Page 30 of Connal

The smaller halfling sighed and pointed to a large barrel in the corner.

Fiacail went over and looked inside. What remained of several females who had been precisely butchered had been packed as neatly as if fish for brining. Then she saw the emaciated condition of their limbs, the yellow-brown splotches of old bruises, scabbed-over cuts and rings of raw flesh around the wrists and ankles. “You killed hoors?”

“Enslaved hoors.” Dearg joined her, and stared down at her handiwork. “The tavern keep had them chained in a shed, and starved them so they couldnae fight. For a ha’penny he let those sea-faring pigs do as they wished to them. I watched them until the others came.”

“And then you ended the pigs, aye?” Fiacail watched her slowly nod. “Sister, why should you weep over such…oh, no.”

“I drank from the enslaved,” the small woman screeched, her expression furious now. “Aye, and held them and stroked their hair and snapped their necks so ’twould be quick. Now they fill me with all their wretchedness.” She dragged in a breath and let it out slowly. “I need a beauty. High born. Adored. Pampered. I need her now.”

Unlike Fiacail, some of the Cait Sith like Dearg had the ability to lose the memories of the last mortal they slew and replace it by killing another.

“’Tis a large house at the end of town,” Fiacail told her quickly. “A rich merchant’s home, I reckon. They’ve barricaded themselves inside.” As Dearg brushed past her she almost followed, but then thought better of it.

The door to the tavern opened, slammed shut, and then fell off its hinges and crashed to the floor.

“I bid her leave them alone, but never shall she listen.” A tall sailor extracted himself from the pile of Cait Sith, shifted into the shorter, fatter Speal, and brought a lid over to cover the barrel. “You ken how she hates the taste of male mortals. Now her head’s filled with enslaved hoors’ memories.”

“She’ll find what she needs at the merchant’s house.” Fiacail glanced through the window. “Rouse these eejits and send them to the harbor master’s. I need hear what they learned before the enchantress awakes.” She glanced at the barrel. “Once they’re out, burn down the place.”

Outside the tavern a few stray mortals watched her from the spots where they’d hidden last night during the Cait Sith attack. The acrid odor of their fear tempted Fiacail to linger and dispatch them, but she knew she needed to glean her sisters’ collected memories in order to present something that would placate Derdrui. As she approached the squat stone tower from which the harbor master had ruled his tiny kingdom she wondered if she could lie to their sovereign lady.

She shall smell the change in my sweat, or see the worry in my eyes, and take my head.

Fiacail wondered, too, how the enchantress held such power over the Cait Sith. Since the first time they had gathered they’d all traded stories of how Derdrui had hunted and captured them, demonstrating her Fae power in terrifying ways before forcing them to swear an oath of loyalty to her. Those who had refused had vanished, never again to be seen.

In those days Fiacail had still lived with the mortal she had assumed to be her sire, a bad-tempered lowland blacksmith who had been far fonder of whiskey than her. He’d trained her to cook for him and look after his tumbledown cottage near the forge, and punished her harshly for the smallest mistake. Seeing the other girls in the village being well-treated by their sires had prompted her to one night ask her da why he hated her so much. He’d beaten her so badly with his fists Fiacail had thought she might die, only to wake up the next morning completely healed.

Her sire’s reaction when he had crawled out of bed had been to beat her again, this time with a hammer. Those wounds had taken more than a week to vanish, but then Derdrui had found her, and taught her how to take proper vengeance.

Inside the tower Fiacail sniffed the air before going to the kitchens, where the harbor master’s silver-haired wife sat at the table eating bannocks spread with jam. Across from her sat a plate of more and a steaming mug. As soon as she saw her she smiled.

“Come and break your fast, my lady,” the mortal said, as if she were some honored guest instead of her husband’s killer. “You didnae ask my name, but I’m called Agda.”

Fiacail sat down with her and tried the bannocks, which were light and rather delicious. “You do ken I shall end you before we leave the island, Agda.”

“Och, I expect so.” The old woman fetched a kettle from the hearth and filled her mug with a fragrant brew. “Dinnae fret. Brodie never could give me a bairn to care for me in my old age, and all my sisters, they’re gone, so ’tis likely for the best. I’ve lived twenty year more than my mam.”

She grew fascinated by the old woman’s calmness. “Doesnae death make you fearful?”

“’Twill be easier than life of late, I reckon.” Agda added some honey to her brew. “I heard you last night with my husband. You seek the Clan MacMar, then?”

Fiacail reached out and caught her wrist, tugging her halfway across the table. “Tell me all, now, or I’ll spit you.”

The old woman chuckled as if she’d made a jest. “No’ enough fat on me for proper roasting––unless you favor your meat charred.” When she released her she rubbed her stomach and then sat down slowly, as if in pain. “Some captains come bribe Brodie to no’ collect the dock fees, and split them so they may pocket half. They’d share a dram and speak of their journeys, and claim they found the clan and their enchanted island.” She waved a hand. “’Twas all bluster and bragging, no’ truth.”

“How could you ken such?” Fiacail demanded.

“An old merchant came to see Brodie some time past,” Agda said. “He asked the same as you, and claimed he’d married his daughter to the MacMar. She’d come to visit him and her mam on the mainland in spring and fall, and told him much of the place. He told my husband that none could see the enchanted island for the mist that surrounds the place. ’Tis hidden from the world by Fae magic.”

Fiacail went still. “What ’twas the merchant’s name?”

“Boec Arasgain.” The old woman’s mouth curved as she regarded her. “Seems his daughter came home one last time, only to jump from a cliff into the sea. The old merchant vowed to spend the rest of his days hunting the MacMar to seek vengeance. Later word came that his boat, ’twas caught in a terrible storm, and sank…”

Agda’s voice faded away to a drone as Fiacail closed her eyes. Her greatest failure in service to the enchantress remained locked in her memory; nothing the old woman said would alter that. When she looked again across the table the harbor master’s wife had risen and stood by the hearth warming her gnarled hands.

“I shall permit you live,” Fiacail told her.

“Dinnae lie, my beauty,” Agda scolded as she walked over to the window overlooking her small, scraggly garden. “That dark and terrible one you brought here, she shall see all who yet breathe dead before you weigh anchor. ’Tis the way of your kind, eh?” She glanced over her shoulder. “I dinnae mind, I promise you. If you wish offer me a true boon, end me swiftly, and now, before the sun sets.”