Page 5

He stubbornly believed he could find a way through the rocks without Sìneag’s unwelcome condition.

But, proving James’s words, none of the time travel stones worked for him—the ones with a handprint, with the river of time, and the tunnel carved on them. So, he’d considered Albert Einstein’s quote “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results” and decided to try something new.

This rock.

Holding his breath, he stepped into the footprint.

Nothing happened. He didn’t travel in time. He was just standing there, inhaling the wind, and trying to fit his large foot into the small footprint.

“Ye’re now King of Dál Riata,” Dùghlas proclaimed. “Congratulations.”

David cursed under his breath and stepped back, disappointment dripping from him like sweat. Dùghlas went to a bowl carved in a stone five steps away from the inauguration stone, sank to his knees, and gathered rainwater from the bowl in both hands. Then, still on his knees, he stretched his arms to David.

“Would Yer Grace allow Taranis, the feared god of thunder and rain, to bless yer reign for years to come?”

David gritted his teeth. “Only if Taranis sends a lightning bolt up your ass.”

The anger, the constant sense of helplessness, of being locked down against his will, was a sickening, corroding storm in his guts. He needed the only thing that helped him to forget.

Uisge.

With a sigh, he sat down on the rock, still warm from a few hours in the morning sun, and took out his flask—a horn with a cork—filled with uisge. He tucked his map under one foot so that the wind wouldn’t carry his most precious possession away, pulled the cork, and took three long, satisfying gulps. The fiery liquid burned his mouth and his throat as it descended into his stomach. It was pretty much pure alcohol, bitter but oaky and smoky, and there was the beginning of real scotch somewhere in there. Though whisky wouldn’t be invented until the fifteenth century, Rogene had told him. The familiar high hit his brain cells and he started to relax, his senses swimming.

Finally.

Wiping his wet hands off on his braies, Dùghlas came and sat by his side. “By God’s teeth, friend, yer fascination with things sent up an arse hasn’t stopped surprising me in the whole moon we have been traveling together.” Rolling his eyes, David offered the uisge. Dùghlas drank, croaked, and handed it back to him. “The things I remember ye wishing up my arse were a tree branch when we slept in the woods and it was too wet to kindle. A wet cloth when I tried to wipe the vomit off yer face after ye got drunk. And…oh, ’tis the best one yet, one of the rocks ye’ve been chasing and slamming yer hand into. The whole seven-foot-long rock.” Dùghlas shook his head and laughed.

David drank more, chasing that numbness he needed. “Well, you can now add ‘go fuck yourself’ to the list.”

“Ah.” Dùghlas pulled the map out from under David’s foot. “’Tis a good one. I prefer pleasuring myself to shoving things into my body that dinna belong there.”

David chuckled and toasted to that. “You’re not wrong there.” He drank more.

“Where do ye want to go next?” Dùghlas asked, staring at the map. “Man, I’m glad ye understand this child’s drawing and can orient yerself. ’Tis ogham to me.”

“Well,” David said, “I don’t know. This is the last rock I know of.”

“There are more,” Dùghlas said. “The Picts were everywhere. They conquered Dál Riata, too, at some point. Perhaps yer rocks are somewhere in Galloway or even England. But I’ll tell ye one thing. Be careful. Dinna ask folk about them. Dinna talk about them to someone ye dinna ken. And if ye can help it, dinna go near them longer than necessary.”

David gulped more of the uisge, his head already spinning pleasantly. The wind from the sea gusted stronger now, throwing the long strands of his dark-blond hair, which he hadn’t cut in three years, into his eyes. A few raindrops fell on his face and on the map, but he registered them only distantly. Scotland and rain. That had been his life for what felt like forever.

“Why? Would faeries make me disappear?” He drank more. He needed more of that warm burning in his stomach, to chase the cold of the wind and the rain away. He’d already stopped caring that the rain might ruin his precious map. A few more gulps of alcohol, and he’d stop caring that he was stuck in the Middle Ages. That was what he was going for.

“Nae.” Dùghlas frowned. “But there’s folk that dinna take people who believe in such things kindly. Especially priests.”

David nodded. A sweet light-headedness tricked him into thinking he had no dark thoughts, that he was joyous and light and fun. Everything he wasn’t when sober.

“We should go,” Dùghlas said, then rolled up David’s map and handed it to him. “The farmhouse down there”—he pointed at a croft—“mayhap they’ll take us in.”

David stood up, swaying, and pointed two fingers at his friend like Elvis. “Yeah, man. I’m glad you’re traveling with me. You keep me out of trouble.”

As they walked down the hill, David balancing over the worn-out, ancient rocks that indicated ancient ramparts, Dùghlas said, “Ye’re glad? ’Tis a nice change from wishing things up my arse and telling me to go and pleasure myself.”

Black clouds darkened the world. Rain intensified, and David was blinking water away. He was almost there, almost in that oblivious state where he could tolerate his miserable life and where the obnoxious, self-deprecating voice in his head was silent. But something bothered him. As he stepped over one wet, moss-covered step, his foot slipped a little, but he regained his balance.

“Careful,” said Dùghlas.

“Thanks for the warning, man. I’ve been nothing but careful for three years.”