Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends, Book 1) (17 page)

In a foreign place, in the strange story that had become my life, I accepted the security Velloc offered. My last thoughts as consciousness slipped away were of the man who held me and how I would fit into his world.

Because I’d become lost, uncertain what even
defined
my world anymore.

CHAPTER
Fifteen

Soft fibers tickled my skin. A salty earthen scent teased my nose. My heavy eyelids blinked open to darkness, recognition slowly settling into my waking mind. I skimmed fingertips down my torso confirming a suspicion: I’d been stripped naked beneath the animal-pelt covering.

How delightful.
And thoroughly sobering.

For reasons I had yet to fathom, the only two men I’d become close to in my life both felt the need to completely undress me after I’d fallen knocked-out-cold unconscious. I briefly wondered if the two men were distantly related—it wouldn’t have surprised me.

Light flickered in as a burst of wind jostled the animal skin hanging over the front entrance. Details of my situation floated back . . . minus any explanation of why all my clothes and boots had gone missing. I sat upright, holding the insulating fur up to my chest, and scanned my surroundings, my eyesight adjusting to the darkened room. Blessedly, I’d been left alone.

With all the grace of a giraffe righting itself from the ground, I got up limb by limb from the pallet, managing to wrap the fur around my body as I straightened. A quick inventory of the place yielded none of my former attire. I did find small leather pieces and an additional fur that hadn’t been there the night before draped over the back of a low wooden chair. I hesitated, not entirely certain they were meant for me, until I noticed soft leather boots about my size next to the clothing articles.

Since no “Dress Yourself in Pictwear for Dummies” manual had been left, I did my best to figure out how to wrap and fasten the skins around my body. Interestingly, the outfit resembled the hunting garb Iain had provided me, only Velloc’s version—a bikini halter top and short, wraparound skirt—made me feel like I’d stepped onto a photo shoot for the latest
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue.
Lovely.

Dressed in my only option, I swallowed my modesty. I sat down and slipped on the first boot, crisscrossing the strips of leather up my shin and securing them. The leather-bound poultice had been removed from my other foot, so I examined the slightly swollen ankle. Near-painless rotation in every direction proved the injury had mostly healed. I laced up the second boot as I considered the pelt that remained over the chair. The fur’s long, course-looking hairs felt soft as I ran my fingers through them. The winter coat of a wolf, perhaps. I grabbed one edge and spun it around, draping part of the material behind me and tossing the extra length over a shoulder.

High-pitched yips and squeals of little ones rose above the continuous rushing of waves. With no window in the small structure to spy from, I remained rooted to the dirt floor, bolstering my courage. I took a deep breath and exhaled to the count of ten, reminding myself of who I’d become—a survivor.

I peeled back the entrance flap. Vivid reality beckoned me to come out and play, activity abounding everywhere. Children chased or were being chased by four small pups. Women chatted and laughed in small groups, performing various tasks: drying fish, treating and working leather, and carrying baskets across the meadow toward the forest. Five girls sat around a smoldering fire pit, their hands occupied with something in their laps.

The men were nowhere to be found. Velloc hadn’t just left me alone . . . he’d left. Anxiety fluttered up from my stomach. My sole protector had left without a word.

But then, what should he have done? Left a yellow sticky note? I laughed at the thought, my humor calming the sudden panic like a dose of Valium.

Curiosity spurred me on. I wandered unchecked amid round stone buildings with thatched roofs. The bustling people paid me little heed.

A thick blanket of cloud cover concealed the exact location of the time-telling sun, but it seemed like I’d slept well into the afternoon. Repeated stress and sleep deprivation had knocked my exhausted ass out as if I’d been chloroformed. No wonder I’d been cluelessly disrobed.

Motivated by a natural inquisitiveness and a need to assimilate, I meandered toward the women by the fire. They sorted baskets of food—shellfish, vegetables, roots, and herbs—as they laughed and whispered, appearing to gossip. One glanced up, said something, and the whole group hushed. Faces popped up, assessing the newcomer approaching their clique. I straightened my spine and forced a wide smile, ignoring the nervous roil of my stomach as I realized their topic of discussion: me.

In an empty spot on a broad log, I sat and nodded, opening my extended hands. The one closest to me handed me a basket of mussels, and I watched carefully as she sorted them. Open or cracked shells were tossed into a discard pile. I touched the rough edge of one shell, and it snapped shut. I gasped, jerking my finger back, and the entire group laughed.

“I’m Isobel,” I said once their chatter died down.

Lots of blank expressions followed.

I pointed at myself, reenacting my primitive standard introduction. “
Eeee-sooo-bellll.
”

A bright girl about my age pointed at me. “Isobel,” she repeated, with slow enunciation. She smiled, flat palming her chest. “Dotán.”

Finally.
I’d made a breakthrough in my communication quest. Around the circle, each girl introduced herself and repeated my name, everyone enjoying the game. I took full advantage of the instant camaraderie, drafting off the momentum of the speeding translation train, and held up one of the shells in my lap.

“Mussel.”

Unblinking stares were my only reply.

“Mussel,” I repeated, tapping the shell with the index finger of my other hand.

Dotán offered the name for it. “
Seynah
.”

Aaand
. . .
we’re off!
I grabbed every object I could find, and they supplied their translation for each: pelt, boot, basket, fire, log. The words were short and easy to pronounce, so we kept going, and I continued absorbing, like the driest sponge dropped at the edge of an enormous sea.

I held up a lock of my hair, identifying it. “Blond.” Among the group, my pale shade stood out from their vivid browns, auburns, and blacks.

They responded with a word that, for all I knew, could’ve meant hair. Common sense told me it probably had.

I grasped a lock of Dotán’s silky raven hair with my other hand. “Black,” I said. They giggled. I shook my head, laughing and joining the amusement. Colors seemed too difficult to distinguish from the objects themselves, so I shelved that clarification challenge for a later date.

After exhausting the supply of identifiable items around the fire, the girls abandoned their kitchen tasks, dragging me around their village, delighting in our new game. Thank God I’d been blessed with a photographic memory—a vital weapon for rapid retention.

In our quest for new subject matter, we wandered toward the outskirts, and a weathered, middle-aged woman who was hanging tanned animal hides barked a curt word at us. The course command doused our lightheartedness like a snuffed out candle, the girls instantly losing their smiles and turning around. With a swift pace, we returned to our abandoned food preparations, taking our former places while two of them whispered heatedly. I decided they were grumbling about the woman who still glared at us from afar, since overseeing our obedience had become her new primary function. We sorted in relative silence, finishing the preparations of a very large meal.

Suddenly, animal cries pierced the calm, a couple of teenage boys sounding some kind of alarm. Answers were carried to our ears on the wind. The dogs arrived first, circling the village several times. Two broke off and rolled around with the puppies.

Minutes later, dozens of men approached, carrying fresh kills from a hunt: a deer, several rabbits, and a goose dangling by its neck from one hunter’s fist. Velloc brought up the rear, accompanied by several men who held a regal, experienced air about them.

Velloc scanned the crowd until we locked gazes, and a smile lit up his face. He was either pleased that I’d worn the outfit he’d provided or that I’d had the wits to properly to dress myself in it; but perhaps he’d simply been happy that I’d been accepted by his tribe. If it was the last theory, that made two of us. In what had become my best academic day ever, I’d learned volumes in hours about the lost culture and language of the mysterious Picts.

* * *

Meat roasted on wooden spits over several small fires, and I watched as everyone helped themselves to a share with their own knife. I hadn’t any need for food weaponry, apparently. Velloc brought over a diverse sampling of food to where I intentionally sat away from the group, choosing to take a break from the day’s sensory overload by observing from afar. Before I had the chance to express my thanks, he left and mingled with the rest of his people.

An entire buffet had been prepared for the communal gathering. I hadn’t determined if they celebrated a special event or if the bounty represented their nightly meal. I slowly ate delicious mussels and tender root vegetables off an earthenware plate with my fingers as I silently watched everyone in the group interact.

A clear hierarchy existed among the men of the tribe, and each woman’s standing fell in line with their associated males: fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons. Seasoned men—aged anywhere from their midtwenties to around forty—told suspenseful tales as younger men gathered close, hanging on every uttered word.

Velloc did much of the storytelling in the beginning, becoming the very warrior he portrayed with his fierce growls and the animal fur covering his back. After he finished a hunting tale to a round of shouts and whistles, he mumbled to the man to his right, nodded, and stood. Based on everyone’s generous no-questions-asked acceptance of me, and also the respect that every person young and old showed him, I’d come to a conclusion about Velloc: he was not only a leader among their warriors—he was the chieftain of their tribe.

Looking very much the dark predator amid his pack of wolves, Velloc took a direct line of approach to where I sat alone on a rock. Firelight danced shadows across the hard planes of his face. His intense expression was indiscernible, so I inhaled a steadying breath, readying for anything.

As he neared, Velloc extended an opened hand in invitation. The novel, gentle-mannered gesture surprised me. Intrigued by his change in demeanor, I cocked my head, accepting his request. With a firm grip, he pulled me up and held my hand tightly as if he’d been given a treasured gift.

He led me into the growing darkness, away from the crowd. Hand in hand, we walked down a worn earthen pathway overlooking a beach illuminated by the silvery cloud-cloaked glow of the moon.

“Isobel.” He articulated my name with quiet admiration.

A full minute ticked by as we continued to walk with no other sound coming from him. I glanced his way and saw him staring at the ground with a contemplative expression on his face. I spoke in the same respectful tone. “Velloc.”

Velloc stopped, pulling me to a halt with him. He looked at me, and I smirked. We had so much to say, but our discussion toolbox was disappointingly empty. He gave me a wicked smirk back.
Well, there you go.
On pure instinct, we’d communicated volumes without uttering a word.

All hadn’t turned into a vocabulary total loss, however. I pointed to my leather-covered foot. “
Boot
.” I beamed with pride as I provided his Pict term for it. Then I pulled forward a lock of my hair, holding the strands that seemed to fascinate him. “
Hair
.” I still hadn’t identified their word for yellow or golden, so I used my own. “Blond
hair
.” After which, I repeated the entire thing in English.

Velloc repeated my English, “Blond hair.” He chuckled.

I placed my hand in his again, tugging him along, recounting my repertoire of new vocabulary words in the only Pict dialect to ever grace modern ears. The beautiful language spilled from my lips like poetry. He added to my collection, pointing out and naming the ocean, the sky, a rock. I got confused when things encompassed a larger group, like the forest versus a tree, or the village versus a dwelling. But since I’d already mentally documented a dictionary of Pict vocabulary compared to any scholar I knew, I let all the inconsequential details slide.