Page 5 of For an Exile’s Heart (Ancient Songs #2)

T he settlement looked smaller and far less grand than Adair had expected. It perched upon the rocky rise above the sea and, from what he could see through the rain, had only a rough hold upon it. The main building, a stone dun with a reeded roof now dripping water, was of a goodly size. But fewer huts than he had anticipated clustered round its flanks, and the stone enclosure wall looked only half finished.

No matter; he was heartily glad to be here and anywhere besides that boat. The crossing had not been a good one. The rain had seemed to drive them from behind—away from Erin. They’d almost overturned rounding an island in furious seas. He’d rarely been so wet.

The climb up from the shore was steep. He could see several people waiting out front of the main dun. Was that Kendrick foremost among them? Impossible to tell.

The men who had helped pull their boat up onto the shore had not been welcoming. Neither, it appeared, was the man standing at the top of the rise.

As Adair reached him, one of the waiting figures stepped away. Another, a woman, emerged from the dun.

“Chief Kendrick?” Adair called, only to swiftly correct himself. “Uncle Kendrick? I bring ye greetings from Gawen MacMurtray in Erin.”

“Aye?” The man who faced Adair, almost barring the way, barked the word. Of goodly height and broad with it, he had fair hair darkened by the rain and an air of toughness he wore like the cloak over his shoulders. A wide, craggy face seamed by care betrayed his years, some two score of them. He wore a torc around his neck very similar to the one Father wore back home.

“And who, by Manannan’s eyeteeth, are you?” Nay, not welcoming at all.

“I am Adair, son to your brother, Gawen of Erin.”

Kendrick’s lips stretched in a terrible grimace. “By all the gods, another one? How many sons does the nathair have?”

“I am the third and the last,” Adair told him, somewhat taken aback.

“Gawen MacMurtray is no’ my brother, but was brother to my sister, who is long gone. But I suppose ye’d better come in. I canna leave ye standing in the rain.”

The interior of the dun was dim, smoky, and far from grand. Maybe half the size of the hall back home, it lacked the carved pillars and the dais where Father usually sat. A poor fire smoldered in the central hearth, struggling against the damp air.

Still, it felt warmer than outside, and Adair shivered as he took up a stance and looked around.

He could not compare this place with what lay back home. That had been built over generations. This outpost had been here a mere score of years or so.

Kendrick did have a chair, a roughly carved thing at the head of the fire. He plopped down onto this and glared.

“Ye two, I know,” he said to Adair’s companions, Nolan and Flynn. “Ye will be housed where ye were before—but no’ for long. Do no’ get too comfortable.”

The men went out again, accompanied by a servant.

Adair shot a searching look at Kendrick. He bore only a faint resemblance to Adair’s brothers in the stark bones of his face and their strong build. Adair could not remember his mother well enough to glimpse a likeness.

“I thought I’d got rid o’ the last of ye,” Kendrick spat at him. “Yet here ye be.”

Adair did not know how to reply. Father insisted he’d been blessed with a clever and agile tongue, and mayhap that was true. He’d never, though, met with such an uncomfortable situation.

He glanced at the other occupants of the room, hoping for some cue. A woman, tall and slender, stood back from Kendrick’s chair. She gave off both an air of beauty and a disagreeableness similar to Kendrick’s, and was visibly heavy with child.

“My wife, Tavia,” Kendrick said, catching Adair’s look.

Adair bowed to her. “Mistress Tavia.”

She moved forward, her hair, which hung down over one shoulder, gleaming red gold in the dim light. Eyes of clear blue, set at a slight angle, met his.

“Master Adair. Pray, sit. Ye will want something hot to drink after your journey.”

He gave her his best smile. “’Twould be a godsend, mistress.”

Kendrick grunted as the woman fetched a ewer from the embers at the edge of the fire and poured a mug full. Adair sat on one of the rugs facing Kendrick.

His uncle waited till he’d taken a drink to ask, “So what brings ye? Nay, do no’ tell me. The same thing that brought your two brothers before ye.” He grimaced. “Gawen is persistent, I will give him that.”

Adair hesitated. He supposed he could try to play this circumspectly, but given the temperature of his welcome, he did not believe he’d succeed.

“To be perfectly plain about it,” he told Kendrick, “Father thinks I can charm ye out o’ what he believes ye owe him.”

“Ah.” Fierce eyes bored into Adair’s. “And what do ye think?”

“I suspect he may be wrong.”

“Aye, then ye’re no’ so foolish as ye look.”

Another silence fell, angry on Kendrick’s part, and embarrassed on Adair’s.

“Ah well, we will talk further anon. Till then, I gather I maun offer ye houseroom. There are guest quarters of a sort behind this place. Ye will stay there.”

Adair got to his feet and bowed, then aimed another bow at Mistress Tavia. “I am grateful, Uncle.”

“Off wi’ ye now. Change into dry clothes—if ye have them.” Kendrick raised his voice. “By the gods, where is that lad?”

A slim, dark-haired boy appeared silently.

“Take Master Adair to the guest quarters. See he has all he needs.”

The boy bowed, then indicated that Adair should follow him. Back out into the crashing world of the rain with the gray ocean spread so wide. Separating him from all he loved. Around the side of the dun, he could feel eyes upon him. A deep awareness like fingertips on his skin.

But aye, the inhabitants here would be curious about another arrival. Another unwelcome one.

The hut, built of stone, offered little comfort. The interior felt damp with the rain, the hearth cold. Only a low sleeping bench piled with furs offered any hint of warmth.

The dark-haired lad dropped immediately to his knees and kindled a fire from materials laid to one side. Adair set down his belongings and said to the boy, “Thank ye. What is your name?”

The boy did not answer. He had a scar on one cheek and could not be more than twelve or thirteen.

A dismal feeling settled over Adair, one that penetrated clear to his bones. He found himself far from home, separated even from the men who had brought him here, without friends.

He sat on the edge of the sleeping bench as the flames grew higher in the hearth, fighting to draw against the heavy rain. He tried to imagine Baen and Daerg here before him. Baen with all his calm confidence. Daerg, no doubt feeling as hopeless as he.

Father had no idea what this place was like, or he’d never have sent any of them. Daerg—Daerg had tried to warn Adair about the nature of Alba. A dark and terrible place.

Adair could feel that now. The great land lurking beyond the door of his hut like a monstrous wolf waiting to leap upon him. A great, barely perceived threat.

If he could tell his father one thing, it would be Ye do not want this place, this Dalriada. Not any part of it. Erin was home, and Erin was all.

The lad got to his feet and turned as if to leave.

“Wait,” Adair said. “Ye have no’ told me your name. How am I to call for ye?”

The boy turned back. For the first time, Adair got a glimpse of his eyes: narrowed and nearly blank.

“Torlag,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “I will bring food as soon as it is prepared.”

“And am I not to be brought to the main hall, to sup?” Was this to be guest quarters, or Adair’s prison?

The boy said nothing.

“See if ye can bring me something to drink first,” Adair requested. “Mead or ale.”

Torlag went out hurriedly.

He did not return.

*

Never before had Adair been away from home for more than a night or two while hunting, and that out in his own hills. Forests he knew right well, with views he’d seen since birth. He’d taken solace always in the land around him, soft and green, a congenial companion.

It had been a long while—many generations—since the men of the clan had gone out to war. Aye, they still trained, as they were subject at any time to being called upon by the high king. Father had been a strong warrior in his day, and Baen was yet. Adair himself was no mean hand with the sword when, as Father put it, he applied himself.

Being descended from the great Ardahl MacCormac, they had warrior in the blood.

Yet he was unfamiliar with the savagery he sensed in this place. And he’d seldom experienced such misery as beset him that night.

Since the young servant did not return, no food was brought. No summons came for him to take a meal in the hall. He might have gone out seeking his unwilling host, but the rain came down still harder, making that an uninviting prospect. He kept the fire going with the fuel at hand, and at last wrapped himself in the blankets and slept.