I shook my head—although it was a lie. The jet and onyx eyes, hardened with hatred, teased me from behind my lashes. “No, I’ve just got lost and fallen, let’s get back.” I tried to smile at her in the dim light but couldn’t quite rally the sentiment to work its way to my lips. “Come on, Phil, you know me well enough to know I need to sleep.”
Still unsure she glanced about. “Okay, but tomorrow you promise to tell me what happened?”
“Sure?” I lied smoothly.
I wouldn’t be able to tell her anything. I didn’t understand what was happening. My dreams and reality seemed to be merging into one confusing mirage of the improbable.
I followed her, leaning my weight just slightly on her arm.
I wanted to know where he was.
After everything I still wanted to find out where Tristan Prince was.
Seared in my mind was the image of the man from my dreams. They were two of the same; there was no denying the startling similarity. The same, except one was full of love and mischief, and the other filled with hate and violence.
I sunk into my bedsheets after Phil had navigated me back. I’d run a long way after him, into a part of the house I hadn’t ventured before. The party was over, all the lights dim.
Please don’t let me dream. I almost wept with my prayer.
Please don’t let me see him again. It would hurt all the more seeing the finer, gentler version, when I’d wake knowing the hateful dark imitation would still be under the same roof.
7
Caledonia
I searched for Father in the mist. The new day had risen: fresh and damp. Tendrils of swirling smoke mingled with the foggy gloom, dragging the sky down upon our heads. The chilled fingers of winter crept with stealth towards the golden hue of autumn, stealing its glory for another year. Breathing in deeply, I watched the settlement. Women warmed water in pots over the fire as children pulled on their linen dresses, needy and loud. The rich smell of bread weaved through the air. Baking day was my favourite. Men scattered along the circular edge, busy with their jobs. One was whittling wood into sharpened edges. Turning my head, I caught sight of the smithy and his son bent over smelting metal as they bashed with solid tools. The men completed their work around the edges of the large settlement, not through accident, but out of design. This was a time of uneasy peace, the agreement with Druia of the nearest clan made our homes a little safer. But no agreement was stood to last. Change was afoot, even the smallest child could sense it, without the skill of sight my father controlled. We were hungry, food was scarce, our supplies low. A sharpened edge chiselled the features of every member of our tribe. Gods, how I hated these times. Within my heart a burning need to do something to help flourished into a fire of flames.
These times… closing my eyes, my fingers wandered to the purple gem resting against my skin. A deep sense of unsettling unease spread from my chest to my stomach, balling itself into a hot knot of unrest. I attempted to clear my head to try to see an image of what faced us, but only blankness and the call of the cries around me met my efforts. With a sigh, I gave up—which described most of my training to date.
“Mae, are you ill?”
I fluttered my eyes open and found the pale worried gaze of Alana quizzing me. She stepped closer and ran a motherly touch along my forehead. I clutched her hand and squeezed it tight. Our roles seemed to have reversed. I was the elder, yet she was the one with the parental instincts I didn’t possess. Although I was only days from being eighteen, the prospect of having a child of my own seemed as unfamiliar as the foreign language of the travellers who sometimes passed through to trade with Alen.
“I’m fine, Sister, just a little tired,” I said, offering her a weary smile. A cloak of exhaustion and apathy seemed to be settled on my shoulders. I couldn’t shake it off or discover its source. Yet in a way, I felt as though I was stretched too far, like the dough the baker women were kneading by the hearth. “Maybe I’m trying too hard with my meditation. Trying to be quiet isn’t a skill I possess.”
She frowned, the sharp line dipping between her eyebrows temporarily corrupting her regal air. “You and father are both distracted and tired. I don’t know what you hope to achieve with no sleep.”
“Sleep?” I darted a quizzical glance in her direction. “I’m sleeping like a log—in fact when I’m sleeping is the only time my mind is empty.” I grinned and punched her lightly on the arm, but it didn’t lift her mood.
“You’ve been talking in your sleep for days, tossing and turning.” The blue of her gaze lightened. “It’s a wonder anyone in the settlement is getting sleep between you and Agnese’s new bairn.” She sighed and turned for the hut and I followed her back inside. Hit by the musty taint to the air after the freshness of outside, I stalked for the window, and opened the shutters wide, allowing light to stream in. All the huts within the settlement were similar, round and basic, but ours was a fraction grander than the others, with two bedrooms and storage space for our cooking chattels. It was home, but if you looked too closely you’d see the touches missing which our mother’s skill and instinct would have made complete. As always when I thought of mother, my chest caved a little with the weight of knowing she was gone from this life. Lore and teachings told us we’d see her again, but I didn’t know who I was looking for—her
