Storm Warrior

She lingered at a booth that was selling handwoven baskets, then watched a woman creating an intricately patterned fabric on an enormous loom. Morgan’s stomach reminded her that she’d skipped lunch, so she bought a small chicken pie from a busker carrying a tray of them on his head. The tender pastry was redolent of rosemary, and she savored it to the last crumb as she walked.

It was easy for her to spot her friends here and there in the crowd (and avoid Rhys). They’d elected to adopt a simple costume, dressing all in black with blue tabards—simple sleeveless tunics—that were strikingly edged in white. Jay had originally wanted red, Mike and Brandan had both voted for gold, but all were quick to go with Rhys’s suggestion of blue. They’d been enthusiastic too about Starr’s suggestion for the group’s logo—a Celtic hound in the center of the tabard, front and back, and also on the shields they carried. Starr did all the sewing and needlework, and when she was finished, the hound was the spitting image of the tattoo on Rhys’s collarbone and the inlaid design on Rhyswr’s broken collar.

The symbol had disturbed Morgan at first—okay, it still disturbed her plenty since Rhys hadn’t renounced his claim of being an ancient Celt—but there was no denying it was a beautiful design. Morgan made a point of stopping by Starr’s booth to compliment her on her craftsmanship.

“I’m really happy with how well it turned out,” Starr said as she and another woman worked the booth, taking money, making change, and answering customer questions about the handmade jewelry and herbal remedies on display. “Rhys took his shirt off and let me trace his tattoo, and then I just enlarged the design.”

The thought of Starr’s hands on Rhys’s bare chest gave Morgan a rude jolt. She didn’t know which bothered her more: that someone else had touched Rhys’s skin or that she personally gave a damn. Starr had done nothing wrong, of course. How long before I quit caring about the guy? Morgan asked herself and then was sorry she’d done so.

Yanking her thoughts away from the touchy subject, she turned her attention to the many crystals and handmade jewelry displayed beside neatly labeled jars and packets of healing plants. On impulse, she drew Nainie’s necklace from her purse—she hadn’t dared wear it while she was working in case it got damaged or dirty, but she seemed to feel better if it was with her—and showed Starr the medallion. “I was wondering if you could tell me what this is made of.”

“Omigosh.” Her friend looked startled, then recovered herself. “It’s gorgeous, Morgan! Just look at all the colors in it. And the pattern seems Celtic.” Starr touched a finger to the dark stone pendant, then drew back. “Holy cow, it’s powerful too—you can really feel the positive energy coming off it. Where did you find this? Who made this?”

“I don’t know. Someone in Wales, I imagine. Nainie left it to me.” Morgan didn’t feel any energy radiating from it herself, just knew that she felt good when she held the necklace. But if there were such a thing as good energy associated with it, it had surely come from her grandmother. “I know what some of the surrounding stones are, but this big one—I can’t find any information on it.”

Starr shook her head, making the tiny bells in her long braids sing out. The carved stone seemed to brighten for a split second, the light playing off hidden depths, but Morgan blinked and the effect was gone.

“It’s incredibly beautiful, but honestly, I don’t know what it is,” said Starr. “Vanessa? Have you ever seen a stone like this?” Her partner came over to look at the pendant.

“It’s a bit like labradorite, just the way it’s got depth and fire to it. Almost a cross between a black opal and a pearl.” The woman shook her head. “But you don’t carve pearls or opals, and you certainly don’t facet them, so I can’t even hazard a guess. Lovely, though.” She left to help an elderly woman choose a large piece of rose quartz from a display.

“Your event’s been announced, Starr,” called someone from the crowd.

“Thanks, Norrie. I’ll be right there.” Starr ran a finger over the pendant once more and shivered. “Amazing. Just amazing. I’ll try looking it up in some of my books at home,” she said to Morgan. “Even the setting and the chain are a wonder—it looks just like something the elves would make in one of Tolkien’s books.”

Morgan thanked her and tucked the necklace back in her bag as Starr bounced away. If anyone could find out what the stone was, she knew that her friend could. But Morgan wished she hadn’t mentioned elves—they were way too much like faeries, and Morgan had had more than enough of that subject.

She dodged a trio of stilt walkers, tossed coins in a minstrel’s bowl, and joined Leo in the stands to watch the rest of the events. He had a spot open on either side of him, and she headed for the one on his left, but he put his hand up. “Best to sit on the other side,” he said. “Um, my right ear’s the good one, you know.”

“Sure,” she said, although she didn’t remember him ever mentioning having trouble with his hearing before. She sat on his right. “Wow, it feels good to get off my feet.”

“I’ve done enough walking for one day too,” he said. “And way more than enough eating. After I finished an apple dumpling and a custard tart, I told Rhys he’d have to save himself—it was too late for me. I’m staying right here till the fat lady sings. And I just might sing with her.” Chuckling, he patted his waistline.

“I hear you,” she laughed. “Either medieval people were very active or they were all very round. I just had a little chicken pie that’ll keep me full till next week. I’m sure there was real cream in it. Everything seems really rich.”

“Oh, everything is rich, believe me. One of the cooks was telling me they use authentic ingredients from medieval times—lard, suet, pork fat, all that good stuff.”

Morgan made a face. “I’m not sure I wanted to know that,” she said.

“My wife, Tina, would certainly have had a conniption and lectured me on my cholesterol and all that.” Leo leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “But I have to admit, it tasted pretty damn good.”

They laughed and enjoyed the events. Starr won the women’s archery competition handily with a small recurve bow that packed a lot of power despite its delicate appearance. Just like Starr herself, thought Morgan.

Jay seemed to surprise himself by placing third in dagger throwing. Rhys had helped him with his technique at the farm, and Morgan had marveled at the strange little knives—they were all metal, the handles being simply blunt extensions of the blades themselves. For balance, Jay had said. She jumped up and cheered loudly when he took second in throwing hatchets. The targets were metal shields and the armor-piercing capability of the small axes was amply demonstrated. It was a little chilling to think of that, but she was excited for her friend and partner just the same.

Mike, Brandan, and Rhys were all entered in the longbow event. Morgan had been trying to ignore Rhys’s existence all day, and the fact that he looked good no matter what he was doing didn’t help a bit. Nor did the appreciative comments she overheard from the women seated around her in the stands. And especially not the tittering remarks between some of them as to what else might be long about the tall, dark warrior besides his bow. Still, Morgan wanted to be supportive of the team, so she wasn’t going to miss the event. Leo seemed to be glad she was there, and she had to admit, the old man’s enthusiasm was contagious even in her present state of mind.

The ten contestants had drawn numbers to determine their order. Mike was up third and sent three arrows into the straw targets at the end of the field. Two were in the bull’s-eye, which put him in first place. Brandan only got one in the center of the target, but he seemed happy with that. Rhys had coached both of them, and they’d improved a lot in the past few weeks. Rhys was last on the roster, and for a moment Morgan considered not watching—but decided that was just too high school. Besides, Leo was intent on sharing the moment.

“Look at that form,” he said, patting her arm. “Our boy is rock steady. Do you know how much power it takes to draw a bow like that? It’s six feet tall!”

Morgan had no idea, but even from here she could see Rhys’s muscles bulge. He didn’t draw the wooden bow as much as lean into it, and the great bow yielded accordingly. Three arrows were nocked and sent into the bull’s-eye in quick succession.

“He’s in first place now,” declared Leo. “Let’s see if he can stay there.”

The next phase involved setting the targets farther back. Mike, Brandan, and Rhys retained their places through three more rounds, although Morgan imagined their arms must be feeling like spaghetti. During the last round, she could see the shine of sweat on Mike’s face as he sought to hit a target that was now a daunting two hundred yards away, agreed to be the maximum possible range of an English longbow. All three of his arrows