The preparations for Bealltainn continued, and Dalkeith was covered in bright colors. Thanks to Deorsa’s talent for lying, Sören’s group was able to relax in comfort. He had presented them as distant cousins and convinced the innkeeper to kick out a few unfortunate souls. Despite their clear lack of physical likeness, he told the story so well that even Fillan found himself believing it. The teenager felt bad for the people that had been kicked out but couldn’t help appreciating the lie: for the first time since he’d left Berwick, he could sleep in something that resembled a bed.
He was burning with questions for Deorsa, but the man left the town before dawn and only returned after nightfall each day. During his rare sightings, he was always busy and didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to Fillan. The only person that seemed worthy of his precious time was Sören, to whom he passed news of the region in hushed whispers.
That was how the teenager learnt, eavesdropping on their conversations, that King Edward’s troops were advancing on the northern part of the Lowlands. The Graham clan, in alliance with the other Scottish chiefs, was planning to hold them at Dunbar.
Fillan could have pestered Sören for answers, but the Norwegian was always disappearing and seemed to be avoiding him, which annoyed him even more. The longer he didn’t know what was going on, the harder it became to bear. Luckily, though, life in the town had the gift of calming him. Dalkeith was far from the bustling city of Berwick, but it still made him think fondly back to his old city and gave him the chance to join in with the daily routines of the residents.
The first night, Edan and Fergus had headed straight for one of the most infamous buildings in town, The Purple Thistle, which left no doubt as to the services it offered. Kyle insulted them and mocked their inability to seduce women except for with their money purses. She hated that they lowered themselves to that sort of business. Fillan shared her view. Alastair, as a man of honor and respect, had always pressed upon him that buying another’s body with the power of money was revolting. Fergus was ashamed and didn’t go back to the Thistle. Edan’s little trips only lasted for two days before Kyle gave him a black eye for it.
Ever since Sören had agreed to take him to Scone, Fillan and Kyle had gotten closer. They talked a lot before, during and after their training. She was difficult to gauge and had a carefree nature. One minute she showed all the manners and grace of a lady of the court, and the next she was throwing out insults that were even more vulgar than Edan’s, while physically throwing things too.
With such a curious mix of softness and brutality, she gave off a mysterious air. Despite all their talks, Fillan still knew barely anything about her as she always evaded questions and refused to talk about her past. If he pushed too hard, she’d spend the next two hours pretending he didn’t exist.
On the fourth day, when the sun had not yet risen, Fillan finished his run around the town. Now that they had more time on their hands, Kyle had decided to make him work on his endurance before each session. When they arrived at their training patch in front of the inn, he was drowning in sweat while she had rosy cheeks. As they tried to catch their breath, Sören appeared and leaned against a log, cutting an apple with his dagger.
“Carry on!ç he called with a chuckle. “Just pretend I’m not here!”
Fillan hated the feeling of being watched and missed a step, which Kyle punished with a smack. Then they got to work on a spear attack that would, she said, allow him to take out slower enemies with one strike. You just had to aim right.
He repeated the movements, once, twice, before correctly hitting her in the throat. Fillan felt like he was making progress and learning much faster. Kyle wasn’t the type to sing and shout about his achievements and simply gave him a smile.
“Let me have a go!” called the Norwegian as he jogged over to join them.
“If you like,” shrugged Kyle.
She took the last piece of apple out of his hands with a teasing stare and crunched on it as she turned and headed to join Moira, who was passing by.
“I hope she hasn’t been too soft with you!” said Sören.
Fillan simply gestured toward his many cuts and bruises all over his arms.
“What, that? That’s nothing! In the Highlands, those are tokens of affection!” Sören chuckled.
Fillan stayed still; he’d never seen the mercenary joke around like this.
“You’re going to show me everything you’ve learned. We’ve got a long road ahead and I don’t want you to be a dead weight if something goes wrong.”
Like in Cranshaws, Fillan couldn’t stop himself from thinking. Sören didn’t say it, but his tone implied it.
“Did you ask Kyle to train me?”
“I would have done it once I found out we had to take you to Scone. But she decided to do it long before that. She’s a smart one. Alright, en garde!”
They began to turn around each other, each trying not to be blinded by the sunlight that was rising above the horizon. The air was dry and humid, and smelt of earth and dried leaves. Their blades met, and Fillan felt the almighty strength of his opponent.
“What’s Deorsa’s role in the Brotherhood?” he asked, straining his muscles.
“You really don’t have any idea?”
They broke apart and began circling again, face to face.
“Is he a… negotiator?”
“Worse. He’s a spy!” said Sören as he attempted contact again.
Fillan had anticipated the trajectory of the sword and was able to turn and duck to avoid it. The mercenary approved with a grunt.
“You could move out of the way a little faster,” he said.
“You don’t seem to like him. Deorsa, I mean.”
“You expect me to believe you want to hug him?”
“Only to strangle him.”
The Norwegian burst into laughter, terrifying Fillan.
“Do you trust him?”
While he asked the question, Fillan tried a reverse attack that the mercenary blocked easily.
“Deorsa is the type of man I hate. He’s used to looking for the slightest weakness, clue, or trail that can give the Brotherhood an advantage. But that’s what he’s like with everyone. It’s in his nature. I don’t know anyone who likes him. To him, every conversation is a battle of wills. He’s a damn asshole.”
“But…”
“But I have to deal with him. Despite his many faults, he’s useful to the Brotherhood because he’s very good at what he does.”
The cry of a cockerel rung out in the distance as the sun rose above the forest. The sounds of nature began to mix with the noises of the townspeople waking up.
“This Brotherhood, what is it exactly?”
Sören’s eyes traveled down to his dropped guard.
“Stay focused!”
“I don’t know anything!” he protested. “And Deorsa is avoiding me!”
“I’m not the best one to talk to you about it.”
“You’re the only one who can!”
“The Brotherhood is a secret society,” replied the mercenary after a long sigh. “Few know of their existence. Their full name is the Brotherhood of Assassins.”
The teenager felt a shiver run down his spine. His sword hand shook.
“Assassins?”
“Specialists in concealment and elimination,” agreed the Norwegian.
“But to what aim?”
“Don’t you know the meaning of the word ‘secret?’ I can’t tell you anything. Plus, even I don’t know what they want with you.”
Fillan suspected that wasn’t wholly true. He’d seen Sören from his hiding corner as he talked with the spy and pointed to an imaginary mark on his wrist.
“Deorsa said that you were part of…”
“My god, you bleat like a sheep. You’d be better off focusing on your footwork,” lectured the mercenary before he struck a blow from below.
Fillan barely blocked and almost fell backwards. He’d lost his rhythm and tripped over his feet. His opponent had lost all traces of humor in his face and stepped back, sword raised in the air. Fillan knew he had to choose his next question carefully, or Sören would close off.
“What’s a Child of Fal?”
“Where did you hear that name?” asked Sören, his eyes bulging. “Did Deorsa tell you? Kyle?”
“Neither. I heard Cornavii questioning my master about it, just before he killed him.”
“It’s just an old fable. It doesn’t matter.”
Another lie, and the Norwegian now seemed very uneasy.
“And what is it about? Is there a link between the Lann Fala and the Brotherhood?”
When he looked into the mercenary’s eyes, Fillan stepped back. Kyle would have stopped the fight there, but Sören jumped on him and dealt a series of devastating attacks. Fillan only stopped the first two, which made his muscles scream. With the third attack, his sword flew into the air and clattered to the ground. His warrior teacher would have been very disappointed, as she believed that being disarmed was the greatest dishonor.
“You talk too much,” said Sören, his voice trembling. “You ask too many questions.”
“Because I have so many questions to ask!”
“Shut up! You need to learn to concentrate, to control yourself and to stop acting like a child!”
Fillan didn’t even try to pick up his sword, instead charging the Norwegian with a scream to try and hit him. His opponent easily stopped him and pushed him to the ground, and his knee pinned him on his back.
“But it’s more than that,” continued the warrior on top of him. “You’re scared.”
“That’s not true!”
“But it is! You are afraid. Something in you is stopping you from being fully present in the fight.”
“I’m telling you, that’s not true!”
The Norwegian gave a doubtful murmur.
“I wish I could believe you, because there’s no place for cowards in my group. Deorsa tells me that an English patrol has just set up not far from Dalkeith. I’m organizing a raid with Kyle and Edan to eliminate them. You’re coming with us, and then we’ll see what your fear is about.”
He left without stooping to help him up.
Alone in the dirt, Fillan was trying to control himself, as he felt a wave of terror crushing his chest.
He had never fought for real.
But more pressingly, he’d never killed anyone.