “I say if we need to inspect every gorse patch from here to Tír Eoghain, we do so. With a little luck, the sun will burn off the mist and give us a better look back at this peninsula.”

The path turned dry and barren. Gorse and heather speckled a rocky hillside, having taken root where its seeds found precious loose soil. “Gorse,” Domhnaill said, pointing up a hill.

Somerled looked back, but the peninsula remained shrouded by mist. “Aye, but hardly what anyone would call a patch of it.”

The path veered right and led up a steep, stony incline. Rowan disappeared above them, and the men on foot climbed after him. Hakon halted his horse, evidently sharing Somerled’s uncertainty regarding whether he should dismount or ride up.

Maguire, apparently sensing their hesitation, said, “They’re Fermanagh horses, lads. Legs of limestone.” He dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks. The horse plowed its hooves into the bank, sending rocks tumbling.

Neither Hakon nor Somerled shared Maguire’s enthusiasm for riding. Hakon tapped his mare’s flanks lightly, and she responded without hesitation or drama, making the climb look effortless. Somerled followed, giving his mare her head and leaning forward and lifting himself off her back. He closed his eyes and put his confidence in the animal, certain that Maguire would never give him an untrustworthy mount. The mare picked her way to the top of the bank without tumbling a single rock.

They gathered on a grassy flat that barely accommodated their number, gaping at the expansive, gorse-covered hill beyond them. Somerled’s groin ached from riding. He dismounted and studied the vast plot of yellow-blossomed shrubs. There’s a prison in there? The irony of something hideous sheltering within such beauty was not lost to him. “Where’s the dog?” he asked.

“Already inside,” Cormac said, bouncing to hoist his shield higher on his back. He rearranged his knife belt.

“We should have leashed him. If he opens up in there, he’ll betray us.”

“If there’s anything in there,” Hakon said, “they are likely already aware of our presence. Sound travels uphill, and we haven’t been all that quiet.” He glared at Maguire.

“Aye,” Somerled said. “Aware or not, we’re going after them. Spread out. Look for a stone enclosure. Be wary. We’re not leaving here without killing something.”

Hakon had dismounted and handed the reins and a knife to an archer. “Archers stay here unless ye can handle another weapon. Bows are useless in the gorse. If we’re not back soon, return to the trader and wait for us there.” He strapped a multitude of blades around his middle and lifted his battle-axe from the mare. He looped his arms through his shield, fisted his amulet, and strode toward an opening in the gorse.

Maguire remained in his saddle. “Your mare will enter the gorse,” he called to Hakon, who had disappeared. “Ye will be glad of it in an hour. She will not notice the thorns. Although, now that I think about it, your skin—”

“I prefer my own feet.” Hakon interrupted Maguire’s insult from somewhere in the shrubbery.

“Ye will prefer the horse’s feet when ye need to smash someone’s skull,” Maguire said.

Hakon offered no reply. He didn’t need to. Everyone knew Hakon was quite capable of smashing someone’s skull all by himself.

Somerled handed his reins to another archer.

“Am I the only one who trusts these horses?” Maguire asked.

“I trust the horse,” Somerled said, “but the pleasure of killing my enemy will be mine, not hers.”

“I suppose that’s where we are different, Sorley,” Maguire said. “When I want my enemy to go to hell, I don’t care how he gets there. Och, for the love of Jaysus,” he said, dismounting and handing the reins to a third archer. The horse took a step toward him as he walked away from it, but Maguire halted him. “Stay, Arrow. Ye canny be takin’ away the king’s pleasure in decapitatin’ a man.”

Arrow pawed at the ground beside the fidgeting archer.

Uh-rooooo! Rooo! Rooo!

Somerled ducked into the shuddering gorse patch, which became alive with rustling footsteps and jangling armor and weapons.

Uh-rooooo!

Rowan was closer. A streak of brown flashed between two gorse shrubs.

Rooooo!

Somerled followed the dog’s bawls. Thorns tore at his cheeks and arms and loosened his hair. He ran, stooped over, with his hand on his sword hilt. The gorse became patchier, and he raced forward, weaving wildly between the shrubs and reed clumps, fueled by his hatred of his unseen enemy. He reached a stone enclosure just in time to see Rowan launching himself over it.

He paused to catch his breath and assess the danger in crossing the grassy clearing. Hakon stood to his left, winded, evidently doing the same. Cormac gasped at his right, bent over with his black braids dangling below his helmet. Rowan circled and quartered just beyond the crumbling wall that enclosed nothing but a grassy mound and one shrub. Somerled heard the sea. It was close.

It’s within sight and smell of the sea, Eithne had said.

Rowan stopped at the single gorse shrub and crawled beneath it. Uh-roooo! Rooooo! Rooooo! His bay was high-pitched and frenzied. He scratched at something.

“Go!” Somerled ordered, and men clambered over the stones beside and behind him. He reached the gorse and pulled aside a dead limb. A door. His stomach lurched. I’m coming, Breagha! I’m coming! My love, I’m here! At last, he would make this right.

Rage left no room for any other emotion, especially fear. He found the latch and handle and flung the door open. Before its hinges had ceased their squealing, he was inside a dark corridor. Rowan passed him, nearly knocking his legs out from under him. The stench of death assaulted him. He covered his nose and mouth with his palm.

“Jaysus,” Maguire said somewhere behind him. Someone gagged.

“There are pitch torches,” Somerled said, lifting one from the wall. He carried it back past his men into daylight. “Who has the flint?”

“Flint!” Hakon shouted.

Within seconds, Hakon was shoulder to shoulder with Somerled, laying a piece of char cloth against the torch. He handed Somerled the flintstone and a piece of steel. Somerled struck them together while Hakon used his hands to shelter the cloth from the breeze. Sparks landed on Hakon’s skin, but if they stung, he didn’t acknowledge the pain. A spark landed and glowed on the char cloth. Somerled blew on it gently until it smoldered and smoked. The pitch ignited on the torch.

Somerled leapt back inside the corridor. There were other torches, but most were burned out and useless. Only a few still contained pitch, and he lit them, praying they would burn in the oppressive stench. He heard Rowan’s toenails and the scuttling of rats as the dog darted from one cell to another.

Rowan jumped over a shadowy heap in the center of the corridor that turned out to be two dead women.

“Jaysus,” Maguire whispered. “I know death never makes a woman prettier, but Jaysus . . .”

Rowan slunk into a cell where death had glued a festering corpse to the floor.

Kata’s kill.

The dog backed out and moved on. He used his nose to open the door of the next cell. Somerled followed him in, ducking around roots that hung from the ceiling. Rowan stood in the cell with his nostrils flaring and tapering. The dog slunk to a bench at the far wall, sat in front of it, and hung his head.

She’s not here, Somerled thought, but this was her cell. He did not want to inspect it. Look, coward, look at everything. Canny even look at the fate ye handed her, can ye? While ye delighted in your son’s smile, she suffered here. LOOK! His eyes crawled over every part of the cell. He saw the dripping walls and roots that turned green when the light neared them. He stepped past Rowan to inspect the bench and found bronze hairs caught in the wood nearest the wall. His breaths quickened and his cheeks burned. God only knew what the mire was under the bench.

He noticed a small hole in the wall. The hole where she slid the stick through the wall. He slid his finger into it, wanting to touch where she had touched. “She is not here,” he whispered. “She could yet be alive.”

“But where are her jailers?” Hakon asked, evidently thirsty for a kill.

“I don’t know, but they had to go somewhere and so did she.” Trust this dog, the old woman at Ardnamurchan had said. Rowan stared at the bench.

“Rowan, come,” he whispered.

The dog whined.

Somerled tugged at his collar. “Come. She’s not here. Find her!”

Rowan padded half-heartedly into the corridor.

There was no sign of life and only one cell left. It had a solid door with large strap hinges. Somerled drew his sword. He nodded at Hakon, who flung the door open. Hakon lunged ahead of him with his shield held high, and Somerled followed, his sword ready. Men flooded into the room, bathing it in torchlight.

When his eyes fell on the thing in the corner, his sword jangled to the floor along with a dozen knives, a few helmets, and several shields. He added his gasp to those of the men around him.

Chapter 46

Maguire’s arms were a blur. He could not cross himself fast enough. “What in under Jaysus is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Hakon said, ripping Thor’s hammer away from his throat. “Maybe a sea serpent.” His amulet’s chain peeked through the whitened fingers gripping his battle-axe. Somerled had never seen fear in Hakon’s eyes, and the sight further unnerved him.

The scaly thing did not move. It hunched over its nakedness with its earless skull hanging over its kneecaps. It had talons for fingers and hooves where its feet should be.

“Is it alive?” one of the men whispered.

It was a good question. He could detect no rise or fall of its back.

“Balor,” Hakon whispered.

“It’s a demon. It’s the demon,” Maguire said, still crossing himself. “Jaysus. Jaysus!”

The thing was hideous.

I canny look at it. Aye, ye can. Look at it! Look long and hard at it! She had to. Rage welled up inside Somerled again. What have I done? What happened here? What did it do to her? WHAT DID YE DO TO HER?

Rowan growled and wove among the men, his quivering lips peeled back. He brushed against Somerled’s thigh, his shoulder blades pointy at his withers. His saliva dripped to the floor.

Trust this dog, the old woman had said.

“I’m killing it,” Somerled said. Without waiting for an objection, he retrieved his sword and swung it high overhead. He aimed for the two ligaments ridged on the thing’s neck and brought the sword down on them with all his might.

Clang!

He bounced back and landed on the floor at the far wall, his arms stinging as though they had suffered a lightning strike. He was bewildered. The thing had not budged. Its head was intact. No blood trickled.

Somewhere, among the stars that swirled around the room, Hakon roared. Somerled saw a swirl of red—Hakon’s hair. The unholy battle cry that always accompanied Hakon’s axe blows echoed off the stones. It sounded far away, even though Hakon was right in front of him. Suddenly, Hakon was beside him, axe-less, looking puzzled and stinking of burned flesh.

The thing remained where it had been.

Some of the pagans backed out of the room with their sword tips grating against the floor. Hakon’s failure was a bad omen.

Maguire shrieked, “How in under Jaysus do we kill it?”

“Fire,” Somerled said, noticing that his voice was gritty and slurred. “Send it back to the fires of hell.” He crawled his way upright and saw that Hakon’s hair was like an orange thistle gone to seed. It was then that he smelled his own singed hair. He reached up and grabbed a handful. The strands broke like brittle straw.

Whatever the thing was, if it had possessed the power to wake, it would have done so by now. Something kept it asleep. He could not imagine what, nor did he care. He wanted to destroy it before it stirred. “Gather dried reeds and gorse. Anything that will burn. Stuff the place full.”

When they had done so, Somerled stood at the prison door and tilted his torch to ignite the dried twigs. “Go back to hell,” he said. The fire snapped and crackled deep into the corridor. Whatever the thing was, the fire was incinerating it.

He turned away from the heat, strangely disappointed that he had been denied an actual fight.

Hakon rubbed a shoulder that likely still hurt. “She is not here,” he said to Maguire. “Think your horse could have caved in that skull.”

“Shut up,” Maguire said.

Rowan circled the grassy flat with his nose against the ground. He checked and rechecked himself, then jumped over the enclosure’s walls and disappeared into another patch of gorse.

“We canny get through there,” Maguire said.

“I’m gonny try.” Somerled ducked in alone. He was surprised to find that he could stand. “It’s huge!” he called to the others.

“Amazing,” Cormac said. “It’s as if someone bored a hole through it.”

Uh-roooo! Rooooo! Rooooo!

“Jaysus. What if it is another—”

Somerled’s heart skipped. Breagha. Or, at the very least, something he could kill. He raced in the direction of the dog’s howl. When he found Rowan, the dog was circling several bodies. Hakon kicked one over. Dried blood had glued leaves and sticks to its face.

“Look at this,” Cormac said, pointing at another body on the ground. It lay on its stomach, but its face stared upward. A sliver of tongue hung from each corner of its malformed mouth.

“A split tongue? Jaysus, I no longer know what we fight,” Maguire said, crossing himself for the hundredth time.

“Stop that nonsense!” Hakon roared. “Ye are driving me mad, and it helps nothing!”

“This does not make sense,” Somerled said, ignoring their squabble. “If that was the demon back there, who killed this . . . man?” The corpses were huge, too huge—and too numerous—for Breagha to manage.

“Someone else hunts our enemy,” Hakon said.

“But who?” Maguire asked.

“Maybe someone else who had his woman stolen,” Hakon said.

“No,” Somerled said. “It’s the warrior. Some of the lassies claimed a warrior unlocked their doors.”

“Why wouldn’t he kill that thing back there?” Maguire asked.

“He didn’t have time,” Hakon said.

“Right,” Somerled said. “He barely had time to free the women. We know Kata killed the bread man. The warrior must have killed the two hideous women in the corridor, probably because they discovered him in a place he was not supposed to be.” He eyed the dead warriors. “He had to fight his way through here.”

Rowan trotted ahead and stopped to press his nose into scuffled leaves before bounding onward. “The dog believes Breagha’s scent leads through here. That means either the warrior pursues her or protects her.” He surveyed the vast expanse of gorse. “I do wish now that we had brought the horses.”

“Mhm,” Maguire muttered while glaring at Hakon.

The trail was speckled with blood and easily followed. It ended at a coniferous forest. Rowan appeared to consider entering it, but turned instead and pushed through a hedge formed out of ancient yews ringing a derelict group of anchorites’ huts.

The sun was setting, and they were tired. Somerled’s arms ached, and he had a blinding headache. They camped for the night, which was pointless, since none of them slept. They sat around the fires, quiet and sullen, absorbed, he supposed, and searching for explanations of what they had witnessed that day.

Somerled rubbed his hairless head. He was pleased that Breagha was not at the prison. The warrior might be protecting her, and that gave him hope. He would reward that man well when he caught up to them.

Chapter 47

They crossed a desolate plain of rock, a rising landmark Somerled had often noticed when sailing to Fermanagh. It was larger and more fragmented than it appeared from the deck of his ship. He had often wondered about the melancholy landscape, never once suspecting that its crevices sheltered diminutive flowers of every color. Only a few days had passed since he last regarded it from the sea. Had Breagha been upon it then, limping across the bloom-filled cracks, waving her arms and shouting at him?

Rock gave way to leaf litter. They entered a forest, crossed a stream, and paused for a time on its far bank to fill themselves with bilberries they found there. Somerled and Maguire used their superior cloaks to warm themselves after crossing the water, but their men, in thin garments, would need to keep moving or they would suffer the cold. He was calculating the time he could safely allow them to feast when Rowan trotted up to him, whined, and trotted away. He returned a few moments later and repeated the process. Somerled followed him.

The dog hurdled over a fallen limb and bounded up the far side of a mossy hollow. He turned broadside in front of a tree and waited as Somerled crawled up a waterlogged bank, saturating parts of him the stream had neglected to wet. The dog straddled something lying on a russet circle on the moss. Somerled sunk to one knee. Out of habit, he reached up to prevent his hair from flopping in front of his eyes, forgetting that it was gone. He called Maguire and Hakon.

“What is it?” Maguire asked.

“I don’t know. The dog found it.”

“Dead bairn,” Hakon said with the same emotion that he would have used to identify a mushroom, “with its cord.”

“Oh,” Somerled said.

Oh, no. Is it hers? Somerled turned away, feeling sick and faint, not wanting Hakon and Maguire to see. Did someone— Did he—

“Ye sure?” Maguire asked, picking up a stick. He poked at the waxy-white heap, and the entire tuft it rested on lifted with it. “Jaysus, it is. Look at its head.”

“Big,” Hakon said, “too big.”

Its limbs were underdeveloped, and if death had not stiffened them, they would probably have been as supple and weak as seagrass.

“Who leaves a dead bairn for the animals?” Maguire said.

“Us,” Hakon said. “Leave it. The most we can do for it now is try to find its mother. If we press on now, we may.”

Hakon knows it is hers. It is . . .hers. Someone put it in her. Who put it in her? The warrior who kills for her? Eithne said— No, don’t think it.

He forced himself to walk away from the tiny corpse, knowing that eventually, it would feed the scavengers. He was still considering this when ferns began to brush against his shins and buzzards burst into flight in front of him. Something else was dead. The bairn’s mother? He raced Rowan to the spot where the buzzards had been dining, terrified of what he might find. It was only a lamb’s innards. “A dead lamb,” he shouted to the others, “picked over by more than buzzards.”

Sheep. Sheep meant people. “What are we near?” Somerled asked when Maguire rustled through the tussocks to stand beside him. “These are grazing lands. Whose?”

“We have to be onshore from Oileán Thúr Rí,” Maguire said. “That puts us near Goill.”

“The rebel clan?”

“No longer in rebellion. They pay tribute to Ui Niall now.”

“In exchange for what?”

“The right to live, I suppose.”

Somerled recalled a distant twilight when a handful of round, rudimentary curraghs bobbed into Loch Indaal like inverted acorn caps. He had been impressed with their leader, who had arrived seeking sovereign recognition. His offer of an alliance had been tempting, Somerled recalled, but denied.

“Why head for Goill?” Cormac asked. “Why not south to Fermanagh?”

“Less mountainous,” Somerled said.

“What’s in Goill?” Hakon asked.

“A shortage of people,” Maguire said, “since Ui Niall laid waste to the village. Some horses an’ curraghs, both wi’ prominent ribs. Ui Niall found them wi’ plenty, but left them wi’ very little. Took most of the horses an’ burned the boats. It’s possible they have replenished some by now, but not many.”

“Our warrior friend may not be aware that the village was destroyed,” Cormac said.

Maguire said, “Or he’s runnin’ wild, not carin’ where he goes as long as it’s in the opposite direction of that thing we sent to hell.”

“Kata was desperate enough to swim out to sea,” Hakon said. “They know they need to get off this land. They head for Goill because they need a boat, and Goill is closer than Fermanagh.”

“They may still be in the village,” Somerled said. He hoped the People of Goill were treating Breagha better than he had. He did not relish the idea of negotiating with a man he had denied an alliance, but he would pay whatever price the man demanded.

Uh-roooo! Rowan’s voice sounded from far away.

They ran toward the sound, up a rising landscape. His thighs burned, but he hardly noticed. Tonight would find him in Goill, beside a warm fire with Breagha in his arms. Her temper would flare. She would batter him with her fists, and he would laugh. He would grab her wrists and haul her down to his blankets. He would hold her until her fury burned itself out and gave way to tears. He would kiss her, and she would love him. He would purchase a curragh at Goill, or build one if he had to, and sail her home to Islay and then to Iona, where the abbot would marry them. They would have children, legitimate children, sons who would grow strong and intelligent, and beautiful daughters worthy of noble marriages.

By the sound of the waves crashing below him, the sea shared his passion.

Uh-roooo!

They scrambled up a stony bank, following the sound of the dog’s bay.

“Where in under Jaysus is he?” Maguire asked, gasping beside him.

Uh-roooo! Rowan’s bawl became muffled, close, but somehow distant.

“A cave!” Cormac pointed at a slanted opening to the north. Somerled poked his head inside and recoiled. The optimism that had fueled his climb vanished. “Something’s dead.” He couldn’t look. If the baby in the forest had been Breagha’s, she may have fallen ill in the days following its birth. A woman on the run had no time to rest. She could be dead in the cave.

Hakon brushed past him and squeezed his frame through the narrow cave mouth. His voice was hollow. “A lot of dead warriors. Deformed. Massive.”

He hoped Breagha’s guardian was not dead among them. He prayed that man was still hard at work protecting her. It should be him protecting her, saving her, not a faceless stranger. What makes a stranger protect another? Nothing, he decided, except profit . . . or love. Did someone else love Breagha? If so, was she now that person’s prisoner? Or was she a willing companion? Had she fallen in love with someone else?

Jealousy warmed his cheeks, and then he realized he had no right to it. Is this how she felt when she found out about Mersin? Somerled had not been with a woman since the night in the graveyard. That night had cursed him by cleaving Breagha from him, but it had also blessed him with a son he loved.

The cave, apparently disliking the taste of Hakon, spat him back outside. “All dead,” he said. “No worries.”

Somerled felt for Breagha’s torc at his breastbone. “Is she—”

“Not among them, my lord,” Hakon said, patting Somerled’s shoulder. “She is still alive.”

Rowan walked out of the cave with his head hanging low. Even the dog was tired. Hunger and the emotional ridges and valleys were taking their toll. Like the dog, Somerled was hungry, exhausted, and growing despondent.

“She’s here!” Thorvald called from the top of the stony hill.

Somerled raced the dog up the hill toward the sound of the sea. A faint body of land rose out of the water on the horizon. Oileán Thúr Rí.

“Over here,” Senach said, pointing at a trail along a cliff’s edge.

Rowan, who apparently decided he would be the first to enter the path, knocked Somerled’s legs out from under him as he galloped past. Somerled’s palms and knees painted red on the sharp rocks as he fell on them. His cloak tangled beneath him. Its collar pulled at his neck, and the brooch that held it closed cut into his throat. He heard the fabric tear as he freed himself.

“My lord king, wait,” Thorvald said, running breathlessly behind him.

Somerled ignored him, rose, and limped ahead.

“King Somerled,” Senach said, reaching for Somerled’s throbbing elbow.

Somerled slithered from his grasp and ran, ignoring the pain in his left knee. Breagha! I’m coming! Tears flowed, and he did not care who saw them. He sprinted past men who stood awkwardly on the path. Why are ye not attending to her? Go, ye lazy bastards! Go to her! Bring her to me! Bring her even an oar’s length closer to me and I shall reward ye generously.

The path veered sharply and he failed to see the dog lying broadside on it with his nose dangling over the cliff’s edge. He tripped over Rowan and landed facedown, striking his temple on a rock and deepening the wounds on his palms and knees.

“Sorley.” Someone’s shadow swirled above him. He withdrew a knife from his belt and threw it at whoever blocked the sun. He heard the blade clatter uselessly to the ground. The shadow knelt beside him. “Sorley,” the voice said, “ye be injured. Ye’ve bashed your noggin.”

A dog whimpered.

Rowan. Breagha’s dog. Breagha. “Br—” Somerled crawled toward the sound of the dog.

“Sorley,” the shadow pleaded, “stay still. Thorvald, bring water and clean rags!”

“Bre—” Somerled muttered, clutching gravel and dirt. His head thumped, and he could barely hear over the ringing in his ears. He patted the path until he found fur, grabbed a fistful, and used it to haul himself to the dog’s side.

His neck hurt as he lifted his iron-filled head over the cliff’s edge.

The dog’s chest heaved against him, and he yelped as if someone was beating him.

“Grab that dog before they both go over,” someone said.

Pieces of something were scattered below on the rocks and in the tide pool. Somerled blinked and widened his eyes in an attempt to fight the tunnel closing in on his vision. Something rocked in sea foam, something the color of a hazelnut. Brea—

The world went dark.

Chapter 48

Gille dropped to his knees on the beach the locals called Traigh Ban nam Manach—White Strand of the Monks. His altar faced the azure waters of Iona’s sound, where fish darted through a forest of kelp. He lifted his palms to the sky and did what he did all day, every day: he prayed.

Father, I should have planned a nomadic life for my children. Please watch over them, especially my Breagha, my innocent jewel, the child who so delights me, the child I know you sent as a sign of your forgiveness. I tried to do right by her, but I fear I have failed her a second time.

He could still see her at the end of her last life, when he knew her as Imelda and she knew him by his real name—Hamaziel. She had spent her last days on the rock facing the sea, exhausting herself by sifting through the scents. She could not find Torr’s among them; she never would. She had been inconsolable and willed herself to die. He had collected her torc, stored it with Torr’s, and prayed that God would find some way of reuniting the lovers.

He had hoped that Torr and Imelda had reunited in the afterlife and chose to stay there. But on a spring day, a dog carried a bundle into the village and set it at his feet. When he untied the blankets, an infant flared her nostrils and smiled. He had named her Breagha.

Father, keep her safe from Semjaza. I am sorry I left her. I did not want to do so, but I thought if I limped away, like a bird feigning injury to save its nest, Semjaza would follow me here, where You could deal with him.

It was Azazel—now a woman known as Padua—who had shared the rumor that no evil could tread on Iona. Many generations ago, when Gille was at his lowest, he made a suicidal voyage to the island. He waded onto the beach, expecting the end. Nothing happened. He took it as the sign it was: God no longer considered him evil. He had rejoiced and built an altar.

I do not deserve your mercy, Father, but I am grateful for it.

For a while, he watched over the island as men came to bury their dead. He delighted when the man called Colmcille arrived. He left when Norsemen sacked the island. He grew lonely and returned to his children then, renewed by God’s favor and vowing to do right by them.

Help me to know what to do, Father.

A galley sailed past the strand, its red sail stunning against the backdrop of Mull’s cliffs. A larger trader followed in its wake with flowers heaped upon its half-decks. An odd cargo, Gille thought as he watched them make their way toward Port Rònain. Must be a dead noblewoman. He wondered if there was a plague or another war. There had been too many recent burials in the Street of the Dead.

Splash!

Men onboard the ships shouted and cursed. They scurried over thwarts and pulled on ropes to drop their sails. Gille stood to watch the commotion unfold.

Someone shouted, “Odin’s missing eyeball, that dog’s gone over!” and then, “Beach it on Traigh Ban nam Manach.”

The larger ship stalled on the water while its port oarsmen struggled to turn the bow, but the smaller vessel’s bow changed direction with astonishing speed. Gille spied the moveable rudder on the stern, raised an eyebrow, and smiled. He hadn’t seen that device in many generations.

Torr.

When he saw the size of the dog paddling for the strand, he dropped to his knees and lifted his hands to the air, “Thank You, Father, thank You!” The dog bounded up the beach, tongue loose and flapping at his open mouth. He toppled Gille with unchecked exhilaration.

“Rowan!” Gille shouted, laughing and throwing his arms around the dog.

If Rowan was with Torr, it meant one thing: the lovers had found each other again.

Gille rose from his knees and jogged into the water, too impatient to wait. His smile faded when he encountered a cloud of flies and the heavy scent of death. A handsome, dark-haired man onboard gestured toward him and said to an ugly, bald man, “There’s an anchorite on the beach.”

The bald one walked to the port rail and inspected him disdainfully. A Thor’s hammer amulet dangled near his throat.

Gille took a step back and grabbed the fur at Rowan’s neck.

The handsome one laughed. “Hideous, isn’t he? Ye should see his feet.” The pagan muttered something and threw a bailing bucket. It struck a wreath of dead flowers and sprinkled brittle petals onto the waves.

“Where are the others?” Gille asked.

“The other what?” the pagan asked.

“The other dogs . . . and the girl.”

The pagan leaned over the port rail. “Ye know them?”

Gille nodded and did not like the look of concern the two men shared.

“Let us beach upon the sand,” the handsome one said, his face suddenly serious, “and I will tell ye the entire story.”

A wrinkled face peered over the top rail.

“God’s grace,” Somerled shouted, “is there any privacy to be had on a king’s own ship!”

It was a kind and grandfatherly face, but no one had any business staring at them. They had spent too much time apart. People should have the decency to give them some space and time to be alone together. He had a lot of making up to do, and he didn’t need the entire population of Argyll watching him do it.

“Ignore him,” Somerled said, drawing Breagha closer so he could nuzzle his nose into her hair. She was still cold, he noticed. He pulled the blanket higher. “He’ll eventually go away.”

The grandfather’s mouth fell open. Breagha’s beauty had that effect on everyone, Somerled knew.

It had taken time and bags of silver to retrieve her from the cliffs near Goill. She had stubbornly clung to the rocks, angry with him, as he had expected. Like Kata, she had even tried to swim out to sea, but he had retrieved her. He had scooped her up, and she had not left his arms since. In spite of his preening and constant affection, she had not yet spoken to him. She would. When she discovered where he was taking her, she would.

Fragmented conversations took place around him. He did not understand them, nor did he care to.

“Gone mad,” Maguire said to the grandfather, “. . . not eaten an’ will only sip water if offered to her as well.”

“He loves her.”

At last, someone makes sense!

“Ye must separate . . . two of them.”

“We have tried everything,” he heard Hakon say.

“I have something . . . I cannot . . . will help.”

He was smoothing Breagha’s hair when Hakon’s boots appeared in front of his face. “Judas’s thirty pieces of silver, ye Norse dog, go away!” Somerled said.

“But, my lord king, the lady Breagha asked for a drink. Did ye not hear her?”

“Did ye, my love?” He knitted his fingers with hers. She was so cold! “Why did ye not say, Breagha? I would have gotten it for ye. Ye have but to ask, my love.” He took the tankard that Hakon handed him.

“It is warmed ale, my lord. Take a sip to be sure it’s not too hot for her,” Hakon said. “We would not want the lady to burn her lips.”

“Aye, Hakon, good thinking.” He whispered in Breagha’s ear, “Do ye see how my most cherished guard intends to care for his king’s lady? Ye will never need to fear again, my love.” He sipped the ale and pursed his lips. “It’s a bit bitter, Hakon.”

“The monks sent it, my lord. They said it is a special brew, one with herbs to help the lady feel better.”

Monks. He remembered two of them coming up the path at Finlaggan. Something else happened that day, but he couldn’t remember what it was. It wasn’t important anyway. What was important was Breagha. She was in his arms, at last.

“She feels fine. Ye feel fine, don’t ye, my love?” Somerled rose onto an elbow to lean over her. “She is just angry, that is all.” He glared at Hakon. “Who could blame her?”

He tipped the tankard at her lips, but she refused to drink. “Please, my love, drink. Ye must. The monks say it will help ye feel better, and they should know.”

The liquid dripped off Breagha’s chin and puddled on the deck boards. “She refuses to drink,” Somerled said to Hakon, shoving the tankard at him.

“Ye drink it, then, Sorley,” Maguire said, his face staring next to the grandfather’s at the port rail, “so that ye may stay strong enough to care for her.”

Somerled roared and threw the tankard at Maguire, who ducked out of the way just in time. He kissed the back of Breagha’s head and lifted the blanket back up to their cheeks.

Maguire covered his mouth, gagged, and turned away. He was jealous, Somerled knew.

“It was probably enough,” the grandfather said.

Something crawled on his chin. Somerled wiped at it and found something warm and liquid. His eyes fluttered open. Two monks nodded and smiled at him. One inclined his partially shaved head and tipped a tankard at Somerled’s mouth while the other whirled from the room. Somerled swallowed a sip of liquid.

“Where am I?”

“Iona,” the monk replied.

The second monk returned with an old man, who looked familiar and sorrowful. Memories returned to Somerled in flashes, and he panicked, leaping up and sending the stool he had been sitting on flying against the wall. “Where is she? What have ye done with her?”

The monks grabbed his arms just as the potion they had served him took effect. His hands went numb when they were just shy of the grandfather’s throat. His knees buckled. Someone replaced his stool, and he slumped down onto it.

The grandfather brought a second stool into the room and sat on it, facing him.

Rowan entered and laid his head on the man’s lap.

Trust this dog.

“Where is she?” Somerled repeated.

“She is where she should be,” the old man said. “My name is Gille. Did Breagha tell you about me?”

“No, but she told an old woman in my village about ye.”

“Then you know that I loved her as much as you do.”

“Nobody loves her as much as I do.”

The old man smiled and looked at him with pity. “I cannot argue.” He rubbed a hand across a white eyebrow.

“Old man, I’m gonny ask ye one more time,” Somerled said, clenching his teeth. “Ye canny feed me potions forever. Either ye tell me now, or I will sober up and beat it out of ye. Where is she?”

“Somerled, you know she is dead. Try to remember. I cannot help you until you remember.”

“Pfft,” Somerled said, “she’s not dead. I just saw her. Are ye mad, old man?”

Why, wasn’t he just with her on Sea Eagle? Didn’t he just see her trace the spirals of the standing stone with her finger? Aye! That’s what happened the day he’d seen the two monks on the path at Finlaggan. Finlaggan . . . the stone . . . What had she said those carvings meant?

The old man leaned forward and touched Somerled’s arm.

Remember me. Remember me. Remember me.

Bethoc chased him around a tree. Mother’s brains and bloody hair stuck to leaves. Lassies giggled behind their hands and pointed at his hard shaft. He drew on a cave wall. His axe split a Norseman’s skull. Someone carved a cross. Tink-tink-tink. A demon crouched in a corner. Father whispered, Enough, enough, enough! Breagha glided toward him at the meeting. Fergus smirked. I will come for ye. I will! I will! I will! A cliff. The dog. Rocks.

He shook his head, unwilling to remember more.

Gille turned to the monks. “Leave us,” he said to them. “Close the door.” They may as well have thrown it wide open. Traders in the far eastern markets probably heard Somerled’s yowl of grief when Gille took his hands. “Remember,” the old man said.

Breagha stood at the edge of a cliff and fell. Then, she was gone. He ran with Rowan, and they found her on the rocks below, broken into pieces. Gulls feasted on her. He tried to jump to her rescue, but someone hauled him away from the cliff’s edge.

He wailed and tried to strike out at the old man with his fists, but he was still weak from the monk’s potion. He sobbed. “No! Breagha! Breagha! She’s gone.” He hung his head and snot dripped onto his lap. “I loved her.” It was the first time he had spoken those words aloud, and they barely escaped his lips before unseen hands choked off his throat.

“As she loved you, and as I love you.”

“She’s gone,” he wailed, crying until he thought his sorrow would turn him inside out. “She’s gone.”

Gille lifted his chin and smiled. The old man’s eyes were as brilliant as Iona’s shallow waters. “No, Somerled. She is not gone. We are never gone.” He lowered the neckline of his tunic and revealed a torc.

“Ye stole that! Return it to me at once,” Somerled said. “It doesn’t belong to ye.”

“No,” the old man said. “You are correct. It doesn’t belong to me, and I will give it back to you in a moment. First, you must listen to me. Breagha is not gone.”

Somerled expected to hear the same expression people always used after the death of a loved one. After his father’s death, he had heard he’s still with you until he wanted to vomit.

“Tell me, old man, if she’s not gone, how do I find her, hmm?”

“She will find you.”

Somerled shook his head.

“In order for you to understand, I need to tell you the whole story.”

“Then start telling,” Somerled said.

“The one you burned—”

“—The demon.”

“If that is what you would like to call him, then that is what I shall call him. His name, however, is Semjaza.”

“Was Semjaza.”

“No, is. You have probably further marred his shell, but Semjaza himself still exists.”

“Impossible. Where?”

“I do not know, but you can be sure he exists somewhere.” The old man sighed. “In the beginning of days, we walked among the first of God’s children. There were seven of us. The women were beautiful, and we noticed the pleasure they gave the men. We could not help ourselves, and we mated with them, even if they did not desire us. God became angry and condemned us to eternal life here.

“I have regretted my actions ever since, and I have spent my time since praying for God’s mercy. Semjaza and some of the others took matters into their own hands. He was not always so ugly, you know. Each of his failures brings him a worse fate and farther from God’s grace. He blames God, but the punishment he receives is his own.”

“What did he want with Breagha?”

“I’m sure you noticed Breagha was gifted, as are all of the children descended from us. Our blood has been watered down through time, but every few generations, someone is born with an uncommon intelligence or ability.”

“Her scenting ability.”

“Indeed. For some reason, my progeny possess either heightened senses or exceptional resourcefulness. My offspring are responsible for many modern inventions. Azazel’s get were great visionaries.”

“Seers and the like?”

Gille nodded. “You have Azazel to thank for them—or curse, depending upon your thoughts on the matter.”

Somerled recalled the seer at Ardnamurchan. “I am to tell ye that Padua is alive and watches over your children.”

Gille smiled. “Is that so?” He appeared to be lost in thought for a moment.

“How do I get Breagha back?” Somerled asked, fascinated with the story, but losing patience.

“She will come back in her own time,” Gille said. “The key is in attracting her.”

“How do I do that?”

Gille took Somerled’s hand and squeezed it. “My children always return for their torcs.” He fidgeted and looked like a man who was not sure he should continue.

“Go on,” Somerled said.

Gille licked his lips and sighed. “She will return to hers—maybe not in this lifetime, or even in the next—but in some lifetime, she will return to it. She will not know you, nor you her. The secret is in keeping her torc with yours.”

“Mine?”

Gille unhinged the torc and slipped it from his neck. Somerled snatched it from him and quickly lifted it to his own neck. He was surprised to find a torc already hanging there. He hadn’t realized he still wore Breagha’s. “There are two,” he said.

“I never removed hers from your neck.”

“Then whose is this?” He opened the torc across his thighs. Instead of dogs’ heads, dragons decorated the torc, dragons that matched the one on Sea Eagle’s prow.

Gille stared at him silently, as if waiting for some idea to take root.

If it is to be, it will take lifetimes of patience, my lord, Padua had said.

Lifetimes. Plural.

Somerled ran his fingers over the torc. The red stone in the dragons’ mouths glowed in the torchlight. He had never seen it before, but it was somehow familiar. “It’s mine,” he said.

“Indeed it is.” Gille smiled. “Welcome home.”

Gille left the island immediately, but Somerled stayed long enough to erect the cross that Maguire insisted was always destined for Breagha’s grave.

Father would be wantin’ it this way, Maguire had said.

The monks nourished Somerled with food and prayer. They exhausted themselves cleaning and praying over the cross. Even Hakon took a turn at Breagha’s grave, raking the area around the cross, preparing it to receive the chapel and shrine Somerled intended to build there.

Somerled knelt beside the cross, kissed his finger, and touched the mound of sand covering Breagha’s remains. “One day, I will lie next to ye, but for now, I need to go, my love.”

He had already decided what he must do. He would build a kingdom strong enough to protect her. Nothing would take Iona from him. He would sire a slew of legitimate sons. They would call themselves the Lords of the Isles. He would join Breagha in her grave, as would generations of his descendants—the dignified children she had deserved and been denied.

His sons would protect the torcs and keep them together. With a little luck and mercy from God Himself—Somerled and Breagha would return to their jewels . . . and to each other.

Chapter 49

Finlaggan, 1164

Ragnhilde stood, dropping her sewing from her lap to the floor. “He—He cannot just demand your lands.”

Somerled shook his fist at the ceiling, still clutching the king’s letter. “This will not do, Hilde, this will not do. Argyll is mine by right and might.”

It was bad enough that the young Scots king had declared Moray’s lands forfeit. Worse that he had renounced Scotland’s claims to Cumbria and Northumbria. “He made Scotland a vassal to the English king, Hilde, that’s what he did.” Somerled paced the length of the room. “I have done my part to support him until now, but this,” he shouted, stopping to ball up the parchment and throw it against the wall, “this will not do!”

His young daughter, Beatrice, sat at a table staring wide-eyed over her sewing. Ragnhilde waved her out of the room. “Perhaps ye could negotiate a marriage. Beatrice is nearing—”

“A tantalizing idea, Hilde,” Somerled said, “if the king enjoyed the company of women.” He shook his head. “I never liked the look of him,” he said, “never. Ye know what he looks like?”

“Boiled shite,” Ragnhilde said. “Ye’ve said so before.”

“It’s true, Hilde. He’s sickly and pale. There’s no substance to him. He’s just a watery pile of boiled shite, relying on his Norman barons to act as his spine.”

“Why would he do this?” Ragnhilde asked, stooping at the wall to retrieve the letter and read it herself.

“So that he can re-issue Argyll’s lands in vassalage and fealty to his Norman barons, that’s why. Read it,” he said, stabbing a finger at the parchment she unfolded. “It’s all there in the letter. I knew this would happen. I warned Fergus years ago, God rest him.” He charged to the hearth and poked a burning log with a rod.

“It’s that Walter Fitz Alan,” he said, his face hot from fire and temper. “He’s the one behind this. He still has a bee up his nose about losing Arran and Bute to me. It has to be him behind this, and this is probably just the start of it. The Scots king isn’t even in Scotland—he’s in Yorkshire, lying ill by all accounts. He delivered his own brother there as a hostage in exchange for Scotland’s good conduct. His own flesh and blood, Hilde!”

“Husband, please, the vein in your forehead is set to burst. Try to simmer down. A man of your age—”

“Hakon of Dublin—”

“I know, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He carried his axe until his eightieth year, and Eithne never gave him bother about it.” She flattened her hand on his back. “Sorley, would it be so wrong to consider vassalage?”

He must have heard her wrong. He turned to her. “Odin’s empty eye socket, woman, ye canny be serious. I thought ye were cut from better cloth than this.”

She raised her eyebrows. There were a few white hairs among the red. “I’m just saying that it may not hurt to consider it.”

“I will swear fealty to no man small enough to shite out of my own arse.” He turned to face the fire. “My patience with him has run out. Someone needs to hit him where it hurts, and where it hurts is Walter Fitz Alan!”

“Let a younger man launch a rebellion, Sorley.”

“And who would that be, Hilde? The Scots king has pulled down the ancient earldoms. Fergus is dead, and Galloway is in tatters. The Irish king is at war with his own vassals. Malcolm of Moray will do nothing. How can he, with Bethoc and Donald imprisoned at Roxburgh?” He rubbed his forehead. “Impetuosity is the curse of Moray. I should have demanded Donald stay at Finlaggan.”

Ragnhilde sighed and wrung her hands. “Ye tried your best.”

“There is more that ye don’t know, Hilde. I did not wish to worry ye. Your brother, Godfrey, has returned from exile in Norway. The English king has received him and made much of him. He has promised to assist Godfrey in returning to the Isle of Man to him, all in exchange for its vassalage to England, of course.”

Ragnhilde’s mouth fell open. “He will strip our sons of their right to Man.”

Somerled nodded. “He will do more than that. He will put their eyes out, at the very least. A great force of Norman knights is mustering near Renfrew, no doubt called there by that rat, Fitz Alan. I say we strike now, before they are ready, while the Scots king is sick in England. We will not only replace the Scots king with Donald MacMalcolm, but we will send a very clear message to the English king . . . and to your brother.”

“How many men can ye muster?” Ragnhilde asked.

“Easily, twenty thousand or more, Hilde. We have the men of Argyll, Ireland, and the Norse of Dublin. The northern earls will send their own men. We canny lose.”

Ragnhilde moved to the crossed swords hanging above the mantel. She stood on tiptoe and lifted one off the wall. “Take my father’s sword then,” she said, “and dirty it with Norman blood.”

Renfrew, Scotland

Smoke. Somerled’s eyes fluttered open. A blurred alder canopy streaked overhead. His head and arms flopped wildly. Feet splashed on all sides of him. “Where—” He coughed and sprayed red mist. Pain seared into his chest like molten iron.

“Put him down,” someone shouted. “Get some whisky. Wipe his face. Maguire, which ship carries the hag?”

He could not hear Maguire’s answer over his own laboring rasps. He was drowning, drowning in his own blood. A blurry head came into focus, its fair braids matching the brilliance of the alder leaves. “Sk—”

“Don’t speak, my lord king,” Skald said, kneeling on one knee beside him. Skald the Blood Axe—that brave lad from the first meeting so long ago—looked past him. Hakon’s fabled battle horn hung at his chest.

“Gillecallum, get behind me,” Skald shouted.

Somerled’s gasps quickened, each of them hammering a rivet deeper into his chest. Gillecallum, my son, listen to Skald.

“This is wrong,” Gillecallum said. “This is all wrong.”

“It is a bad omen,” Skald said, “when a leader falls in the first wave of battle. Now get behind me!”

“The honor of avenging my father will be mine, not yours,” he heard Gillecallum say.

Somerled grimaced and tried to sit up. He would knock some sense into Gillecallum. He fell back, wordless, and coughed more foam. No, Gillecallum, no.

“The knights are forming,” Skald said. He knelt beside Somerled again. “My lord, I must leave ye for a while. Be assured, my king, that nightfall will see us on our ships.”

The ships? They were supposed to be making a charge on Fitz Alan’s castle. Were they retreating?

Three staccato notes on the battle horn brought the alder grove alive with the sounds of battle. Mail jangled, and shields knocked together as the men formed their walls. The musky odor of tightly clustered men was heavy. A blast on the horn initiated the charge. Fear and rage collided and escaped men’s mouths in a sound that was barely recognizable as human.

He was moving again, a part of the charge, but flat on his back, on a plaid carried by six Highlanders. His screams mixed with those of his men; he could not stifle his cries as they jostled him over fallen logs and spines of rock. His hands and feet dragged against the ground, and he lost both of his boots. The sky rained arrows, and men fell around him.

Weapons thunked against shields and helmets. A rawhide rim from a burst shield sprang overhead. Spearmen charged past, and then his archers. Horses added their screams to the mix as swords clanged against plate armor.

He slid underwater. Strong arms pulled him to the surface and floated him away from a riverbank. Someone dragged him up a gangplank into a world of darkness.

“He’s awake,” Skald said, standing over him.

Somerled lay on the deck spraying pink foam above his face. The oars around him splashed at a feverish tempo. The naked mast sliced Renfrew’s smoke screen as the ship passed through it. The village had been prepared for their arrival. The earls had failed to send their men. Somewhere, he knew, a fox slept in the henhouse.

A grim-faced Maguire knelt and took his hand; the Fermanagh chieftain was an old man now. “Sorley, I am the bearer of unhappy news.”

Somerled guessed what it was. “Gillec—”

“I’m sorry, Sorley.”

He made no effort to disguise the grief slamming down on him like an iron lid. Gillecallum’s death lay squarely on his shoulders. There was a time in his life when he thought he would never love again, but Gillecallum had proven him wrong. Gillecallum, illegitimate and entitled to nothing, had led him out of a landslide of sorrow. Now, his son was dead.

“Where is he?”

“Resting wi’ dignity on the bow of his ship. He fought well, Sorley. I will see to it that he is taken to Iona for burial.”

He was tired. He closed his eyes and thought of Mersin. She would not take the news of their son’s death well. If he had ever been capable of loving a woman again, he would have loved Mersin. She was a gentle creature who never complained about Somerled’s lack of affection or his marriage to Ragnhilde. More importantly, she had raised their son well. Gillecallum had been a good lad and an even better man. And now, that great man would rest with Breagha in the red granite building Somerled had built for her.

Breagha. He had not forgotten his promise to her all those years ago. Her face was as young in his mind as it had been the day he sent her away in Sea Eagle. He would see her soon, he knew. The thought filled him with excitement and a strange embarrassment. Would she notice he had grown old?

“M-Mag—” His lips were tacky, his tongue dry.

Maguire leaned over him. “Aye, Sorley, I’m here.”

“M-My neck . . . no one must . . . s-see.”

“Drape a piece of sailcloth over these two thwarts,” Maguire shouted, pointing at the thwarts closest to him. “Our king wants some privacy.” The sailcloth was wet; it dripped water onto both of them as Maguire tugged at Somerled’s neckline.

“Jaysus,” the Fermanagh chieftain said.

“M-Mag—”

“Aye, Sorley.”

“G-Give them to Angus . . . m-must be kept s-secret and . . . t-together. N-Never separated.”

“Angus? Should they not go to your eldest? A man in his position would be better able to protect them.”

He shook his head, and it dizzied him. He had always intended to give the torcs to Gillecallum. Angus was the next best choice; his youngest son would sell his own arms before anything that had belonged to his father, whom he idolized. “M-Make up a curse. T-Torcs must not be s-separated. P-Promise me.”

Maguire placed the torcs around his own neck and pulled his tunic up to cover them. “I promise, Sorley. I’ll not be lettin’ ye down in this.”

Maguire would do exactly as he wished. “Thank y—” His head wilted to the right, and he noticed the sun flashing through holes in the sailcloth. They glinted like the waves near the jetty at Islay. He blinked, unable to believe his eyes. Is that? It is! Sea Eagle rocked at the jetty, but there was no wind to fill Agnetha’s blood-red sail.

He was onboard then, weightless and seated at the helm with the tiller in his hand. A herring gull hovered just beyond the starboard rail. It cocked its head to look at him for a moment, and then flew to the mast, where its beating wings billowed the sail. Sea Eagle groaned and lifted her bow. The gull soared over the masthead and past the prow. It skimmed the swells and led him toward the mounting glow of two golden arcs on the sea’s western horizon. Somerled gasped at their brilliance. He gripped the tiller and steered toward their light.

“I’m coming, my love. I’m coming.”

Chapter 50

Iona, 2013

Hamaziel stepped outside The MacDonald Centre, a lime-washed cottage facing the sound. He had time to enjoy a bit of sun before the second ferry arrived on Iona with the first tourists of the day. The first ferry had come and gone in the early morning mist, as it always did, delivering supplies but no passengers.

With only a handful of cars on the island, Iona’s proprietors hurried on foot past the Centre’s gate, their arms full of provisions retrieved from the ferry dock. Hamaziel stepped over a grizzled dog and sat on a weather-beaten bench beside the Centre’s door. The next ferry would bring a few hardy tourists who had spent the night in Oban. The rest of the day’s expected visitors were still in Glasgow, embarking on the first leg of their arduous journey. The day would see them on a train, a bus, and two ferries before they set foot on Iona.

More than a few of those weary travelers would make their way to The MacDonald Centre, where Hamaziel—now Alasdair—would answer a barrage of questions about Clan Donald and the Lords of the Isles. Somerled had made good on his promise to populate the world, and his descendants found their way to Iona in large numbers each year. His American progenies, in particular, had a thirst for knowledge about their roots. They would be among the first to rush into the Centre, and Hamaziel would do his best to help them.

“Morning, Alasdair,” someone shouted from the road, startling him.

“Morning, Jim,” Hamaziel said.

“Gonny be a cracker of a day,” Jim said, swerving an overloaded dolly toward the Centre’s gate. “Got some mail for ye.”

Hamaziel rose slowly and approached the crooked gate, eyeing Jim’s boxes. They were likely full of ingredients for his restaurant’s kitchen. “Looks like you won’t go hungry, at least.”

Jim laughed, set the dolly upright, and pushed down the hand brake. “Ye know how the Yanks like their grub.”

“And I know how ye like their money,” Hamaziel said, winking.

“Indeed, I do.” Jim grinned widely and patted his pants pocket. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a few letters, which he handed to Hamaziel. “Those are postmarked weeks ago. Ye really should consider internet access, Alasdair. My daughter would be more than happy to help ye learn.”

“One of these days, I’ll take ye up on it,” Hamaziel said. Azazel had been pestering him to do the same for a year. Azazel—known by his colleagues as Dr. George McFadden—was widely recognized as the foremost expert on Celtic antiquities. He sat in Edinburgh, poised and ready for an inquiry that would reveal the whereabouts of Breagha’s torc, which had gone missing centuries ago. There was some urgency in finding it these days, as Hamaziel suspected Somerled had already found his way home.

“I’m away then.” Jim grunted, gave the dolly a push, and continued on his way.

“Thanks a bunch, Jim. Appreciate it.” Hamaziel opened the first letter, an order from Stirling for one of the books in the Centre’s gift shop. The second was from a writer in Canada asking for more information about Beatrice, Somerled’s daughter and the first prioress of Iona’s Augustinian nunnery. The third letter, sealed in an official envelope from the National Museum of Scotland, was in Azazel’s scrawling handwriting:

H—

I have exciting news. John at The Crossed Swords was supposed to tell you to call me, but I haven’t heard from you yet, so I fear you may not have received the message. John needs to lay off the whisky and YOU really need to get a phone and e-mail.

Brace yourself: I have received an inquiry from a woman in rural Pennsylvania, USA. Of all places! She found a torc buried there on the family farm—McConnell was the name. She sent me a pic. It’s Breagha’s, no doubt about it.

I responded immediately, of course, but she was leaving on a trip to—guess where?—yes, bonnie Scotland. Hopefully, my letter finds you before she does. I know you said you suspect Somerled has made his way home again. Let’s pray Breagha has as well.

Call me!

—A

PS— Is that miserable old dog of yours still alive?

Hamaziel refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope. Would it be too much to hope that Breagha had found her torc? How did it get to America—and why Pennsylvania, a landlocked wilderness of fields and trees far from the sea? He inspected the postmark on the corner of the envelope. September 6, 2013. Exactly two weeks ago.

The second ferry of the morning had departed Fionnphort and was chugging across the Sound of Iona. More tourists than expected packed its upper, forward deck, anxious for a glimpse of St. Columba’s island and the restored abbey rising up from the landscape. Sparks of filtered sun glinted along the ferry’s railing as cameras recorded the approach to the sacred island. He patted the old dog and went back inside the Centre to throw some peat on the fire. Americans always complained about the creeping chill.

Hamaziel busied himself behind the counter in the Centre. The day had taken a sudden, watery turn, as it often did, and the gift shop quickly filled with tourists seeking shelter from the rain. Only a few of them were of Somerled’s bloodline, he knew, but most of them showed polite interest in the exhibits. He supposed it eased their guilt about using him for his dry building. He didn’t mind. Maybe they’d learn something.

“Oh, look,” one of them said, “that’s that wee building we passed on the way to the abbey.” He pointed at a postcard of St. Oran’s Chapel, the building Somerled had erected over Breagha’s grave.

“Says here it was built by Somerled of Argyll,” the man’s wife said, “whoever he was.”

Hamaziel winced and straightened the kilt pin boxes inside the glass counter in front of him. It was sometimes hard to accept that time had, for the most part, forgotten the man who sacrificed so much for the benefit of his people.

“Aye, and look, hen. Remember that cross we saw in the museum? This says it came from here. Oh, and that magnificent grave slab, hen! Remember?”

Yes, Hamaziel wanted to say, Somerled, King of Argyll, commissioned that cross, and that grave slab you admired once marked the final resting place of Hakon of Dublin, his personal bodyguard. Without both of these great men, you would probably be conversing in Norse right now.

The tiny bells on the front door jingled as a group of five more soaked tourists ducked in from the rain. Four of them giggled, whipped off their hoods, and headed for the restroom. The fifth separated herself from them and glided toward the paintings hanging on the far wall—Somerled’s paintings. Or rather, William McDonnell’s paintings. She was dressed in black leggings, riding boots, and a MacDonald Ancient tartan skirt. When she slid her hood from her head, Hamaziel stifled a gasp. He did not need to see her face to know her eyes were vivid green.

My precious, precious child. Thank you, Father!

The old dog, more of a doorstop than a companion in recent years, lifted his head and flared his nostrils. He rose awkwardly to his arthritic paws and ambled around the counter into the center of the room, much to the delight of the tourists.

A girl squealed and hugged her father’s thigh as the furry giant brushed past her. The dog was intent on reaching Breagha, who appeared captivated by William’s artwork. She seemed particularly rapt by an oil painting depicting a square-rigged galley. Hamaziel couldn’t wait for her to turn the corner and notice the paintings of the chestnut-haired girl with green eyes.

The dog sat down by her side and leaned against her thigh. She jumped, then grinned and squatted to his level. “Well, hello there, old-timer,” she said in a lovely Pennsylvania accent.

“Shower’s lifted,” a tourist said.

Bells tinkled as the room emptied. Only Breagha stayed, one hand patting the dog’s shoulder and the other resting on a leather bag hanging from her shoulder. She made her way to the counter, with the rickety dog limping at her heels.

“He’s certainly an old guy, isn’t he?” she asked Hamaziel, her eyes twinkling.

“We’re both old,” Hamaziel replied, smiling. Very old. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her. “You’re a MacDonald?”

“Yeah.” She slipped her bag from her shoulder and set it on the floor beside the dog. She wore no wedding band. “Well, I guess I am. McConnell is my family name.”

“Ah, yes. And you’re an American?”

“Please don’t hold it against me.” She laughed as she scanned the kilt pins in the glass case. “I’m pretty sure most people in Scotland think I have a direct line to the White House. I’ve never even been to Washington.”

“Sorry about that,” Hamaziel said. “Many are upset by America’s war on terror. I hope you find the residents of Iona less judgmental than those on the mainland.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. The third ferry of the day would soon arrive. He hoped William was on it. William usually delivered his latest paintings on Fridays, but not always on the third ferry. These days, he needed a few extra hours to nurse what had become regular hangovers. His divorce had been a bitter one. William had been in the bottle ever since.

“Where are you staying?” Hamaziel asked, hoping she had booked an inn on the island.

“I have a room booked over in Fionnphort. I was hoping to spend the day on the island and take the last ferry back to Mull, but this weather . . . I’m Ann, by the way.” She held out a hand, and he shook it.

“Alasdair MacDonald. Nice to meet you,” Hamaziel said. He studied her face, concentrating on her nostrils, which were as normal as any other tourist’s. “What brings you to Iona?” He noticed the crucifix hanging at her throat. “Have you come to see the abbey?”

“I . . . I was hoping to find a grave.”

Were you now?

She reached into her bag and withdrew two wilted maps, one of Scotland and a smaller one of Iona. Hamaziel noticed the ‘x’s she had scrawled on the places she had visited.

“I see you’ve been to the stone cairn marking the Battle of Renfrew,” he said.

“Yeah, that was pretty disappointing. There’s not much to it, is there?” she replied.

“Sadly, no. The battle is all but forgotten. I’m surprised an American would have any interest in it.” He pointed at the ‘x’ near Campbeltown on Kintyre. “Were you to see Saddell Abbey?” he asked, knowing it was the place mistakenly recorded by Clan Donald historians as Somerled’s gravesite.

“Yeah, beautiful place. Didn’t find what I was looking for, though.”

“No?”

“No.” A wire rack holding postcards squeaked as she turned it.

“Well,” Hamaziel said, “if you’ve been to Renfrew and Saddell, then I must assume you are looking for Somerled of Argyll.”

The wire rack stopped squeaking, and she faced him, her eyes two emeralds in bright sunlight. “I thought maybe he was here, but I have been all over the island this morning, and there is no marked grave.”

“No, there isn’t.” He wondered if she had seen the shrine inside St. Oran’s Chapel. It had been grand in its day, but time and vandals had destroyed most of it. When the Church of Scotland restored the grand abbey, they included the tiny chapel in the repairs, but Somerled’s shrine was of no religious significance, and they simply bricked it shut to serve as a wall.

“Were you to see St. Oran’s Chapel?” he asked.

“The tiny building in the Street of the Dead?”

Hamaziel nodded.

“Not yet. I was just heading for it when the rain hit.”

The Norns.

“Some weather you have here,” she said. “On the news this morning, the weatherman predicted a sunny day. Thought I’d hit the jackpot, weather-wise.”

While she refolded her maps, Hamaziel walked to the front window. The street was empty and the waters of the sound were growing choppy. Under low, dirty clouds, the third ferry had arrived and was chugging back to Mull, not toward the dock at Fionnphort, but northeast of it. “I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but it looks like they’re tucking in the ferry behind Frenchman’s Island. Forecast must be for a gale.”

“Oh my god,” she said, “will I be stuck here?”

“There are worse places to be stuck,” he replied, just as a sheet of icy rain pelted the window.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend. This is the most amazing place I’ve ever seen in my whole life. It’s just that there are only a handful of inns, and I’m pretty sure none of them will have any vacancy.”

“No one on Iona would put you out on the street. You can stay here. I have a spare room upstairs, a sitting room with a warm fire, and a cupboard full of tea and biscuits. If you’re worried I might try it on with you, I might . . . if I were about a hundred years younger.” He laughed, and the concern faded from her face. “I’ll be glad for the company, especially since you share my fascination with Somerled of Argyll. Besides, the dog seems to like you.”

She smiled and ruffled the fur on top of the dog’s head. “I like him, too.”

“Most people who come to Iona are searching for something. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” He glanced at the clock again.

Come on, William.

She crossed to the front window, which was cloudy with steam. “Looks like I won’t be your only company. Someone’s running up your walk. I hope you have enough beds.”

“Jaaaaaysus!” William shouted, as he entered the room with a spattering of rain and a stiff gust of wind. He slammed the door behind him, and the string of bells whacked against the wooden frame. “Holy God, Alasdair, that’s a bad one.” He shook the water droplets from the bin liners covering his latest paintings. “Boked my guts oot o’er the side of that ferry. Afraid ye’re stuck wi’ me for a day or three. Hope the pub stockpiled enough whisky.”

Hamaziel looked past William’s shoulder where Ann covered a smile with her hand. William followed his gaze and flushed red when he saw her. “Oh, Jaysus,” he said, “I’m sorry. Didn’t realize ye had anyone here.” He leaned his paintings against the counter, took off his slicker, and rushed toward her, drying his hands on his jeans as he crossed the room. “I’m so sorry,” he said, extending a hand toward her. “Please excuse my language. I thought it was just us pig-ignorant men. I’m William McDonnell, painter and offender of innocent tourists. I should have looked before I . . .”

He must have met her eyes then—the eyes he had painted a thousand times.

Hamaziel watched as they stared at each other above their clasped hands, both of them looking confused and a little frightened.

William’s eyes watered, and Ann’s nostrils flared. Her shoulders rose in deep inhale. She exhaled slowly, smiled, and said, “I’m . . . Ann. Ann McConnell. Pleased to meet you.”

The storm intensified. Nobody was leaving Iona anytime soon.

Hamaziel rejoiced and thanked his Father.

The Norns continued their weaving.

Due south, on the northern coast of Ireland, the rain hammered at the rocks where Semjaza still screamed.

Also from Soul Mate Publishing and Julie Doherty:

SCATTERED SEEDS

In 18th century Ireland, drought forces Edward and Henry McConnell to assume false names and escape to the New World with the one valuable thing they still own–their ancestor’s gold torc.

Edward must leave love behind. Henry finds it in the foul belly of The Charming Hannah , only to lose it when an elusive trader purchases his sweetheart’s indenture.

With nothing but their broken hearts, a lame ox, and a torc they cannot sell without invoking a centuries-old curse, they head for the backcountry, where all hope rests upon getting their seed in the ground. Under constant threat of Indian attack, they endure crushing toil and hardship. By summer, they have wheat for their reward, and unexpected news of Henry’s lost love. They emerge from the wilderness and follow her trail to Philadelphia, unaware her cruel new master awaits them there, his heart set on obtaining the priceless torc they protect.

Available now on Amazon: SCATTERED SEEDS

THE SCENT OF FOREVER

Author Ann McConnell doesn’t know she’s reincarnated—or that she carries angelic DNA. She only knows she’s alone and off the rails since Mike left her sitting in a fertility clinic. Now, her career is in a nosedive and Mike’s all over Facebook with his girlfriend and new baby.

Battling despair, Ann focuses on renovating her ancestors’ cabin. When she finds a gold torc hidden there, it amplifies her sense of smell and sends her into a tailspin. Curious about her ancestors and their powerful relic, she embarks on a journey to explore her heritage. Her quest steers her toward Somerled of Argyll, whose descendants she can now identify by scent. She travels to Scotland in search of his grave, unaware he’s her 12th century soul mate. He’s reborn, nearby, and trying to find her. So is her demonic stalker.

If Ann can’t escape the foul clutch of a madman, it will spell disaster for reuniting souls, and—unthinkably—for humanity itself.

Available now on Amazon: THE SCENT OF FOREVER

A VALLEY TOO FAR

Widow Catrina Davis lies scalped amid the ashes of her frontier home. Death seems fitting and even welcome, but concern for her abducted daughter and grandson forces her to rise and seek help. She reels toward Fort Bigham, finding it—days later—engulfed in flames.

Scots-Irish trader Stewart Buchanan collects the lost and unwanted. He saved his Seneca housemaid from the Allegheny River and his apprentice from an asylum. Now fate gifts him with a new mouth to feed—an Irish-hating widow discovered outside Fort Bigham. He finds her sharp tongue oddly charming, a matter complicating his plan to marry a girl whose dowry he desperately needs.

When Catrina’s pleas to save her loved ones fall on deaf ears, she trades petticoats for breeches to launch a rescue mission of her own. Fueled by a mother’s unwavering love and bent on revenge, she confronts the frontier, unaware she’s only steps ahead of a thousand provincial guns—including Stewart’s—and about to get caught up in a bloody battle of the French and Indian War.

In a journey fraught with peril, it’s the untamed wilderness of the heart that proves more dangerous to cross.

Available now on Amazon: A VALLEY TOO FAR

Table of Contents

SCENT OF THE SOUL

Books by Julie Doherty

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50