Page 58 of Fletcher

“I’d gut myself before I permitted a facking monster touch my metal,” the blacksmith told her.

“Och, please, maister, permit me the honor,” Dearg said, drawing her daggers with a winsome smile. “I’ve never slain a smith.” She looked him over. “Where shall I begin? Your throat? ’Twould end you too quickly. Mayhap I shall relieve you of your baws.”

The mortal cupped the front of his trews with a trembling hand. “Begone with you, imp of evil.”

Speal stepped between them, and looked into the blacksmith’s tear-filled eyes. “You’ve seen what we monsters may do. She’ll gut you before you may lift that hammer or thrust that sword, and I’ll still take the weapons. Do the smart thing now, lad, and fetch that barrow.”

For a moment she thought the smith might still attempt to take a swipe at Dearg, but then he lowered his arms and set aside his hammer and blade. Seeing him shake as he tossed the finished blades into the weathered barrow made her understand at last why Fiacail had regularly spared mortals. Sometimes, like now, they could be braver than the Cait Sith.

Dearg came to stand beside her to watch him. “Dinnae fret. I shall end him before we set sail.”

“Then we shallnae sail. Leave the lad alone.” She glanced down as the tip of a blade pierced the side of her bodice. “You should ken, if you end me, every Cait Sith on the island shall walk into the sea.”

“They wouldnae dare…” Her shrill voice fell silent as she reached out to the others in her thoughts, and discovered the orders that Teine had passed along to the other shifters at the inn. “How could you persuade them agree? I never once heard you think thus. I’m in charge now, so they must follow my orders.”

Speal picked up a scythe the blacksmith had forged, fondly caressing the curved iron blade.

“Ken you where I grew up in the lowlands, Sister? On a farm where my wretch of a màthair sold me into enslavement.” She hefted the tool, enjoying the weight of the blade. “They put me to work in the fields as soon as I walked. I’ve cut so much oats and barley in my life you might cover all of Scotland with the sheaths.”

The blacksmith finished loading the barrow and glanced at her before he dashed away from the forge.

“You darenae slay me,” Dearg told her, smirking. “The enchantress, she’d carve your flesh from your bones one chunk at a time.”

“Why should I slay you?” With a practiced flick of her wrist she spun the scythe around and poised the tip against her nose. “I might glean parts of you away that you cannae replace, even when you shift. ’Twouldnae prove difficult if our sisters hold you down, or I bring my scythe and visit you while you sleep. ’Twould amuse our sovereign to behold you minus a nose, dinnae you reckon? And doubtless you’d live, even if you shouldnae look quite so pretty.”

The little Cait Sith grabbed the scythe with her bare hand, allowing the sharp edge to cut deep into her flesh. “You dinnae frighten me, you great swinish hoor.”

“Och, Dearg.” She made a tsking sound. “I only wished distract you.”

Behind her Teine appeared with the blacksmith’s sledge, bringing it down on Dearg’s head with a mighty blow. The sound of her skull cracking, and seeing her drop senseless to the ground, gave Speal the only pleasure she’d known since Fiacail’s murder.

Teine dropped the sledge and gestured for the other Cait Sith hiding around the forge to come out and join them.

“What a shame a vengeful mortal struck down our leader.” Speal lifted Dearg’s limp body and draped it over her broad shoulder. “I shall take her to the enchantress so she may heal her, if ’tis possible.” She glanced at the large, bloody wound on the back of their fallen leader’s head. “I cannae say for certain ’tis. Teine, with me. The rest of you, bring these stores and weapons to the boat. We sail with the tide.”

After Shaw abruptly changed his mind about hunting the white-mouth in the sound, Fletcher decided against going alone or with another clansmen. Instead he’d keep his promise to Lark and take her to Ronalsee, where she might safely practice using her boon in isolation. Since the small, uninhabited island was located outside the mist barrier, it would also shield her from the eyes of the Finfolk.

“If there is nothing on this island,” Lark said as he helped her into the small sail boat, “what am I going to lift?”

“A standing stone twice as tall as me,” he told her as he cast off the mooring ropes. “’Tis stood on the island as long as the clan remembers. If you drop the thing, ’twillnae matter.”

“As long as I don’t drop it on your head,” she countered, smiling. “Thank you for doing this. I know it’s hard for you to take time away from running things at the stronghold. Who does that when you’re not there?”

“Brochan’s my second, so I’ve left him in charge.” He knew the cook actually enjoyed spending a day away from the kitchens now and then. “How shall Idonea fare with you gone from the sewing room?”

“She was still sleeping when I checked on her this morning. Meg promised to stay with her while we’re out today.” She came to sit beside him as he trimmed the sail to catch the wind. “You’re not worried about her. It’s Shaw, isn’t it?”

He didn’t want to put his concern into words, but then he found himself telling her anyway.

“Since we rescued him from the Pritani, Shaw’s been a changed lad. He smiles and laughs easily enough, and ever chases after lasses, but I reckon ’tis all a show for the laird and the clan.” He glanced at her. “’Tis more of what he hides in himself. A strangeness he refuses explain. A darkness. He never speaks of such, but I ken ’tis growing worse for him.”

“It has to do with the tattoos on his arm,” Lark said, surprising him. “I’ve noticed that he never uses that hand to touch anyone or anything. Sometimes I see him making that hand into a fist, and then…” She stopped and shook her head. “I’m probably imagining the rest.”

“The ink on his flesh moves, aye?” He nodded when she gave him an astonished look. “I’ve watched the same happen more than once, especially when he grows agitated. The affliction he suffers and conceals, ’tis connected to the skinwork, I’m certain.”

“Why wouldn’t he talk to you about it?” she asked. “It seems like he’s closer to you than anyone else.”

“He’s ashamed of what the Pritani forced him do.” That much he’d pieced together from the odd comments Shaw had made about his enslavement over time. “Among the clan, an elder brother ever wishes serve as a good example to younger blood-kin. He fears revealing his affliction might cause me think less of him. Mayhap even hate him.”