Chapter 13
The smoke from Malcolm Lindsey’s pipe was like a white, spicy beacon in the shimmery darkness of the steep woodland path, and Adrian followed its wafting trail as it curled into his nostrils and seemed to pull him along. His bare skin prickled in the damp, but the effect was already fading, and Adrian gave a moment’s notice to the fact that he really didn’t feel cold at all, despite half of his body being exposed to the chill air of a northern island in late winter.
In fact, he realized, he hadn’t been cold since his arrival on the island; he’d left his cloak in his borrowed chamber and it had never occurred to him that he would need it. His vision jarred and bumped as he tromped down the path behind Malcolm, and Adrian opened his mouth to send forth a short ha of breath.
Steam billowed before his face.
So, yes, it was cold here. Only he wasn’t cold. Actually, he felt quite comfortable. Perhaps it was the side of the island he was currently traversing—a blocking of the wind? A sheltering of the deep valley?
He had no more time to consider the possible reasons why he was suddenly immune to such a winter clime, for it was then that Adrian followed Malcolm from the wood, emerging on the narrow dirt track between the idyllic cottages Adrian had seen from the turret window earlier in the day.
Up close, they were even more charming than he’d guessed—tidy little stone homes with deep, rounded overhangs to protect the foundations from the dripping damp mist that seemed to permeate everything here. Solid wooden doors, rich with oil, matched sturdy shutters flanking the little windows, and the dooryards of the cottages were stamped flat, swept clean between the mossy round stones seemingly placed there more for aesthetics than to actually mark boundaries between the plots.
Some of the doors stood open, and as he passed, Adrian could see the cozy glow of peat fires reflecting off the daubed walls in the tidy interiors, shadowed inhabitants going about their domestic tasks just the same as anyone would expect. In one yard, a small boy was perched on a stool with a blanket draped about his shoulders, a woman in long skirts going round him with a blade, plucking at his curling blond hair with one hand and trimming with the knife in her other. It seemed a typical scene to Adrian, and the sight of these people afforded him a measure of comfort until he drew nearer to them.
The woman glanced up at their approach and nodded with a preoccupied smile but then glanced back at Adrian, her eyes wide. The boy’s mouth fell open into an O as he stared at Adrian’s bare skin, and it was then that Adrian noticed the boy’s pointed ear beneath the fringe of recently trimmed hair, the almond shape of his and his mother’s eyes. The woman turned, staring blatantly at him as he passed, while the boy began to chatter excitedly in a language Adrian did not understand.
Adrian nodded to the woman.
After he and Malcolm had passed, Adrian glanced back over his shoulder in time to see the woman hurrying to the cottage next door, her son close at her heels in his flapping makeshift cape.
Soon the sound of doors scraping open filled the narrow track between the cottages, and Adrian heard the tromp of footfalls behind him. He turned again to witness the humble street filling with people who emerged from the homes and animal sheds, from around corners and between structures, some still carrying the tools of the day’s chores—long pitchforks, axes, mallets.
They were following them, and talking quietly to one another in the strange tongue. Adrian had a moment of worry; was Malcolm leading him into an ambush?
Adrian looked ahead again to see Malcolm’s profile turned toward him, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes over his beard betraying his smile. The man gestured with his pipe.
“You’ve nae need to fear,” he said, as if reading Adrian’s mind. “They’re as curious of you as you are of them, I’d wager. The tale of the Painted Man is an old one, and all have heard its telling since they were bairns. They’ve waited a long time for you, lad.”
Adrian frowned, readying to ask Malcolm to clarify his comment. Surely he didn’t mean to equate the marks on Adrian’s skin with some fairy-tale story told to children. He was only a man desperate to escape a hellish past by covering his scars with a pagan art form. If anything, it was pathetic. He would not allow Malcolm to portray him as something he was not in order to perpetuate a bit of island lore.
But the thought was whisked from his mind as his eyes caught sight of a man coming to stand at the edge of the track, leaning one elbow atop the handle of his long pitchfork, hooking his other fingers over the sharp curve of a jutting hip. Adrian looked down the man’s heavy breeches to where their frayed hems ended at his hairy, slender midcalf—
Above a pair of hooves.
Before the idea of what he was seeing could fully penetrate his brain, the road ahead was widening between two rounded hills into a common area overlooking the sea, and the dusky dirt track was being painted with low, slinking shadows of huge catlike creatures. A bale fire in the center of the common lit up the lithe range of their sliding shoulders as the creatures crisscrossed the path ahead, their low growls burbling over the sounds of the sea beyond. They watched Adrian boldly.
Afternhangers. At least a score of them.
“Malcolm?” Adrian asked.
“All’s well,” Malcolm said cheerily and forged ahead toward the feline beasts, each bigger than a man.
The afternhangers scattered as Adrian and Malcolm drew near, many of them giving graceful leaps onto the hillsides sheltering the common, some padding and bounding away to the farside of the bale fire, around which large flat stones and halved logs were arranged in concentric circles. The fire flickered up the wide chimney created by the hills, and Adrian could at last see clearly the nature of the beast who had attacked him.
Their fur was silky-looking, gleaming like polished chestnuts in the firelight. Every feature on the big cats’ faces was the same rich auburn color—their flat, soft-looking noses, even the long whiskers that jutted from rounded muzzles—save for the yellow eyes and the insides of their pointed ears, which were a satiny, disturbing black.
One of the beasts had the audacity to give a quiet shriek at him, and Adrian saw that the inside of the afternhanger’s mouth—tongue, gums—was also the deep color of ebony around gleaming yellow teeth.
The fleeting image of hell contained inside a satiny skin occurred to Adrian, and although he wanted to look away from the afternhanger, he met its glittering eyes. The animal shrieked again and averted its gaze, getting up to circle its perch as if suddenly uncomfortable.
Ahead of Adrian, Malcolm chuckled.
He followed the erstwhile king of Wyldonna to the far side of the common, where Malcolm stopped beside a low carved seat that appeared to have been fashioned from a stump. The bearded man’s back was to the sea far below, and Adrian took a moment to look out over the water, which was only a lighter shade of dusk beyond the fire’s glow. His brow furrowed as he thought he saw bobbing yellow lights beneath the waves, glowing and shimmering between the still shadows of the crawlers.
What were they?
Sirens . . .
Adrian shook his head and turned back around to see the common now crowded with the folk who had followed him, their numbers growing as shadows emerged from hidden tracks stretching along the hillsides, pushing handcarts or dragging skids, which they left at the edge of the meeting space. Adrian saw long white beards, the outlines of pointed caps. He heard the ruffling and flapping of wings as what appeared to be massive white birds with long spindly legs and draping translucent feathers dropped from the gloom to light on the boulders above the pacing afternhangers.
There was a quiet murmuring in the air, hovering over the balefire, and all the wildly differing pairs of eyes—yellow and slanted and round and black—were trained on Adrian’s torso.
He felt another wash of gooseflesh erupt on his skin, but it was not due to the chill in the air.
The folk eased down onto the benches and stones in pairs and clusters until all the seats were filled and the area fringing the common was staggered with the shadows of those left to stand. The murmuring died away to leave the perfect whispers of the waves on the beach and the wind in the trees. The air was crackly, charged, expectant.
“Les geants?” Malcolm asked into the crowd.
“Still within the mountain, sire,” the man with the beastly cloven feet answered with extreme deference and a nod of his head, which Adrian now noticed was rather long at the upper jaw.
Malcolm grunted. “They shall hear well enough, then.” He stepped away from Adrian toward the balefire and put his back to it, joining the crowd of strange folk to regard Adrian openly. To say that Adrian felt on display would be too mild.
“Wyldonna,” Malcolm said solemnly but firmly, his eyes meeting Adrian’s. “Your queen has delivered to us the Painted Man.”
A gasp swept through the crowd, and a moment later, those gathered there lowered into a bow behind Malcolm.
Adrian frowned as the people—he didn’t know what else to refer to them as—rose from their subjective postures. He didn’t know what to make of what he was seeing, but he would not allow Malcolm Lindsey to perpetuate a myth to further his own agenda against his sister. There could be no other reason for this gathering, no other reason for the man to bring him before the people of Wyldonna.
It was a blatant attempt to wrench power back to himself.
“No,” Adrian called out, scanning the crowd, his eyes glancing over and largely ignoring Malcolm. “I am not part of your legend, whatever it may be. I am an Englishman; my name is Adrian Hailsworth. I did indeed come to your island at Queen Maighread’s request, but it is only to assist you in your fight against the one who threatens your peace. My presence cannot be attributed to any tale you’ve been told.”
Malcolm chuckled, and Adrian had no choice but to regard the bearded man again. “That is the tale, lad. And it is one older than you, older than me, older than—” he held out his arms and half-turned in either direction—“everything here. That you doona believe it doesna mean it isna true. You have come at the point of Wyldonna’s history when everything here is in danger of being destroyed. You are marked with the magic signs. You are the Painted Man.”
“What do you mean?” Adrian demanded. “I was not born with these marks.”
Malcolm Lindsey only nodded, as the crowd behind him whispered excitedly among themselves. “No one is born with marks like that, lad. You were chosen because you proved yourself worthy. You earned your magic.”
“Proved myself worthy to whom?” Adrian demanded with a snort.
The bearded man spread his arms wide and looked up and around him—at the woods, the horizon, the sky shrouded with mist—before he let his hands drop and met Adrian’s gaze again. “By all that is.”
“That’s what you call God, I suppose.” He shook his head in frustration when Malcolm’s easy smile only deepened. Then Adrian held up a palm. “I’ve not earned any magic. I’m not magic.”
The little boy who had been having his trim—and who now sported a coif that was decidedly lopsided—grinned at Adrian good-naturedly, the glow of the fire flickering over his gap-toothed gesture of goodwill. It was almost as if Adrian had told him a marvelous joke, and although the lad didn’t truly believe it, he appreciated the humor all the same.
“Everyone’s magic, Man.”
“No. They’re not,” Adrian said, causing the boy’s grin to falter. A quiet gasp swept through the crowd. Adrian looked around to find Malcolm again. “Was there something you wished to show me, or was this all only a ploy to parade me before the people so that whatever actions you plan to take against your sister would seem justified by some ancient nonsense?”
“I’ve something to show you,” Malcolm said easily. “Our folk have been working hard to construct a machine of war to defend us against our enemy when he returns.” He gestured to Adrian’s right, along the craggy cliff where Adrian could just make out the dark oval entrances of the sea caves. “In the mountain.”
Adrian was intrigued despite himself. “A machine of war? How would you come by knowledge of such a thing? I would think you would attend to any trespassers by casting a spell on him or setting your wild beasts on his men.” Adrian couldn’t help but glance at the afternhangers, who had draped themselves over the rocks.
“Although we are removed from the world,” Malcolm said, “we are nae ignorant of it. Many of our folk have journeyed abroad; some have gone as far as to enjoin with man in pursuit of livelihood.” He paused. “And as to why we canna simply dispatch Felsteppe upon his arrival—why we must resort to such crude and mundane methods—surely Maisie told you that he will come on the equinox.”
“She did,” Adrian allowed.
“It is only one of four days of the year when we can neither prevent Wyldonna from being landed nor can we keep anyone who wishes to go.”
“You can’t use magic against him,” Adrian reiterated.
“Not until he has proven himself a threat.”
Adrian’s eyebrows rose. “I’d say returning to the island with ships full of armed men constitutes a threat.”
“Nae if his ships and men do naught but sit in the harbor,” Malcolm argued.
“But then how many of those men will know how and when exactly to return to Wyldonna on their own?”
Malcolm smiled. “Which is why I was keen to show you what we’ve built.”
“Adrian!”
The echo of his name seemed to vibrate the ground beneath his feet as it swirled out of the wood and whooshed down the dirt track between the cottages to wash over Adrian, and he felt a surge of energy in his bones. He lifted his chin, his eyes scanning the black beyond the village as if he could somehow see her in the darkness.
Maighread Lindsey was calling for him. And he could . . . feel her.
Malcolm’s head cocked and he winked at Adrian. “Perhaps another time, though.”
“I’m here,” Adrian argued, dragging his attention back to the king and trying to ignore the vibration in his core that brought vivid red curls and the scent of heather to the forefront of his senses. “Show me now.”
He held up his palms. “The queen calls. It was she who summoned you to Wyldonna, so it is she you must obey.”
“She’s not my queen,” Adrian bristled. “I shall wait for her to join us so we might both know your plans in full. Surely if you wish to reveal to a stranger the secrets of your offense, you have considered putting to rest this feud with your sister—one who shares the goal of saving your people from this threat.”
Malcolm shook his head. “Maisie doesna think me capable of saving Wyldonna. She isna interested in my plans, else she never would have betrayed us to Felsteppe and taken the throne for herself.”
“I’m not certain that’s true,” Adrian hedged. He had no interest really in helping two stubborn siblings remedy their quarrel; he only wanted to bring the truth to light. It was all Adrian ever wanted to do.
“I am,” Malcolm said solemnly.
Before Adrian could comment further, the crowd gathered around the fire rose from their seats and turned en masse back toward the cottages.
“Come on, then,” Malcolm said with something akin to resignation, repeating the phrase he’d used to draw Adrian into the wood an hour earlier. And once again Adrian felt he had little choice but to follow the bearded man around the balefire.
She was striding down the narrow track when he at last saw the physical manifestation of the summons he still felt thrumming through him, her red curls bouncing behind her, her pale skin gleaming in the mist. Maisie’s arms swung freely at her sides, her cape billowing in her wake, and her green eyes seemed to pierce the gloom as her gaze landed on Adrian.
She stopped perhaps forty feet from the common; as close as she was prepared to come, apparently. The folk to either side of Malcolm Lindsey and Adrian bowed or curtsied deeply, and then, in the next moment, the spaces between the villagers were filled with the tools of their workday, pointed at their queen. Axes and forks and blades all mingled with the mist as a sort of grim expectation descended upon the crowd.
“Come nae farther, Maighread Lindsey,” her brother warned.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Adrian demanded, looking around him at the folk who now wore shared expressions of angry distrust. “This is your queen.”
Maisie ignored them all. “I’ve come for what is mine.”
“You thought him dead, did you nae?” Malcolm said, in a tone that was not quite taunting, not quite curious. “You doona truly believe in your own miracle.”
Adrian bristled at the way he was being spoken about, as if he were nothing more than an object to be quarreled over, although Maisie Lindsey’s words caused a resurgence in the zinging vibrations in his bones. Did he belong to her now? By some insane logic, the idea did not sound so impossible.
And if it was true, that he belonged to her, did she not then belong to him?
What was this madness that had seized him?
“You ken as well as I the dangers Wyldonna poses to Outlanders,” Maisie accused. “That you would bring him into the midst of the folk shows your disregard for his safety.” She looked at the crowd. “The safety of you all.” Her eyes landed on Adrian. “He set the afternhangers on you.”
“The afternhangers do what they will,” Malcolm argued. “And I couldna have set anyone upon anyone had the Painted Man nae made himself vulnerable. As it was, he brought them to heel in his own manner. You’ve nae reason to fear for him here. He is free to go where he would.”
As if the beasts were resentful at being reminded of their defeat in the castle yard, they gained their feet and were now crowded together at the cusps of the hills they occupied, staring down hungrily at the red-haired woman on the road below them.
“You doona command him, Malcolm,” Maisie said, but her eyes flicked to the beasts above her.
Adrian had had enough. “And neither do you,” he said, stepping into the space between the queen and the crowd. The feline creatures shrank back from the edges of the hills with angry hisses. “Your brother has offered to show me his plans for turning Felsteppe and his men away. I think you should listen to him.”
Maisie looked at Adrian as if he too had sprouted cloven feet. And then her brows lowered in Malcolm’s direction. “I’m certain he was keen to win you to his side. We will talk about it later. Come with me now, Adrian. Please.”
“I appreciate your concern for my safety,” he began, but then stopped when he realized Maisie was no longer looking at him.
The afternhangers had apparently dismissed Adrian, and they were now crouching over the road again, their long tails swishing through the air. Maisie’s face was going from one group to the other, speaking to them in a language that sounded strongly Gaelic.
To his surprise, the creature closest to the queen peeled its lips back from its black gums and shrieked before replying in the same tongue, its voice sounding dark and scratchy but remarkably human. Adrian felt his legs go rubbery.
Malcolm leaned toward him so that their shoulders touched. “I believe ’tis you who should be concerned for her safety, lad.”
Then Maisie took a sudden step back on the road, her eyes going from cliff to cliff, her already pale face seemingly devoid of all blood now. One by one, the afternhangers leapt from the rocks to land silently on the dirt road, separating Adrian from Maisie. The bold one in the lead—had it been the very creature that attacked Adrian?—spoke again, and the pack of beasts began to growl as if in anticipation.
He had frightened away the monster earlier. But could he deny a score of the hellish things? Why weren’t Maisie’s own brother or the other folk doing anything to prevent the impending attack on Wyldonna’s queen?
Whatever the reason, Adrian had no doubt that the vicious beasts would strike the defenseless woman and possibly kill her before him and the crowd. Someone had to do something.
Wasn’t that the reason she had brought him to Wyldonna in the first place? To do something?
“Stop!” he called out, raising a hand and striding toward the rear of the pack. Behind him, he heard the crowd gasp again. “Leave her.”
The afternhangers paid him no heed though, and so as he reached the slinking monsters nearest to him, he swung his raised hand and landed a slap to a sleek rump. The blow met the animal’s flesh with a crack, and to Adrian’s astonishment, the afternhanger tumbled over into its neighbor like a stone rolled down a hill, sending three of the beasts kicking and sprawling in a heap. Adrian’s palm felt as though it had just seized a hot coal.
The rest of the pack swung on him with furious shrieks, and all the hair on Adrian’s body tried to stand up. But they were slinking back from him to either side of the road, even as the bold one spoke to Adrian.
“You presume to touch us?” Its black tongue flicked the English words easily, and its whiskered cheek pads flinched away from its fangs as it added contemptuously, “Man?”
“I have no quarrel with you as of yet, save for the loss of my belongings,” Adrian said, coming to stand between Maisie and the apparent leader of the Cat Sìth. “But if you harm her, you will answer to me.”
The beast hissed, like a breath of laughter. “The only thing Man is good for is killing. Stand against us again, Man, and you will learn.”
“I stand before you now,” Adrian taunted, his blood heating where once alarm had chilled him. He stepped toward the beast, even as he felt Maisie Lindsey’s fingers trail down the skin of his back, as if trying to stay him. “She brought me here and I will not allow you to harm her.”
The afternhanger continued to slink away as its brethren leapt back onto the rocks of the hillside.
“You’ll not be protected forever, Man,” the beast warned with a snarl.
Adrian let the threat hang in the air unchallenged as the creature turned and crept into the shadow of the rocks. And then he looked to the crowd who were watching him with something akin to bewildered horror. All except Malcolm Lindsey, who kept his enigmatic smile.
“You will not share your plan with me now?” Adrian asked.
The bearded man shook his head. “We yet have time,” he said. “I’d wager you’ll seek me out when you see that you must. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
The answer sounded enough like the afternhangers’ threat to anger Adrian, and so he turned without answer and began striding back up the road between the cottages, seizing Maisie Lindsey’s hand as he passed and pulling her along with him.
He paid no heed to the cumulative gasp of the crowd behind him.