Warrior of the Highlands

“To dare the fates so is a fool's gambit.” Finola reached into her robe and pulled out a small suede pouch. She carefully tugged at the thong tying it and removed a palm- sized bundle wrapped in dark velvet.



“What is that?” Campbell asked sharply. He shoved his chair back from the table and strode to her.



His patience wore thin. She spoke of fates and portents, and yet her magic had wrought nothing but uncertainty. Though her tricks roused his curiosity, he'd soon pursue ventures bearing more empirical evidence of success. Swords, not scrying stones.



Sucking at her teeth, Finola slowly unfolded the fabric. “'Tis a keek-stane” she told him, her voice distant. She smoothed the velvet into a square, gently cradling the ball-shaped object into its folds. “For the scrying of visions.”



Campbell leaned in to see more clearly. The ambient candlelight seemed dimmer somehow, insufficient to light this object. Squinting, he realized it was glass, the back of it painted black.



It wasn't completely rounded, as he'd thought at first. The front of the keek-stane was concave, and marred by a deep crack. The flaw was a black so dark, it seemed to deny the light.



Finola stroked the face of it, traced her fingers around its edge. She panted a few short breaths, and then a keening so high and so sharp screeched from her, the men clapped their hands to their ears.



Her shriek stopped suddenly. Rolling her eyes back into her head, the witch began to chant.



Two sights that I might see, Alasdair MacColla, come to me. An da shealladh.



That I might see.



Alasdair MacColla Ciotach MacDomhnaill, Come to me.



An da shealladh.



Two sights soar free.



Alasdair MacColla mhic Gilleasbuig MacDomhnaill.



Appear to me.



Opening her eyes, Finola exhaled an impossibly long breath.



She leaned close to her keek-stane, clutched it between her palms. She gasped.



“What?” Campbell cried. He saw nothing but black on the face of her scrying stone. “What do you see, witch?”



Finola eased her eyes shut once more, slowly removing her hands from the glass. Tenderly, she kissed each palm.



“Beware, Campbell.” She looked up at the men standing agitated beside her. “The tides have turned. I can no longer see if the woman brings MacColla's downfall - or your own.”



He recoiled. Long had he suspected her witchery to be folly. But this was too much. He'd seen naught but blackness in her fool stone, and he knew now he'd been right to withhold his complete trust.



“What does that mean?” Campbell shouted, and swung his arm back to dash his cup against the hearth. “How could this foreigner, this woman, be a danger to me?”



Ignoring Campbell, she turned a hard eye to Purdon, who was visibly taken aback. “You too have much to fear.”



Campbell fought to keep his hands from the witch's neck. How was he to know if she played him false? “How dare you address my man and not me? You are both in my employ. You will speak straight, woman, and speak straight to me.”



“I know not what the vision says about you, Campbell.” Finola was maddeningly placid. It smoothed the lines from her face and made her pale skin seem waxen in the candlelight. “Simply that your course is no longer a wise one.”



“Then I am done with you. Done with your… black magics,” he sputtered. “I see no use in it. Your talents are merely attempts to harness smoke. You speak the truth of reflections cast in muddy waters.”



Campbell stormed away from her. He paused at the foot of the stairs and spun back to her. “You've been paid. Leave now. Your work is done.”



“You neglect me at your peril.” Finola's tone was like black ice on a darkened lake, its glassy surface giving lie to the roiling waters beneath.



“So be it, witch.”



Chapter Twelve



He didn't understand it. MacColla slammed the cup onto the table, sending the amber liquid sloshing. Jean's cheeks reddened and she stared, stricken, down at her stew bowl, visibly forcing herself to chew and swallow her meal. He felt bad to have upset the lass, but he couldn't stop himself. “And you're certain he said disband?”



“Aye,” Scrymgeour replied warily, “the king's letter asked that all Royalist battalions disband at once. He specifically mentioned you, Alasdair. Asking you to disband.” he added gravely.



“Disband… ” MacColla growled. All this talk of kings and letters. It meant nothing. The king knew nothing of Campbell. Knew nothing of MacColla's fight, of the wrongs that needed avenging.



He felt a surge of anger and frustration. The world of politics churned on and here he sat with a glass of whisky and two lasses by his side, when what he really required was to face his enemy across a battlefield with naught but the sword at his back.



“Aye,” Scrymgeour said gravely. “If you continue this feuding with the Campbell, you 'll be in defiance of the king's orders.”



“Whatever my fight with Campbell, disbanding Royalist forces won't stop the king's enemies on the battlefield.” He stared at Scrymgeour across the table, the weight of his glare something most men would turn from.



“I fight for Clan MacDonald” MacColla continued. “For land, for honor. These are things more ancient than the king, more ancient than Parliament, or the Covenanters, or any of the many enemies set on bringing down Charles.”



MacColla was breathing hard, trying to make sense of this turn of events. He would make Campbell pay for his wrongs, and fighting was the only way. If it meant he were in opposition to the king, then so be it.



He'd sacrificed much for King Charles. Fought with James Graham against Campbell and the Covenanters, in defense of the king's own standard.



His lips twitched, face souring in anger, thinking of the countless men he'd lost. So many MacDonald clansmen, fallen.



“I'll not back down,” MacColla said.



He tilted his glass once more to his lips. There'd been a day when he thought his service to Charles would be rewarded. He'd thought perhaps the king would grant him lands. A title.



But to request MacColla's submission instead?



“I'll not know what he thinks,” Scrymgeour said carefully,



“asking his supporters ”-



“What he thinks?” MacColla interrupted, raising his voice.



“He's a madman. What he thinks… ”



Scrymgeour stiffened at such treacherous words.



Haley ventured quietly, “King Charles… ” All heads whirled to look at her. She cleared her throat, and tried again. “King Charles thinks that if he can get you to disband, it would demonstrate to all his enemies that he's sincere in his attempts at brokering a peace.”



MacColla stared at her, his eyes flat. Finally he gave her a slow nod. “'Tis too late for a peace.” And though his voice was hushed, it was cold steel. “I'll not disarm. I'll remain in arms. And if it's in defiance of king and Covenanter both, then so be it.”



MacColla drank deeply then, a great swig from his glass that he swallowed back with gritted teeth. He'd thought himself isolated before. But he'd never back down from his fight with Campbell. If that made him nobody's ally, well, he wasn't in search of friends. He was hunting for enemies.



He glared around the table, challenging any who would question such a traitorous move. Scrymgeour sat at the end opposite him, nervously eyeing MacColla over the lip of his crystal tumbler.



The strange lass sat across from his sister. She was the only one at the table who returned his gaze evenly. He looked at her and met a frank stare, open but unreadable. “And you.” he barked at her. “How do you know of such things? How can I be assured you're not Campbell's spy?”



She opened her mouth to speak, and he interrupted. “Tell me about this strange name of yours.” MacColla picked the cup back up and poured himself another healthy two fingers of whisky.



“Haley.” Her voice was even. “Haley Fitzpatrick.”



“Fitzpatrick… ” he mused. “An Irish lass, is it?”



“From Donegal,” she announced, sittin g a little straighter.



“Truly, now? I've known Fitzpatricks, but I've not ever heard such a strange name as Haley.” Eyes not budging from hers, he took a big swig from his glass. “I'd know how you ended up so far from home. Mistress Haley. Or is it you were kidnapped just as my Jean was?”



Uh-oh. She hadn't thought that far into her backstory. She quickly decided a change of topic was in order.



“Now that's a funny story. My name, that is.” She didn't actually know where her parents had gotten the name. Haley imagined her mom had heard it somewhere, liked the sound of it and that was that. She knew she couldn't speak the truth, though, so she decided to freestyle a bit.



“My mother thought me a noisy… bairn.”



She knew the Scottish slang terms, and she drew on them now to embellish her story. “Strong lungs. Hale and hearty… aye?”



The Scottish tic had a pleasant feel as it rolled off her tongue, and her face loosened into a smile. “And so they called me Haley.”



MacColla stared silent, and just when she felt the smile begin to fade from her face, he erupted into a great laugh. He slammed his hand on the table, clinked his glass against hers. He saw that it was empty, and he quickly refilled it.



She picked up the cool, heavy cup. Waved it under her nose. Her eyes immediately teared. The stuff was one step above rotgut. She held it up to the candlelight, wondering if it would make her blind. Great. I'll drink myself blind then I can beg for alms in front of Holy rood Palace.



Blinking her eyes shut tight, she put the cool glass to her forehead. Shit. Old Scotland. How the fuck… ?



Opening them again, she glanced around the table. Jean, nervous as ever. God forbid she make a peep.



Scrym… whatever his name was. Staring at MacColla. Probably terrified MacColla would decide he didn't like him or his news, and tear off his head and eat it for dessert.