Page 23 of Luthias

“Aye, but I owe him a debt, lad.” Duine sighed heavily. “I should never have bartered with the twally, but ’tis done, and I’ll see him repaid. Keep watch over the apprentices and my laboratorium, and assure the relics room remains locked. I’m off, then.”

Making the trek from Dun Lasair to the meeting place forced the master sage to climb up an old trail in the slopes narrowed by overgrowth from the forests. As nettles and thorns tugged at his outer robe he considered all he would have to do in the coming days. The arrival of Emery Parker seemed an evil portent, but with careful watching he’d decided the lass largely worthless. What could she do to protect the MacRoss when she could barely lift a sword?

The high grove appeared at the top of the old trail, and from the gap in the oak trees Duine saw the tall, stoop-shouldered figure of the Carack’s master sage. Had they belonged to the same enclave they likely would have served as wrights together, but Reothadh would have become a master first. Knowing his Carack counterpart to be cleverer and far more skilled had never troubled Duine. Over time he had learned the merits of his own gifts, humble as they might seem by comparison.

“Eventide, Master Sage.” He stopped until Reothadh inclined his head, and then did the same before he cautiously approached and joined him. “’Tis good to see you sound and healthy. How may I serve?”

“You may now cease tirling my arse,” the Carack master said, his tone as dry as it was condescending. “We both ken you’re only here to repay the debt you owe me for the sunstone.”

He should never have asked him for even that small supply of the crystal, but his need for that elixir had been particularly pressing. “Very well. What want you in return?”

“Truth.” He took out a roll of parchment and offered it to him. “I seek this wench.”

Duine took out a coldfire orb, and held it so that its blue light illuminated the drawing of a lovely, smiling female wearing the oilcloth apron of a jeweler over her bodice and skirts. “’Tis a maiden of your household?”

“A jewel-setter named Athdara Martin. She went missing a fortnight past with a chest of my laird’s gold.” Reothadh tapped the likeness. “If you’ve given her sanctuary at Dun Lasair, ’twill bring disaster upon your enclave as well as the MacRoss.”

“My laird has no belly for thieves, and I’ve seen naught of her within the stronghold. May I keep the likeness and show it to my brothers? ’Twill help with our search.” When the other master nodded he tucked the drawing into his sleeve. “If she hides on MacRoss lands, then we shall find her.”

“I dinnae reckon she took the gold to our enemies, and she’s no’ been seen on the roads.” Reothadh rubbed his brow. “Laird Callum, he’s ready to tear apart the mountains to find her. Where could she hide so well?”

“She belongs to your laird?” As the other sage glared at him Duine held up his hands in a calming gesture. “I ask only so I may better ken the maiden, and why she might flee Dun Deigh.”

“She’s no’ a maiden. The laird and Athdara, they’ve been trysting in secret. Lord Callum desires her back in his arms.” Reothadh’s lips thinned with disapproval. “Aside from her behaving like a hoor, she’s a sly one, this wench. She’s been seen more than once traipsing through halls and out of rooms away from her work bench. That and she hails from the lowlands, so I dinnae ken her people.”

“Lowlanders, they’re often untrustworthy.” Duine tried to look sympathetic. “If she’s deceived Lord Callum, then she’s done the same to others in the past. I shall make discreet inquiries of our clan’s vassals.”

“Aye, and I shall consider the debt repaid.” The Carack sage eyed him for a long moment before he asked, “How fared your sunstone elixir? Did it warm the skin, or burn?”

Although he would never share the exact formulae or processes he used for his potions with the other master––among the enclaves that was tantamount to treason––he sometimes discussed the results of his experiments with Reothadh.

“The blend warmed well on the skin and into the muscles, which relieved Mistress Duncan’s back pains from her injury,” he said cautiously. “Yet ’tis but a temporary respite. After an hour, our healer said, the warmth dissipated.”

“You might try again with a pinch of cats-eye crystal at the roiling stage,” Reothadh advised him. “’Tis what I most oft use to lengthen the potency of my blends. ’Twill give the lady a full night of ease.”

“My thanks.” Duine bowed, and then patted his sleeve. “I shall make the search for Athdara Martin a matter of urgency for my brothers.”

“Say naught to your laird or his men if you find her,” the other sage warned. “We must keep this wench from setting off a war between the Carack and the MacRoss.”

“Dinnae say such.” Duine pressed a hand over his rapidly-thumping heart. “The clans, they’ve kept the peace for six hundred years or better.”

“Aye, and ’twill take but a moment to wash away that truce with the blood of battle.” Reothadh looked away. “Find her, brother, and send word to me when you do.”

Duine stood watching him retreat toward the Carack’s lands, the boundary of which lay on the other side of the grove, and then sat down in the heather and mopped his sweating face with his sleeve. He hated such meetings, but now it seemed they had become a necessary evil.

“Och, I’m too old for such nonsense.” He drew out the drawing of Athdara Martin, tilting it so that the moonlight silvered her face. For a moment the piercing quality of her gaze reminded him of Emery Parker’s light green eyes. “’Twill be worth what I must do. Aye, for all the lives that weigh on me now, ’twill be worth all.”

After the too-close encounter with the laird Emery decided the best way to handle her overwrought feelings was to work through them. Cook didn’t want her in the kitchens, and the gardeners and groundskeepers had become very busy with planting the summer vegetable beds, so Emery decided to find out more about the sages.

Darach frowned as she asked if she could take a tour of the enclave’s workrooms and speak to some of the sages. “Why do you wish to? They’re but potion-mixers.”

“From what Camdyn told me they’re what we call alchemists in my time,” she corrected. “They were very secretive, so we only know a little about them in the future. I’d really love to see a real medieval laboratory, too.”

“Och, well, I imagine ’twill do no harm to ask. Only you mustnae drink anything,” he warned as he accompanied her to the wing occupied by the enclave. “A shepherd’s boy did once from a vial a sage dropped, and the lad turned bright red.”

“He was probably allergic to whatever he drank,” she suggested. “That would have given him a bad rash.”

“No’ from sickening,” the chieftain said, and waved his hand over his face. “The color of his skin went red as wild cherries. Aye, and he remained that color for two moons before it finally faded to pink. The lad still looks a wee bit too rosy in the cheeks.”