Page 41 of Dorchad

The seneschal’s other fist connected with the side of his face like a war hammer, flinging him sideways into an oak tree’s wide trunk. He nearly lunged back at Sgathan as he staggered to his feet, and then saw his face. He looked shaken and disgusted with himself, as if he’d lost some of his famous self-control for the first time.

“Do you wish end me, Brother?” he asked, striding up to him.

“No. You caught me in a mood. My apologies.” The seneschal folded his arms. “How may I serve, War Master?”

Cath saw how quickly he shuttered himself, and wondered if the burst of anger might have been telling of something far more dangerous. “Anger, ’tis a feature of your mortal weakness?”

Sgathan’s mouth twisted. “No. Like you, I’ve no mortal weakness. Dorchad received the greater part of our lady màthair’s blood when we shared her womb, as the druids we met ever claimed.”

“Magic folk may lie, you ken,” he had to point out.

The seneschal’s gaze grew stern. “They had no motive to do thus. What’s amiss?”

“Naught.” Cath dragged a hand through his hair. “You saw Ronan this morn?”

He nodded. “Aye, earlier. What of him?”

“He’s ever in a sour mood of late. The same today?” When he nodded he muttered his thanks and headed for the stronghold.

In the kitchens Ronan stood before three weeping maids, each one twisting their hands as he found fault with them.

“You’re to serve the men, Abby, no’ sit on their laps for fondling,” the cook said. “And if you two spill anymore platters or pottage I shall see you eat off the rushes for a moon, do you hear me?”

The three maids rushed to answer with “Ayes” and bobbed before fleeing the kitchens. Ronan then turned to Cath and scowled at him.

“If you want food you’ll need fetch it from the cold pantry,” he warned. “We’ve cleared the last from the tables and put it away.”

“I’m no’ hungry, Cook.” He put a hand on the old man’s neck, and expected a rush of emotion, but that didn’t happen. “My thanks.”

“Get on with you,” Ronan grumbled, but the tight line of his mouth eased.

Obviously he had been mistaken, Cath thought, so cheered by the experience that he whistled as he walked into the passage and headed toward the garrison hall. As he did he passed one of the maids scolded by the cook, and took pity on her.

“’Tis no need to weep, lass,” he told Abby. “Tell me which clansman plagues you during the morning meal, and I’ll deal with him.”

“Och, you neednae, War Master.” She sniffed and then smiled wanly. “’Tis my lover who put me on his lap. We ken better, but of late cannae help ourselves. I need only have a good cry.” She bobbed and went on, brushing her arm against his as she did.

Cath stared after her as embarrassment filled him, and tears began to slide down his face. “Fack me.”

Osgan waited for over an hour before giving up and leaving the meeting place to walk through the village. He had grown out of sorts with himself since stepping into his new identity, especially as his tàladh had been failing to properly enthrall his lovers. He’d also lost all his desire, which he blamed on the ailment that now plagued him. He needed to alter his scheme, first to seek healing for his condition, and secondly to punish the one who had deceived him. He’d taken care of the latter by directing one of his lovers to attend to that matter, and craft it to serve their plans.

Now he needed to return to his place of rebirth so he could hide and rid himself of the mysterious sickness.

The gems on the bronze cuff he wore suddenly glowed with a dark amber light that showed through the fabric of his tunic sleeve, alerting him to the presence of magic somewhere close. He ducked into the blacksmith’s stone-walled forge, and positioned himself so he could watch the green from the shadows.

A group of thin, filthy-looking woodsmen came trudging through the center of the village, each carrying their tools on the shoulders or hung from their belts. They looked unkempt, their hair hanging in knots over their eyes and shoulders. Their eyes too seemed strange, almost like holes in their faces, until he realized why: none of them were blinking. They filed into the small tavern, and almost immediately came back out to gather around the village common well.

“They work day and night of late.” The blacksmith came to stand beside him and nodded after the woodsmen. “Their wives come and plead with them, but they dinnae return to their homes for food or rest. They shall drink their fill and return to their labors.”

Whoever had enchanted them knew the men would die of thirst long before they succumbed to starvation, Osgan thought, and then glanced down as the blacksmith’s big, work-scarred hand stroked his thigh.

“I’ve no more work for the day,” the big man said, smiling. “Come and drink with me.”

If the blacksmith traveled back and forth to the MacRune’s island he might have seduced him to serve as one of his spies, but his cuff still glowed, and whatever had bespelled the woodsmen remained in the village tavern.

“Do you possess a cart?” When the big man nodded he took hold of his hand. “We’ll go to where I live.” He told him the location, and added, “’Tis quieter, and you may stay the night if you wish, but you must hide me as we leave so that the other men dinnae grow jealous of you.”

Just as all Osgan’s other lovers did, the blacksmith agreed, and after securing the front of the forge led him out through the back to a cart piled with boxes of tools and farm implements. They made it easy to conceal his presence, and when the big man drove out of the village he watched the glowing gems on his cuff fade to darkness.