I retraced our steps, trying to think where it could have been. I never took her anywhere close to our camp, and Steffan was lazy and rarely strayed far from it. But Fergus had been more surly since the arrival of the northern kin. More insistent on building up our stores. No one was to come back empty-handed, and—now it struck me with clarity—of course Steffan would follow on my heels, since I was the better hunter. Maybe it was he who had already emptied my snares.
The image of him coming upon us flashed through my mind again. Standing in the doorway, composed and confident, with that same smile as the evening before smeared across his face.
Dread crept through me, and my hands tightened on the reins. How long had he been standing there listening? Fear exploded through my veins. Morrighan. I tried to remember every word I’d said, but it was all a jumble—me trying to convince her I would never raid a tribe again, the despair in her eyes, the disappointment, my promises. But did I say her name? Did he hear me call her Morrighan?
What’s your name, girl? he had asked.
Why would Steffan care about a name unless he suspected? Unless he’d heard.
And the name Morrighan was of great worth—at least to one person—which made it valuable to Steffan too.
When I got back to camp, I jumped from my horse, not bothering to tether it. Laurida carried a child on her hip, letting it sip from a cup of broth.
“Where is Steffan?” I demanded.
She looked at me, lifting a single suspicious brow. “What is all the hurry today?” she asked. “Steffan just stormed past too. He’s down at the lodge ring with the others. Harik and his men meet with Fergus—passing the brew.”
Sweat sprung to my face. No, not Harik. Not today. I ran to the lodge, but it was already too late. Steffan was strutting around the cold fire ring, announcing his find to them all—a girl of the tribespeople.
“I found her,” he said. “Morrighan.”
The group fell silent. Harik’s features sharpened, and he leaned forward. Of course Steffan didn’t mention me—the find had to be all his. He basked in the attention of Harik and Fergus, telling them the story of his stealth.
I glared at him. “How would you know it’s her?”
“She was talking to a foolish little maiden who squeaked her name.”
When Fergus asked why he hadn’t brought her there, Steffan claimed he was on his horse on a ridge above them, and when the girls spotted him, they ran. But he saw the direction they headed. The camp was near. I was almost in awe at how quickly he conjured stories. I knew it was not to protect me but to keep all the glory to himself.
Harik took a long sip of his brew. “Then that means the old woman is near too. So many years…” He said it more to himself than to us. His voice was thick with curiosity. “Their supplies are probably great.” But his interest seemed to be in more than just their stores of food.
They began to make plans to ride to the camp, and Steffan quickly backtracked, saying he hadn’t seen exactly where it was, but he could lead them close enough, and at night they would surely see a fire to help lead them.
I stepped forward, scoffing at Steffan’s claim. “I saw the tribe we raided a few days ago just east of here and heading south,” I said. “She was probably one of them. Why waste our time?”
Steffan insisted she wasn’t one of them, and the more I argued that we shouldn’t go, the angrier he got—the angrier everyone got, except Harik. He regarded me with a cool eye, his chin lifting slightly. Everyone noticed and quieted.
“Let the boy stay behind if that’s what he wants,” he said as he stood. “But he’ll enjoy none of the fruits of our ride.” He looked at Fergus for confirmation.
Fergus glared at me. I had humiliated him in front of Harik. “None,” he confirmed.
They all moved toward their horses—our men plus Harik and his four. I couldn’t stop them all. I had to go along.
“I’m coming,” I said, already trying to think of ways I could lead them astray. And if I couldn’t do that and they should find the camp, I knew I had to keep myself between Steffan and Morrighan.
Chapter Seventeen
Morrighan
Jafir and I had had a lifetime between us. There seemed to be no before—not one that mattered. My days were measured not in hours but by the flecks of color that danced in his eyes as he looked into mine, by the sun on our hands laced together, our shoulders touching as we read. His smile came easily now, the scowling skinny boy a hazy memory. His smile. My stomach squeezed.
We had something that was too long and lasting to be wiped away in a single day—or by a mistake. He had promised he would never ride with them again. And now he had promised three days. In three days we would see each other again. Begin anew and make plans for a new safer meeting place.
For a few hours, it comforted me beyond reason. It spoke of the future. Three days. Jafir believed all would be right again. This would pass. My stomach settled. My pulse quieted. There was no need to alert the rest of the tribe and worry them. I went about my evening duties, but I knew that Pata and Oni noted I had brought nothing back with me today. I always brought something, even if was only a few seeds or a handful of
herbs. But they said nothing to Ama who was busy trussing the boar with Vincente. Maybe they thought I was sick. I rubbed my forehead a few times and saw a knowing nod pass between them. I tried to keep all my other actions and words casual.
But as dusk turned to night, even as we lifted up the skins and rushes to let a breeze pass through the long house in the summer heat, even as I added twigs and branches to the fire to keep the boar roasting, I knew. Jafir and I would not meet at the crevasse in three days. We would not meet there ever.