The falconer set off over the long grass, following the bird. He checked his stride when he realized Dair was slow to follow, could not even keep up with an old man. “No hurry now,” Coll said kindly. Dair felt his skin heat. “The bird’s glad to see ye, Alasdair Og. I’ve not seen her so pleased since she caught a fine fat hare a few weeks past—the first of the season for her, it was.”
The falconer reached into his pouch for a scrap of meat and held it on the glove. The goshawk circled, then swooped, coming in low and fast, brushing the bent tops of the grass with her wings before lifting to make an elegant landing on the heavy gauntlet. She devoured her treat and the falconer let her go again. This time she sailed out over the sea, her shadow falling on the waves as she coasted on the breeze and scanned the water below. She had one eye on him, Dair knew, even as she enjoyed her flight, reveled in the feeling of freedom and strength. He stood bound to the earth and envied her. She flew above the masts of the ships lying at anchor in the bay, idle since his return. The wind tugged on Dair’s clothes, his hair, caught itself on the rough-knit seams of his scars, but if he closed his eyes, he could imagine standing on the prow of a ship, flying . . .
The goshawk called, her cry high and clear, like the notes of a song.
A lullaby.
The sweet tune he’d woken up with played again in his head. Coll handed Dair the glove and a bit of food, and Dair waited, breathless, as the bird returned, landed on his wrist, her weight familiar, her wingtips brushing his cheek like a caress.
It was the first moment of pure joy he’d known for a very long time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Moire knew when someone was coming long before they appeared in her little clearing. It wasn’t magic—the birds went quiet in the trees, and their sudden stillness was always a warning. Still, it surprised her to see Chief Sinclair’s virgin riding along the path to her door with English John.
The lass had only been at Carraig Brigh for a day and a night—and Moire had thought it would take her a good deal longer than that to find her way here. Did it mean something was wrong? Ah, but if something was truly amiss, then the Sinclair would have sent a troop of clansmen to fetch her, not a wee lass.
She had tended Alasdair Og for barely a single cycle of the moon before the chief returned to Carraig Brigh with the girl. She hadn’t expected him to come back so quickly, with a virgin in hand. She’d thought the errand would be as impossible as sending him out to capture a kelpie or a fairy queen. Yet here she was, the lass herself, coming along the track. She was certainly as pretty as a fairy queen.
Just how had the Sinclair convinced her to come—ifconvincewas the right word for it—for what kind of kin would allow a wee virgin lass to make such a journey? Perhaps the girl had been forced to come to Carraig Brigh to heal Alasdair Og, the way Moire herself had not been given any choice in the matter. Maybe she’d been promised a fine reward. Moire felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of the poor lass’s fate if she failed, but it was in the goddess’s hands now, since it was she who had wanted a virgin brought here in the first place. It hadn’t been Moire’s idea.
She didn’t bother to get up as the garrons stopped before her. Her hands were full. She squinted at English John, warning him away with a sharp look, and waited until he took himself off down the path once he’d helped the virgin off her horse. Such a slender, delicate lass she was—more fairy than human. Moire murmured a charm against enchantment, just in case. She would have made a sign, too, as further protection, but she was holding a fox kit she’d rescued from a hunter’s snare, and that took both hands. The creature was panting with fear and pain, its anxiety made worse by the appearance of English John and the girl.
The fox’s paw was badly cut, swollen with corruption, much like Alasdair Og’s leg had been.
“Come and help me,” Moire said, not bothering with a greeting. She held the trembling fox in her hands and let the girl approach. She moved with shy grace and gentle dignity, despite her limp. Her eyes were only for the injured creature, not Moire or the hut. She didn’t bother with a greeting either.
“Snare?” she asked.
“Aye. Bad. What to do?” Moire demanded, testing her.
The lass gently touched the fox’s head. To Moire’s surprise, the creature didn’t flinch. “Is the wound clean?” she asked softly. This close, Moire could smell heather, the salt of the sea, and something else, something that brought to mind cool water on a hot day, a simple, delightful pleasure. She watched the fox’s nose twitch, knew the creature smelled it too and was comforted.
“Washed with agrimony, alder bark, and hyssop,” Moire said.
“Stitched?”
“Not yet. Creatures hate that most, don’t know it’s to help, not harm.”
She saw the understanding in the girl’s hazel eyes, eyes like the fox’s own, golden, soft, half wild.
“He could take a wee tincture of nightshade, perhaps, if you have it,” the lass answered.
“To deaden the pain, calm him,” Moire murmured. Fia MacLeod’s long fingers continued to stroke the creature’s head, and Moire felt the little body, bow-string tight in her grip, begin to ease.
“Aye. Something mild to help him rest and heal, someplace quiet and safe for a day or two,” she said to the fox.
Moire stared up into her young face. She could see the edge of an old scar, a thin silvery line that traced the side of her brow and curled over her cheek like a tendril of ivy. The scar wasn’t ugly—it was intriguing, made one want to come closer, read it like a rune. Moire held out the fox and let the girl take it. Their fingers brushed together for an instant. Her touch was human enough. There were scars on her hand and wrist, too, disappearing under her sleeve, which was cut long to hide the marks.
“How many years have you? Who taught you?” Moire asked as she stepped into the hut to rummage in baskets and pots to find the nightshade, a bone needle, and a strip of cloth to bind the wound. She pinned the girl with a glance as sharp as the needle and waited for an answer.
“There was a healer at Glen Iolair when I was a child. My father brought her to tend to me when I was injured. She stayed and made her home at Glen Iolair. She taught me. And I’m twenty years old,” she said politely, saying neither too little or too much.
“You still limp,” Moire said..
Her cheeks flushed. “The bone was set too late.”
Moire grunted, made the tincture of nightshade. Fia held the creature, murmured to it as she administered it. Moire reached up and plucked one of the long red hairs from Fia’s head, and the girl allowed it, knew what it was for. She cradled the drowsy fox in her arms, crooned softly to it as Moire threaded the needle with the hair and stitched the wound. Moire let Fia bandage the injury.
