“I don’t know why,” she murmured. “I’ve done little since I came here.”
“Little?” He snorted. “You killed a striga that led us to a prisoner who may be more important than any we’ve ever taken.”
She tilted her head, peering at him. “Is there news about the prisoner?” She’d heard little other than that the wild man was still confined in the stockade.
He looked away. “Only rumors.”
“What rumors?” she asked.
But Alistair smiled, ignoring her question. “Remember what I said. Listen to Eira.”
“I will,” Ember said, distracted by her own thoughts.
“Please, Ember,” Alistair said. “I want you to understand how much I trust her.”
She looked at him, surprised by the seriousness of his words. But the solemn moment had passed.
“Shall we go?” He offered his hand and Ember took it. “Ian’s readying our mounts.”
They rode from Tearmunn at a leisurely pace, watching the sun set over Loch Duich as the horses picked their way down the hillside. Alistair kept Ember laughing by admitting to her all the mistakes he’d made during his trial with the hobgoblins.
“It’s a miracle I’m not dead,” he told her.
Ember doubted that all the faults he’d heaped on himself were true but thought them instead created for her entertainment. “I saw you bait the striga. You were incredibly brave.”
“All fools are brave.” His eyes twinkled in the rosy twilight.
The sounds of the planting festival drifted toward them from the village that squatted at the edge of Loch Duich. Bonfires began to dot the hillside behind the village, ringing its perimeter with flames that leapt toward the heavens. But it was the music that tugged at Ember’s spirit. Pipes, flutes, and drums wove complex melodies bursting with life.
They left their horses tethered at the village border, giving coins to the pack of boys who’d been assigned to watch over the mounts. Alistair led the way into the center of the festival, and with each step Ember’s senses were assailed by sight, scent, and sound. The music roared in her ears; her heart pounded with the frenzied drumbeats. Venison, beef, and pork roasted on spits, filling the air with savory odors. Local artisans called out to them, hawking wares ranging from pottery to potions. At the center of it all was the dance. Bodies flew about in a broad circle, dipping, twirling, bowing—partners changed, hands clasped. Laughter and shrieks of delight became part of the ceilidh music.
“May this planting grant us a blessed harvest.” Father Michael smiled warmly at them. “And the ritual of Fidelitas prepare us for the work to come.”
“Have we missed anything?” Alistair asked him.
The priest gestured to the musicians. “Only the chance to dance with your commander. He talked his way into the performance as soon as he arrived.”
Ember tracked the spot to which Father Michael pointed, and gasped. Lukasz was seated amid the village musicians, beating furiously on a bodhran.
Alistair was laughing, but Ember turned a questioning gaze on the priest.
“Music is a great love of the commander’s,” he told her. “And he rarely is afforded the opportunity to play.”
He looked past the dancers at Lukasz, whose eyes were closed as he lost himself in the fierce rhythms he created. “He’s very talented,” Father Michael observed.
“Don’t tell him that.” Sorcha materialized from the crowd with Kael at her side. “If you do, no one in the barracks will sleep again because Lukasz will be drumming all night.”
“She’s right.” Kael tipped his wooden cup to his lips. “I know you love to build up our spirits, Father, but in this case have mercy.”
“Any other surprises?” Alistair asked.
“I think we’re about to be surprised by rain.” Sorcha glanced up. The sunset had vanished behind a cluster of threatening storm clouds.
“It’s a planting festival. Rain is welcome.” Kael grinned, casting a sidelong glance at the ring of dancers. “I’ll tell you what would surprise me: if our Barrow manages to get through this night without a betrothal. I think I’ve observed a dozen maids vying for his attention. The poor man hasn’t had a chance to eat, or even sit, since we set foot in the village.”
Though her chest was burning, Ember couldn’t resist searching the blur of moving bodies. Finding Barrow was too easy. He was taller than most of the villagers. She watched as he lifted a girl up at the waist, twirling her around and releasing her. The girl laughed as her golden locks bounced, gleaming in the firelight.
Ember pulled her eyes away, suddenly wishing she were back in her room. Or blind.
“Hold your tongue, Kael,” Sorcha said. Ember glanced at her and was surprised at the sympathy in her gaze. Sorcha smiled briefly at her before shoving Kael playfully. “You’ve had too much whisky. You know Barrow has no interest in these girls.”
“I’ve hardly had too much!” Kael turned over his cup, empty. “Look, my cup is empty. Does anyone want to assist me in righting this wrong?”
Alistair laughed and turned to Ember. “Whatever you please, my lady.”
“I see your true nature, choosing the pretty girl over your handsome mentor,” Kael said to Alistair. “Turncoat.”
Sorcha took Kael’s arm. “I’ll help you, poor fool.”
“A good woman, this one.” Kael laid a noisy kiss on Sorcha’s cheek.
As they walked away, Alistair asked, “Do you want to go with them?”
Ember shook her head. “I want to dance.”
Though her chest was still burning at the sight of Barrow’s hands on that girl, Ember knew indulging her jealousy would prove as empty as Kael’s cup. She loved to dance and dance she would.
Alistair regarded her with surprise. “Dance?”
“Yes, Alistair,” Ember answered, taking his hand. “I can dance with my oldest friend, can’t I?”
She saw disappointment flicker briefly in his eyes as her words drew a firm line between them, but he answered, “You can. And we shall.”
He took her hand, leading her into the throng of dancers, who moved around the bonfire with rapid twists and twirls. When the song ended and the partners made their bows, Alistair tugged her into the line.