The Sky Turns Strange
By the end of the week, the land itself seemed to know a storm was coming. The wind shifted oddly, blowing first from the north, then from the sea, then stilling all at once. Clouds moved against each other like armies at odds.
At Loch Wattenan, the kelp pits smoked blue, but the smoke did not rise—it coiled low, hugging the ground, creeping between the longhouse and the cairn. Sheep bleated nervously. The loch's water lay dark and flat, reflecting no sky.
"Tha rudeigin ceàrr," Agnes whispered to Seumas as they walked the ridge. Something is wrong.
Seumas rested a hand on his claymore, though no foe could be seen. "The land knows before men do. It smells blood coming."
That night, Màiri Mhòr came to the longhouse with her staff of rowan, her hair unbound, her eyes gleaming with second sight. The people fell silent as she entered, for when she came so, it meant she bore more than herbs.
She placed her staff in the centre of the fire and spoke, her Gaelic thick and rhythmic, half song, half chant:
"Fuil air a' ghainmhich, fuil anns an t-salann,
Fuil air na beannaibh, fuil anns na bàrran.
Aon fhear le gàirdean mar iarann,
Aon bhean le cridhe mar lasair.
Ma sheasas iad còmhla, seasaidh sibh uile.
Ma thuiteas aon, thuiteas a' chinneadh."
(Blood on the sand, blood in the salt,
Blood on the hills, blood in the fields.
One man with an arm like iron,
One woman with a heart like flame.
If they stand together, you all will stand.
If one falls, the clan falls with them.)
The people muttered, some crossing themselves, others nodding grimly. Agnes and Seumas exchanged a glance. No words were needed—they knew who the prophecy spoke of.
That night, after drills and counsel, Agnes sat alone by the longhouse hearth. The fire was low, embers red and pulsing. Around her, the people slept: children curled together, men snoring softly, women with hands still bandaged from hauling weed and wood.
She rubbed her dagger with an oiled cloth, as she had seen Seumas do with his claymore. She remembered her mother's words from years ago, words spoken when her father had fallen to a Keith raid: "A woman's hand must hold more than bread. It must hold the hearth, the bairns, and when the time comes, the blade."
Agnes whispered aloud, "I'll hold all three."
Her gaze drifted to Seumas asleep near the far wall, wrapped in his plaid, breath ragged. She smiled faintly. "And I'll hold you too."
That night, in her dreams, Agnes saw smoke rising over Wick. She saw Margaret Sinclair's face, pale and beautiful, lips curved in a smile that dripped blood. Behind her stood Bain, sharpening his dirk, eyes hollow.
She woke with a gasp, sweat cold on her neck. Seumas stirred beside her, coughing into the darkness. She touched his back until the fit passed.
"Dreams?" he rasped.
"Warnings," she said. "They will not stop until one of us is gone."
He turned to her, face shadowed in the firelight. "Then let it be them."
For a while they sat in silence, watching the embers glow. Then Seumas spoke, his voice low.
"At Culloden, I thought I was already dead. Each breath since then has been borrowed coin. And now…" He coughed into a cloth, blood staining it dark. "…I wonder if the loan is called."
Agnes turned his face to hers, her eyes fierce. "Don't speak like that. The land needs you. I need you."
His hand closed over hers, calloused and warm. "Then hear me plain: if I fall, you must not falter. You carry them better than I do. They follow me because I'm a ghost. They follow you because you're alive."
Her eyes shone, tears trembling but unshed. "Then don't fall. Stay alive beside me. That's the only command I'll follow."
For a long moment they simply stared, firelight flickering across their faces. Then Agnes leaned forward, pressing her lips to his. It was not the kiss of courtly halls or ballads, but the fierce, desperate joining of two souls who might not see another dawn.
He drew her close, his breath harsh, his ribs aching, but he did not let go. The ribbon of their courtship brushed his skin, the dirk lay between them, symbols of heart and steel bound together.
Later, in the quiet, they lay side by side beneath his plaid. Outside, the wind moaned across the loch. Inside, the fire burned low.
Agnes traced the scar along his ribs with her finger, gentle as breath. "You carry so many wounds," she murmured.
He caught her hand, kissed her palm. "And one gift. You."
Her laugh was soft, almost broken. "Then let's live long enough to enjoy it."
He smiled faintly, eyes closing. "With you beside me, even ghosts rest."
When they parted, her forehead rested against his. "Còmhla gu bràth," she whispered. Together forever.
He answered hoarsely, "Gu bràth." Forever.
Seumas could not truly sleep. The cough woke him often, and the memory of Culloden filled the spaces in between. But that night he sat up, propped against the wall, and took a scrap of parchment from his satchel.
By the glow of a tallow dip, he wrote slowly, hand trembling:
Agnes—if I fall, know that I fought my last for you and yours. If the land claims me, it will be with your name on my lips. If the clan breaks, take them north, to the caves of Clyth. The secret way is still there. Trust only those who bleed for salt, not for silver. And know this: you gave me more life in one season than I had in twenty years of war.
He set the quill down, coughed blood into the cloth, and folded the page. He pressed it into the seam of his plaid, close to his heart. He hoped she would never find it.
Unknown to them, Màiri Mhòr watched from the far side of the hearth, silent as stone. She saw the ribbon, the dirk, the kiss. She smiled to herself, whispered a blessing in Gaelic, and turned back to her prayers.
"May their oath hold," she murmured. "For if it breaks, we all break."
The days that followed were feverish with preparation. The Craiks cut new paths through the heather for ambush, sharpened stakes, dug pits hidden with brush. Nets were drawn tight across the loch to catch boats. Women filled jars with sand to douse fire, and barrels with brine to scald.
Seumas drilled the men harder, ignoring his pain. "Hold your line," he barked. "Steel does nothing if your courage cracks."
Agnes trained beside the women, dagger flashing, targe steady. "You don't fight only for your hearth," she told them. "You fight for every breath your children will take."
Children practiced slings until their arms ached, their stones clattering against driftwood. Sorcha, hair in braids, struck target after target, her grin fierce. "For Da," she whispered each time.
Then, on the eve of the next full moon, a storm rolled in from the north. Lightning split the sky without thunder. Rain lashed sideways, then stopped as suddenly as it came. The land smelled raw, washed of old sins.
The people huddled in the longhouse, the fire crackling, the storm raging outside. Agnes stood at the door, watching the lightning flicker over the loch. Seumas joined her, cloak pulled close.
"Bad omen?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No omen. A warning. The storm will clear, and then they'll march."
She leaned against him, feeling the tremor in his chest when he coughed. "Then let them come. The land is ready. We are ready."
On the ridge, young Sorcha practiced with her sling under the moonlight. Her mother scolded her for sneaking out, but the girl would not be stopped.
"Each stone is Da's breath," she told herself. "Each strike keeps his name alive."
She wound the thong, loosed. The stone cracked against driftwood with a sharp thock. She smiled fiercely through her tears.
"Tomorrow, I'll strike for him. And for Agnes. And for the Gunn."
Her voice was swallowed by the night, but the owls heard, and perhaps the land did too.
Margaret's Dream
Meanwhile in Wick, Margaret sat before a small oval mirror framed in gilt, stolen years ago from a merchant in Aberdeen. By lamplight, she studied her reflection. Her beauty was unmarred, her lips full, her eyes blazing. But she did not see herself.
She imagined Agnes Craik's face instead, hair wild with salt wind, eyes fierce. Margaret smiled, touching the glass.
"You think you've taken him from me," she whispered. "But you've only sharpened the blade. I will be the last thing you see."
Her laughter rang in the chamber, brittle as ice.
Later she lay in her chamber, staring at the rafters. The storm rattled the shutters, rain streaking the panes. She smiled in the dark.
In her dream, she walked a shore black with kelp. Agnes Craik knelt before her, hair tangled, face bloody. Seumas lay at her feet, claymore broken. Margaret bent, took his face in her hands, and whispered, "Mine."
She woke with laughter, startling the maid who slept by the door. "The storm has broken," Margaret murmured. "Tomorrow we take her fire."
Robert Sinclair sat hunched over his ledger by candlelight. His hand shook as he added the numbers: losses, wages, debts. The ink blurred as his eyes watered.
"Coin," he muttered. "Always coin. As if silver can buy back sons."
He thought of Margaret's burning gaze, of Keith's clenched jaw, of Bain's sly grin. He thought of Agnes Craik, whom he had never met, yet whose name now weighed heavier than his own.
He whispered a prayer in Latin, fumbling, rusty. "Domine, libera nos ab insania filiae meae." Lord, deliver us from my daughter's madness.
The candle guttered. He bowed his head in his hands, trembling.
Back at Loch Wattenan, Màiri Mhòr walked the shore alone with her staff. She dipped it into the loch three times, murmuring prayers to saints and spirits alike.
"Keep them," she whispered. "Keep the bairns from fear, the women from despair, the men from folly. And keep the Gunn and the Craik—together they are our shield."
A sudden ripple broke the still water though no wind stirred. She took it as answer, though she did not know whether it was mercy or warning.
The omens had spoken. The Craiks sharpened steel and stone, the Keiths licked their wounds, Margaret dreamed of blood, and Robert counted dwindling coin. Above them all, the storm swept Caithness, clearing the sky for the march to come.
The land itself seemed to hold its breath. The storm of steel and fire was about to break in full.