The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,12

in the crook of her arm.

Kirk’s heart tightened as he realized she had already learned about fate. Even here, on top of this mountain, the child knew more than he did.

*

CORDAELLA TURNED OVER, crushing the warm, fragrant grasses of the meadow as she threw her arms out at her sides. Opening her eyes, she stared into an immense blue sky, the clouds sailing slowly, no wind to hurry them today. Something stung her ear and she reached up to swipe it away. Ants, she saw, brushing at her ear and neck. Little red ants. She brought her hand before her face to inspect them. She didn’t mind the biting now. At least she knew what it was.

Suddenly a furry head appeared over hers and a tongue lapped the ants off her hand. “Culross!” she cried, but there was laughter in her voice as she reached up to hug the wolf’s thick black and white neck. “Culross,” she said again, pulling him down next to her. He groaned as he settled against her, one paw stretching out across her midriff.

Cordaella smiled up into the sky, one hand on the wolf’s neck, the other arm behind her head. She knew how old she was now. Her papa had taught her how to count. She knew that every finger on her hand represented something, and that she could keep track of everything that way. She was glad she had at least six fingers because that’s how old she was now. Six. That meant she was almost as old as Papa. A as she turned to look at Culross who was sleeping next to her, she knew she didn’t have to worry about her father anymore; the wound on his leg had finally healed. And Culross had been with her for two winters, one spring, and one summer, which meant that at least a year had passed.

Culross opened his eyes as if he knew she was looking at him. He licked her face and she rubbed his head, reaching under his chin to scratch there, too. Culross was her best friend. He knew everything about her.

Cordaella turned back to the sky, and she thought one massed cloud looked like a huge rock and another—which floated in thin wisps—like a stream, and she wished she were a cloud and could sail above everything just to have a better look at the valleys below.

Papa had told her there were bigger rivers far away, rivers so big that people called them oceans. She thought she would like to see oceans. So much water. So much blue. She loved the color blue.

*

FAR AWAY, IN Aberdeen, the wind howled, the bracing sea air stinging Duke John Macleod’s eyes and tousling his shaggy white hair. He rode beneath the burgundy and blue of the Macleod colors, traveling with three of his knights, two pages, and six mounted guard along his favorite stretch of coast.

They had just stopped at the village’s small fishing port which hosted a half dozen boats, these tied to the low stone wall where men climbed up and down ladders lugging nets of herring to the wharf. Two women worked at the huge salt barrels, coaxing the herring from the net.

“I ought to do something with this port,” the Duke said, watching one of the women begin filling a new barrel.

His nephew, Dunbar, answered, riding close to the Duke’s side, “It is worth considering, Uncle. This port could be of value.”

“The only profit from the port will come from the continent. No one here—Scotland or England—can afford to develop the harbor. The damn war in France has sucked every purse dry.”

“You still have options, don’t you? Denmark. Castile.”

The old man nodded. “It could provide a dowry for the girl. She has little else.”

“For whom, Uncle?” Dunbar leaned forward, not sure he had heard correctly. The wind perhaps had changed the words.

“For Anne’s daughter,” Macleod said, slightly defensive. “But it is only a thought.” He glanced back over his shoulder, at the rear guard. “Is Geoffrey near?” Dunbar offered to find him for his uncle.

The old Duke wiped watering eyes with the back of his arm as the page returned with his nephew. “It is a salty wind we have today,” he said.

“Yes, my lord.” Geoffrey McInnes agreed.

“But that’s not why I had you called. I want to know—” the Duke hesitated, his gruff voice lowering, “I want to know this, have you news of Ben Nevis lately?”

“No, not lately, my lord.”

“When were you last there?”

McInnes masked his