But up ahead, the land began to rise, the soil becoming thin and poor, with boulders and great granite outcrops sticking out of the ground like the land’s bones.
That was Mackintosh territory. Though not as fertile or pleasing to the eye, there was a rugged beauty to it if you knew where to look. But it was harsh too, a capriciousmistress who could turn on you in the blink of an eye, leaving ruined harvests and the risk of starvation in her wake, as Emeric knew all too well.
Plover, Emeric’s horse, suddenly swung over to the side of the road, nearly yanking Emeric off his feet in the process, and began tearing up chunks of the thick late-summer grass.
Emeric tugged on the reins. “Plover, ye greedy old sod! Canna ye wait until we reach the stables?”
He shifted his bow and quiver higher on his shoulder, took a firm hold of the reins, and pulled the horse back. But Plover only snorted and continued to pull at grass, as if to mock Emeric’s efforts. Emeric rolled his eyes, but let the horse continue.
“Fine, have it yer way,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. He glanced up at the sky. The sun was still high overhead, but there was a chill in the wind that hadn’t been there earlier.
Emeric pulled his cloak tighter around him. “Storm’s coming,” he muttered to himself.
He felt a twinge of unease. Growing up in the harsh lands of the Mackintosh, where you were continually at the mercy of the weather, the landscape, and the vagaries of fate, he had learned to become acutely attuned to changes in the weather.
His sword-brothers in the Order of the Osprey would poke fun at him if they heard his words. After all, this was no time for dire portents, was it? It was a time for celebrating. After years of trying, the Order of the Osprey had finally broken the Disinherited, their ancient enemy. Leif Snarlsson, Alice and Alfred Brewer and Lord HenryEberwyn, some of the Disinherited’s most dangerous commanders, had finally been brought to justice. And he and his sword-brothers could finally, finally, relax.
He patted the purse tied to his belt, reassured by the clink of coins from within. It was his pay from working for the Order, everything he’d managed to save over the past year. He only hoped it would be enough. No matter how hard the Mackintosh worked, no matter how long they toiled and how hard they strove against the inhospitable land of their home, things never seemed to get any easier.
He sighed and turned back to his horse. “All right, ye greedy beast,” he said. “Time to be going.”
He was just about to put his foot in the stirrup and mount when something up ahead caught his eye. A figure stood by the side of the road, one he was sure hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Hairs on the back of his neck rising, he dropped the reins and began walking carefully towards the figure, his boots making no sound on the soft ground. As he drew near, he felt his shoulders relax and the breath he’d been holding leave him in a whoosh. It wasn’t an enemy. It was just an old woman.
She stood at the roadside, back straight despite her years, supported by a cane that was gnarled like the wind-beaten oaks that dotted these lands. A cloak of faded gray cloth wrapped around her thick-set body, its hood drawn up to shield her features from the sun’s glare. A basket hung from her arm, its contents hidden beneath a thick piece of cloth.
“Lost, old mother?” Emeric called out when he was within earshot. His voice echoed in the still air.
The woman turned her head to look at him. “Nay, lad,” she responded in a cheerful voice. “I am right where I need to be.”
“Can I help ye with something then?” he asked, coming abreast of her.
The old woman pondered his question for a moment. She had a face as creased as tanned leather and dark eyes that twinkled with intelligence. Her iron-gray hair was scraped back into a bun. “Aye,” she finally said, tapping the side of her nose. “Mayhap, ye can. I’m looking for a man named Emeric Mackintosh. Do ye know where I might find him?”
Emeric blinked, surprise rippling through him. “That would be me,” he confessed cautiously, studying the woman more closely. “What business do ye have with me?”
The old woman broke into a wide, mischievous smile, her eyes crinkling deeply at the corners. “At last!” she said. “I’ve been watching for ye.”
“Watching for me?” Emeric repeated skeptically, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. It was an automatic response, drummed into him after years of training and battles. The woman gave no sign of being armed or dangerous, but something about her raised his hackles. He got the feeling she’d known who he was all along.
“Oh, aye,” she affirmed, her voice carrying an oddly soothing lilt. She did not seem at all perturbed by his hand on the sword or the bow and quiver over his shoulder.
“Why?” he asked, his voice sounding harsher than he intended. “Who are ye?”
“Dinna ye know?”
“Should I?”
The woman chuckled, a sound akin to dry leaves rustling in an autumn breeze. She looked up at him and she was so short she had to crane her neck back to do so. “My name is Irene. Irene MacAskill.”
Emeric froze. Irene MacAskill? No. Surely not. The name was as known to him as his own. He had heard the stories of this woman since the moment he’d joined the Order of the Osprey. She wasn’t an old woman at all, the stories said, but one of the Seelie Fae.
The Fae were rarely seen among humans, and those who did cross their paths spoke of bewildering encounters filled with riddles and cryptic warnings. The last thing he wanted was to become involved with them.
“Irene MacAskill,” he said slowly, each syllable thick in his throat. “I’ve heard tales about ye.”
She chuckled again, a sound full of warm mirth. “Aye, I’d imagine ye have. But ye shouldnae believe everything ye hear.” She winked at him. “I’m not as bad as the tales suggest, I promise ye.”
