Chapter Five

“You must have a name, everyone does. Why would you ask me to give you another one?”

The stranger stared at Barta in that compelling way he had, the gaze she found it so difficult to avoid. The two of them sat beside her parents’ hearth, alone for the moment—alone for the first time.

Tally had fallen asleep before Wick carried him off to his sleeping bench and remained there as if on guard over the boy. Her parents, in their own alcove, spoke intently in tones too low for Barta to understand.

The beautiful young man sat within arm’s reach of Barta. Oh, and he was beautiful despite the fact that Essa had lent him some of Radoc’s old clothing.

He had wild hair of ashen brown, cropped unevenly and looking rough to the touch, though Barta just knew if she buried her fingers there it would prove soft and beguiling. A foreign slant lay in the elegant sculpting of his narrow face, but it was strangely familiar for all that. He moved with inexplicable grace, his long limbs, even covered with clothing, like music in motion.

His eyes…

But after the merest flicker of a glance, Barta could not look there, even though he continued that most intent stare. Whatever lay in his eyes, she felt unready to encounter it.

Magic, as the others said or something else darker, more sinister?

Yet the emotions she felt coming from him contained more reassurance than threat. That seemed familiar too, almost comforting. How could it be?

“Did something happen that caused you to forget your name?”

“Something most profound happened to me.” His voice had a low pitch and a gravely sound that sent a delicate shiver up Barta’s spine. He went on, “A battle. It affected my mind. I was sent here into your service to take the place of another.”

Loyal. The name appeared unbidden in Barta’s head. Well, it had not been far from her mind ever since she’d left him sprawled on the ground. To be sure, she had prayed for his return. But she wanted him, not some human substitution.

“Still, I do not think it my place to name you.”

“But I am born anew here with you, my lady, and will be forever true to you.” He hesitated. “Why will you not look at me?”

“I have. I will.” She turned her face to him, her gaze slipping from his hair to his lips to the skin visible at the open neck of his tunic. “Can you not tell me, at least, who sent you?”

“I cannot.”

“What do you remember of your past life?”

“I was a warrior and fought fiercely. I will do the same on your behalf.”

Barta did not doubt that. Everything about him argued he would make a potent weapon in a battle.

“Here we are engaged in a desperate struggle to hold our land. The Gaels moving east from Dal Riada want this territory—they are greedy for it. So it is in the north also, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“This particular struggle has been going on most of my life, and yours, yes?”

He nodded. Slowly, as if struggling to remember, he said, “I cannot recall a time when there were not battles. The purpose of my life has been to fight, to defend.”

“And whoever sent you—your tribeschief? How did he know we were in need of warriors?”

“Magic.” The word came from behind Barta, uttered by her mother. Essa had come from her sleeping alcove and now stood regarding the two of them, her hair hanging loose down her back.

Standing so, she didn’t appear old enough to have grown children. Indeed, at that moment Barta could not help but wonder how Essa must appear to the stranger, with her thick mane of russet hair and wide, gray eyes. Did she look like Barta’s sister rather than her mother?

Essa sat down beside them and folded her hands gracefully. “Daughter, do not search for explanations that do not exist.”

Barta stole another uneasy look at their guest before she said, “But his appearance here might be suspect, as Father says.”

“Somehow I do not think so.” Essa switched her gaze to the visitor. “If you are to remain with us, and near my daughter, you must prove yourself. Are you willing to do that?”

He inclined his head; the rough hair fell forward across his shoulders. “I am, Lady.”

“If I set a trial, will you undergo it?”

“I will, Lady—anything you ask.”

Barta spoke softly. “What kind of trial? Ma, what would you ask of him?”

Essa did not speak at once. “That,” she said at last, “is just what your father and I have been discussing.”

“But you are the one who said he’s been sent by magic.”

Essa smiled. “I need no convincing, Daughter. Others of the tribe will. We have only his word as to how or why he has been sent. And trust must be won, if he is to be accepted.” Again she looked at the young man in question, meeting his gaze even as Barta avoided it. “I believe you do wish to stay?”

“Yes, Lady.”

“But,” Barta protested yet again, “to undergo a trial…it seems so hard.” And why did she suddenly feel protective of the stranger? Certainly he appeared more than capable of looking after himself.

“Barta, many, like your father, suspect deception. I cannot say I blame them. Nor,” she told their guest, “should you, young…man.”

Again he bowed his head with almost regal grace. “I will undergo whatever trial you ask.”

“Wait.” Again protectiveness flared in Barta’s heart. “Do not agree before you hear what you’ll be asked to undertake. Ma?”

“That has yet to be determined. I must consult with those among us most likely to complain about his presence. Meanwhile, young man, I suggest you get what rest you can. I regret to say you must sleep outside until your loyalty is proven.”

For the first time, protest touched the man’s handsome features. An instant later he nodded yet again. “As you ask, Lady.”

“But,” Barta spoke despite herself, “it is cold outside.”

“And he has journeyed far,” Essa agreed. “Yet your father has asked the question, should we all lie down so he might slit our throats in our sleep? Would you, Barta, like to go and argue it with him?”

Barta shook her head. Why should it bother her so, the thought of the stranger lying in the cold? She did not know him. How could she care what happened to him?

The young man got to his feet. He spoke to Barta rather than to her mother. “It is all right. I do not mind.”

“Wait.” Barta hurried to her own sleeping bench, where she gathered up one of her rugs. She returned and pressed it into his hands. “To help ward off the cold.”

He smiled, and it lit his face with wild beauty. He lifted the rug, pressed it to his face as if testing its warmth, and inhaled deeply. “Thank you. This will be a comfort.”

Barta stood where she was as her mother led him to the door. Why should it hurt physically to watch him go? He would not be far away; she would see him come morning.

With that sustaining thought lodged in her head she went to her sleeping bench. Morning could not come soon enough.

****

The moon had narrowed to a sharp crescent, a mere fingernail hanging low in the sky. From where he lay he could just see it through the trees that screened the Epidii settlement. Mostly hazel they were, and possessed of potent magic.

Before his transformation at the Lady’s will, he’d been able to sense magic clearly, just as he could smell the passing of a badger or hare. Now that ability had faded, yet it seemed he kept the awareness of where magic existed, gathered like a cloak around Essa and trailing everywhere throughout the camp. These folk lived by whispering prayers whenever they undertook any action. They wove spells of protection as easily as they breathed. He used to be able to see the magic clearly. Though he no longer could, its shadows gathered before his eyes.

In the past he had not prayed, at least not consciously. He’d merely spoken to the Lady when he felt the need.

As when Barta had left him lying on the bloodied ground.

Did he need to begin praying now? Must he mutter words and cast spells using this strange new medium of language that he found so difficult? Could he no longer speak to the Lady, or to Barta, with his mind?

No matter—it did not make too great a price to pay, if he could be near Barta. Nothing would make too high a price. Even if he must lie here outside the door, separated from her by wattle and leather, he could feel her nearness. And her scent lay in the rug she’d given him from her own bed.

He buried his face in it again and inhaled. How many times had he lain with her in that bed? Only from puppyhood. He remembered how she’d laughed when he grew yet still strove to push his great limbs in with her, leaving her less and less space.

Contentment lay in that memory. And longing. But she was just inside—he could endure this night.

He wondered what Lady Essa would propose as a trial for him. He suspected he should pray about that. But he merely lay with his eyes on the sliver of moon and breathed Barta’s scent.

He wished she’d given him a name. For he could no longer use the one by which she had first called him.