Tales of the Archer: A Corthan Companion Page 8

  When they finally stopped throwing pink goo and laughing, Maura cleared her throat. “Reid, I wanted to say I’m—”

  He held up a hand to silence her. “No, I am sorry. You were right.”

  She dropped her eyes, the silence heavy between them. Just as he screwed up the courage to tell her how he felt, she said, “Before you say anything more, I think I changed my mind.”

  He felt a pang of disappointment. “About?”

  “Knowing too much. You probably shouldn’t tell me what you want. It would only make it harder.” Her face showed the war within her heart. Her clan, her duty, Gilland, him.

  He put brain-smeared hands over hers with a soft wet slurp. “Maura, I will never tell you what to do. I will never rail at you for your choices.” He leaned close enough that her breath fanned his cheek. “But I want you to know that you are the woman I would risk everything for.”

  She looked up at him then and he kissed her, there under the tree, amid the scent of ashes and skin and pine. Not a shy kiss or a hint of possibility. He pressed his lips to hers in earnest, telling her with wordless sincerity that he loved her.

  And, although she might still choose Gilland for reasons of duty he would never understand, in that moment, he knew she loved him in return.

  When finally she pulled back to stare at him with her honeyed eyes, he lifted a curious eyebrow. “Have I gone and said too much?”

  “No.” Her voice was husky.

  “Too little?”

  “No,” she chuckled. “I understood perfectly.”

  “Because I’d be happy to tell you again.” He moved his body closer. Although not touching, he could feel heat radiating from her, smell the summer sweat on her skin. Only a breath separated their lips, so tantalizingly close.

  “Perhaps just once more,” she whispered and kissed him again.

  CHAPTER 12

  The next week passed in blissful harmony. Maura spent some days with Gilland and the rogue. But all her other days belonged to Reid. She helped him cure the hides; and once that was done, the two of them ran the trap lines and hunted the slopes like carefree children.

  There were times Reid wondered what Bradan thought of him and his attempt to spoil Fynan’s plans. The Chieftain had always been kind to Reid, although it could be said he was kind to everyone. The stillness of those eyes ran deeper than anyone might think. But everyone in Bear Clan knew how devoted Bradan was to Maura. He would never force her to marry if she wasn’t happy with the match. So Reid contented himself with the idea that as long as he could make Maura happy, Bradan would accept him.

  Tarhill would be another matter. One that Reid would deal with when the old man returned. That day came sooner than expected. Two weeks from their departure, Granya and her sisters spotted the trading group on the road. Reid waited nervously with the crowd of curious villagers. Chieftain Bradan was there, Maura following him like a shy shadow. She flashed a smile to Reid when she noticed him watching her. Gilland was absent, likely at the bear pens.

  As he watched the distant figures approach, Reid sensed something was wrong. He couldn’t pick out his brothers in the group of shaggy heads and there seemed to be fewer men than had left. Tarhill was driving the sledge, a worrisome droop to his father’s usually haughty carriage. It soon became obvious to all something was amiss.

  Bradan walked forward to meet the bears and a few handlers came to take the beasts to the pens. Reid followed close behind the chieftain, slipping his hand into Maura’s and giving her a reassuring squeeze.

  “Tarhill, what happened? You’re back early.” Bradan scanned the downtrodden faces of the men.

  Maclan and Connor were not among them. Reid’s heart clenched.

  “Had a bit of trouble is all,” Tarhill said with his usual gruffness as he tossed the leads to a handler and stepped off the sledge.

  “Bandits?” Bradan asked with barely leashed anger.

  “No, nothing like that.” Bradan followed Tarhill to the back of the sledge where Reid finally recognized Maclan and two other men under rumpled blankets. “Some sickness has taken hold of them.”

  Reid moved closer. Maclan was pale and sweaty; Connor hovered over him. The other two were Seal Clan men Reid didn’t know.

  “They took sick early on, but we didn’t head back until we’d sold the hides.”

  Tarhill’s face was uncharacteristically soft as he helped Connor get Maclan to sit up. Bradan and Maura helped the others. Of the three, Mac was obviously the sickest.

  Ingrid arrived, gruff concern hurrying her steps. “Get back, all of you,” she commanded. “You too, girl.” She pulled Maura away from the men. “Go stand by your mother.”

  Maura did as she was told. Reid pushed through to his brothers as if he hadn’t heard Ingrid’s barked command. Maclan leaned limply against his father, his eyes puffy and barely open and even Connor looked gray and drawn.

  “Let me see him,” she said to Tarhill. She examined Maclan, feeling his neck with knowing gnarled hands, peering into his bloodshot eyes, and listening to his chest. She turned his palms up and then shook her head muttering to herself. “Where did you say you were?”

  “We’d gone east; got to Dunballe. They took sick that first night. Saved coin on the horses and hawked the skins for a day or two.” Tarhill shot a disgruntled glare at the Seal men.

  Connor swayed, bumping into Reid.

  “You okay?” Reid whispered.

  Connor offered a weak smile. “I am feeling a bit off, if you must know.” Then, Connor crumpled to the ground.

  Ingrid and Tarhill both turned as Reid hefted his brother up and sat him next to Maclan. Ingrid checked Connor as she had Maclan and stood back with an unhappy look.

  “Take them home,” she said. “Get them in bed straight away. Have Brigga come fetch a tonic in the kitchen.” She wiped her hands on her skirts. “No one is to see them, understand? No one but me.” Reid helped Connor, and Tarhill carried his eldest up the path to home. The welcoming villagers fell back in hushed dismay at their approach.

  Behind him, Ingrid’s grim words to Bradan sent a chill up Reid’s back. “It’s the Trembling,” she said. “Shutter the village.”

  The Trembling was a sickness—a plague—that left only death and disability in its wake. Starting off as nothing more than a cold, it soon turned to fever, then reddened palms and the distinctive twitches that eventually became seizures and, more often than not, death. It also meant that the trading party needed to be quarantined. Reid knew Brigga would never leave her boys to someone else’s care and now Reid also would need to stay away from everyone else.

  He turned to see Maura’s pale, pinched face watch him walk up the path to home.

  Brigga opened the door and stood to the side as a gruff Tarhill dragged Maclan to his cot. Connor had composed himself a bit, enough to stand on his own.

  “Hullo, mother,” he smiled weakly. “Got a bit of a cold.” Then, he too stumbled to his cot.

  Brigga turned to Reid. “What happened?”

  He pulled her outside and kept his voice low, trying to hide his worry. “They came back sick. Ingrid said you should fetch a tonic from the kitchens.”

  “Did she say what it was?”

  Reid hesitated.

  “Tell me.” Her voice was urgent.

  “The Trembling.”

  His mother paled, then swallowed her fear and straightened. “Nothing to do except ride it out then,” she said, summoning her most reassuring voice. Reid knew it was forced; whether for his sake or hers, he didn’t know.

  “You get them settled,” she said. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Those who had taken sick were quarantined until they either recovered or died. As his mother had said, all that could be done was to wait the illness out. Brigga arranged with Ingrid to have the tonics and teas (as well as any necessary food items) dropped on a nearby stump for the duration of the quarantine. It was Reid’s job to go and bring it back to the house while his mother ministered to
her sick travelers.

  The next morning, Maura was waiting for him with a basket in her arms. He stopped a good ten paces from her. “Maura, you shouldn’t be here. Just leave it.” He pointed to the stump.

  “You’re not sick,” she argued, holding out the covered basket for him to take. “I could just hand it to you.”

  He saw worry in her eyes, and fear. He longed to hold her. But he’d been caring for Maclan and Connor. He might already be sick, too.

  “Ingrid says it’s the…”

  “I know,” Maura interrupted as if not wanting to hear the word. “I’m not foolish but…”

  “I’m fine,” Reid assured her. “At least for now. But I won’t risk you. Please, go.”

  Maura sighed and put the basket on the stump.

  “Fine,” she said. Then she looked up at him, her jaw clenched. Pointing an angry finger, she said. “Don’t you dare die on me, Reid Tarhill. You hear me?”

  He had to smile at that. “As you command, my dear one.” He bowed with a flourish.

  “I’d never forgive you.” She started at her own words as if surprised she’d said them. Then she frowned and said, “…for leaving Piruz’s story untold.”

  “Go home,” he urged. “I’ll see you when I can.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Reid woke in a tangled sweat. His bleary mind struggled through a haze of half-dreams to the smoky closeness of his mother’s house. Weak sunlight spilled through the shutters telling him it was time to rise. He had so much to do. But his body refused to obey, tethered as it was to his cot by heavy chains of tired ache.

  It had been three days since the traders returned and all three Tarhills had worsened. His father had taken ill the day after they’d returned, too exhausted to even grump. Reid helped Brigga minister to them with teas and tinctures, cold liniment compresses for their fevered heads and extra furs for their shaking chills—all the while vigilant for the tremors. Maclan definitely had it worst. He hadn’t opened his eyes, eaten, or spoken in two days. Connor had gotten delirious just the day before and Reid pushed the impending grief away.

  Eager to be free of his sweaty prison, Reid threw off his blankets only to yank them back up as the smoky air chilled him so quickly his belly shivered against his spine. He gritted his teeth and sat up, trying to quell the quivering by will alone. He didn’t want Brigga to see him like this. She needed him.

  It was only then he noticed how quiet the house was. It lacked his mother’s perpetual humming. Leaning over, he peered out through the slats of the shuttered window next to his bed. There she stood down by the stump, her hands on her hips, deep in conversation with Ingrid and Ealea. Their words were too light to ride the wind to him, but their faces were as serious as war paint on the eve of battle.

  As he watched them, he suddenly realized that before him lay the true heart of Bear Clan: Ingrid the healer, Ealea the seer, and Brigga the counselor. Strong women they were, and kind, and it was this trio of crones who guided the clan unnoticed. Their quiet, firm ways were as inexorable as the deepest currents of the placid-looking river. It had been the three of them, he realized, who had tipped the scales in his favor with Maura.

  As her honey-bright eyes floated in his mind, he realized she was very much like them. She belonged in their company, heir to their subtle powers. He smiled then, at the thought that came next, for of all the Clansmen she had chosen him to kiss.

  Energized with thoughts of his girl, he thrust to his feet, dressed, and splashed cool water on his skin to clear the rancid smell of sweat. Then he grabbed his bow, thrust some bread and cheese into a pack, and headed outside. There were trap lines to check, fresh water to haul, and sick brothers to tend. He had no time to rest yet, perhaps tomorrow.

  But his feet were unsteady. The door clunked shut behind him and the ever-alert Brigga called out a cautious “Good morning!”

  Reid waved, not trusting his voice. But then he noticed her peering at him with that fierce look of motherly evaluation. He forced a smile and pointed at the slopes. “Running the traps. Be back soon.” He waved at the three women and faked a strong stride into the pines.

  As soon as he was out of sight, he stopped and leaned dizzily against a tree. He had no strength. His face felt hot and cold at the same time. Still, he figured it was only a few miles and they’d need the game, especially if he himself was next to go down. He found a stout branch to use as a walking stick and, pacing himself, climbed the slopes.

  He underestimated the speed of the illness because he was faint and nauseous by midday when he came to a loop snare in the bend of a mountain stream. He squatted to retrieve the dead squirrel dangling there, adding it to the other carcasses lashed together and thrown over his shoulder. He had just decided to head home in defeat, when he stood up too fast. The edges of his vision darkened and he clamped stubborn teeth against the impending release of his heaving stomach. He managed a few steps then crumpled to the fragrant loam near the stream and remembered nothing else.

  Fever dreams, they say, are the spirits’ playground. But Reid found little levity in the tossing, churning images that filled him. The snippets of sun streaming through pine branches above him played hide-and-seek with dreams of darkness and teeth and anger as he fought to stay awake.

  Maura was there at times. At least, he thought she was. He had certainly been dreaming when she turned into a bear, raking his chest with her angry claws. Lines of blood welled up, running down his skin as she laughed. Gilland’s rogue yowled from behind a wall of flames that threw heat onto Reid’s face. His whole body felt like it was burning up.

  In his fevered delirium, he crawled away from the flames only to be awakened by the shock of cold water tumbling him head over feet. He had no strength to swim although somewhere in his haze he had the sense to grab a nearby log. He hauled his chest onto it, his legs dangling in the chill flow.

  Finally, instead of dreams, a blackness washed away all thought.

  The next time Reid woke, it was to birds singing and the tumbling gurgle of water. His body floated as the cool eddy of the stream tugged at his legs. His chest rested on the log he had grabbed. Saturated with water and mud, its earthy smell was comforting somehow. His head ached but his mind was clear.

  He rolled, falling off the log into the mud, and stared up at the pale sky. It smelled like dawn. Had he been out all night?

  Gathering the fragments of his memory, he sat up and looked around. He recognized the bend in the stream and the outline of the peaks above. He knew where he was, although how he had traveled so far unawares he could barely credit. It would be a long walk home. On top of that, he was starving. The kills from the day before were gone, along with his bow and food. Still, he could get to his feet without falling over and that had to count for something.

  It was dusk by the time he arrived home. When he pushed open the door a flustered Brigga threw her arms around his neck. “Where were you?”

  Without letting him answer, she grabbed his face in both hands and peered into his eyes. “How long have you been sick?”

  “It was only bad yesterday. I meant to get the meat in…”

  “And now?” Her voice was cautious.

  “My head is pounding, and I’m hungry.”

  “Hungry?” She beamed at him.

  “Starved, actually.”

  She grinned. “Come, come eat.” She led him to the table and sat him down just as Connor poked his head into the room.

  “If you’re feeding him,” Connor groused, “then I want some, too.” Connor winked at Reid as he shuffled to the table.

  “You’re better?” Relief washed through Reid at his brother’s lopsided smile.

  “Well enough to eat at least,” Connor hedged.

  Brigga placed two bowls of thick stew before the boys and mugs of fresh water. “Eat up, while I check on the others.”

  Reid found his mouth watering at the smell and both he and Connor fell to slurping the broth with gusto.

  A soft knock sou
nded at the door. Without preface, it opened and Ingrid’s graying head looked about. “Brigga, have you found –?”

  She stopped when she saw the boys eating. “Praise Borran, you’re back.” She came over to examine them both as they ate. “None the worse for a night in the rough it seems.” The old woman clucked at them. “Good. I’ll need helpers.”

  “Helpers?” Connor asked skeptically around a mouthful of food.

  “You won’t get sick now that you’ve recovered. I could use you boys.”

  Brigga emerged from the other room; her happiness dimmed. Reid could read her weariness in the smudges under her eyes. “Mac and Tam are…” Her voice choked off.

  Ingrid took Brigga’s hand and patted it gently. “Don’t give up hope yet, Brigga. But you need your rest if you want to be of use to them. Let the boys do more.”

  Brigga nodded and sank heavily to the table.

  “Your men are a stubborn lot,” Ingrid continued, pushing the kettle over the fire for tea, “which is a hopeful thought.”

  “What news of the others?” Brigga asked.

  “Others?” Reid asked. His mother hadn’t told him how the Clan had been faring. “What others?”

  Ingrid and Brigga exchanged a heavy look.

  “A third have gotten sick,” Ingrid said. “We’re keeping the sick together as much as possible.”

  A third of the clan? Reid swallowed the question that leapt to his mind, but Ingrid already knew what he was thinking.

  She sighed heavily. “Maura took sick just last night. I thought you should know.”

  It was not happy news, although Reid comforted himself he’d be able to care for her. Hadn’t Ingrid said he couldn’t get sick again? He forced more of the stew down, knowing he’d need his strength back. He’d help Ingrid, do what she needed, and then he would go to Maura and take care of her, too.