Firebrand by Gillian Philip Page A

mine. I was on its back outracing the wind and we were one.
    * * *
    ‘I told you there was nothing like it.’ Conal held out the bridle to me.
    I slid off the roan’s back, keeping my hand laced into its mane. I was shaking. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t let go of it. I didn’t want to let go of it, ever.
    Overhearing, Conal guffawed. ‘You can’t, believe me. Now give it its bridle.’
    I held my breath as I fumbled the straps over its black head, but it only snorted fondly, accepting the bit like a child’s well-schooled pony. I kept looking at it, taking my time buckling the throatlash, as I said, ‘Conal. My name.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you know it before?’
    ‘Of course not. I’d have told you. Do you like it?’
    I still didn’t look at him, but I grinned.
    ‘Me too,’ he said, and laughed. ‘I’m a bloody sheepdog. You’re a small if deadly falcon. Ya wee bandit.’
    * * *
    I had my name. I had my horse. Life could be no better. If it wasn’t for tomorrow…
    Suddenly I needed to share it all. I needed Orach, I needed her to know my name, I was hungry for her and not just physically. I needed my friend, my lover, before we were separated for the gods knew how long. How long would Conal have to be Captain of his dun before Kate would trust him? How many years was I going to have to live underground like a worm?
    Still, even that prospect couldn’t squash my spirits tonight. When Conal and I finally tired of racing one another’s horses along the lochside, I slipped the bridle off the roan and let it loose, and rode home at Conal’s back again. I couldn’t take the creature to Kate’s fortress, after all; it wouldn’t be fair on a wild thing. Besides, like all its kind it had the combination of savage loyalty, unpredictability and utter violence that wouldhave got it shot within a week by any fighter of Kate’s who combined a lack of superstition with a latent deathwish.
    In the courtyard, outside the stables, I hesitated. Conal’s footsteps faded, his door closed with a soft clunk, and I wondered if there was a woman waiting for him. Probably. I grinned to myself, thinking that if she’d waited up, she was going to be disappointed: when he left me he looked like a man who wanted to sleep for a week.
    I didn’t, though. I felt high, as if I’d been drinking hard but it hadn’t hit my stomach or my limbs yet, only my head. Doubling back, I headed for the southern section of the dun, my feet silent on the bare stone of the passageways. In a star-silvered corner I gently pushed open an oak door, followed the flickering light of burned-down torches and turned the iron latch of Orach’s door without a thought.
    ‘Seth?’
    She was awake.
    I stopped, immobilised by the dull inevitability of it. Well, why should I expect her to be free just because I suddenly had to scratch an itch?
    Feorag propped himself up on his elbows, blinking. As he focused he gave me a sleepy, friendly smile. Orach pulled a plaid around her nakedness, perhaps just to keep the chill of the small hours at bay. Slipping off the bed, she came to me and kissed my cheek, then drew back, surprised.
    ‘Murlainn,’ she whispered.
    ‘Yes,’ I said.
    ‘It’s good. It’s you.’ She smiled, kissed me again, put arms round my neck that were floppy with sleepiness, and hugged me. Then her smile faded. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘I thought you didn’t want me tonight,’ she said softly.
    ‘I know,’ I said. I tightened my fingers round her arm, then hesitated, glancing at the puzzled Feorag, and let her go. Detaching her arms, I kissed her back.
    ‘I’ll miss you,’ I said.
    ‘I hope so.’ Her fingertips caressed my cheekbone, and tears glinted on her lower lids. ‘Please come back.’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Soon.’
    ‘Seth,’ she said. ‘Just come back.’

9
NINE
    Being a hostage wasn’t intolerable. The three of us were left to our own devices; we were fed and treated well, and Sionnach’s father’s