chapter 12
All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.
—GALILEO GALILEI
“You intend Ciara to ride on your dragon?” the Sinclair asked.
“Aye. Ciara has proven herself an adept rider.” And Eirik’s dragon wanted her to ride again, craved it like the beast had shown desire for nothing else.
Lais scowled, his blond brows beetled. “You would have my…Mairi ride your dragon as well?”
“You could take her across on a boat,” Eirik offered, expecting Lais to refuse.
An eagle preferred to fly.
Besides, the ride to where the Sinclairs kept their boats for the crossing combined with the crossing itself would take several hours longer than direct flight. Even if the eagle was considerably slower than a dragon in the sky.
But Lais nodded rapidly. “’Tis a sound idea, that.”
It was a daft idea, but since Eirik was the one to recommend it, even expecting it to be dismissed, he refused to withdraw his words now.
“I will accompany Lais and Mairi in the boat.” Ciara sounded far too pleased at that option.
Eirik and her adopted father both said, “No,” at the same time.
Surprised that the vehemence in the laird’s tone matched his own, Eirik let the other man explain it to his daughter.
“But why not?” Ciara asked just as Eirik had expected her to.
“From the moment you leave this keep and until you return to it with the Faolchú Chridhe, you will not leave the dragon shifter’s side.”
Ah, the man wanted Ciara protected at all costs. ’Twas understandable. Not only was she the laird’s daughter but she was princess of the Faol. The Faolchú Chridhe would be of limited use to their people without one of her blood to bring forth its full power.
“It is a matter of your safety,” Abigail said to her daughter. “Please do as your father asks.”
Ciara’s eyes filled and she nodded without another word. Her love for her adopted family at least was not in question.
No one commented on the Sinclair’s muttering that, “’Twas not a request.”
There was little Ciara needed for her journey to the Balmoral holding.
Laird Lachlan, her adopted uncle, would provide for all their needs on his island, but where their journey would take them after that, she did not know. Best to be prepared.
She attached a purse made of the Sinclair tartan and lined with leather to the chain she wore around her hips. Inside was a small knife, used mostly for paring vegetables but useful in other circumstances as well. She’d also packed a handkerchief, a packet of herbs to make a tea both good for calming and to pour over a small wound for cleansing, and her last memento of her brother, his ring.
Under the sleeve of her blouse, Ciara wore the arm circlet of bronze her father had given her mother on their wedding day. She only took it off to shift. The etched image of two wolves rubbing noses and surrounded by intricate lines had always given her comfort. She needed every boost to her courage she could manage for what was to come ahead. Of that she was certain.
She’d fought the call of the Faolchú Chridhe for so long, giving in to it made her mouth dry with fear.
The fear shamed her and she would not give in to it.
Ciara added the short and very sharp dirk with the jeweled handle passed down by her great-great-grandmother. She settled the thin leather around her hips so it rested under her chain and the dirk was almost hidden by the small purse attached to it.
Then she opened the low trunk Abigail and Talorc had given Ciara when she first came to live with them. They’d told her to keep her treasures in it, and she had. Those she’d brought with her and the few she’d accumulated since.
She pushed aside the first Sinclair plaid she’d ever been given, just a shawl really. Abigail had explained that Ciara could wear it over her shoulders while still wearing the Donegal’s colors as her skirt. It had given her the opportunity to show her loyalty to the Sinclair while taking her time to give up her old clan…the last link to her dead family.
Giving her that shawl was the first of many compassions Abigail had shown Ciara.
Underneath the shawl was a carefully folded plaid of the Donegal colors. Ciara had last worn it six months after coming to the Sinclairs. Abigail had presented her with a skirt in the Sinclair colors, a new, smaller shawl that barely covered her shoulders and pins of bronze stamped with the Sinclair crest to hold it to a new blouse so white, Abigail had to have taken great pains to bleach the fabric.
The laird’s lady had also included a bodice of finely spun black wool and explained the clothing a fashionable mix of her homeland and the Highland colors. It was too many layers for a shifter to wear expediently, not to mention too English, but Ciara had found herself unable to tell the human woman such.
She’d merely spoken her thanks and come down the next morning wearing a similar outfit to the one she’d worn every day since. Abigail had made herself a matching tartan and bodice, showing the world they were family, if not by blood.
Ciara pulled out the Donegal plaid and laid it on her bed, then unfolded it to reveal the sword within. With emeralds the same deep green of those on her dirk and the size of her thumb decorating the hilt, it was easily more than half as tall as she was.
It had been her brother’s, and their father’s before that, and their grandfather’s before that. She did not know how long it had been in their family, but the heavy bronze shone with years of care.
The raised images of a conriocht, a dragon and a griffin surrounded the grip. The conriocht was in the center, with a smaller emerald than the ones on the hilt above the beast’s head. The dragon clutched an amber stone in his claws and the griffin had a deep blue sapphire under a forepaw.
The sword was heavy and solid, a fitting sword for a king, she’d always thought.
Ciara’s knees turned to water and she sank to the floor beside the bed.
A sword fit for a king.
But surely if he was descendant of the original Faol kings, Ciara’s father would have been laird. He had not been a leader, though. He’d been loyal to the laird before Rowland and transferred that loyalty to the laird that did so much to hurt the Donegal clan.
Her father had been long dead by the time Barr had taken over as acting laird of the Donegal clan at the order of Scotland’s king.
And Galen had already been firmly under Wirp and Luag’s influence.
Barr had rescued their clan from the leadership of an evil but powerful Chrechte, but not in time to save her brother. Barr had done his best to save Ciara though, and she would always be grateful.
She ran her hand over the conriocht on the sword. When had the last true conriocht walked the earth? Had it been one of her ancestors? Had he been a good man, or corrupted by his lust for power like Rowland? How long ago had the wolves lost their sacred stone?
And how? Apparently, the Éan still had their stone, so how could the wolves have lost something so precious?
Had it been taken by the Éan, like her brother claimed? Or the other people of the Chrechte, the Paindeal…those that shared their nature with the big cats of prey.
The elders always said the stories of the Paindeal were myth, but then the Faol that did not hunt them had believed the Éan a myth these many generations.
Ciara grasped the sword, her hand butt up against the hilt. Oddly, the metal felt hot against her skin, though her bedchamber was still cool from the night’s drop in temperature. It would not warm until later in the day when the sun moved to this side of the keep.
The sword should be cool as well.
Only its handle grew even warmer against Ciara’s palm. And it could have been a trick of the light, though she was not sure how…but the emeralds on the hilt seemed to glow.
Ciara closed her eyes against this indication of Chrechte magic and a childhood in which she’d been kept in the dark about the truth of her ancestors.
Not only had her father wished she were a son, but he had hidden her family’s history from her. Certainty that he had shared it all with Galen only made the ache in her heart hurt worse.
Because for all that Galen loved her, he had kept these secrets from her as well. He had not thought she was important enough to know the truth of her lineage.
Silent tears trickled down her cheeks as Ciara wished for the connection to her past they’d seen fit to hide from her.
Suddenly, she was no longer sitting on the floor of her bedchamber, but standing deep in a cave lit by several torches sticking out from the smooth stone walls. An old woman wearing nothing but a leather loincloth crouched on the ground in the center of the cave.
Her wrinkled body was marked with crude tattoos similar, but more simplified, to the ones the Chrechte marked themselves with to indicate their first shift, matings and positions of leadership. The plain outline of a wolf was tattooed over her heart. Though she was a woman, her arm was marked with a band like that of a pack alpha. Only hers did not have a wolf on it, but the symbol for the Creator, God.
Was she the spiritual leader then? A kelle, like the old stories told about, women who were both priestesses and warriors? Her muscles were defined, despite her obvious age, and she crouched with an agility-wrapped tension that spoke of someone prepared to leap into action at any moment.
A wicked-looking dirk dangled from a leather strap between her legs. And the air escaped Ciara’s chest as she realized the kelle wore a bronze cuff on her arm free of tattoos. It was identical to the one Ciara wore, but without the intricate swirls that must have been added later.
When the old woman raised her head, Ciara saw the thin bronze circlet she wore in her long gray hair. Graced with an emerald that dangled in the middle of the kelle’s forehead, it clearly marked her as Faol royalty of some kind.
She straightened and Ciara could see a leather-wrapped bundle held tight to her chest. Eyes the same color as Ciara’s surveyed the cave, as if trying to see into the very shadows and looking through Ciara as if she were not there at all.
Each move, every line of the kelle’s body spoke of determination and urgency. She turned toward the back of the cave and revealed a short sword, similar to the one Ciara treasured, strapped to her back. There was no sign of her age in the way she walked with strength and purpose, her head held high.
The kelle disappeared in the shadows, and as quickly as Ciara had found herself in the cave, she found herself back on the floor of her bedchamber.
Her eyes were open though she did not remember lifting her lids, and she stared at the wall opposite.
Her mind’s eye could still see the kelle though and Ciara shuddered at the certainty she had just witnessed not only a moment in the life of one of her ancestors, but the loss of the Faolchú Chridhe as well.
Her hand was still on the sword, but the metal no longer felt unnaturally hot. She released it quickly though, as if it could yet burn her. Looking at her palm, she saw no redness to indicate the heat the sword handle had generated.
She wondered where the sword the kelle had worn had gone? To another distant relative perhaps, another family within the Faol that might actually tell their daughters the truth of their past?
“What are you doing?” Eirik’s voice came from the doorway.
Feeling like she was underwater, Ciara turned her head to see him. Dressed much as he’d been the first time she’d spied him from atop the tower, the dragon shifter filled her doorway, a scowl settled firmly on his chiseled features.
“I was…” Trying to understand her past, looking for proof of Mairi’s claim Ciara was something more than she thought.
Eirik’s gaze moved beyond her to the weapon lying exposed on her bed and his glare turned sulfuric. “You have a sword from one of the ancient Chrechte kings. Where did you get it?”
The accusation and mistrust in Eirik’s tone hurt in a way Ciara refused to acknowledge.
“I did not steal it, and my brother didn’t, either.” She would rather be standing for this conversation, but after the vision she did not trust the strength of her legs.
“You are the one who claims to still follow the ways of the ancient Chrechte. Then you must believe in the visions…that I am descendant of a Chrechte king. Why shouldn’t I have his sword?” Only they both knew why not. Because she’d had no idea until Mairi came that Ciara’s past led back to the original rulers of her race.
“I did not say you stole it,” he gritted out with clear reluctance.
She forced herself to rise, only swaying a little as she gained her feet.
Eirik was there before she could blink, holding her arm, his scowl gone, to be replaced by concern. “What is the matter?”
Waking dreams left her even more weakened than those that disturbed her sleep, but that was her own burden to bear and she certainly would not confide it to him. “Nothing. I am fine.”
“You are pale.”
“I need more sun.”
He frowned, obviously not liking the flippancy of her answer.
“I had a vision,” she said, to get his attention off her temporary weakness.
If he had looked concerned before, now he appeared downright worried. “While you were awake?”
The man didn’t seem able to decide if he despised her or cared about her and she wasn’t risking believing in the one when the other might be lurking around a convenient rock.
“It is not the first time,” she said as casually as she could, like these waking visions did not terrify her.
“You did not mention this when we all spoke earlier.”
“I did not think it mattered.” And she had not wanted to worry her parents further. They had seemed distressed enough by the dreams and the call of the sacred stone.
“You need to speak to my grandmother.”
“Why?”
“She is Anya-Gra, spiritual leader of our people.”
“A kelle?”
“No, a celi di. She is no warrior; though she has been trained to protect herself, she would not lift her hand to another. ’Tis not in her nature.”
“I thought only men could be celi di.” Servants of God, not quite priests, but respected as servants of the church all the same. Though not technically under its authority, Highland priests performed religious ceremonies and guided their people’s spiritual welfare.
“Among the human clans, this has become the case, but make no mistake, the Chrechte have followed female celi di and kelle since the beginning of time. Just as they have followed men with such callings.”
“I knew that…the old stories.”
“But the Faol no longer practice such spirituality.”
She could not deny his words. “Abigail told me that her friend the abbess said Scripture states there is no distinction between man and woman in faith. Men make the distinctions.”
“As we do in so many other things.”
“So, your grandmother is a celi di?”
“She is and she can help you learn to live with and control your gift.”
“The visions can be controlled?”
“I do not know, but my grandmother has never been as ill from them as you were when I arrived here.”
“She is not part of the group of Éan that joined the Sinclairs.”
“No.”
“Where is she then? Did she stay in the forest?”
“How did you know some of the Éan chose to stay?”
“I wasn’t sure, but I remembered the stories of the Faol that did the same, when we joined the clans.”
“My grandmother claims there are still such Faol in the forest.”
“If she is a seer, she would know.”
“Aye.”
“Is she still in the forest?”
“No. She went to the Donegal clan, to live near my sister, the first of our generation to give birth.”
“Your sister is Barr’s wife, is she not?”
“She is, but few know of the connection.”
Ciara shrugged. What should she say? She knew things she should not and not all of them from visions.
“What does the Donegal priest think of your grandmother, I wonder?”
“I do not know, but he is not like many priests. He trained one of the Donegals to be celi di and does not assign penances out of cruelty.”
“He is indeed a man of God then.”
“Most likely.”
Silence stretched between them, but he did not release her and she made no move to distance herself from him.
She bit her lip, as she was wont to do when agitated.
“It is hard.”
“What?” Could that really be his voice, so soft and understanding?
She looked up at him, losing herself in his amber gaze against all good thinking. “To know things others do not, things you should not know.”
“Is it?” He brushed the back of his hand down her cheek.
“Yes.”
“Surely it is not all bad.”
“Perhaps not.” Ciara leaned into Eirik’s touch, unable to do anything else.
“It got me Galen’s attention when he had pulled away from his family, spending most of his time with his friends instead. It also cost him his life.”
“Your brother did not die because you were trying to help him find the Faolchú Chridhe. He died because he followed Luag in hunting innocent Éan children.”
“Galen didn’t want to hurt them,” she felt compelled to point out again.
Some of the hardness seeped back into Eirik’s expression. “But he did nothing to stop Luag.”
“No.” She dropped her head, not wanting to see the look of censure on Eirik’s features.
Her brother had committed a heinous act in even hunting another Chrechte, the fact he had not wanted to hurt the children did not exonerate him.
“I am sorry you lost your brother.”
The words of condolence were so unexpected, she fell mute in shock.
“But not that you killed him,” she finally said.
“I cannot be; to feel regret would be to place his life above the children he allowed to be threatened.”
“Yes.”
“You agree?” He tugged her face back up so their eyes had no choice but to meet.
“I am not a fool.”
He nodded, his understanding glowing in the amber of his eyes. “Just a woman with knowledge she does not know what to do with.”
Tears threatened at this further understanding and she blinked to keep the moisture back. “Yes.”
“Anya-Gra will help you.”
“So, I am not the descendant of a king, but a spiritual leader?” she asked, thinking of the old woman she had seen in her dream.
“Probably both. The royal family of the Éan have ruled our people for millennia and each spiritual leader we have had has also come from my line.”
“Do you think it was the same with the wolves, before MacAlpin?”
“Aye. I am certain of it.”
“But our royal lineage is now spread out like birdseed tossed from a high window among the clans.”
“But only you possess the king’s sword.”
“I have a dirk with the same stones, and the arm cuff of one of my ancestors who was kelle, but I do not have her sword.”
“As you said, your line has been spread out among the clans, but for you to have all three items, your lineage must be as pure as Mairi claims.”
“They never told me.”
“Your parents?”
“Or my brother. They all hid it from me, like I didn’t matter.”
“Mayhap they did not want to burden you with knowledge too heavy to bear.”
Her aching heart was touched by Eirik’s attempt to console her, but she knew the truth and she shook her head.
Finally finding the strength of will, she pulled away from him to go to the bed and look down at the sword. She was afraid to touch it again and maybe have another vision.
“So, it truly was the weapon of a monarch? I always thought it looked like it should be.” Yet even after her vision, she had a hard time believing it.
“Aye. I have one just like it.” Eirik drew his sword over his shoulder and swung it down to land against his other hand between them.
It was bronze as well, the edges of the blade sharpened to a much finer bevel than the one she kept in her trunk.
“May I see the handle?” she asked.
He repositioned the weapon so that it laid across his hands, fully open to her inspection.
After examining his sword closely, she stepped away from both it and the weapon lying on her bed. “They are not just alike.”
“Are they not?” he asked, as if indulging her.
“No. On your handle, the dragon is the center figure. On mine, the conriocht is central.”
They both went silent, contemplating what this slight difference could mean.
“Such would imply there is a sword out there somewhere that has a griffin as its center,” he said in a tone she had never before heard from the dragon shifter…awe.
“A myth…”
The look Eirik gave her was wry. “Like the Éan and the true conriocht.”
“But where are the cat shifters then, the Paindeal?”
Eirik looked thoughtful. “Some of the most ancient stories told of a bridge of land that used to connect Scotland to the land of the Norse. The Chrechte had supposedly traveled over these bridges of land before they fell into the sea and the only way to the land of the Vikings was by water because even an eagle cannot fly that far.”
She thought maybe a dragon might be able to, though she did not say it. “You think the Paindeal are still in those lands?”
“Perhaps. Mayhap we will answer that question after we find the wolves’ sacred stone.”
Deciding the time for secrets was past, there was too much at stake, Ciara said, “I think I saw the woman that hid the Faolchú Chridhe.”
“In your vision.”
“Yes. She was in a cave. It was lit with torches, there were drawings carved into the wall, but I could not make them out in the meager light.” And her attention had been fixed on the woman.
Ciara only remembered the drawings as an impression on the peripheral of her sight.
“Was it the cavern of your other dreams?”
“No, but maybe it’s part of the cave system that leads to it.”
“So, you think the stone was hidden in a cave?”
“Yes, a cavern, deep in the ground. It glows with a strange green light.” Would Eirik believe her any more fully than Galen, or would he too question the certainty she woke from her dreams with?
“I do not spend much time in caves when my dragon is not busy protecting the dreams of seers who are tormented by their gift. Are there known caverns like this?”
“There may be. We should ask our lair…um, my father. If he does not know, someone among the Balmoral may.”
“It is a sound plan.”
For no reason she could discern, she blushed with pleasure under his approval. Eirik’s view of her did not matter. She could not allow it to matter.