“Perhaps.” When she traveled once again to Skuld’s world, she would seek out that path to see for herself. “I’ve no the least clue on how to ken who my porridge is without seeking the knowledge from Skuld.”
“Oh, you’ll ken, little one.” Orabilis chuckled again and dropped her spoon back into the big black pot. “And without any interference from the Seeress, I promise. When he holds you close with his lips covering yers and you’ve no the desire to push him away, you’ll ken well enough. The fire will rage and there will be only one way to tamp down a blaze such as that. Now go and get yer things ready for yer journey back to Tordenet. Yer brother’s men will reach the house soon and I canna think they’ll be wanting to linger.”
Christiana hurried to the bedchamber, grateful for the excuse to escape. Her cheeks flamed with the memory of what had happened in the shed last night. The fire had burned then and, in truth, it burned even now as she remembered the feel ofChase’s lips upon hers. But was it the same fire of which her Shen-Ora spoke?
She gathered the bags Orabilis had prepared for her, taking her time in order to calm herself before she returned to the main room. There, a clay jar waited for her on the mantel above the fireplace, holding the precious elixir that would allow her to see whether Chase might indeed be the man her Shen-Ora had described.
At the doorway she stopped and closed her fingers around the small pouch that rested against her skin. Inside were the messages from the gods.
One to be Reborn, one to be a Warrior.
Was what she felt for Chase love, as the crones in her life all seemed ready to claim, or was it simply duty? She was prepared to give her life in order to save his. But that wasn’t because of love, surely. That was only because it was as the gods had foretold.
After all, she could hardly expect to be Reborn without first preparing for death.
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Twenty-three
BRIE SMOOTHED HERhands down the soft material of the brightly colored overdress. In all her years, she’d never worn anything so beautiful.
Her hair, braided around her face, interlaced with sprigs of dried lavender, hung shining down her back.To flow around you like a curtain when you dance,Eleyne had said.
It did indeed flow when she twirled. She’d tried it. Twice already.
For perhaps the first time in her life, Bridget MacCulloch felt beautiful.
“I’ve checked through all the goods in both wagons and it’s no use.” Eleyne limped toward her, a small bundle clasped in one hand. “You’ll have to perform without shoes. There’s none here what has slippers to fit those great feet of yers. You can take those ugly things yer wearing off once we reach the great hall. Oh...” The annoying woman stopped, unwrapping the bundle in her hand. “I do have this, though you must swear on all that’s holy, you’ll use it with great care.”
“This” turned out to be a fine chain of silver, so intricately delicate, Brie could easily believe it had been spun by Magic from the Faeries themselves. Tiny crescent-shaped discs hung from it and made a tinkling noise when Eleyne lifted it to show her.
“It’s beautiful,” Brie said, sounding like some moonstruck maiden.
“Aye. Lean yer great head down where I can reach you and we’ll fasten it in yer hair.”
Brie could easily hate the petite blonde, if not for Eleyne’s occasional lapses of kindness.
When Brie stood, the chain draped in a loop across her forehead, warm against her skin, giving off tiny little melodious notes with each movement of her head.
Perhaps Eleyne wasn’t the worst person in the world, after all.
A long, low whistle of appreciation sounded as Mathew and Hugo rounded the wagon to join them, the younger man pulling a small cart filled with their instruments.
“Quite nice,” Mathew complimented.
“Dinna you get carried away, cousin,” Eleyne cautioned. “You can adorn a cow with all the pretties you can find, but in the end, all you’ve got yerself is a dressed-up cow.”
No, Eleyne was indeed the worst person in the world.
“We’re ready then. Come along with you,” Hugo said, heading out, leaving Mathew to pull the littlecart. “We’ve tonight to warm them up and then tomorrow’s performance when the laird’s sister returns. I can fairly feel the silver MacDowylt has promised in my pocket already.”
“No to mention whatever coins the soldiers might toss our way. Perhaps the laird’s sister will be delayed.” Mathew lifted his cousin up to sit in the back of the cart with their instruments before hurrying forward to walk next to Hugo on their short trek to the castle. “Perhaps we’ll have even more performances here.”
“I’d no mind that,” Hugo answered. “No at all, considering this laird’s generosity.”
Brie tempered her steps, walking next to the injured Eleyne, ignoring the woman as she went on and on with last-minute reminders about pointing your toe and feeling the beat of the music.
Instead, Brie cleared her thoughts, searching for the center she needed to inhabit before battle. Tonight would be her best chance. The laird would be lulled by drink and the performance would allow her close access to him. With his guard down she would strike, swift and deadly, claiming her revenge.
