Page 45 of Bride of Ice
“Hallie won’t let me come to your chamber anymore, so ’tis the best I can do. You should be able to see well enough from there.”
A smile pulled at the corners of Colban’s mouth. Ian might well be the most determined lad he’d ever met.
No one had ever thought to teach Colban to read. The skills required of a laird’s right hand man were a strong arm, a loyal heart, and a keen nose for the scent of danger. Reading was a luxury. At least in the Highlands.
Nonetheless, he was bored. He might as well humor the lad.
So he watched as Ian meticulously arranged some of the rocks into a large curve.
“This is a C,” Ian said. “You can make it with your hand, like so.” He held up his left hand, mimicking the shape by curving his fingers and thumb. “You do it.”
Colban obliged him. “Like the wanin’ sliver o’ the moon.”
“Aye! Now watch,” Ian said, arranging more rocks beside the curve, into a circle. “This is an O.” With a finger, he traced the shape his mouth made as he said the letter.
Colban grinned. “O,” he repeated.
“And next…” Ian placed two rows of rocks in angled lines. “L. ’Tis like a leg with a wee foot.”
“L.”
“C, O, L,” Ian told him, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “COL.”
A shiver tightened the back of Colban’s neck. The same kind of shiver he got when he sensed an impending threat. But this was a frisson of excitement.
“Ye’re writin’ my name,” he said in wonder. He’d never seen it before. “Do the rest,” he urged.
He suddenly realized the value of knowing how to write his name. With such knowledge came power. Men wrote their name at the bottom of documents that imparted land and goods and rights. Betrothals could be forged. Cattle could be purchased. Hell, even Morgan’s claim to Creagor relied upon the king writing his name on a document.
The wee lad was bestowing upon him a gift of great magnitude, whether he knew it or not.
“B,” Ian said, adding in a loud whisper, “which looks like buttocks, aye?”
Colban was going to say breasts. “Aye.”
“And this…is an A.” Ian cocked his head. “I suppose it resembles a wee cottage.”
Colban nodded.
“Lastly…” Ian said, arranging the rocks in a zigzagging line. He scratched at his head. “’Tis an N, but I’m not sure what—”
“’Tis the path o’ my claymore when I knock a blade aside.” He smiled, mimicking the motion with his sword arm.
“That’s it then. C. O. L. B. A. N. COL-BAN. COLBAN.”
It seemed simple enough. Moon, mouth, leg, breasts, cottage, claymore. He could remember that.
“I can’t bring you a notebook,” Ian confided, “but you can practice writing on the hearthstones with ashes from the fire.”
“I can.” He would. Indeed, it would give him a certain satisfaction to inscribe his name on the hearth of his captors.
“Would you like to seemyname?” Ian asked.
“Aye.”
“’Tis much shorter. Watch.”
He picked up the stones of the first four letters of Colban’s name. In the empty spot, he made the shape of a single line, like a man standing alone.
