Page 89 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
He shifted his hand to hold mine. “You said the wyfe of war may have no husband.”
That ended my idle remembrances. “Did I?”
“Twice. When you first emerged from Pemberley lake, just before you complained about my being ‘prettily dressed.’ Then again last night, when you… cried out…”
I felt a flush in the hollow of my throat. “I recall now.” His chest rose and fell before I answered, “It is a lesson for wyves of war. A lesson proved in many lifetimes. A husband is a target for enemies. A strategic weakness.” Darcy was very still while I finished, “A wyfe of war brings no happiness to those she loves. Our lives are short.”
“That depends on circumstance. We are in a civilized era—”
I laughed bitterly. “All eras call themselves civilized. None are. No wyfe of war lives long.” I took his hand between mine, winding my fingers through his. “But I am a selfish woman. I do not regret this night. This is why we are here. To be together.”
His fingers tensed. “We are here to find the flute.” I was not sure if he was reminding me or had become suspicious until he sat up, full of energy. “The MacLeods are stirring. Today, we hear the story of the Pictish stones.”
The last bits of my happiness skidded into guilty dread.
We dressed and greeted the MacLeods, at breakfast with their daughter. They served us bowls of steaming porridge, a mishmash of split peas and wheat groats, modest portions eyed hungrily by their daughter. I claimed to be overfull from the feast and offered her half of mine, which she accepted with astonished eyes before wolfing it down. Her mother watched every bite, unreadable. What did she feel? Bruised pride in the presence of a guest? Guilt and grief because her child was hungry?
We walked to the river, and Mr. MacLeod rowed the four of us across. Thesky was overcast but bright, the northern sun occasionally visible as a muted, moon-like orb veiled by flowing clouds.
Halfway up Helmsdale hill, Mistress MacLeod stopped and gazed at Helmsdale with its houses in their regular, too narrow plan.
She pointed inland to the long, broad valley that followed the river. “Ye wondered what happened to our people. That’s the Kildonan strath. It’s hard land, but it was ours. Every stone and stubborn strand of grass lived in our hearts. The people of the strath have lived here longer than anyone can say. Now, though, we’ve been ‘given’ this.” She flicked her hand, disgusted, to the ruled lines and tiny farms of the village.
“The landholders bought you out?” Darcy asked.
Her husband burst out a laugh, and Mistress MacLeod gritted a harsh smile. “Bought?Nae. The rich don’tbuythings. They take them. We came home one afternoon to find an eviction notice nailed on our door. Claimed we had debts. We’ve never borrowed a penny in our lives. Turns outeveryonehad these ‘debts’.”
“Did you seek legal recourse?” Darcy asked. He knew it was a naïve question—his jaw was set. But even angry, he was a thorough man. Darcy understood the weapons of wealth. Even if he did not stoop to using them himself, he was assessing his opponent’s strength.
Mistress Macleod resumed walking, climbing the hill while she spoke. “The law hereisthe factor. He runs these lands, every rock and bush as far as ye can see. They made us pay to build those shacks”—she jerked her head toward Helmsdale—“and he made a tidy profit selling to us, I promise ye that.”
I asked, “Did you fight?” A less naïve question.
“?’Course we fought!” she snapped. “We blockaded roads. We kicked the factor and his bully men off our land. We fought, and blood spilled. Then they brought the army to beat us and arrest us. Some gave up then, or were done with fighting after broken arms and legs, or decided not to risk their little ones. They moved. The factor was spinning a grand tale of how these ‘improvements,’ kelping and fishing, were businesses that’d make us rich as kings.” She snorted. “But most of us didn’t believe him, or were too stubborn to change our ways if we did, and we went on the way we had. Until one afternoon, while the men were away tilling the fields, they came for us. Dragged me and our girl out, screaming. Burned our croft and everything in it. Clothes, food, tools, seed. Ye could see pillars of smoke risin’ all across the strath, home after home goingup. That night, it was beg to huddle in one of those shacks down there, or watch our young ones and old folk freeze.”
“We can help,” Darcy said. “We can speak to the landholders. I cannot promise to right the wrongs, to restore your land, but wealthy men may be ignorant of the hardship their policies impose. And even if they are indifferent, we can aid the people of Helmsdale. Help you find a way to prosper.”
Mr. MacLeod answered, but he spoke to me, not to Darcy. “Would ye fight for us?”
Mistress MacLeod turned to watch me, the promise I made reflected in her eyes, but that seemed more distant than the pool of anger simmering in me. This story could have been any of countless past lives, wyves with their homes taken, their livelihoods stripped away, their families killed…
“We are not here to fight,” Darcy answered for me.
“What good are ye, then?” Mr. MacLeod asked me, not even angrily. Just wondering. And the dark pool in my heart lapped higher and whispered of war.
We emerged on the hilltop. An old memory stirred: my sisters and me standing in a wary triangle on this windswept point. There was no castle then, only our swirling power. Not sisters by blood. Great sisters. Great wyves. A guilty pain wrenched my spine and shortened my breath. The ruined castle flickered into a fantastic outpost, an enemy. I had to clench my teeth not to summon Yuánchi, to see him drive and destroy—
“Elizabeth?” Darcy asked carefully.
I forced my jaw loose and tasted the bloody sting of a bit lip. I nodded in answer, not trusting my voice.
What just happened? I had not felt that sort of violent impulse since we flew north. Chilled, I walked after the others.
Mistress MacLeod led us through a fallen wall into the ruins of the castle. Her husband whistled, and a man emerged from the shadows to meet us.
“We keep a guard on the stones,” Mr. MacLeod explained. “Sellar, that’s the factor, he’s after them. Rich folks collect ’em.”
Mistress MacLeod walked on, but my steps slowed. My past selves had recognized the unspoken exchange between the guard and Mr. MacLeod—the flick of eyes toward a concealing pile of rocks, the suggestion of a nod. Now the guard’s eyes followed me, angry and hopeful.
