Page 16 of Tair

It usually took some effort for Fifer to shrug off such mournful thoughts, but this morning the harps seemingly had worked their magic. Once revived he rose and dressed, donning the cream and gold tartan with the glittering pin set in cairngorm stones, which proclaimed him without words the elected laird of the clan. Today he had to meet with several merchants wishing his aid, and he would have to show them what they expected to see, even if it meant sweltering all morning.

You burn with your pretense, and all the desires you keep concealed, his lady màthair would have chided. An orphan who had toiled ceaselessly all her life to earn her keep, she had never owned new garments or boots until Fifer had earned enough from his work to have them made for her. What difference makes your garments?

Down in the great hall the kitchen maids were only beginning to take down the trestle table and benches for his men, and smiled and bobbed as he passed by them. He enjoyed watching his vassals at their domestic tasks, although today he had to act on the report he’d received from his watchers on the south wall. Their chief had informed him that they had spotted a dark rift appearing in the forest on the MacRune’s island. A short time after it appeared, a beautiful otherworldly female wearing a crown had come through it along with a large group of monstrous-looking guards.

“My lord.” The clan’s manciple came to bow before him. “The merchants, they’ve arrived earlier than expected. Some brought young females with them, likely unmarried kin with which they hope tempt you.”

Fifer had long been the object of matchmaking ladies desiring a laird for their daughters, but now it seemed their husbands had joined the hunt. Sometimes he’d considered wedding a local lass to maintain an acceptable front, but he knew that would end in disaster.

“Show them in and bid them break their fast with the clan.” He always tried to appease the local trades people, who in turn gave him their loyalty and provided him with what the clan needed. “I shall join them later, after I speak to my chieftains.”

“Aye, my lord.” The manciple bowed and hurried off.

Fifer made his way from the great hall to the lists, where the men of the garrison practiced their fighting skills. His chieftains watched each group, calling out to those who needed improvement, and praising those who successfully prevailed over their sparring partners. It pleased him to see the men’s abilities. With their clan’s particular weaponry they might never have to fight hand-to-hand, but their preparations to do so spoke to how devoted they were to defending their clan.

As soon as the chieftains saw him they shouted a halt, turning with their men in his direction and bowing.

“Resume your bouts,” he told the men in the sparring circles, and beckoned to the chieftain of the walls, who trotted over and kept pace with him as Fifer walked out of the lists. Once the men could no longer hear them, he said, “Tell me more of the dark rift that appeared on the loch island.”

“’Twas said to appear without warning, and hung open as the crowned female who emerged from it parlayed with the MacRune,” the chieftain said, and described the dreadful scene. “He grew angry with her, and she with him, until a golden-haired wench spoke to the laird. He seemed to make peace with the other, and she took her monsters back into the hole, which then vanished. One of my scouts then watched the wench run away, and the MacRune pursue her.”

The watchers had said nothing about a new female arriving at Gealladh, Fifer thought, and tried to recall the last time he’d even seen a golden-haired woman. When the Norse had withdrawn from the mainland and sailed to the northern islands, they’d taken their blood-kin with them, but it was always possible that she had been born after the great retreat.

“The wench with the laird clearly belongs to him or his?” Fifer asked.

The chieftain shook his head. “My watchers ken all the females who serve the MacRune. This wench, she’s a stranger never before seen until the happening.”

“Set day and night watchers around the loch. If ’tis any new sign of the crowned female, they’re to send a dove.” He thought for a moment. “Inquire of the crofts and villages if they ken this golden-haired lass. The MacRune could have taken her from a group journeying to see their kin.”

“Aye, my lord.” The chieftain grimaced. “I’d inquire of the new magistrate, but his mercenaries turn away anyone unsummoned at the gates.”

The laird sighed. “Never mind that arse.”

Fifer parted ways with him, and went to the garrison hall, where as he expected he found his seneschal bickering with his war master. Like night and day, the black-haired Ivor and white-haired Lomond always argued even the smallest point of contention. This came from the long-standing grudge they had against each other, the source of which neither would admit to, but everyone still knew.

“You’re a fool if you believe slavers would make camp in our territory,” Lomond, the seneschal, was saying. “They fear the MacAlen too much to chance our wrath.”

“You babble nonsense, for they may easily hide their mounts and stores in the old shepherding barns and shelters,” Ivor, the war master, countered. “Indeed, half the clan could take shelter in them and none should ken the wiser.”

Lomond released an ugly laugh. “Half the clan wouldnae take on a fool’s errand.”

“Och, did you send them on one again?” Ivor asked.

“Fair morning, lads,” Fifer said loudly, which silenced both men. After he closed the door to prevent anyone else from coming in or hearing him, he said, “’Twould seem the dark Fae queen came to the mortal realm to parlay with Tair MacRune at his stronghold.”

The seneschal’s jaw dropped, while the war master swore softly under his breath.

“We’ll make preparations in the stronghold,” Lomond said after he recovered from his shock. “We can gather a hundred mortals or more below ground, in the old tunnels. The rest we may hide in the storage rooms and cellars.”

“Dinnae drain the cisterns yet, fool,” Ivor warned, and then said to Fifer, “I’ll speak to the armorer about preparing weapons and caching oil and arrows on the walls. Should we expect those thieving bastarts to attack first, or the dark Fae?” The war master’s voice trembled slightly over the last three words.

“Before you declare war against anyone, we must first learn if the MacRune struck a bargain with the queen,” he told them. “Go about your preparations quietly, Lo, and dinnae alarm the vassals, villagers or crofters. Once we ken more, we may better plan how to safeguard them.” Once he nodded, he said to Ivor, “War Master, I shall find an opportunity to speak with Tair when our watchers by the loch report he’s left the island. Until then, glean what you can from those loyal to us.”

Lomond bowed and left the garrison hall, but Ivor lingered behind, watching Fifer’s face.

“I dinnae make light of the circumstances,” he assured the war master.

“’Tisnae your caution that troubles me, my lord.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the loch. “’Tis whispered the MacRune, they’re half-Fae immortals sired by the dark queen’s assassin a century past.”