Chapter Twelve
“Who are you?” Erik glanced at the grey man before he asked the question as if asking permission to speak. He drew Legbiter, prepared to strike.
“I am anybody you wish me to be.” The woman stood at the entrance to the cottage in which Erik had spent the night.
“I could kill you,” Erik said.
“You could,” the woman agreed. “But you won't.” She stepped inside the cottage, allowing her long saffron cloak to gape open, revealing that she wore nothing beneath.
Erik's male eyes devoured what the woman so artfully offered. “What do you want?” He ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips.
“I want you,” the woman said. “And then you will want me.” She stepped further into the cottage, sitting on the very corner of the simple table. She looked him up and down. “I see that you want me already, Erik Egilsson, that men call the Butcher.”
“If you know who I am,” Erik pushed the woman's cloak further apart with the blade of Legbiter, “why are you not afraid of me?”
“I am here to help.” The woman tossed back her long blonde hair, smiling. “Between us, we will take Defender to our Lord.”
“What is your name?” Erik found himself drawn to the force within the woman.
The woman smiled. “Whatever you wish to call me, Erik.”
“I will call you Revna,” Erik said. “It means Raven.”
“Then let me peck at you, Erik,” Revna said, “before we set to work.” She laughed as Erik reached for her, uncaring of the two corpses who already shared that cottage with them.
Chapter Thirteen
Dawn brought streaks of red and silver that graced a sky of grey, while white clouds hovered above the blue peaks of the Cairngorm Mountains. Skein after skein of geese passed them, flying northward to the sea and the lands that lay beyond, as if anxious to escape from the troubled realm of Alba.
“There is the Moor of Grainish.” Bradan rested on his staff, looking to the expanse of rough heather-moor that stretched to a low granite ridge in the hazed distance.
Still favouring her injured legs, Melcorka nodded. They stood side by side as the sun rose higher, with the silver rays highlighting the white stones that protruded from the body of the moor, and reflecting from the lochans and burns that dissected the heather. “Where is your triple stone circle?”
“In the very centre,” Bradan said. “I warn you that this is an unchancy place.”
“Everywhere is unchancy this season,” Melcorka said.
The atmosphere hit them the second they stepped on the springy heather. Despite the rising sun, it was cool. Despite the daylight, there was a darkness in the air. Despite the geese that passed overhead, it was silent. Not a bee hummed, not a frog croaked, not a deer broke the still of morning. The only thing they heard was the swish of their feet through the heather and the thud of Bradan's staff on the spongy ground.
“Some call this the silent moor,” Bradan said. “Others, the moor of the snakes.”
“I can understand the silent name,” Melcorka said. “I'm not so sure about the snakes. I haven't seen any.”
“It is another name for Druids,” Bradan explained.
The Moor of Grainish was not extensive, so Bradan and Melcorka could walk to the centre within a couple of hours. They passed three single standing stones and the remains of two stone circles before Bradan pointed out the triple circle.
“Here we are.”
The stones rose from a central patch of slightly higher ground, like an island surrounded by bogland. A single monolith reared above three concentric stone circles, while a circular lochan, half-hidden by heather-tangle, lurked seven paces to the side.
“There's nobody here,” Melcorka could not hide her sense of disappointment.
“It's not Beltane until tomorrow,” Bradan said. “We will find a place to wait, watch and witness.” He paused. “We don't even know if this is the right place. It's only a guess.”
Melcorka accepted Bradan's word. “I can't remember what Druids are, Bradan, my head is so confused.”
“They were the learned class of society,” Bradan reminded her gently. “The priests of the Celtic world before Christianity came.”
“Oh, I think I remember that.” Melcorka struggled with her bruised brain.
“As far as we know,” Bradan continued, “they had 30 years' training in geography, nature, astronomy, theology and the immortality of the human soul.”
Melcorka struggled with a dormant memory. “I thought they sacrificed people.”
“I don't believe so,” Bradan said. “They have, or had, the most disciplined mental training anywhere in the world we know.”
“Can they help us?” Melcorka asked.
“I hope so, Mel,” Bradan lowered his voice. “Oh, God, I hope so.”
They walked around the triple ring, three rows, each of seven stones, with the central monolith lighter in colour than the others and half as tall again. “Look here,” Melcorka pointed to the ground, where a stone lay horizontal, half concealed by a year's growth of heather. “There's something carved in the stone.”
“A footprint,” Bradan cleared away the heather. “No, two footprints.”
“I wonder why,” Melcorka said.
“Some ceremony, perhaps,” Bradan said. “I doubt we will ever know why.” He walked around the circles. “I can't feel anything special here,” he said. “I can't feel a surge of spirituality. If anything, it's depressing.” He stared into the lochan, hoping for answers. “Only water,” he said. “Dark, peaty water.”
Finding a concealed spot within sight of the circles, they lay down in the soft sunshine and prepared for a long day. After a while, the small moor creatures returned, bees scouring for heather, long-legged spiders probing for prey, a shy mouse that scurried away when she sensed the presence of humanity.
The sound began as soon as the sun dipped to the west. At first, Melcorka could not recognise it, until she realised it was somebody humming. It came from beyond her consciousness, from somewhere beyond the triple circle, somewhere beyond the confines of the moor itself.
“Bradan!”
“I hear it.” They
