Morrighan - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,17

her eyes heavy with misery.

I looked at him, my father, pulling the strap tight on Liam’s body. Determined. Angry. His silence said more than anything else. Liam was his brother.

The evening wore especially long, the silence growing like a thorny hedge between us, and after the last of the children were put to bed and Fergus had returned with Liam’s empty horse, I headed for my own bedroll.

Steffan shouldered me in passing as if by accident. “Where were you all day, Jafir? Hunting?”

I looked at him, caught off guard by his question. He never brought up my hunting, since I was the most skilled at it.

“The same as every day,” I answered. “Didn’t you see the game and food I brought back?”

He nodded. Then smiled. “So I did. Well done, little brother.” He patted my back and walked away.

I left early the next day, setting extra snares along the way, carelessly tripping some and having to reset them. I couldn’t concentrate. My focus was splintered, jumping from my last image of Liam, his arms dangling loose from Fergus’s horse, to Reeve’s words—Liam betrayed the clan. He had to die—and then to the image of the mothers hushing their children in camp this morning, afraid of stirring another fight. How could the wild animals that lived beyond the mountains be any worse than this? With the last trap set, I pushed my horse faster to get to Morrighan, blocking out the world, as if the wind rushing past could carry away what lay behind me.

Chapter Fifteen

Morrighan

It had been a long morning, and worry needled through me as each hour passed. Though I had finished my chores early, weeding the garden, repairing the frayed baskets, and stripping new rushes for the floor, when I told Ama I was off to gather, she found yet another chore for me, and another. Morning turned to midday. My anxiety burned deeper as I watched her cast glances toward the end of the vale, and when I finally grabbed my bag to leave, she said, “Take Brynna and Micah with you.”

“No, Ama,” I groaned. “I’ve worked with them through every chore this morning, and neither ceases from their chatter. I need some peace. Can I not at least gather alone?” Worry etched her face, and I stopped, eyeing the furrows across her brow. “What is it?” I went to her, taking her hands in mine and squeezing them. “What’s unsettling you?”

She swiped a gray strand of hair from her face. “There’s been a raid. Pata went to the flats early this morning to gather salt, and she spotted a tribe traveling south. Their camp three days north of here was attacked by scavengers.”

I blinked, not quite believing what she said. “Are you certain?”

She nodded. “They told Pata one of them was named Jafir. Isn’t that the scavenger you met all those years ago?”

I shook my head, scrambling for an answer, trying to make sense of it. No, not Jafir. “He was just a boy,” I said. “I—I can’t remember his name.” Every part of me was breathless. “It was a long time ago.” My mind spun, and I couldn’t focus. Scavengers? Jafir raiding a camp?

No.

No.

I yanked my doubts to a halt and steadied my breath. “We are safe, Ama. We are hidden. No one knows we are here, and three days north is a very long way.”

“Three days of walking, yes. But not for scavengers on swift horses.”

I assured her again, reminding her how long we had been here without ever seeing anyone outside of our tribe. I promised I would be cautious, but said we couldn’t let one sighting miles away make us fearful of our own home. Home. The word floated in my chest, feeling more fragile now.

She reluctantly let me go, and I hurried down the path to the canyon, through the meadow, and up the steps of the ruin into its dark cavern. He wasn’t there yet. I paced, waiting, sweeping the floor, stacking the books, trying to keep my hands and thoughts busy. How had someone heard Jafir’s name? He spent every day with me.

Except for those three days he hadn’t come.

I remembered how he held me when he finally showed up, a strange embrace that felt different. But I knew Jafir. I knew his heart. He wouldn’t—

I heard footsteps and turned.

He stood in the doorway, bare-chested as he was most days of summer, tall, his hair a wild mane, his arms tan and muscled, his knife secure at his side.