Set in Stone (20 page)

At least Moira had the sense to dress elegantly. She stood beside Jean, resplendent in a red and gold gown far simpler than her mother's. She wore her dark hair braided, with a silver circlet set with carved stones on her brow.

Jean wore her thick, blond hair loose but for a complex braid ringing her head that supported a garland of flowers and holly. She wore a fine blue cotton dress Mhairi gifted to her that very morning. She felt more than a little self-conscious in the flattering dress, but standing before the entire town, she forced herself to accept the fact that they now looked on her as an eligible maid.

Once the dancing began, Stuart and Hamish would court far more aggressively. She wondered where Connor might be. Lady Isobel's assertion that he had tried to murder her shocked everyone, and generated many muttered opinions that the town would be far better off if he'd succeeded.

Jean wished he could be here, although it would prove easier to handle just Stuart and Hamish, plus several older men who had made it clear in recent months they fancied a dalliance with her despite already being married with families.

All she had to do was follow the pattern she'd painstakingly established over the past two years. She hated all the flirting, but it proved far more effective than any other method she had tried. She wished they would leave her alone until she was prepared to make a decision. Then she could make a simple choice and that would be the end of it.

It would have been so much better if the Carpenter twins were a couple years older so she wouldn't be the only girl for the boys to focus on. She enjoyed the attention, but hated how they constantly pressured her into choosing. She wasn't ready, and she refused to be ready until all the pieces fell into place. As Granny Mhairi always said, act only after understanding.

It regularly amazed her that no one saw through the act. In no other facet of her life did she act so capricious. Still, the boys were all well trained to jump to her will.

Jean shared a glance with Moira and took a single step forward. Their moment had arrived. Her knotted stomach loosened under a flood of excitement. She was ready.

Before the two could begin the hauntingly beautiful song, a stranger stepped out of the alley beside the stage. Slender, with raven-black hair, she wore some kind of black leather armor made up of myriad straps and overlapping plates. Two other soldiers, dressed in similar outfits, flanked her. One was a hugely muscled man, while the other was a tall, shapely woman. They shared blond hair and blue eyes much like Jean's.

Without preamble, they strode into the square and faced Lord Gavin's platform, and the lead woman spoke.

"I am Ilse. This town is now under my control."

Chapter 19

Lord Gavin squinted down at Ilse. "Your timing is inconvenient, woman. A sign of flawed parentage, no doubt."

Jean wanted to scream at them both for interrupting her big moment. The timing wasn't inconvenient, it was disastrous!

The Curse Finder seated closest to Lord Gavin surged to his feet and his voice carried easily across the silent crowd. "Grandurians!"

Every voice gasped in unison while the other Curse Finders snatched for weapons. Lord Gavin paled and Lady Isobel glared at Ilse as if she'd personally offended her.

Jean shared a shocked look with Moira, but wanted to beat these intruders with a stick. Couldn't they at least have waited until after the song?

"Remove these intruders," Lord Gavin commanded.

"To arms," Bruce shouted and stepped in front of his master, while Lord Gavin's soldiers and the Curse Finders' attendants all rose from their seats scattered across the square.

The three newcomers all drained of color until their skin shone like ash in moonlight. At first Jean thought they paled with fear, but the change came too rapidly, spread too universally.

The leader of the Curse Finder shouted, "For Obrion!" And vaulted from the raised platform, slashing a mighty blow down at Ilse's head.

She caught his sword.

There was no blood, no shriek of pain. Ilse's expression of calm confidence never wavered. The Curse Finder grunted in surprise, and Ilse twisted the sword out of his hands. He stumbled forward and she caught him by the front of his mail shirt and easily lifted him off the ground. Her fingers dug through the mail and little rings popped out in all directions with loud pings.

The Curse Finder beat at her arm with no effect, and Ilse threw him over her shoulder with a flip of her arm. He soared across the square and crashed down on one of the feasting tables, splintering it and scattering food and villagers.

Even through her shock at the incredible feat of strength, Jean catalogued the likely injuries.

The other two Curse Finders charged Ilse, but the man and woman team flanking her intercepted them. One of the Curse Finders slashed the man across the face and the sword made a rasping sound as it slid across his skin, as if it were scraping stone.

The black-armored Grandurian snatched the sword away, and with his bare hands twisted it into a knot. The Curse Finder tried to run, but the soldier grabbed him from behind and threw him across the square. He tumbled like a rag doll and slammed through the front door of the bakery, scattering bread and pastries in all directions.

Jean added several more items to her rapidly growing list.

The last Curse Finder paused before the towering woman, and she punched him in the center of the chest. The blow drove him back against the pavilion with crushing force.

Lord Gavin's soldiers and the Curse Finders' attendants looked to each other for reassurance. The villagers stared in open-mouthed awe. No one ever interfered with the Curse Finders, and yet these strangers had overcome them with terrifying ease.

Ilse spoke. "Stand down. We have no interest in hurting you, but we will if we must."

One of Lord Gavin's guards pointed a sword at her and shouted, "No fear, lads!"

Ilse raised an eyebrow, "You really think you can fight a company of Grandurian Petralists?"

The man's face paled and he dropped his sword.

Ilse swept an arm across the square, and more blond-haired soldiers stepped out of places of concealment, blocking every road and alley into the square. "Last chance."

As one, the rest of the locals dropped their weapons.

"Wise choice."

To the villagers cowering in fear, Ilse added, "Behave yourselves and you will not be harmed. You may continue your feast, but no one is to leave town."

"High Lord Dougal will hear about this," Lord Gavin said. "His forces will be coming."

"I'm counting on it."

Chapter 20

Jean forced herself to move. Her day lay in shambles, but she could not allow fear or fury to rule her. Questions buzzed like hornets through her mind, but she lacked enough information to answer any of them. How could Grandurians have invaded Alasdair? Had they already sacked Merkland? What did they want in this remote location?

As villagers scattered for their homes, and soldiers surrounded Lord Gavin and his family, she descended from the platform and dropped to one knee beside the Curse Finder who had been punched in the chest. A brief examination revealed he would live, but probably suffered several cracked ribs. That Grandurian hit like a rock hammer to do so much damage with one punch.

She urged the man to lay still until she could fetch bandages to wrap his torso, and then she turned to the other wounded men, who had been dragged across the square by Grandurian soldiers and dropped nearby. One of them was conscious, badly bruised, but did not appear seriously hurt. The other, who had tumbled all the way into Neasa's shop, smelled of sweetbreads where he lay unconscious with one arm clearly broken.

A Grandurian soldier roughly began tying the man's wrists together. The sight pushed Jean's simmering fury beyond the boiling point.

"Leave that man alone," she snapped and pushed the soldier hard. Surprised, he stumbled and fell.

Other soldiers advanced on her, but Jean stood her ground. "I will not allow you to harm these men. You may take them into custody after I treat them, but I warn you, do not mistreat them."

One soldier laughed and reached for his sword, but a sharp command in Grandurian from the raven-haired leader stopped him.

Ilse faced Jean with a little smile on her lips. "You show much courage, girl, to command my men."

"And you show a disgusting lack of civility."

That drew a chuckle from the woman. "Your town is invaded, and that is your chief concern?"

"As a healer, my concern is the well-being of the people of this town."

"You are Petralist?"

"Of course not. I told you, I'm a healer."

Ilse gestured at the unconscious Curse Finder. "How would you heal this man?"

Jean suspected the woman was mocking her, but the question seemed genuine. "I'll determine the extent of the injuries, set and bind the broken arm, and offer him a drink to dull the pain."

"So you are an herb healer."

"If that's what you want to call it."

"Very well, see to your patient. My men will not disturb you."

Jean examined the fallen man and then worked to set his broken arm. Hamish appeared, looking a little shaken, but still munching on a handful of sweetbreads, and she sent him to fetch more supplies.

As she began wrapping the arm with a clean bandage, a girl about her own age dropped to her knees nearby. She didn't look like the other invaders. Her huge blue eyes looked more innocent than threatening, and she concealed her barbaric heritage behind shoulder-length hair and little button nose. No doubt the blockheaded boys in town would tell her anything she wanted without considering the ramifications. She dressed not in battle leathers, but in dark brown pants and black leather vest over a forest green blouse.

The newcomer spoke cheerily, as if the festival was still under way. "Hello. Is that a broken arm?"

Jean nodded. "I'm about to wrap it."

"Oh, good." The girl dipped one hand into a leather satchel she wore over her shoulder and extracted a hand of dirt. She held it for a moment, as if to warm it, and then began sprinkling it onto the bandage.

"Stop!" Jean pushed her hand away. "You'll contaminate the wound."

"It's not dirt, it's Builded sandstone."

"It looks crushed to me."

The girl giggled. "No, I . . . made it stronger. It'll help."

Jean gave her an incredulous look. Granadure must be a more backward country than they'd been taught. It was a wonder any of them survived to adulthood if they put dirt in their wounds.

She reminded herself to look deep, see clear. Something was going on here she didn't yet understand, so she forced herself to withhold judgment.

"How could it possibly help?"

"You're not a sandstone healer, are you?"

"No, I heal people."

The girl shook her head. "I don't have time to explain. Just trust me."

She wanted to laugh aloud. "What's your name?"

"Verena."