Lachlan brandished a rucksack and a sheaf of papers. He was struggling to keep them from blowing away in the wind. ‘I think I found a soul bond-breaking ritual. There’s a record of a Walker performing it for a Bluefolk, um, triad? There were three partners bonded together who needed to become, um, unbonded.’
Despite his pressing need for haste, Fionn was curious why another of his kin would need to break a soul bond. He had never witnessed a bond-breaking in his lifetime. ‘Why did they break their bond?’
‘Oh, it’s quite exciting, actually.’ Lachlan managed to get his note papers under control, though his tousled hair still whipped about his face. ‘The triad were being stalked by a monster hunter—I don’t mean to say that you’re a monster, by the way. You know I’d be the last person to make such a comparison.’
‘Of course. But what then?’
‘The three Minchmen feared that if one of them were captured, the hunter could use their bond to track down the others. So they came to the Witch Incumbent at the time to help.’
Fionn frowned. ‘It seems unnecessarily drastic, to break a soul bond merely as a preventative measure.’
Fionn heard Iomhar huff behind him. ‘You are equally inclined to be drastic, little sprat..
Before Fionn could snap a retort Lachlan cut in, pleasantly bubbling away. ‘Actually, it’s quite profound. The triad recognised that their soul bond wasn’t a measure of their love for one another, and in sacrificing it they became more tightlybound. Or so writes Dolina Walker in her record. I suspect she was quite the romantic.’
Ah, if only Fionn’s bond-breaking could echo such a love story. The shadow of Nechtan and Bridei’s legend mocked him for having ever believed there might be truth in it. Bitterness welled in Fionn’s throat. ‘Did she write how the bond-breaking was done?’
‘Yes.’ Lachlan’s gaze slid between Fionn and Iomhar. ‘And she mentions that bond-breaking is normally kept within the purview of your king. Is there a reason you’ve come to us, and not him?’
Fionn’s stomach dropped. It was easy to forget that behind Lachlan’s friendly words lurked an astute mind and eyes that paid attention. In some ways he was more sharp-witted than the Witch himself.
‘I don’t wish to trouble the king,’ Fionn said, knowing it was a weak explanation. ‘This is merely an accident that needs to be rectified. Need I remind you of the consequences if it is not? Would you invite war from the Redfolk upon this realm?’
He hadn’t told Lachlan the whole story, of course. He’d left out his courting of Rory and the fallacious connection he thought they’d shared. Better to frame it all as a strange mistake.
Still, Lachlan stared him down.
Fionn sucked in a breath. ‘I am embarrassed to ask my father. This mistake is humiliating. I don’t wish for him to think less of me than he already does.’
Fionn was sure Lachlan could tell there was yet more to the story. But this apparently young man had the wisdom not to pry too much further. Lachlan nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I can’t guarantee this will work. I don’t have magic in my blood like Cam does.’
Iomhar spoke up from his seat against the sand. ‘Magic isn’t necessary.’
The old warrior rose from the dunes and stepped into the torchlight. Fionn noticed Meredith quickly attempt to neaten her hair against the wind.
‘You know this ritual?’ Lachlan asked him.
‘I do. And I have heard all I need to hear.’ Iomhar clasped Fionn’s shoulders and spoke to him gravely. ‘If you are certain you wish to break this bond, then all you really require is the will to see it through and a tool to aid your focus. You have brought a knife?’ This last comment he threw to Lachlan, who nodded and produced a slim athame, a ritual witch’s knife, from the rucksack.
‘I also have the salt, and the iron key, and a ball of twine,’ Lachlan removed each item in turn. ‘The moonlight is right above us, lucky timing, and then we’ll need to grab some seaweed—’
Iomhar waved him into silence. ‘We need none of it. Those are all… what would you say… decoration. Atmosphere. A means to achieving the correct state of mind.’ He turned back to Fionn. ‘I have no doubt you are able to focus your will by yourself, Your Highness. I only hope that the wait has given you long enough to consider that this is the path you truly wish to take.’
Fionn was dumbstruck. Was this a trick? He couldn’t make sense of what Iomhar was saying. ‘And how would you know, old man? How many bond-breakings have you witnessed?’
‘Just one.’
The waves suddenly seemed that much louder in the vacuum left by Iomhar’s words.
‘Aha,’ Lachlan said quietly, reaching a conclusion several moments ahead of Fionn.
‘We wear our lives on our skin.’ Iomhar gestured to his tattoos with both hands. His torso was highly embellished with them: he was an accomplished warrior who had lived a long life. Most of his tattoos told the story of his victories against threatsto the Minch, and of his service to the king. ‘There is one mark here that is not like the others.’
Beneath Iomhar’s tattoos and sometimes over them, obscuring the marks, were scars. Fionn recognised the patterns of teeth and claw wounds among them.
Iomhar pointed to a scar that lay over his heart, hidden beneath a tattoo proclaiming how he had once saved the king’s life. Fionn peered closer. This scar was different. A clean line, like a surgical incision.
‘This one was made by a knife,’ Fionn said petulantly. He felt like he was being made to answer a test. ‘So?’
