Page 70 of The Crown of Moonlight
The hounds show no interest in the meat, so I offer them bannocks and cheese instead.They’ve no interest in those either, edging over shyly to let me pet them.It’s like touching silk through water, their substance shifting beneath my fingers, their grey fur dripping shadows that blur their outlines.They smell cool and misty, like the moors and braes at twilight.
Watching me intently through dark eyes ringed in a pale gold that glows like the moon, the smaller female whines softly and thumps her tail.The male divides his attention between me, Chyr, and the woods around us.
They make me miss Rab.I miss home, my family, my people.My place.
I wonder if Chyr understands how important place is to us in the Highlands, the earth beneath our feet that’s been tilled and tended down the centuries by those who share our blood.We’re a people of place: Domhnall of Dunhaelic, Domhnall of Gleanngaradh, Domhnall of Ceapaich, Domhnall of Gleannadail.
Chyr’s father stole our places from us, and in doing so, he forced us to become something other than who we were born to be.Chyr made me believe in him, believe in myself.He changed me, and now he’s stolen that new beginning and taken my self-respect.
Chyr and I finish eating, and I wash the meal down with enough water to make me forget my stomach’s been empty too long.Then we ride on with the Shadehounds padding beside us through a misery of driving rain.Bogs at the edge of the loch force us to detour upland or risk skirting the dangerous edges where false ground can kill in an instant.Eira dances too close for comfort several times as she veers off to snatch bites of heather or grass.
With no moonlight, it’s hard to gauge how long we’ve been riding.Finally, the sloping woods give way to gentler hills covered in blooming furze.We traverse three or four of these, and then the Shadehounds shoot forward at a run.
Chyr and I glance at each other.He extinguishes the scoutlight, and as we crest the next low rise, we’re hit with the smell of smoke.
My chest tightens, and a sick feeling turns my stomach.But the smell isn’t the harsh, greasy smoke of destruction.It’s pine sap and iron, a watchfire built outdoors to withstand the rain.
Chyr slides silently from Bramble’s saddle and tosses me her reins.“Take the horses off the track,” he whispers.“I’ll go have a look.”
Eira dances sideways, but Chyr is already moving, his footsteps silent.I dismount and lead the horses into the thin pines and rowan scrub.My heart is thudding, and I’m relieved when the Shadehounds return.But I don’t give a damn about Chyr’s order.
“If you two can understand me, stay with the horses.Stay.”I hold out my hand in the palm-down gesture I use for Rab.“Stay.Guard.”
They tilt their heads, then drop to their haunches and wait as I tie Eira and Bramble to a twisted pine.I move quietly through the brush in the direction that Chyr took, and when I look back, the Shadehounds are still where I left them, which fills me with both relief and wonder.
Seeing no sign of Chyr, I follow the smoke.I round a bend and spot the soft orange glow of a fire flickering in a hollow between the hills.
The glow vanishes behind trees and brush as I move closer, until I crest another moss-covered hillock.Then it’s suddenly right ahead.Crouched behind a narrow birch, I peer into a gully where a lookout post has been dug in.Three lean-tos covered in oilcloth stand in a row, swords and equipment scattered in front of them.Within each one, two men in scarlet uniforms sleep on cots, and a seventh man stands by the fire, watching the slope below.
My fingers curl into my palms, nails digging into my skin.The vantage point gives a clear view of Loch Seil and the Domhnall territory beyond it.It also overlooks the drovers’ track where Chyr and I would have passed if we hadn’t smelled the smoke.
As if I’ve conjured him by thinking his name, Chyr appears behind the sentry.Clamping his hand over the sentry’s mouth, he makes a clean slice over the man’s throat and lowers him to the ground, where he lies unmoving.
My heart twists.There’s a pang of loss similar to what I felt with the rabbit’s death, a faint echo of the sense of loss at Aknacaery.But instantly, Chyr pivots towards one of the tents, and I know what he’s going to do.It’s necessary, I can acknowledge that.Eliminating the watchpost will reduce our risk and the danger for everyone in Ehrugael, but the men are sleeping, and that’s an ugly kill.
As angry as I am, I know Chyr enough to know he’ll carry that guilt with him.And he shouldn’t have to shoulder it alone.
I run to the camp, moving as silently as I can.
Chyr is inside the first shelter when he sees me, and he shakes his head, warning me away.Ignoring him, I tiptoe to the lean-to farthest from him.
He kills again.I feel the loss of the life he’s taken just as I reach the structure.Forcing myself to set that aside, I crouch beside the first of the red-coated soldiers.But I can’t kill him in his sleep—I can’t.With my dagger poised at his throat, I cover his mouth with my other hand and wait for him to wake.
Confusion dulls his senses when his eyes first open.The delay is long enough for me to carve a deep slice across his throat.The wound wells red, blending into his coat, and blood pumps with the last beats of his heart.He stills.
The death isn’t a pang in my heart this time.It’s a rip in my soul, swift and raw.Trying to ignore it for the moment, I move on to the second man.My hands shake as I kill him, and by the time I emerge, Chyr is in the third shelter already.He scowls when he sees me.
I don’t know which of us makes some small sound.Perhaps neither of us does, and it’s sheer ill luck.Across the shelter from Chyr, the second man bolts up from the cot and darts outside, fumbling for something at his throat—a stone of some sort on a leather cord.Yanking the necklace free, he flings it into the fire and screams a word I don’t recognise.
The fire hisses and flares, and the smell of pine pitch cuts through the scent of rain.
Flames erupt on the ridge above us, a long beacon ripping through the darkness.Chyr dives at the man, but the soldier grins as if he’s already won.
That smile makes me ignite with rage.
Vheara’s soldiers are using our own hilltop signal fires against us.They kill our warriors, torch and spoil our fields, slaughter our animals, rape our women, and burn our children.And all the while, theysmile.
Magic comes before I call it, roiling in the air around me as if the fury I feel is echoed by the earth and sky.I search for a way to use the magic I know, but it isn’t the air, fire, and water of Tirnaeve’s magic that comes to me.It’s the ancient powers that whisper to me: the Cailleach’s gifts of land and sun, of rain and fertility and wind, and the cool nights when the moon’s silver eye provides a respite.
