Devil of Kilmartin by Laurin Wittig Page A

less public way to make her exit than the main gate, but it wasn’t a possibility now. Perhaps she could plan some sort of diversion, something to distract the guards. She’d have to ponder that problem for a while.
    Just as she turned to continue her circuit of the curtain wall a child bounced against her, nearly falling until Elena caught her.
    Looking down, she saw a slight girl of no more than four or five winters standing next to her. Shyly the child slid her small hand into Elena’s and smiled. It was the first friendly face she had seen in days.
    “Me da made me a doll. Would you like to see it?”
    The timid smile on the child’s face warmed Elena evenas the ache of partially healed scrapes and bruises surged through the small hand into her own. She squatted down so she was eye to eye with the child. ’Twas not a huge hurt. She could heal it easily with no one, not even the child the wiser. “That would be grand.” She sought to distract her with some conversation. “How are you called, little one?”
    Elena looked deep into the child’s sky-blue eyes and concentrated on the healing heat, seeking out the bruises and a half-healed scrape on her knee, mending the hurts quickly, easily shielding herself from the child’s pain.
    “I’m called wee Fia. Your hands be warm, mistress.”
    “And yours are very cold, wee Fia.” The child’s hands were cold, but the color was ruddy in her elfin face. “Will you call me Elena?”
    The child nodded. “Are you a fairy queen . . . Elena?”
    Elena stood, one small hand still in hers. “Nay, lassie.” Children were more perceptive than adults about some things. Had she noticed the healing? “Why would you think it?”
    “You made the Devil smile. Everyone saw it. Me da says only a fairy queen could do that.”
    “Ah.” Elena let out her breath and leaned close to the child. “ ’Tis not so hard to make Symon smile, wee Fia. Ye need only speak the truth.”
    Fia’s laughter pealed through the bailey, making people turn and stare. It seemed laughter was a rare thing in Kilmartin Castle.
    The sound of it warmed Elena’s hungry soul, and she could not keep herself from grinning foolishly back at the child.
    “Where is this fine dolly of yours?”
    “Follow me.”
    Elena nodded her assent, and the child tugged her toward a decrepit-looking shed next to the stable.
     
    S ymon slammed open the door to his brother’s chamber. “What did you discover?” he demanded before he’d even closed the door behind him.
    Ranald continued chewing, forcing Symon to wait, bending him to his will at least in this small way. Ranald always took the advantage when he could. At last he swallowed, took a long swig from his mug, and wiped the ale froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.
    “Not as much as you might wish.”
    Symon glared at him, his irritation growing by the moment.
    “Fine.” He rose from his chair and crossed to the window, where a flagon and mug stood ready on the ledge. “Here, have some wine. ’Twill calm you, brother,” he said handing the drink to Symon. “Elena runs from a man called Dougal of Dunmore.”
    “The Lamonts’ champion,” Symon said.
    “The chief of Lamont.”
    “What? Fergus One-Hand is chief of Lamont.”
    “Fergus was found dead near Castle Lamont . . . his neck broken . . . the day after you rescued Elena from this Dougal.”
    “But he is not Fergus’s heir.”
    “Nay, that would be the lass you keep here.”
    “What is this man’s connection to Lamont?” he asked, knowing he was not going to like the answer.
    “ ’Tis complicated, that. He appeared five years past, selling his services to the Lamont. ’Twould seem heserved well, for he quickly became champion and the Lamont’s trusted adviser.”
    “Five years,” Symon said to himself, sipping on the spiced wine. “ ’Twas not long after that our troubles with the Lamonts began.”
    “Aye, my thoughts as well,” Ranald said.
    “Where was he