Page 25 of Luthias

“We collect some odd relics we find in the oldest places near the stronghold,” Duine said. “Naught of importance.”

A shout from the outer passage made her turn toward the door. “Is something wrong?” A strange odor reached her nose. “What’s that weird smell?”

He sniffed the air. “Och, no. No’ again.” The master sage hurried out of the room.

Emery followed him from the storeroom to a small chamber on the opposite side of the hall, outside which several young sages stood knocking on a scarred, weathered door. The smell of something like raw fish and cotton candy filled the air, and a pink mist completely covered the hall’s stone floor. As Duine unlocked and opened the door a cloud of the mist billowed out, and rained tiny pellets of dark pink crystal onto the floor.

“Elder Sgur?” the master sage called out as he waved his hands to disperse the colorful fog. “Need you aid?”

“Och, no, lad. As ever, ’tis but a hitch in my blend, naught more.” A small, bald man emerged from the fog, his robe covered with bits of crystal and what appeared to be clumps of pink-streaked white hair. “My hair growth potion, ’twouldnae behave once I put it to boil. I’ve no notion where I went wrong.” He rubbed a hand over his head and then frowned. “Damn me, ’tis scoured my pate clean.”

“Elder Sgur, he’s the oldest member of the enclave,” Duine murmured to Emery. “His work often involves such mishaps.”

“Okay.” She’d had a chemistry professor like that, who had blown up at least two labs with his personal experiments before being persuaded to retire.

“You shouldnae try your elixirs on yourself, Elder,” one of the young sages said. “You may be burned or worse.”

“Eh, ’tis a boon, my lad. I’ve tired of combing through the knots every morn.” Sgur smiled at Emery. “You’ve prettyish tresses, lass. Wouldnae you lend me your head for my next batch?”

Chapter Seven

Dressing in the ragged garments of one of his vassals did not aggravate Callum, nor did carrying provisions and a single change of equally grubby clothes in a sack. He quickly adjusted to the weight of the wide belt he had to wear to carry the well-used tools of his new trade. Even walking the roads in his oldest boots, which he’d spent an hour soiling and scuffing to make appear less costly, did not prod his temper. What offended him was how quickly he had been accepted by the gang of lowland woodcutters he’d met only the day before at a tavern.

“’Tis hard work, Cal, but plenty to be had,” the headman told him as they left the public house where they’d spent the night. “The forests round Dun Lasair, they stretch for leagues in every direction. The pine, birch and ash we cut, and the deadfall we collect, ’twill stock the laird’s strongholds and farms until next spring. From which village hail you, lad?”

“Synton in Ettrick Forest, maister,” Callum said. That had been Athdara’s home, or so she had claimed, and he had learned as much as he could about it before leaving Dun Deigh. He’d also renamed himself Callen, close enough to his real name that he would respond if called.

“Och, then you’ve cut wood for the royals. They’ve made you as mannerly as a noble.” The headman gave him a mocking bow, and then waved his hand. “No need for such fancy ways here in the highlands. The MacRoss, they’re odd ones, but fair masters who pay well for every cord, and give us proper lodgings, too. We stay and cut for them until the first frost, and return home with enough coin to last ’til summer next. You’ve a wife and bairns back in Synton?”

Wondering if the man would ever shut up, Callum shook his head.

“A shame, for you’re a fetching, strapping lad.” The headman gave him a sideways look. “As happens, Cal, I’ve a daughter at home. A wondrous lass, Aleen, and no’ yet wed.”

“Aye, she’s wondrous fat, his Aleen,” one of the older men said as he trudged past them. “She’d make two of you, lad.”

“And she’s as sore-tempered as a fisher with empty nets after a week at sea,” another woodcutter called.

“Aleen’s no’ so bad as that.” The headman scowled at them before he sighed. “Well, aye, she’s a wee bit of a temper, for she’s near twenty and the last of her sisters yet unwed. A good man in her bed, ’twould sweeten her proper. I swear to you, her cooking’s a gift from the Gods. Her bannocks near float to your lips, and her fish stew, ’twill make you weep with joy.”

The older man snorted. “If she doesnae first gobble them up in the kitchens.”

As the woodcutters bickered over the dubious merits of the headman’s daughter, Callum imagined living their simple life with Athdara. He could never turn his back on the clan, of course, but once he brought her back to Dun Deigh he could set her up in a little cottage, and spend his nights with her. As he imagined sharing a bed and waking up with the warmth of a woman beside him, the sketch of Emery Parker came back into his thoughts.

He could imagine that wee lass in his arms in the soft, thin light of dawn, her gentle smile all for him, but not Athdara.

Anger rose inside Callum, as hot as a smelting furnace. The jewel-setter should be in his bed back at Dun Lasair even now, drowsy and smiling up at him, her arms reaching for her laird instead of that pretentious arse Luthias.

I shall find you, Callum silently vowed, and bring you home. And if you’ve facked the MacRoss, I shall first cut his throat.

They stopped at midday to walk down to a clearing, where they built a fire and shared their food. Callum contributed a loaf of honey bread and some dried fish to the communal meal, and received in return a bowl of lukewarm, watery pottage, an overripe pear and a wedge of surprisingly delicious cheese. Eating outdoors and listening to the woodcutters banter eased his anger as well as his hunger, and put him in a thoughtful mood.

He had intended to search for Athdara himself, and yet would, but the notion of Emery Parker in his bed would not leave his thoughts. If he wished to properly avenge himself on Luthias for taking his lover from him, he should do the same. How difficult would it be to tempt one little wench away from the MacRoss? He had to find a way to lure her from the stronghold to a quiet place where he might seduce her. Females had always found him handsome, and when he wished to he could be gentle.

With that wench I’d have to be, Callum thought, recalling her tiny proportions.

“You’re a quiet one, Cal,” the headman told him as he passed him a flask of water. “What troubles you? Did you leave behind kin to wait on your return?”

He thought of Struan. “A younger brother, maister. He’ll no’ want me back. We dinnae much care for each other.”