Page 28 of Connal

Valerie frowned. “Are there a lot of people who decide to go to the mainland?”

“Some wish to forget that which cast them here,” Duncan admitted. “A slaver ship that wrecked near Caladh brought Lachina’s màthair to us. She already carried her daughter, sired by one of her captors, and gave birth a day later. She didnae want Lachina, and so hated all men that Merrick wouldnae take her to join the Finfolk. The king showed her kindness by taking her memories and granting her wish to be returned to her family on the mainland.”

“As long as she agreed to that, maybe it was.” Her gaze strayed to one of the arches, where Duncan saw Nyall standing and watching them. “Why does that man always look like he wants to toss me off a cliff into the bay?”

Duncan thought the captain probably did. “’Tis his nature to suspect everyone outside the clan, Mistress.”

Valerie waved at Nyall. “I come in peace, Captain. Honestly, I mean you and the MacMar no harm. You can trust me not to steal the good silver. I hate polishing anything.”

The captain’s lips twisted, but he turned and walked away.

“He’s never going to join my fan club.” She gave Duncan a wry look. “So who’s next on your healing schedule?”

From the gallery Shaw watched the healer leave the hall with Valerie. Doubtless Duncan would keep her busy helping him with his patients until the evening meal. That would give him time to track Connal, who had yet to return to the stronghold. Not since Joana’s death had his brother spent more than an hour outside, and yet today he had gone to the trysting pool and the Stone forest.

Even more interesting, the laird had taken Valerie with him––but only the lady had returned to the stronghold.

Shaw stopped at his chamber to don his protective armor, gloves and a heavy cloak before he headed for the petrified grove, where he found Connal’s boot prints and followed them to the old Pritani ritual circle. He hated the sight of the stone ring, for the primitive carvings depicting the Gods and spirits reminded him too much of the years stolen from him by another, far more ferocious tribe. No one asked about his time enslaved anymore, probably because they now feared learning the truth.

The Pritani skinwork on his arm juddered slightly, reminding him to leash more tightly the darkness inside him.

Tracking Connal’s path, Shaw ended up at the top of the ridge, where he could see the three valleys below. Two had been settled by crofters, and the third held bountiful apple, cherry, pear and plum orchards. How the laird had managed to climb so high without falling perplexed him, for his brother’s mortal weakness made his brain tilt the moment he rose even a few steps above ground level. Then he glanced to one side and saw the fluttering corner of a tartan caught on some brambles below the ridge top.

Shaw swore as he hurried down to the thicket, in which lay the laird on his back, his hands folded on his chest as he stared up at the sky.

“I’m well,” Connal told him without looking at him. “’Tis in truth a fine place to rest. I ken you’d come look for me.”

“Aye, for the pig-headed arse I call my laird and brother needs a wet nurse of late.” Glad he’d had the good sense to venture out well-protected, Shaw began yanking bramble canes aside. “You shallnae again leave the stronghold alone.”

“I didnae yet make you laird,” Connal reminded him as he tried to rise, winced, and lay back down. “I walked to the top of the ridge without aid.”

“At least you possessed the good sense to fall down the sloped side, my lord,” he told him, finally reaching the center of the patch and hoisting Connal out of the barbed trap. Once he’d carried him down the ridge, he set him on his feet and surveyed the damage. Hundreds of scratches covered the laird’s body, and blood spotted every inch of his leine and trousers. “If you’d tumbled the other direction you might hold your head sideways now. What proved you by such?”

“I climbed the cliff stairs with Mistress Baker in my arms, and yet no’ a single wobble plagued me.” Connal wiped some blood trickling down his cheek. “’Twas reasonable try climbing a height again.”

“Your thinking and reason, they’ve yet made an acquaintance.” Shaw understood his desire, however, for he experienced the same every time he beheld forests, trees, and even wood rounds in need of chopping. ‘’Twas Mistress Baker put such a notion in your fool head?”

“I wish to show her the island. For that we must climb to the ridge pass.” He glanced back toward the stronghold. “She thinks me the same as the melia in the Stone forest.”

The similarity between his brother and the Tree Fae had never occurred to him, and yet in but a handful of days Valerie had seen it. “She’s shrewder than she looks, that lass. You should wed her.”

“I proposed such to her. She refused me.” As they walked toward the stronghold Connal remained silent, yet stopped in sight of the gates. “You ken much of the old Pritani magic. ’Tis a spell that may return Mistress Baker to her time?”

As he ever did when reminded of the NightRiver tribe, Shaw stiffened. “I’m no shaman.”

“Mayhap the druids, then.” The laird sighed. “They cannae come to Caladh, but you could sail to the mainland and make inquiries. ’Twas a settlement no’ far from Aberdeen.”

The moment any druid laid eyes on his skinwork, Shaw thought, they’d likely cast a spell to send him to oblivion. “I’m no leaving the island while you and Merrick remain at odds. Send Fletcher or Duncan.” He thought for a moment. “Couldnae the ferryman ken something?”

Mentioning the half-Fae hermit made Connal frown. The ferryman twice each year sailed for the mainland with a few clansmen and the goods the islanders wished to sell. He also brought them back after they purchased the few foods and goods, things the clan could not produce on Caladh, as well as new livestock for breeding purposes. Because the old hermit disliked mortals as much as the clan, and refused to speak to anyone, no one knew his name or what he did the rest of the time. He lived on one of the tidal islets just large enough to accommodate his cottage and dock, and even the Finfolk avoided him.

“I shall visit him and ask,” the laird finally said. “At worst he will toss me into the bay.”

Shaw shook his head. “I shall accompany you. Bathe and change first.”

An hour later he went with Connal to the dock, and took a two-man skiff over to the tidal islet. Built along the lines of a birlinn, a small craft favored by Viking raiders, the lightweight wooden boat sliced through the shallow water between Caladh and the ferryman’s sanctuary. When they reached his short dock, Shaw eyed recent repairs made to the hull of the hermit’s much larger boat, which he rebuilt every century.

“Stay with the skiff,” the laird said. ‘’Tis best if I speak with him alone.”