Cold water lapped at Lenthian’s knees as he stared out over the loch, flexing his fingers around the mooring rope of his coracle. The boat bobbed on the surface beside him, and its bowl-like hull shattered the reflection of the sunset with eager ripples. Inside the boat, a sword lay on a bed of fur and leather. Generations of Lenthian’s ancestors had wielded it in battle, yet still the metal shone brilliantly in the dying light. Its worth was much more than its layers of precious bronze, more than the rare stones gleaming in its hilt.
Such treasure exceeded the usual offerings for the Old Ones’ small favors, but Lenthian sought a miracle. He could only pray this would be enough.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the center of the loch, Lenthian took his seat on the coracle’s bench, picked up his paddle, and began to row.
The dark waters slid beneath the boat in a musical rush, and a chill breeze picked up, pushing at his back as if to hurry him along. The thumping of his heart increased. Perhaps this was a sign that the Old Ones were watching, guiding him on this path.
At the center of the loch, the wind gave a final sigh then fell still. No bird cried, and even the ripples of the water smoothed to glass.
It was time. Taking the sword in his hands, Lenthian paused, catching sight of a dark streak marring the pale, freckled skin of his wrist.
Terror seized him as his ears rang with the cries of the dying. Blood coated his hands, bodies fell at his feet.
He clawed at the streak, and the blood turned to grit, caking under his fingernails.
No, not blood. Lenthian huffed shakily, chiding himself. Mud. It was only mud.
He forced his gaze away from his hands. The scabbard’s smooth surface winked in the amber sunlight as he held it out over the water.
“I, Lenthian, the last Cthair in Alathia, make an offering to these waters.” The next words stuck in his throat, and his nostrils flared as he took a bracing breath. “I have failed my people,” he managed. “I cannot carry this burden.”
The wind and waves returned suddenly, rocking his boat in warning.
“I will not abandon them!” He resisted the panicked urge to drop the sword and clutch the edges of the coracle. “I will honor my duty. But I need your strength. Please, accept this offering and in return…” His jaw worked. “Heal what has been broken. Help me become the hero my people need.”
The boat rocked again, and the breeze swirled over the water, sending his red hair whipping into his face. Keeping his seat on the bench, Lenthian braced his feet against the coracle’s wooden frame and leaned out, slowly lowering the sword toward the surface of the loch.
The frigid water was just tickling his knuckles when a dark shadow swirled upward from the depths. Lenthian jerked upright, nearly capsizing his vessel. He held the sword to his chest and stared in frozen dread.
The shadow’s form glided nearer. Lenthian could make out the face now, almost human but for being scaled and split-lipped like a serpent. Yellow strands of seaweed-like hair swirled then straightened as the face broke through the water. Two glowing green eyes watched Lenthian with dark enjoyment from beneath a brow crowned with delicate bone-white coral. Webbed, long-nailed fingers swirled in the water, scraping the sides of the coracle.
When the creature spoke, its voice slipped into his ear like a trickle of water. “It has been many seasons since such despair roused me from my slumber, mortal. Healing, is it, that you plead for so earnestly?” The creature hissed the last word, savoring it. It moved forward, near enough that it might have risen up to rest its chin on the edge of Lenthian’s vessel if it so chose. A waft of musty air followed it, like dead things rotting in half-forgotten caves. It smiled a horrible smile, revealing rows of pointed teeth. “The sìkhan can help you, warrior-mage. For a little cost.”
The sìkhan. The word raised gooseflesh up Lenthian’s arms and sent a shiver across his scalp.
The darkest myths claimed the Cthairii inherited their power from the sìkhan themselves, and at times, Lenthian indeed felt a sort of kinship with the Folk. In this moment, however, there was no trace of connection. This creature sought Lenthian’s life, if not his very soul.
Lenthian answered carefully. “I do not doubt the great power of your people, honored Grandfather.” He used the term of respect with an even, strong tone. “But I seek a blessing from the Old Ones this day on behalf of my people.”
The creature laughed, if it could be called that. It was a guttural sound, full of malice.
“How noble,” it said. Its clawed fingers scraped the coracle with more force than before, sending stomach-dropping vibrations through the little hull. “But tell me, what need has a Cthair for healing? For a mere gobletful of innocent blood, I could give you power to rival any Cthair that ever lived.”
Lenthian’s heart lurched. “I have power enough already.” He lowered his gaze. “And I do not revel in the way I must wield it. It haunts me. And so, I will make an offering to the Old Ones.” He raised the sword on his palms. “In return, I seek only healing for my heart, that I might stand in defense of my people again.”
The sìkha’s smile grew brittle, clearly tiring of Lenthian’s careful words. Twice, he had named the Old Ones as the recipient of his offering, denying the sìkha an opportunity to claim the offer itself. Once more, and the creature would be obliged to give up.
“Healing will not save you,” it hissed at him. “Your heart will not save your people. Will you stand alone against the Hallan queen when she comes for your kin? Give your offering to me, and I will ensure your victory against any foe of your choosing.”
“My offering is for the Old Ones alone,” Lenthian said. “Thrice I have resisted you. Now begone, back to the depths to slumber for another hundred years.”
The sìkha opened its mouth in a bone-chilling shriek and rose from the water. Decaying seaweed clung to its serpentine form as water streamed over its gray-blue scales. It towered above Lenthian, blocking out the last rays of sunlight.
“Leave your offering then, child of clay and ash.” Its voice now rang over the loch with all the dreadful violence of scraping swords. “But I leave you a curse, that your boon be answered with blood. That the healing you desire be granted through drowning.”
In a dark flash, the sìkha dove back under the waves.
Lenthian sat in the coracle for several long moments, clutching the sword to his chest with chilled, clammy fingers. His stomach roiled as he gazed at the spot where the sìkha had disappeared, waiting for it to return.
The breeze and water stilled, and the dreadful creature might have been a dream for how the loch fell peaceful again.
Once certain the sìkha had really gone, Lenthian repeated his offering for the Old Ones and cautiously lowered the sword into the water. Fighting a sudden wave of impending loss, he let the weight of it slip over his fingertips, out of his grasp.
He watched as it made its way to the bottom of the loch. His ancestors’ sword, just beyond his reach, caught one last gleam of sunlight as an underwater current wrestled against it. And then it was gone, swallowed up by the icy depths, never again to feel the warmth of a mortal hand.
Only time would tell if the Old Ones would choose to answer his plea, or what else they might demand of him in return for his boon. He tangled his fingers among the tousled waves of his hair. And he’d earned the curse of a sìkha as well.
But if it bought him the strength he needed to defend his people, surely it would be worth the cost.
With shaking hands, Lenthian turned his coracle away from the center of the loch, and made his way back to the darkening shore.
* * * * *
A wracking cough ripped Latara from deep sleep. She sat up, heart-pounding, disoriented, before she was fully awake. Granddad’s bed creaked as he sat up and coughed again, a horrible wet, gasping sound.
Latara threw off her blankets and covered the short distance from her bed to Granddad’s, stubbing her toes and banging her shins against the trailer’s built-in furnishings along the way.
“Sheanach!” she called out in the language only they two in the whole world seemed to speak. She stood next to him, seeking his gaze in the darkness. “Granddad! What is it? What—”
Clasping her shoulder with a shaking hand, he hauled onto his feet with uncharacteristic clumsiness. The travel trailer rocked on its road-worn tires, creaked on its rusty axles, as he stumbled the two steps from his tiny fold-out couch to the kitchen. Latara fumbled with the faulty lightswitch on the trailer’s ceiling as Granddad coughed and gasped over the sink.
The small fluorescent light at last flickered to life with its crackly buzz.
The wan light wasn’t flattering even at the best of times. But now, it turned Granddad’s usual tan complexion into something pallid and clammy. At least, Latara hoped it was just the poor light.
Granddad’s arms shook as he held himself over the sink, spitting an occasional bit of phlegm into the faucet’s half-hearted stream of water.
Latara patted his back, muttered inane comforts, as she watched anxiously, helplessly. At last, he drew something like a full breath, turned off the tap, and stumbled back to lean against the kitchen table that had always seemed like a child’s playset against his muscular form.
He took in a few more breaths, shaky, but improving.
“Taraik,” he said, offering her a labored smile. “Little Tara… I’m sorry. I don’t know… What’s come over me.”
His smile gave her pounding heart some relief, and Latara tucked herself in at the table, sitting sideways on the narrow bench with her back to the wall. She stared at Granddad as he took a few more shaky breaths and tried to assure her this was nothing.
Latara picked at a fraying bit of cushion near her shoulder, releasing a sour waft of decades-old foam. “You’re working too hard,” she said finally. “I told you it was going to catch up to you eventually.”
Granddad scoffed, starting up another disturbingly wet coughing fit. His chest rattled as he struggled to fill his lungs.
“It’s nothing,” he told her. “Even an ox like me gets a cold once in a while. It’ll pass.”
A cold? Latara sighed. “That doesn’t sound like just a cold, Granddad. Even if it is, you should rest. We don’t need to take this next job. We still have some money left from—” she tapped a fingernail against the table, sifting through an endless list of Scottish town names and odd jobs. All dead ends. “Was it Moffat? Where you took care of that rich guy’s garden?”
Granddad hummed in thought, coughed again. “No. That was Paisley. Moffat was the sheep.”
“Oh. Right.” The little farm where a widow had paid Granddad to sheer the sheep one last time before selling the place and moving to Edinburgh with her daughter. The job had lasted a week, and then Latara and Granddad were on the road again.
A week here. Two there. Always moving, always searching.
“Well, wherever it was,” she said, balling her fist until her nails pressed into her palm. “I kept some back for an emergency. Like this one. You can rest for a couple of weeks and then take on a new job.”
Granddad didn’t answer for a moment, just drew in a few more labored breaths. “They’re expecting me. I’ve signed the contract already.”
Latara slapped her fist on the table. “Don’t be stubborn! We’re not going anywhere with you like this. The jobs can wait. Our family can wait. We haven’t found any answers in the whole year we’ve been in this country—a few days won’t make any difference.” She glared at him. “You have to take care of yourself, Granddad. Or at least let me take care of you. What am I supposed to do if I lose you? I’d… be alone.” She’d meant it to sound fierce, but the words filled her with dread.
The rickety trailer creaked as Granddad shifted, squatted awkwardly in the space that was far too small for him. He took her hands, gazing down at them with a sad smile.
“Alright, my little dragon,” he said. “I’ll rest. And as soon as you deem me fit to fight once again, ye’ll pick the place. We’re close now, I think. We’ll find them soon.” His smile turned stronger, and he stood, still holding her hands.
Latara let Granddad tug her to her feet, but she kept her hands in his and guided him to his bed. “Rest,” she insisted. “I’ll find you a doctor tomorrow.”
“Ur Senotii,” he muttered as she went about arranging his blankets. “By the Old Ones. I can tuck myself in, lass.”
Latara ignored him and made sure he was comfortable before she clicked off the buzzing light overhead and settled back into her own too-small bed in the far corner. But sleep evaded her.
Granddad woke twice more that night, his breaths stolen by whatever infection had taken root so suddenly in his lungs, but even in the stretches of silence in between, Latara tossed under her covers, hearing that drowning cough echo endlessly in her ears.