Page 29 of Tair

“Well done,” Lochran said as she sat down again. “You shall become the hero to all our maids and sculleries.”

She eyed him. “I’m cheesed off right now, Night Watch. Keep being sarcastic with me, and you’ll be wearing my brew.”

“Peace, lady, peace.” The big man lifted his hands and laughed aloud, clearly delighted. “Gods, but I like you.”

Sgathan returned to place a bowl with berry-sprinkled porridge and a small pitcher at her place before taking another platter to the next table. She also noticed Lochran had his own bowl with the same contents. She’d managed to convince Ronan to prepare the porridge the way she liked it, but she wasn’t aware anyone else did.

“Why are you eating my oatmeal, Chief?” she asked as she stirred hers.

“Seneschal filched a bowl for me. The smell, ’tis quite interesting.” He sampled a spoonful. “A bit like bread another has chewed and spat out.”

“Ick, now even I don’t want to eat it. Wait.” She poured some of the very yellow cream from the pitcher over his portion. “Try it again.” When he did his visible surprise made her chuckle. “It’s better with honey and cream, or chopped apples and honey. Spices are nice, too, but I’m not familiar with yours yet. I think it will be a few centuries before the UK gets sugar.”

“UK meaning the United Kingdom,” Lochran said, frowning. He seemed to remember everything she told him. “I yet dinnae fathom why our country unites with Britannia. They’re a savage lot, ever slaying each other for power and rule. They say the same of us, of course, but we encourage that. Keeps the bastarts from coming north.”

He had an interesting way of looking at things, Lucy had discovered. He also helped her to understand the people of this time more than any other MacRune—when he wasn’t telling her bald-faced lies.

“The union is a compromise between your countries. Someday Scotland is going to need money to pay their debts, and England will want to keep you lot from siding with France against them. Nasty war, that one. There’s also an English queen who dies childless, and her heir turns out to be the King of Scotland, who wants a union of the crowns.” She stopped herself and sighed. “It’s a complicated and endless shambles, but most of our history is. Anyway, has anyone reported seeing the cluet anywhere?”

“None.” A tall, lean man with strange black ink all over his arms and neck sat down beside Lochran. “Fair morning, Mistress Brooke.”

The clan’s war master, Cath, was probably the oddest guy on the island. He was the only MacRune with tattoos, and dressed in vests instead of tunics. His trousers were made from a kind of black leather Lucy had never before seen, and had tiny silvery spikes all over the them that usually laid flat when he sat and bristled when he stood or moved. He never laughed or even smiled, and spoke in a tone so low it was often hard to make out what he said. He also drank only water and ate as sparsely as if he were on a diet.

Something about him made her think of a castaway on a deserted island, just sitting and staring out at the sea.

Cath looked different from the other men of the clan, too—just as tall as Beinn but not quite as broad. His long, corded muscles always appeared tensed, like he never once relaxed. He was the only clansman who had gray streaks in his hair, suggesting he might be one of the oldest MacRune. If he ate more he’d probably bulk up, but instead he seemed to like being lanky.

Of all the MacRune, he wouldn’t touch meat, which she found as interesting as his tattoos. Meat was a big deal to the clan, and all the people of this time, and there was always plenty of it at every meal. All the men gobbled it up like they were starving, too.

So why didn’t he partake?

The ink on Cath’s skin took on a faint reddish sheen from torch or sunlight, and depicted what Lucy could only think of as miniature monsters with tiny mouths filled with fangs. Today he’d tied back his long salt and pepper hair, and she saw for the first time that a sizeable thick keloid like a bulging white vein bisected one side of his head. It made her wonder if someone had taken an axe to his skull. Of course no one could survive that kind of injury, but what else could have left such a terrible scar?

He took an amber pear from the fruit platter and began slicing off pieces. “’Tisnae polite to stare, Mistress Brooke.”

“Sorry, chum. Your ink always distracts me, but this do is new.” She nodded at the scar on his head. “What permanently parted your hair there?”

“A blow from a troll’s four-handed polearm, and my sire’s healing magic.” He watched her as he chewed and swallowed a piece of pear. “’Twasnae a battle held here among mortal kind.”

“Right, Lochran told me that you’re from the dark Fae queen’s realm. What’s it called? Elephant? Elevated? No, it’s Elphyne.” She smiled as he gave her a sour look. “Someone mentioned that you were abducted and taken there by your father when you were just a little boy.” She’d actually overheard two guards talking about Cath. “How long did they keep you prisoner?”

Lochran cleared his throat rather loudly before he said, “Mistress Brooke, I wonder–”

“Dinnae attempt to shield me, Night Watch.” The war master met Lucy’s gaze. “Aye, when Rune learned he’d sired me on my màthair he returned, tore me from her arms and took me to his natal realm. I trained as his apprentice in the Fae otherworld among monsters that should drive you mad if you beheld them once. Several times I begged my sire return me to my kin, and his answer, ’twas to beat me bloody.”

“Why would he need you to become his apprentice?” Lucy asked. “And why didn’t you refuse?”

“I never thought to ask him. He liked to slay those who annoyed him, so declining, ’twas out of the question.” His brows rose. “What, now, Mistress? Do you pity me?”

“Why, do you need me to?” As he recoiled slightly she cradled her brew mug between her palms. “I’m mean, sure, I can say that’s terrible, you poor thing, what a horrible way to grow up, but I don’t really know what you actually suffered. The same way you don’t know anything about me, or how I grew up, or what was done to me.” She met his gaze. “True?”

Cath nodded.

“So, want to try some oatmeal?” she asked, nodding at the pot. “There’s no meat in it, Mr. Vegan.”

“You do regard us as veg.” His mouth curled on one side in what might have been a partial smile. “Another time, mayhap. Fair day, Mistress.” He rose from the table and left.

“That guy should form a secret society of one.” Lucy sighed and swirled her wooden spoon through her now cold and lumpy breakfast. “Is he always like the Bermuda Triangle?”