Page 6 of Highland Storm

Una lifted a wiry brow. “To carry a poultice down the mount? D’ ye think me lame, child?”

Sorcha responded with a crooked smile and Una’s staff itched to fly at her, though she stayed her hand. At these moments, she missed Keane all the more. The dún Scoti lassies were all quite hale and sharp of wit, but Una was never inclined to give them a wallop on the head. More’s the pity that Kellen was not about, for he made a fitting substitute. Alas, though Lìli’s sixteen-year old son would rise up into manhood far quicker than he should, and Lìli would be angered by the decisions her husband had made whilst away at Chreagach Mhor. She blew a sigh, and her despair reared itself in the form of a cold draft that swept into the grotto from the caves above, billowing through Sorcha’s blue skirts and fluttering the torchlight so that its flame gave a long obeisant bow. Casting a dubious eye toward the keek stane, Una confessed, “I was waylaid, if ye must know.”

Despite an overabundance of curiosity, Sorcha knew better than to ask about the lump beneath the tartan, but Una decided that now was as good a time as any to discover what she must know. Leaning on her staff for support, she made her way to the nearest chair and sat down to study her pupil. “How is Ria’s rash?” she asked.

“Better, Lìli says, though she is prickly.”

“Lìli or Ria?”

Sorcha laughed softly. “Both, if ye must know.”

Reaching up for one long plait of hair—a nervous gesture meant to occupy her hands— Sorcha wandered closer to Una’s worktable, driven by her insatiable curiosity for the crystal. It called to her now, for she too was a taibshear—a seer. But it was one thing to possess the knowing, quite another to be conscious of it and wish to use it. There were folk who had the natural disposition, but who did not trust their intuition, nor did they keep an open mind and heart…

Even now, seated across the room, Una felt the crystal’s energy and knew it longed to be seen by different eyes. The question was, did Sorcha feel the pull as well? Was the lass strong enough to embrace her inner magik?

She watched the girl she’d raised from a wee bairn and after a moment her eyes were drawn to a high shelf. “Sorcha, dearling, do ye recall the book we used to read together?”

Made of sheepskin and bound with leather, the volume was painted with ancient symbols that were drawn in blood. It was quite old and delicate, impossible to read, unless ye had the sight. To anyone who did not have da shealladh, the pages would simply appear blank. But Sorcha knew them… nearly from the first. Even as a child, she had seen things others had not.

Following Una’s gaze to the high shelf, Sorcha said, “Of course. I remember.”

Una smiled ruefully. “Promise to keep it safe?”

“I will! But Una⁠—”

“Dùin do ghob somaltag.” Hush your mouth, child, the old woman said gently.

Resolved to her task, Una tapped her ash wood staff upon the grotto’s stone floor and mist rose like smoke from unseen places. Along with the mist arrived a cold that seeped straight into the bones faster than a wet, cold rain. And yet despite the swirling smoke, the air grew stale—as though before a sweeping fire, sucking oxygen into its flame. Sorcha felt the change, and like a wary doe, prepared to flee.

Only once or twice before had Una revealed herself before men. Each time there had been a wrath to pay. Next time would be her last. She stared at her young charge, willing Sorcha to remain.

Never fear, child.

The silky sound of Una’s voice slid like an asp through the misty cavern.

Even as she watched, half expecting Sorcha to fly away like the moth, the girl’s shoulders began to relax. Behind her on the table, the scrying stone glowed a little brighter, its powerful magik seeping beneath the weave like diaphanous threads of light.

Remove the tartan from the keek stane, Una suggested, but her lips never moved.

Startled by the command, Sorcha snapped her head about to peer at the tartan, and turned a wary glance to Una.

Remove the tartan, Una said again.

Blinking, Sorcha’s hand lifted toward the blanket as though of its own accord, but cautiously. Una watched patiently as her fingers hovered near the cloth, waiting…

Remove the tartan, she willed once again.

Clearest violet, the girl’s eyes were luminous in the grotto’s warm light. Her gaze locked with Una’s, and Una smiled reassuringly, quite pleased. Sorcha might not realize what it was she knew, but, aye, she knew…

Peer into the crystal and tell me what you see.

Sorcha found her voice. “Truly?”

The old woman tipped her chin but once.

Tentatively, as though she feared it might be a figment of her imagination and that any moment Una’s staff would fly at the pate of her head, Sorcha’s fingers pinched the tartan. Silently, the old woman rose from the chair to stand beside her pupil at the table, moving more swiftly than her auld bones should have allowed. But if Sorcha sensed her advance, it did not appear to alarm her, nor did she turn to acknowledge the auld woman standing at her side. The keek stane now held her undivided attention.

Anticipation became a living, breathing creature in the stone chamber. Una could see the misty tendrils of the bruadar—the vision—reaching out for the girl, like arms that longed to embrace her. Sorcha’s heartbeat ticked like iron tocks, each one in tune with the beat of Una’s heart. Una lent her the strength of the bruadaraiche—the dreamer.