The War Raven

By Laura Strickland

When Siula is captured in a brutal raid by Celtic warriors, she is sustained only by the comfort that comes to her through her dreams of the war raven. Like her ability as a Seer, awareness of the raven is something she has known all her life.

But even that comfort cannot sustain her when she is claimed as the spoils of war by Aidan MacKintire, who is engaged in a desperate struggle for control of his clan. He represents everything Siula fears and distrusts about the Celtic warriors who have devastated her tribe: ambitious, single-minded and merciless. Why is it, then, that when she looks into his silver eyes, she sees the soul of the war raven?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 8, 2004
• ISBN: 9781468510997

Laura Strickland

Born and raised in Western New York, Laura Strickland has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. Embracing her mother's heritage, she pursued a lifelong interest in Celtic lore, legend and music, all reflected in her writing. She has made pilgrimages to both Newfoundland and Scotland in the company of her daughter, but is usually happiest at home not far from Lake Ontario, with her husband and her "fur" child, a rescue dog. She practices gratitude every day.

Book preview

PART ONE

Captivity

CHAPTER ONE

I was dreaming again of the war raven.

Summoned by my fear and desperation, he came to me as he had so many times before, soaring from the far distance, commanding the sky. I stood below with my face lifted, waiting, while he climbed the air and plummeted with wild abandon, nearly skimming the earth in his fervent flight. Whirling, gliding, he came nearer and the wind from his wings stirred my hair. I held myself poised and ready for what must come – what always came – for since my earliest dreams and memories, he had never failed to bring it to me: greeting, awareness, a rush of sensation like nothing else I had ever known. An intense, tangible connection.

Wholly immersed in the dream, I was aware of nothing else – not the grim, painful reality of my situation nor the dread that had haunted me for days without ceasing. Neither did it matter that, when he drew near enough, I could see that his beak and talons were dyed red with blood. The ground where I stood awaiting him was a battlefield, and the brush of the beautiful, black wings was the equivalent of death. Part of me had always known what he was, a creature of slaughter. He harvested the killing fields, he knew not the meaning of mercy. But that would not make me flee him for he was my strength, also. Part of me.

I was no stranger to dreams or Visions. Always had I denied being a Seer – I did not seek the Sight, it just came to me. When I was very young, I believed foreknowledge was an ability native to everyone, an illusion which had been shattered when I grew old enough to understand the truth. Yet, I was not a Seer. Nearly every Pictish tribe in Alba possessed one of those. They were wild, half mad creatures who mumbled and whispered, or screamed their predictions, terrifying and enthralling those surrounding them. Everything about them made me fear what I sensed within, and dread what, in coming, stole away even my will.

In the dream, the wind blew harder, ruffling the raven’s feathers. Defiant, reveling in his strength, he hovered above me. The air stirred by his wings felt like a touch and I gave myself to it, comfort and claiming. Looking up, I encountered the knowing, intelligent gleam in his luminous, silver eyes …

I woke so suddenly, it left me breathless, my heart pounding. The power of the dream was still so complete and consuming that, incredibly, I forgot for a moment where I was. The strength of feeling lent by dreaming had kept me alive through the nightmare of the days just passed, and had never failed, only quickened, the farther I walked into darkness. He had come to me, so, nearly every day since that morning a fortnight ago, when my life as I knew it ended. That was when the tribe in which I dwelt, led by the father of my husband, Mard, came under attack by warriors from the west, who called themselves Kintire.

Each day since then, I had drawn a bit farther inward until it seemed more of me had fled the world than remained in it. I, like those with me, was a captive of these fearsome, brutal men. There was nowhere I could escape but inward, to that sanctuary of mystical quiet and strange wordless communication that had always existed inside me. Nothing in my world made sense any more. Why should I question that the further I walked into darkness, the nearer I felt to the war raven? But I had little real capacity left for rational thinking. For days now I had been operating on pure instinct, trying not to think at all. Yet there were things that could not be refuted. Kintire was a name so fierce I remembered it from my childhood, in memories tinged with fear, massacre and blood. I told myself that I, and the other female survivors of our tribe could not truly be in their power – but we were. I told myself everything I had witnessed and experienced could not actually have taken place, but I knew it had. Very little was left to me now, only my life, and no assurance had been given on that. No hope of freedom … no real hope at all, only the terrible, mind-searing memories and the vague, wordless comfort that came when I turned to the place of awareness, within.

The memories … Shut my mind down fiercely as I might, I could not repudiate them. It had been so unexpected – even I, who might have been given foreknowledge, had no warning. The attack occurred on a peaceful spring morning that held the promise and first taste of summer, when it seemed nothing even remotely akin to trouble could touch the world. As was often my habit, I rose early in order to follow the impulse to be alone. Mard was still asleep, his brown head tucked into his arms … indeed, few of the tribes folk were yet astir, and even the night guard was minimum. For though the lands held by Mard’s father were among the westernmost possessed by any of the Pictish tribes, we had heard no rumors of trouble from the west, had no word of proposed war on the part of the Celtic clans who dwelt there. And we expected none, for a kind of peace had existed between the two races occupying the area, for a full ten years. Mard’s father, Bel, had built his entire holding in that time. He would surely have moved his people eastward, perhaps even onto my own father’s lands, had he any suspicion about what was to come.

I passed him that morning for, like me, he was one of the few who were up and about. He suffered from a crippling disease of the joints that afforded him little actual rest. I nodded to him and he smiled in return, but I kept going, driven by the relentless inner impulse that bade me go. Now, I must ask myself the origin of it. At the time I thought I merely wished to climb the eastward slope of land that would afford me a view of the sunrise and a place to think. In truth, it is possible the path I took saved my life. But the truly ironic part is what was in my mind as I went … for on that bright, irreplaceable morning, clothed in peace that I would never, never know again, I was busy pitying myself.

There were a number of reasons, some very old and as familiar to me as the coming, in dreams and Visions, of the war raven. What troubled me most, that morning, was my relationship with my husband. We had been wed for nearly a year and he was happy in the marriage, or so I had told myself this long while, happy as only a man of Mard’s gentle and uncomplaining nature could be. I had known, when I came to him, that he loved me, just as he had known that feeling was something beyond me. He had been prepared to accept that as a condition of our union and I told myself … oh, many things then: that it was time I made a life for myself, that just because I was incapable of love did not mean I should deny Mard his desire. That I was truly and genuinely fond of him. That an existence with a man such as Mard would at least be unobjectionable … A pitiful, saddening thought, that last. Was that all had made me accept him and leave my father’s lands to move eastward? No. In deciding, there had been one, final thought: it was the only objective open to me. I had already put the matter off so long that all my cousins, with whom I had been raised, were long married with bairns of their own. What other future was possible for me? Especially if I continued to deny that which whispered so fiercely, within.

Maybe it was merely galling restlessness that had driven me into Mard’s arms, that same restlessness that seemed always a part of me and did yet.

Over the past winter, that restlessness had been gathering, drawing strength into itself, and now with the coming of spring seemed ready to break out. It no longer seemed sufficient to live with Mard, upon only his love for me. It no longer seemed a wise and prudent decision, nor any sort of justice for him. It was painfully unfair, so I was coming to discover, to both of us. Nay, nay – even on Mard’s behalf, I was no longer satisfied.

But for me there did not seem to be such a thing as plain satisfaction. There never had been. Only an unending trail of struggle and denial. I never knew precisely what I was supposed to be – or perhaps more honestly, I could not come to terms with my identity. The lives of the other tribes children, those with whom I had grown, seemed as simple as their demands. They were happy running wild as pups, brown and barefoot most of the year. So was I, but for different reasons. I had learned early that there was comfort in seeking out the private places where I could be with the silence, alone. I was doing it yet.

That morning I climbed the rise and actually looked westward. But my eyes had been blinded by the sun that rose in a blaze behind me and washed all the sky. And I was deaf to everything but the sudden question that came to my mind – why had I wed Mard? Had it only been another attempt at flight? If so, it was a hopeless and fully doomed attempt, for what I sought to escape came along with me, wherever I went. It was part of me.

The Sight. How often had I tried to deny, overlook or refute it? Try as I might – and by the gods, I did try – I could not hold the Visions back or refuse them; they rendered me helpless and distressed, and were the last thing I needed – yet another difference particular to me.

I could not quite keep my ability secret, though I went to great lengths to attempt it. The Visions did not always come upon me when I was alone. And they had started long before I knew how to dissemble. But some part of me urged me always to deprecate them. No one ever knew the full depth of the Visions, their scope or clarity, all of which only seemed to gather strength as I grew. People knew I had some ability, but not how much. I was always distant, and people never intruded upon me. When I grew older and more responsible, I forced myself to go to those concerned with warnings obtained through the Sight. In truth, I could scarcely do otherwise. But I was horrified by the unswerving accuracy of the Visions, and I continued to deny and flee and hide …

Until that morning when I stood on the hillside and watched what befell those below me, who lay sleeping. For that, all my years of insistent Sight had brought no warning, no means to save them, or myself from capture, horror, pain …

I heard the sweet morning torn suddenly by the howling of the attackers, the sound bursting upon body, spirit and mind. Disbelieving, I saw the impossible – at least two score of men on ponies and half as many again in chariots, who came wheeling in with clothes, hair and weapons flashing. I stood there for a moment that had nothing at all to do with time and then I was running back, taken by something more powerful than reason.

At first it seemed the attackers, who had appeared from nothing, were everywhere. I saw Bel cut down by a Celt’s sword before I could reach him. The other members of our small tribe were alerted by then and rushed from their sleeping places, meeting merciless destruction. I saw half a score of our men slaughtered almost before they had their weapons in their hands. Then there was mass confusion – women screaming, family members running and calling to one another in terror. The attackers – or their weapons – did not discriminate. They felled those who stood to resist them and those who did not, whoever was within reach … women, bairns. My shocked eyes stared in disbelief and tried to deny what they were seeing. In the sheer, unprecedented horror of the moment, I do not even think I feared for my own safety. I was merely there, a frozen onlooker, not able to refute or escape what occurred. I heard the horrific screams of the dying, saw the new grass turn red with blood.

But I do not think it was until I saw Mard appear, still half-clothed, with his spear caught fast in his hand, and running hard toward me that I felt myself part of it. Then all at once I feared for him – it galvanized me into moving toward him. I saw, so clearly, the knowing and wide-eyed determination in his face. He was trying to reach me – I am certain there was no other thought in his mind. He never had any hope of it; the Celtic warriors were everywhere – hollering, killing in a frenzy, apparently reveling in it. In the past, indeed, I had seen my share of fighting, but nothing so ferocious as this. I felt something tear loose in my mind, because I knew what was coming. I threw my hands out toward Mard – I wanted to warn him, but no warning could have meaning then. I saw one of the Kintire warriors strike him – a slashing blow to the small of his back – and Mard withstood it, for he was a warrior also, of the Pictish breed. He came round with his weapon in his hand to face yet another man – and a second and third. Desperately, he strove to break from among them, and almost succeeded. He had nearly fought his way clear when once again he turned toward me, his eyes searching and reaching exclusively for mine. And casually – so casually and easily, as an autumn leaf is riven by the wind – they cut him down. I do not even know which of the three men killed him. That one picture was so terrible, nothing that followed registered with me. Not then nor, I suppose in truth, since.

For that is when the memories break. They become indistinct and dim. That is when I tore myself away from what was unthinkable and unbearable and turned, seeking hope of survival, to that particular and personal comfort I possessed within.

There were other events to come, of course, many of them nearly as terrible and perhaps more frightening. There is nothing as terrifying as complete helplessness. And that was the first of the innumerable indignities thrust upon us – we, the survivors of that not quite total slaughter. After that, the pain never ended.

We were mostly women remaining, with a few children, when the killing was done. The Kintire warriors herded us together like beasts and many more fell trying to flee. It was madness to make an attempt, but I must have done so anyway, for I remember two warriors coming after me, and that was when the helplessness truly began. I must have struggled, for when I was again able to take notice of anything I discovered I was covered with scratches and bruises, and my nails were torn.

At first we did not know from whence our attackers had come, or where they might take us. It was part of the horrible impossibility of it all, that they seemed to come from nowhere and for no reason, and left everything we valued lying red on the ground. But since my mother had come out of the west long ago, I possessed a fair knowledge of the Celtic language and soon enough knew we were bound for the coast and that our captors called themselves Kintire. It was not heartening information. The battles my tribe had fought with such desperation in my girlhood had been fought against this very clan. The might and ruthlessness of their war chiefs were remembered still. But it lent an explanation to their unwarranted attack upon us. These men were mad for power, and killed for enjoyment. It did not bode well for our future.

Everything I had ever heard about them being pitiless, merciless savages seemed true. They spared not so much as a thought for our grief and devastation, but congratulated themselves long and loudly on the success of their campaign while swinging the heads they had taken as trophies and laughing all the while. They stole whatever was of remote value and even what might provide us minimum comfort, and set us on our journey into captivity, walking while they rode their ponies or made use of their chariots. When they attempted to speak to us, I pretended I did not understand them and said nothing. In truth, I could not imagine words I could use to speak to such men. I do not remember feeling anger or resentment – I was too numb for that – and, like those around me, too disbelieving. I began to cling to the numbness …

I am not sure how many days we spent on the trail. I know conditions were deplorable. From their mobile position, the warriors drove us hard, always pressing the pace. We were thirsty and hungry all the time, and two of the small children died on the way, and one of the women tried to stay behind with the wee body of her bairn, screaming. The rest of the captives, curiously enough, seemed to look to me for guidance. But, perhaps that was not so curious … in their eyes, I was the last of Bel’s family left alive, the wife of the man who would one day have been their tribeschief. That fact only added to my feeling of futility. There was nought I could do in their defense, and nothing I could say to them. Men who killed for the sake of it were not open to appeals for mercy. And once I had identified the man who was their leader, I could not have brought myself to try …

It was not difficult to determine which he was, when I could spare attention for looking. He gave his orders flamboyantly, with an eye that made sure no one missed hearing. I detested him upon sight. It was loathing that stemmed purely from his assumption of power and our helplessness. These men were all brightly clad and flashily ornamented creatures who apparently took no end of delight in themselves, but he was the loudest and most brilliantly decorated of the lot. And he seemed to have little regard for that which he brought from the field, as pillage. The people he hauled away were objects, that was all.

It was a terrible thing, but not as terrible as the fact that he turned his eyes one way time and again, and that was invariably toward me.

I could not mistake his interest. I could not escape and, the gods help me, had no strength to deal with his attention. So I turned myself more fiercely inward and prayed for nightfall, when we were allowed to rest.

By the time we reached the borders of their land, we were in terrible straits. Many of us could barely stand, two were very ill from wounds taken during the attack. I was certain one woman was dying. Emotionally, by then we were all numb. I could see the empty, wordless aching in my companions’ eyes. And it was then that conditions worsened. The Kintire warriors decided they wished to reach their stronghold by nightfall, and began to press us harder still.

It was raining, a cold, spring rain that drove into our faces. The ground was a sea of mud. I remember how all at once we topped a stiff rise of land and emerged from the trees. And there, unexpectedly, the sea was spread before us. The sun, just setting, split through two great banks of gray cloud like the flames of a bonfire. It cast a glow of radiance, like flowing gold, far out on the water and made a stark and sharpened silhouette of the shore. I swayed on my feet and blinked, trying to clear vision made fuzzy by exhaustion. What lay below was not, as I had first thought, a deserted stretch of coast, studded with great, raw outcropping of rock. For there stood a dun, as rugged as the rock itself, and looking as natural as if it had grown.

Some of the women began to wail, for they knew what this meant. As terrible as the journey had been, our future was unthinkable. And the future was now upon us.

*          *           *

Our fate had found us slowly after all, over the span of many days, from the captivity of our muddy, squalid pen. Originally there were eight of us together and we quickly learned the rules of the place. There was no such thing to be had, as comfort. The gate was guarded securely and any disorderly act resulted in swift retribution. Not physical punishment – such was scarcely necessary – but something far more devastating: the withholding of rations. Nothing will enforce compliance so readily, in those who are starving. And then there was the fear of the unknown …

At intervals, always without warning, our number was reduced, a woman at a time. The procedure was always the same: a Kintire warrior would appear at the gate, words would be exchanged with the guard, the door would open … The women who were taken away did not return. We had no way of knowing what became of them, but I could imagine. I tried to keep from doing so, sought my enveloping numbness with desperation. I shrank from the knowledge that every time the gate opened, there were fewer of us left and that soon it must be my turn … I almost wished I had been taken first, for waiting brought terrible pictures to the mind. With the strain, the physical debilitation and exhaustion, I would have broken, but for one thing – the unexplainable comfort within, which had not deserted me but was still growing, steadily. Until on this very morning, in the squalor of the prison, it had once more brought me the dream of the war raven.

But it was something other than the culmination of the dream that had waked me. A very real and present sound had alerted ears already pricked by terror, one I had learned to greet with dread – the lifting of the iron catch on the gate, the voice of the guard at the door, the knowledge that the danger was come again. It brought me scrambling up, my skirts, hands and even my hair wet with mud, my heart thudding. There were now but three of us left. I think I knew, even before I saw him step into the pen, that this time I would be the one. But when I actually beheld him …

The fear that came then was so terrible it made nothing of all that had come before. Anything but that, I thought. Yet I had known from the way he looked at me, on the trail …

My heart lurched within me sickeningly and I spoke harshly to myself – that was it, then. The murdering warriors’ triumphant celebration must be over, the last of the pillage distributed. He had come to make his claim. What else could be made of his interest? And so now I knew the future that lay before me.

He exchanged a careless, casual word with the guard and started toward me. The other two women – with whom I had spent the last, interminable, horror-filled days – immediately moved away from me, shrinking toward the other side of the pen. I did not blame them; it was an act of survival, not desertion. Meanwhile, in the space of a few short footsteps, I tried desperately to steady myself. More than anything on earth, I knew I detested this man and what he stood for. But I had already been stripped of everything but my dignity; he would not see I was afraid, at any cost.

He was tall and broad, thick with muscle, and had a crop of wild, brown hair. He moved with the same swagger all these warriors employed. After one disparaging glance around the pen, he fastened his eyes on me and did not remove them again, not even when he paused a few paces away in an apparent attempt at intimidation. They were cruel eyes, swift and bold, careless and demanding. It required all my will, but I met them. I would not be intimidated, even if it was about to begin, the unbearable …

For a moment he waited. It was so quiet I could hear the cold rain striking the soft ground. Then in heavily accented Pictish, he asked, You are the one called ‘Siula’, are you not?

It was the last thing I expected him to say. I was so surprised, I nodded.

He persisted, Wife to the tribeschief’s son?

My eyes narrowed. I considered for a moment, and then, through lips that felt stiff with loathing, said, I am his widow, yes.

His eyes moved over me, assessing, deliberately insulting, and containing a measure of calculation I might not have expected. I am Rannoch, he stated. Come with me. You are required by Laird Aidan.

*          *           *

The guard tied my hands together in front of me and the man – Rannoch – made no comment though he frowned and gestured, with what might have been impatience. One of the women began to weep, and I had to take hold of myself again, hard. Emotions can be controlled – even if only outwardly – but when we left the pen and began walking, my body threatened to fail me. My knees felt unsteady and I seemed to have poor control of my feet. This, of course, met with no notice from my captor. He spared not so much as another word for me, but led me straight through the muddy yard and toward the main dun.

I had never been within such a structure. We Pictish are as mobile as the seasons, even upon our own land, and though my parents had a substantial dwelling back in the glen where I had been raised, it did not approach this fortress for sheer, ostentatious splendor. No Pictish man had ever lived so, nor would he want to. Rannoch – no doubt so accustomed to it all, it had become meaningless – swept within, never pausing. Accordingly I saw the magnificence, if such it could be called, through a blur caused by haste and apprehension.

What I did see, I liked not. It heralded a chief of considerable power, and a man who would set himself up as more terrible than those I had already encountered was not someone I wished to imagine. There were guards everywhere. They greeted Rannoch easily as we passed them and made comments – though I understood more of their words than Rannoch might have suspected, I closed my ears to them. It was not the kind of talk I wanted to hear.

Within, the place was seemingly vast, dim and confusing. There were still more warriors and servants everywhere. We passed the entrance to a great, circular hall, the grandeur of which was astounding; there were massive, carved wooden pillars that supported the roof and bright hangings. We passed a room that appeared to be full of weapons and the staring, bold faces of still more men. I was trembling badly by this time, with weakness and reaction. The servants we passed looked at me out of carefully blank faces. Many of them were as dark as I and looked to have Pictish blood. This terror, I reflected, had been inflicted upon others before me. But even such thoughts slid away as my mind fastened exclusively on what was to come.

Who was this Laird Aidan, then? Surely not the chief of the place, for we had already left the grander part of the fortress and turned to what must be private quarters. Was Rannoch only an emissary, then? Had someone else bespoken the particular spoils of war I represented?

I was given little opportunity to contemplate it further. Without warning, Rannoch paused before the curtained doorway of a chamber and, with one heavily significant look at me, reached out and swept the draperies aside. And I had my first glimpse of the room beyond.

It was bewildering, filled with people, color and sound. At first, it seemed it must be a meeting place for young warriors, so many were present. Most had clearly just come in from outside and still bore their weapons. But it had the feel also of a dwelling place, and after the first moment I saw that was what it must be, for there were the usual homely elements present – rugs and flasks and stray articles of clothing, a stone hearth for the fire which, at present, burned badly because of the rain, bowls and platters which must contain food … and on the far side of the room a sleeping pallet, with a cast-off shield on the floor beside it. More surprisingly perhaps was the fact that there was a woman present – more correctly, a girl. She sat near the door almost pointedly removed from the others and she looked up with grave and guarded attention when Rannoch ushered me in. There was music playing, almost inaudible over the voices raised in conversation. And something … something more.

I sensed it, almost despite myself. It made its way insistently past the defenses I had set and flowed irresistibly over the fierceness of my guard, as if not subject to ordinary warding. It was as startling and sudden as the bursting into flame of a bright tower of fire, but as old and familiar – as native to me – as anything I had ever known. Realization? Recognition? I do not possess the name for it even yet. But despite the close watch I was keeping over myself at that moment, despite the fear and helplessness and hurting, it made itself known, a powerful and impossible combination of astonishment and remembering.

Our entrance caught little notice from those present, for all the impression it made on me. The men went right on talking, though those nearest the door turned to stare, with that curious boldness which seemed so particular to them. They were all very alike with their bright clothing, gaudy weapons, even the silver badges they wore on their shoulders, that must be the emblem of their clan. My gaze slipped over them almost unseeing, searching for what I did not begin to know. Rannoch ushered me further in and face after face turned to regard me. Even the bulk of my discomfiture gave way to the need to search, but from none of them did the sense of identity come. With a grunt, Rannoch directed me over toward the fire; I kept encountering faces and dismissing them, shivering with shock all the while, or perhaps from the sudden warmth after days spent in the wet and cold, or strain.

We walked past the young woman who stared at us still, and to the nearest of the men, Rannoch said, Tell Aidan I have come.

That one comment brought the immediacy of my situation back to me. Whatever might be here – whether ‘twas the work of my imagination or a reality that awaited me – my future must be faced and the unknown man whom it seemed would decide it. This, indeed, must be his dwelling place. But which was he, among the many? And what cause would he have to bring a slave here in such a way? If there were answers in my mind, I had no liking for them.

The man Rannoch had addressed went across the room and spoke to a group of others. The rest of the warriors, most still looking their fill at me, began preparing to leave. The unseen musician stopped playing, the young woman stood up and wrapped her shawl about herself tightly. One by one, the warriors moved to the door, some of them speaking to the young woman in passing, most not. I closed my ears to the words I heard them speaking, that referred to me. It did no good to wish I could not understand.

Slowly the room emptied and Rannoch shifted his feet impatiently and still no one approached us. I stood there shivering in great spasms as the warmth from the fire took the wet from my skin and clothes, until, at last, the place was nearly deserted, dim and quiet, and looking unexpectedly plain. Only myself, the young woman and the musician, who I could now see sitting with his harp in the corner, Rannoch and a group of three other men remained. With a final snarl of impatience, Rannoch left me standing alone to go and join those last three. And then all at once two of them were leaving also and Rannoch once more approached me, with another man at his side.

I was so confused by then, so very nearly at the end of my endurance, in truth, so startled and bewildered by the attack on my emotions, at first I did not realize what had come. Even when my eyes fell upon him, I almost dismissed him as I had all the others, for it did not seem this could be a man of any importance. At first glance he seemed but one other among many, young, neither extraordinarily great nor tall, dressed perhaps more plainly than the others in dark brown leather with none of their glare or glitter, and with his hair, which was ashen brown in color hanging straight and undressed down his back. There had been that in Rannoch’s voice when he spoke of Laird Aidan that made me expect I would be brought before some powerful elder of the clan. But this man was surely no older than I. And yet …

Was it his manner that alerted me to the truth, or the insistence of that tremendous, inner knowing? For there was unquestionably something in the way he held himself, a profound, controlled certainty that did not require the benefit of trappings and would, in fact, have made them superfluous. He did not seek to make himself important, he merely was.

So, Rannoch, he said in a voice that sounded harsh, this is the valuable prize?

It is the correct woman, Rannoch drawled in reply, watching Aidan closely, as for some reaction. I made very certain.

They spoke in their own tongue, which they did not suppose I could understand. Hastily, I dropped my eyes. I had very few advantages – I had better retain my secrets. I stood there with my heart pounding, wondering … wondering. And I knew the two of them looked at me but the man, Aidan, said nothing and the silence in the room grew heavy and complete.

At last, as if unable to help himself, Rannoch said, I know you do not approve the plan. But at least you admit the wisdom of acting quickly? To your uncle’s way of thinking …

My uncle’s way of thinking, and your plans. The tone was disparaging, scathing, as if he who spoke was sick to the very death of both. But nay, I could not know how he felt, and surely it was only impatience I sensed. And I suppose what I wish means nothing at all?

He did not wait for Rannoch’s reply. Indeed, I do not suppose there would have been one. Instead, he moved toward me swiftly and reached out, an object in his hand that caught the light and glittered wildly. It was a short knife, chased in silver and sharp as a piece of slivered ice, gleaming cold. My eyes were caught by it, fascinated. Even as I stiffened involuntarily, it swooped at me.

With cutting coolness, Aidan said, I hardly think this is necessary.

As he spoke, the fingers of his left hand came out and seized mine. With a painful wrench, the knife cut the thongs that bound my wrists; he released me instantly and returned the weapon to his side. Only that … But nay, there was so much more.

For with the touch, brief as it had been, came the full flood of realization. ‘Twas from him the feeling of remembrance that was also discovery came. Here was the feeling I had been holding to, so like comfort, so like the power contained in my dreams and Visions.

I drew back – it was a purely instinctive reaction. He stepped away from me as well. And, caught by the light from the fire, made bright and shining by his movement, I saw it: the heavy, silver emblem he wore on his shoulder, the only thing that graced his plain clothes. It was not like the insignia of the other warriors – this leaped out at me, its mirrored surface throwing its form into stark relief. A bird, it was, with its wings spread, strong and bold and savage, soaring. A battle hawk or – no, a raven. A raven poised to strike, its cruel beak open and its talons reaching.

With simple astonishment then, with compulsion that surpassed my circumstances, the time or place, I caught my breath and raised my eyes to his face for the first time. I sought the impossible there, but I think I already knew what I must find.

His eyes met mine, steady, wickedly bright, and as silver as those or the war raven.

CHAPTER TWO

I cannot imagine how I must have looked at that moment. But I do know in that one instant, everything became very still, as if time itself held its breath, revealing a gap in the normal, ordered pace of things through which there came a glimpse of the impossible, just beyond. The feeling was so shattering and powerful it kept even bewilderment at bay and instead allowed the admittance of conviction – a swift, immediate belief that I had somehow stepped past the bounds of coincidence and into the world of dreams. It turned my reality, my very world, inside out.

I do not know, either, what Aidan MacKintire must have seen in my eyes – shock, surely. Surprise. He frowned; his eyes narrowed quickly and I saw a sudden expression come to them … intense wonder. There was intelligence in that gaze, entirely perceptive brightness. Or perhaps the knowing was all within me. Surely anything else must be the wildest imagining. Yet I did not know, I could not say. So swiftly was my ability for simple judgement shaken.

He might wonder, but he could know nothing. The man was the purest of strangers to me.

Rannoch was speaking insistently – I think he had already repeated himself several times. Aidan tore his gaze from me and, as if only just hearing Rannoch, turned to demand, What did you say?

"I asked what you should care how she is treated. Surely it has little enough significance. At least, if you take my