Authors: Stina Leicht

And Blue Skies From Pain (36 page)

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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“What?” Lochlann asked.

Liam was facing the wall—leaning toward it, iron bars in his hands. He was balanced on his toes with his legs spread. Naked. Standard procedure for a strip search. Except this wasn’t a strip search, he knew. A steel cuff clamped on one wrist. His heart rammed itself against his breastbone—fast, faster, fastest. He had to move.
Escape.
Before it was too late. Someone stood behind him now, pressing against his back. They reached up to place the second cuff around his other wrist.

“No!”

“You can do it.”

Our little secret.

“NO!” Liam didn’t understand that he’d thrown the bowl across the cave until he heard the sound of metal hitting rock. It rang out like something between a broken bell and a gong. It was darker in the cave. The peat fire was the only source of light. His clothes were soaked and he was cold, shivering. Lochlann was dripping as well, his druid’s robe half on the floor.

“Well, that could’ve gone better,” Lochlann said.

“What just happened?”

Lochlann took a deep breath and then gave him a half laugh. “You threw the bowl at me.”

“Hello?” It was Ceara. “Is it finished?”

Liam turned to face Ceara.

“Come in, Ceara,” Lochlann said. “It’s as done as it’s going to be for now.”

“Will I stay sane?” Liam asked in a whisper.

Stooping, Lochlann sorted out his robe. Then he picked up the copper bowl. It was dented. “So much for that.”

“You didn’t answer me,” Liam said.

“I don’t know,” Lochlann said. “But I suppose you could give it a good try. How do you feel?”

Liam closed his eyes. Something in the darkness within his skull shifted. A familiar shape filled the void. He could almost feel it sneer at him. He felt more whole, more himself than he had in some time. “Better. I think.”

“Good enough,” Lochlann said. “Bravely done.”

Liam searched Lochlann’s face. “Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all,” Lochlann said, continuing to pick up the other items which had been thrown to the ground. “Not many have come as close to finishing as you. Most don’t even start. Although, that’s the first time I’ve ever thought I’d have my head stove in.”

“What did I do?” Liam asked.

“You removed the hold the priest had on you,” Lochlann said. “The hound shape is yours once more.”

Chapter 19

The Other Side
December 1977

L
iam sprinted through the woods at a comfortable pace. It felt good to stretch his legs. He attempted to remain focused on that aspect of the morning rather than his other concerns. No matter what, he was rested and alert with the wind in his face. He breathed in an easy sense of freedom regardless of the winter chill clinging to the shadows under the trees. He’d have been content but for the pursuing howls, laughter, and horn blasts echoing through the forest. Breathing easy, he was confident the Fianna wouldn’t catch him. This was, Ceara had assured him, only the first of his trials and the easiest for the likes of him, in spite of the fact that he’d not been long in the training. So far, she’d told the truth. The area under the trees had been effortless and free of underbrush—hardly a challenge. There were no obstacles, no dead branches to avoid. He hadn’t had time to consider why this was so. He simply ran as was expected of him.

Of course, there’d been a bit of bother at the start because his hair had been too short to braid. This had led to more than a few jokes at his expense regarding porcupine quills which Liam had taken with uncharacteristic good humor and patience. That is, until some fucking joker named Angus suggested he wear a wig fashioned from horse hair. The fucking thing was too big and itched something fierce. Frankly, Liam was glad Oran couldn’t see him—or anyone else he’d known for that matter. With the wig secured to his head with a leather thong under his chin, he didn’t have to have a mirror to know he looked ridiculous. He’d have yanked the fucking thing off and tossed it in the nearest stream but for Ceara’s warnings. He wasn’t to take the bastard off, nor let any of the braids come undone, and if they found any twigs or leaves caught in the thing he’d fail the test as well. To make things worse, they’d made it clear that if he was caught he’d be given a good hiding. He wasn’t entirely certain of whether his father would stand for that last bit, but he’d heard enough of his aunt Sheila’s stories to take the threat seriously.

Not there’d be much Bran could do about it if he had objected. Word had it he was away on some sort of clandestine mission Liam wasn’t allowed to know about.

Leaping over a deadfall—the first he’d come to—Liam landed on the other side and fell back into the steady rhythm of running. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. His feet pounded the damp, soft earth. One. Two. One. Two. He let his thoughts drift into a calm numbness while his eyes focused on the terrain. Left. Right. Everything was going well until the trees thinned out.

Slowing to a stop, he came upon a deep gorge. Gazing down at the overgrown thicket of brambles, deadfalls, rocks, and dead leaves, he cursed.

It was too fucking easy,
he thought.
You knew there’d be a trick to it, did you not?
They’d herded him to this place with their shouts and horn-blowing like a frightened deer, and he’d let them do it.
Stupid.

“Ah, now,” Sceolán said in a bored tone. “Looks like you’re in a bit of a mess.”

Liam fairly jumped out of his skin. He whirled with his heart slamming his tonsils and spied his uncle sitting in the grass with his back against a fallen tree ten feet away. He appeared to have been there for some time. He was carving a piece of wood using a small bronze knife. Pale shavings littered the ground around him. He paused to straighten the blade with his teeth as if he’d done so a million times and then went back to work.

He didn’t look up from his carving. “Aye. You’re in a bit of a fix, nephew mine.”

“Bugger off,” Liam said. “You haven’t caught me.”

Sceolán shrugged. “True enough.” He appeared unconcerned about the prospect, nor did he move from his relaxed position. “Well.” He sighed. “Not yet, anyway.”

Liam edged away from his uncle. Then he risked gazing down at the gorge a second time. It was about a hundred feet deep and perhaps fifty or so wide. The drop off was as close to ninety degrees as to make little difference. Any attempt to crawl, walk or climb down would result in a bad fall and most likely death. The bramble bushes were the softest and most pleasant of the possible landing options, by the look of it, and regardless of whether or not he survived, he’d certainly lose the fucking wig in the end.

The sounds of his pursuers grew closer. Frustrated, he stared at a few crows circling in the sky to his right. He assumed something had attempted the jump and failed. The crows executed their lazy loops, drifting farther and farther down like autumn leaves.

“What will you do now?” Sceolán asked.

Liam was furious—angry with himself for being so stupid as to do what the Fianna had expected—and they had expected it, since his uncle had obviously been waiting for him. Liam was also angry at the Fianna for mocking him, and angry at Angus most of all. The whole situation was a fucking joke. They had no intention of taking him seriously. That had been the reason for the rush, not due to any orders on Bran’s part. They didn’t think him worthy. It didn’t fucking matter that he’d served in the’Ra. It didn’t matter to them that he’d done time. It didn’t matter that he’d killed to protect his mates. All that mattered was his ability to run through a fucking wood with a stupid fucking wig on his head.

A fucking joke, so it is.
He clenched his teeth. Well, they weren’t going to take him down without a fight. He’d had enough of their jokes. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn what they thought of him.

Glaring at the crows, an idea occurred to him. Ceara had whispered something in his ear just before the trial had started about how the main thing was reaching his destination without getting caught. His methods were his own. He was what he was and the Fianna wouldn’t fault him for it. She seemed to be implying that displaying a certain level of creativity in his solutions to the challenges wouldn’t be frowned upon.

There’s only one way of knowing,
he thought. And if they’d thrown him into a hopeless situation without any solution, then fuck the lot of them. They wouldn’t have him.

His uncle Sceolán threw the bronze blade at the ground with a flick of his wrist. It stuck into the soft earth point first. Then he slowly got to his feet. “You’re running out of time.”

Determined and enraged, Liam backed far away from the ledge. The Fianna were close now. He could hear their cries and caught glimpses of them running under the trees, laughing.

If I die, I die. At least that’ll be an end to it,
Liam thought, resigning himself.
Either way. They won’t have caught me. Fuck them and their fucking challenge.
He made his mind up, took a deep breath and just as the others broke through the tree line he sprinted as fast as he could for the ledge. His heart pounded out a frantic drumbeat in his ears. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck—”

“Liam! Don’t!” His uncle Sceolán tore after him.

“—fuckfuck!” Reaching the edge, Liam jumped with all his might. “Fuck me! Fuckmefuck—” There was a dizzying moment as he seemed to hang in the sky forever. His stomach lurched, and his blood froze with the realization that there was no ground beneath him. He stretched his arms wide into the air and tried to focus his intent, but a rush of terrified thoughts sped through his skull, ripping away his concentration. Each chasing the other in a mad race of panic.
Bad-idea-mistake-I-was-wrong-I’m-fucking-dead!

“Liam! No!” His uncle’s terrified shout echoed off the gorge.

Liam’s skin prickled.

Unlike any other time he’d attempted a change, it came upon him without pain or delay. In fact, he hardly registered the shift of bones and sinew. One moment he was Liam Kelly, screaming his defiance at the whole of the fianna, his uncle, his father and every soul, living and dead that ever held him down. In the next, his wings caught at a sunny winter sky that tugged him up and away from death and danger and swung him up above the trees. It wasn’t the most graceful flight achieved in the avian world. He dove straight into the circling crows, sending them crashing into one another with squawks of protest. Two tumbled out of the air and almost slammed into the brambles and rocks below before catching themselves. Liam shot past, gliding over the treetops. In that breathless moment he understood flying was better than running had ever been. The wind sluiced over his face, head and wings and playfully ruffled his black feathers. He didn’t know what kind of bird shape he’d assumed. It didn’t actually matter, but he had a lengthy wingspan and knew himself to be bigger than the crows. He knifed through the air, riding the sensation of speed and elation, crying out in mad joy and defiance. They’d thought they had him. They’d thought him stupid, but they were wrong. He hadn’t failed. He hadn’t.

Drunk on the sensation of flight and success, he’d sped two thirds of his way toward his goal—a stone tower with a blood-red flag fluttering above it—when he registered he wasn’t alone. Glancing left, he spied a large golden hawk. He didn’t know how he knew, but it was his uncle.

I’m not done yet,
Liam thought. It became obvious that the hawk was gaining on him. Liam swerved and dove down among the trees. His uncle followed. Dropping farther down, Liam resorted to dodging and swerving up and around the tree trunks and branches. He was able to gain at least some distance in that way, but it wasn’t quite enough. Strangely, he found he was enjoying himself.
You may have been at this longer, old man. But I’m younger and faster.
He dared to cut the margins between himself and the trunks, branches and brush ever thinner. It reminded him of the rally racing, only he wasn’t limited to the tolerances of engine, rubber, and steel. He calculated distances, wind direction, weight and speed without any conscious thought. Something inside him took over the mechanics of flight. He let it, and rode the air, beating his wings and pushing himself ever faster. If he could, he’d have laughed. The sensation was amazing.

His left wingtip painfully clipped the bark of an oak. Behind him, his uncle did the same. It occurred to Liam that his uncle was not as slender as he was—not even in bird form, and that gave Liam another idea.

He threw himself at a rowan tree, waiting until the very last instant to swing sideways so that he was flying perpendicular to the ground for a second. He whipped past the rowan’s trunk and ducked a wee bit to avoid hitting his head. He didn’t understand that he’d miscalculated until it was too late. Rough bark painfully raked down his back. The pain threw his judgement off ever so slightly, and he almost slammed square into a second rowan. He was so busy avoiding flying into the second tree that he almost missed the sound of a most satisfying thump.

Almost.

A sharp hawk-scream of pain, rage, and frustration pierced the air.

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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