chapter 16
In critical moments even the very powerful have need of the weakest.
—AESOP
“What?” She should step away, but she did not. “Why?”
“I can sleep here in my dragon form more easily and guard your dreams this night.” He frowned. “You look almost as exhausted as you did before your sleep last night. I do not like it.”
She gave in to the urge to lean into his touch. “I don’t, either, but it will take more than one good rest to recover from months of hardly any sleep at all.”
She didn’t have to be a healer to know that, though Abigail had warned her of this very thing as they said good-bye back at the keep.
Remembering the potent sleep Ciara had experienced with his dragon before, she didn’t even consider protesting. Surely speaking to the Balmoral would be just as good in the morning.
“I am surprised to hear you admit as much.”
“Why? I am no arrogant warrior, certain I am impervious to weakness.” She was all too aware of how vulnerable she was to the dreams and visions.
She had lived with it for most of her life after all. He could not know just how great the gift of his dragon’s protection of her dreams was.
His chuckle warmed her through. “You are an impertinent lass, I think.”
“Forthright, mayhap.”
“Bossy.”
“Bold.”
A throat clearing reminded her that they were far from alone.
Blushing, she stepped away from Eirik’s touch and turned to face the Balmoral guards. “I apologize. We did not mean to ignore you.”
Eirik made a sound suspiciously like a snort, but when she looked at him with a frown, he looked as innocent as a babe.
She shook her head. “Do not think to bamboozle me with your appearance of blamelessness.”
He shrugged, but the smile tickling at the corner of his mouth pleased her.
“If we might offer some refreshment?” Artair asked, his expression indicating that he had been listening with avid interest to Ciara and Eirik’s conversation.
The poorly suppressed mirth on Gart’s face implied he’d been likewise engaged.
Nosy wolves. Her mother often said there were no secrets among the Faol, but her father always disagreed. Talorc said that a clever enough woman could always keep secrets and Abigail always blushed.
“Thank you for the offer; a cup of watered wine would be most appreciated.” She gave the Balmoral soldier her best smile.
Honestly, she wouldn’t mind a small repast as well, but she would not ask for what they might not easily provide.
Eirik growled beside her and the bigger warrior, Gart, scowled first at her and then his companion, but he turned to lead the way back toward the forest.
Lais pulled against the oars, making a direct line for Balmoral Island. Mairi had been quiet since they got on the boat and Eirik had leapt into the sky with Ciara on the dragon’s back.
Lais was so proud of Mairi’s ability to mask her scent, but it was clear the effort had cost her. He was content to let her rest in the stern of the boat, settled as comfortably as he could make her with furs, a skin of watered wine and some food.
She nibbled in silence on some cheese, looking at him, then the water, then the sky where Ciara and Eirik were but a dot and then back at Lais.
He could see a question in her eyes, but fearing he knew what it was, he did not prompt her to ask it.
She offered him the cheese. “Would you like some?”
“Nay.” He was hungry, but he would not have her feed him.
She needed her rest and the act would be too intimate, it would give more than his body sustenance. It would give nourishment to his eagle’s desires for her as a mate as well.
She sighed and wrapped the cheese in cloth before putting it in the satchel Lais had brought with him on this journey. She adjusted the Sinclair plaid their laird had gifted her with before they left the keep, smoothing her hands along the pleats, clearly pleased to be wearing different colors than the MacLeod.
She settled again, but this time maintained a steady regard on him. “Is it because I am not a wolf?”
He should have known that his Mairi would need no prompting. But that was not the question he expected, though he supposed it could be considered a form of it.
“Nay. While humans are more fragile than shifting Chrechte, you have proven yourself to be strong of mind and spirit.”
“You are attracted to me.” She sounded very confident, but then she had reason to be on that particular front. “It is not just your eagle that wants me.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
He could have lied and said that he simply did not want a mate, but while there was a place for deceit, this was not it.
“I do not deserve a mate.” There. He had said it.
“How can you say so? You are an amazing man.”
“Because I healed you.”
“No, because I can trust you not to hurt me.”
“I am not the only man who can give you pleasure.”
“You are the only one I want to do so.”
He should not be so fiercely happy to hear such a vow, but he was. “You are young. That will change.”
“It won’t. I may not shift into a wolf, but I am Chrechte and there is no other for a Chrechte once they have mated.” Her chin set at a mulish angle and she let him see her glare.
“We have not mated.”
“Close enough.”
“No.” He’d been damn careful to make sure it was not close enough.
“Tell me why.”
“I was a member of the Donegal clan, before I went to live with the Éan.”
“You mean when you came to the Sinclairs?”
“No, that is more recent.” He considered stopping there. He had not spilled his people’s secrets yet, but he knew he could trust them with her. And he owed her his secrets, if he could give her nothing else.
“The Éan lived in the forest, as a separate tribe. We were hunted by a secret society of the Faol.”
“The Fearghall. My father and his cronies belong. He thinks any shifter that isn’t a wolf doesn’t deserve to live.”
Lais should feel no shock at her words, but his breath froze in his chest nonetheless. “Your father belongs to this society…the Fearghall?”
A misnomer if ever there was one as it meant superior in valor and from what Lais knew of these Faol, they had not true valor to them. He had never heard the society named before though, since he had not been in the inner circle. He wondered if Galen had ever let it slip to Ciara.
“Yes. Some of the Fearghall believe only the ravens should die because they are not birds of prey, but others, like my father, believe all who shift into an animal different than his have no right to life.”
“He’s an idiot.” But a dangerous one.
She nodded sadly. “He is.”
“I, too, was an idiot.” The time had come for the full truth of his past.
“How?”
“There were members of the Donegal pack that believed like your father. They hated the Éan simply because we are different.”
“I am sorry.”
“I am the one who should be sorry. I believed Rowland’s lies, that the ravens killed my parents.”
“But your parents must have been of the Éan for you to be an eagle.”
“One was, the other human. Rowland was convinced I was human as well. He killed my parents, but convinced me ravens had done it and fed my hatred of the ravens.”
“You never told him you were an eagle.”
“No.”
“Because you knew that you could not trust him.” She sounded so sure and once again her trust in Lais touched him deeply.
“I think so, now, yes. Then, I was just ashamed of being weak, being what I thought was the last of my race.”
“There are other eagles?”
“Not many, but yes, there are some. I had my coming-of-age without the Clach Gealach Gra.”
“What does that mean?”
“It meant that if I had my way and had destroyed it, I would not be a healer.” He looked away from her, over the water, its gray surface telling him nothing new. “I do not know if I can give my mate children, if I can pass on my eagle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Anya-Gra said I was healed by the sacred stone, but I don’t know if she meant my heart or my body.”
“Who is Anya-Gra?”
“The spiritual leader among the Éan.”
“If the stone gave you the power of healing, surely it healed anything else.”
“I thought so at first, too, but now that I am charged with healing others, I know better than most that power comes with a cost and that healing is rarely complete with Chrechte power alone.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t deserve to be healed completely,” he admitted.
“Now you are being an idiot.”
“It’s true. I would have killed my laird’s lady.”
“The Donegal laird?”
“Aye.”
“She’s raven?”
“She is.”
“But you did not kill her.”
“I tried.”
“How?”
“With an arrow.”
“So, you are a poor shot.”
“No. I was one of the best in our clan.”
“Then you must not have tried very hard.”
’Twas what Barr had said at the time, but Lais would never forget his guilt. “In time, you will find a mate worthy of you and you will forget this crush you have on me.”
Mairi’s eyes narrowed. “Will I, then?”
He nodded, but she was no longer looking at him. Her brows were drawn together in thought and he was fairly certain it did not bode well for him.
The Balmoral soldiers had a small hut cleverly disguised by outer bracken, so one had to be almost upon it before seeing it was not merely part of the forest.
Inside, it was clean if small. Two bedrolls were tied and stacked neatly against the far wall. Matching benches that could seat two in a pinch were on either side of the fire pit in the center of the hut.
The pit smoldered in the fashion of a fire that had been recently banked. Gart poked at it and blew on it until a small blaze caught the fresh wood Artair laid across it. They worked in a unison that told of longtime friendship and training together.
“We’ll heat stew for our supper,” Artair said with a smile for Ciara.
Gart harrumphed and grabbed the stew pot from a shelf on the nearest wall. He hung it by its handle from the tri-legged iron stand over the fire. The big soldier grabbed wooden cups from the same shelf and Artair poured wine from a skin into them before adding water from a bucket.
He served Eirik first. She thought it was because the Éan was a prince, but Eirik took a sip of the watered wine before handing the cup to Ciara.
He’d been testing it for her safety. “If you trust them with your secret, surely you can trust them to serve us a drink.”
He ignored her and took his own cup from the Chrechte soldier.
She frowned, but took a sip of her drink, suddenly realizing how very thirsty she was. She should have drunk more water on the journey here, but she had been preoccupied with her thoughts and conversation with Eirik.
Artair indicated one of the benches with his hand. “Please, sit.”
She took his offer with alacrity, only to nearly jump out of her skin when Eirik joined her on the small bench. He pressed against her side from hip to shoulder. She tried to bump him with her hip, but he didn’t move.
He could be a gentleman and choose to sit on the floor, but perhaps those kinds of manners were not taught among the Éan. Him sitting so close was indecent though.
And she did not care that she had ridden his dragon not a half an hour past. ’Twas not the same. No, it was not. And she would tell him so. Later.
The two warriors shared the other bench, instead of one of them taking the floor, too. She supposed it made sense, but she did not like the way her body heated in inappropriate places at his closeness.
The Balmoral soldiers started to pepper Eirik with questions of what it was like to be a dragon.
“Do you see with colors?” Artair asked.
It was a fair question. Wolves did not.
Eirik nodded. “My vision is very good as well.”
“Better than your raven?” Artair asked.
“Much.”
Both soldiers went silent to give that truth the respect it deserved.
Then Gart asked, “Does your dragon pull you to shift like your raven?”
“Aye. He’s an impatient beast,” Eirik replied.
Ciara didn’t even pretend not to be interested in the discussion and the stew was bubbling in the pot before she knew it. The delicious aroma from the rabbit stew made her stomach growl embarrassingly.
Artair smiled at her with understanding. “Time to eat, I think.”
“Aye,” Eirik agreed with a concerned look for her.
“I am fine.”
“You do not eat enough.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Did he really need to share her shortcomings with the Balmoral soldiers? “I’m going to eat now.”
Gart grabbed shallow wooden bowls that would double for plates and Artair ladled a rich broth filled with vegetables and meat into each. Again, Eirik tasted her stew before she was allowed to eat.
“Are you going to do this from now on?” she asked him with exasperation.
“Aye.”
“It’s ridiculous. I’m a wolf. I would smell if my food or drink was off.”
“I am a dragon, my senses are stronger.”
“You are being arrogant again.”
“I am protecting you.”
“From friendly soldiers?”
“From the possibility they let their food spoil.”
“Well, they didn’t.”
“Nay.” He nodded to Artair and Gart. “’Tis tasty.”
“Thank you,” Gart replied.
Artair shrugged. “He does most of the cooking when we are on watch. I’m better at catching our meal than preparing it.”
“Our Artair is a fine hunter,” Gart said with some pride. “He’ll make a good husband to a lucky clanswoman.”
Artair smacked his friend on the back of the head and a bite of stew went flying, but Gart saved the rest of his food with his quick reflexes.
Their conversation continued over the meal but moved to the Éan settling into the Balmoral clan. Apparently, since none of the secret society of the Faol who wanted to kill all the Éan had been found among the Balmoral, the laird had decreed his people would be told the full truth of their new clan members.
To Ciara’s surprise, Eirik had agreed. She wondered again if he trusted the Balmoral more than her father, but realized it was not her father the dragon mistrusted. It was the rest of the clan. And since there had been members of the secret Faol society among them, only time would prove his people safe with the Sinclairs.
“Our laird assigned two of your warriors to share this guard and others the task of a flying watch over the island,” Artair said to Eirik when asked.
Eirik tensed. “Not all are soldiers.”
Ciara wanted to soothe him, though she could not understand the urge. He was hardly a child needing comfort, but he was a man who took the well-being of his people very much to heart.
“Oh, no,” Artair was quick to reply. “Some have been assigned crofter’s huts. Three have gone to work in the castle, in one capacity or another.”
“That is as the Balmoral said it would be.”
“Our laird can be trusted,” Gart said on a growl.
Ciara smiled at him. “Of course he can. Eirik did not mean to imply otherwise.”
The dragon shifter said nothing. Gart was turning a bit red and Artair wasn’t looking too happy, either.
She dug her elbow in Eirik’s side. “Did you?”
He shifted so he almost faced her, his big body blocking her view of the others. “Did I what?”
“Mean to say that their laird was untrustworthy.”
“I allowed my people to join his clan.”
“I know, but perhaps they are not aware how much you had to trust the Balmoral to have done so.”
“’Twas not their decision.”
“No, of course not.” She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “The point is—”
“Not important,” Gart interrupted, sounding much happier.
She peeked around Eirik, but both the Balmoral guards looked at peace again. Really. Heaven save her from testy warriors.
She looked up at Eirik and lost her breath. His focus was entirely on her and the message in his eyes was hot enough to singe. “Um…you…I…the soldiers…”
“What about them, faolán?”
“I can’t see them around you.”
“Mayhap you should not be looking at other men.”
“I wasn’t looking,” she said in outrage. “That way, I mean.”
“But you wanted to see them.”
“Not like that.”
The tiny twitch in the muscle of his cheek finally gave him away.
“You are teasing me,” she accused.
“You smell good when you blush.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She must have the fragrance of a garden right now, because her face was so hot she would have gladly dunked her head in the bucket of water. “Will you shift your behemoth body so I can see Artair and Gart, please?”
He moved but ruined her pleasure at his cooperation by asking, “You find me too large?”
“I did not say that.” Too large? How could she when she found him perfect in most every way? And that was not a revelation she needed to make, to herself or him. Life as a seer was much more complicated than when she’d merely been a daughter who could avoid all entanglements behind the wall of her adopted family. “It would not be appropriate for me to comment one way or another.”
“You called me giant.”
“I’ve also called you dragon. You did not take offense at that.”
“I am a dragon.”
“And you are a very big man.”
“I think you like big.” His tone and the heat in his stare said more than the words, and they said enough.
“Stop. Please.” Ciara turned her attention to Artair and asked somewhat desperately, “Are your clan accepting of them, the Éan I mean?”
She expected they were, but discovering the Éan were known as bird shifters among the Balmoral might put a different light on it. She hoped not, though.
“Oh, aye,” Artair said with a decisive nod. “No one treats new clan members as anything but family since our lady came near ten years ago.”
“She’d not settle for it,” Gart agreed.
Ciara grinned at this mention of Abigail’s acknowledged strong-willed sister. “Aunt Emily did not find such a warm welcome among the Sinclairs, I fear.”
Artair returned her grin. “So I hear. Though she gave as good as she got, I reckon.”
“I think you are right.” Ciara laughed softly. “I’m not sure my father has ever gotten over being likened to a goat.”
“It’s not something a laird would be used to, is it?” Artair asked with another grin.
Eirik growled, similar but different to a wolf, and she stared at him askance only to turn her head quickly at an almost identical sound from Gart.
Artair twisted his lips in a grimace. “Ignore him. We’ve been best mates since before we could walk. So, it stands to reason to him I should marry his sister. But I’m not joining my spirit with another until I feel the call of a true mate, am I?”
“The old stories claim that in the days of the ancients,” Ciara remembered aloud, “none mated unless they felt the connection of a true bond.”
“How are you going to know you feel it, until you are mated?” Gart asked with irritation.
Artair gave him a measured look. “I’ll know.”
“You’re so damn stubborn.”
“You’ve been saying so since your first words and it hasn’t changed yet. What makes you think it’s going to?”
Gart made a sound of exasperation and slammed his now-empty stew bowl down before storming from the hut.
Ciara got up to gather all the bowls before carrying them to the shelf. She would take them out later to wash with sand and water from the sea.
She patted the other Balmoral guard on his arm as she walked by him. “He’ll figure it out eventually.”
“You think so?” Artair shook his head. “I’m about despaired of it ever happening.”
“He’s a Chrechte. He can’t ignore the call forever.”
“He could. Some do.”
She couldn’t argue that, particularly when she was doing her best to ignore her feelings for Eirik. But she did not think Gart was like her. He wasn’t afraid, merely blinded by dreams he’d clearly cherished since childhood.
“He has to let go of his treasured hopes for his sister first.” She took the seat beside Artair on the small bench. He did not fill the space like Eirik did. “Perhaps you should encourage him to find his own mate.”
The Balmoral soldier gave her a look of pure horror. “Why would I do that?”
“Why did you sit beside him?” Eirik demanded.
She ignored Eirik and told Artair, “So that he will start thinking in the right direction.”
“I’ll think on it.”
Eirik stood up, his expression feral in the dusky light of the hut. “Your body is touching his,” the Éan prince gritted.
She scooted so the small spot where their hips had connected did not touch at all. “There. Are you satisfied? You’re being ridiculous. It wasn’t anything like when I was sitting beside you.”
“Come sit over here.” Eirik pointed to the other bench.
“I’m fine right here.”
A low rumble sounded and Ciara watched in fascination as Eirik’s hands became covered in crimson scales and tipped with lethal-looking claws. Though they remained in proportion to his body.
It was unlike anything she had ever heard of before.
“How did you do that?” she asked with wonder.
“I think, perhaps, I will join Gart outside,” Artair said from the doorway.
She hadn’t even realized the other man had gotten up. She stood as well and turned to the guard. “That is not necessary.”
“I think it is.” He gave a significant look toward Eirik.
And she looked back at her dragon. His hands were still amazingly transformed, but he had not moved from his spot. His expression was no longer so ferocious, either.
She turned back to Artair and smiled. “See? He is only feeling protective as he has taken on the role of my guard for this journey. You saw him with our meal, tasting it for me.”
Artair was looking at her as if she was spouting gibberish and she sighed. The soldier simply did not appreciate the wonder of Eirik’s gifts like she did.
“Lais and Mairi have arrived,” Eirik said into the tense quiet.
Ciara spun back to him, all of her suspicions about his abilities confirmed. “Lais told you that, didn’t he?”
Eirik didn’t reply but left the hut, his shoulders taut, his jaw set. At least his hands had gone back to normal. She did not think it was a gift he needed to go sharing with everyone under the sun.
Artair reached out as if to pat her shoulder but withdrew his hand before touching her. “The Éan prince will figure it out, too.”
She didn’t ask what. She was no fool and apparently neither was Artair. “Let’s hope not,” Ciara said fervently.
“You don’t want a mate?” Artair frowned. “Or is that you do not want an Éan for a mate?”
“I want no mate, whether he be human, Chrechte or a wild beast for that matter.”
“Our celi di says that God gifts us what we need, not what we want.”
“And sometimes he also takes away what we love most.”
“So you would reject the possibility of love to prevent ever losing it again?”
“I want no mate,” she repeated doggedly. “There will be no children for me to lose to illness or war.”
No mate whose loss would send her into a decline like her mother. Ciara had suffered enough pain when she lost her family, but she had survived. She had learned to live again. Her mother had not.
Because she had lost that which she could not bear, her true bonded mate and her child.