Legend of the Mist Read Free

on the trencher of mutton pottage Cook promised to put aside for her.
    The fortress which clan Gallach held as its seat was not large, only two storeys high. But it was in the modern style, and so was a source of pride. The first floor was comprised almost entirely of the hall, where the clan servants slept around the fire each night. A main corridor snaked away from the hall and past the stairs to the keep, leading to a series of work and store rooms at the rear of the fortress, settled partly below ground-level. There were not many; the laundry, the kitchens and the alehouse were each their own separate outbuildings adjacent the main structure.
    The second floor , the keep, offered only three rooms: the bedchamber of the chief and his wife who, of necessity, shared it with Madeg and Friseal; a smaller bedchamber which Norah shared with Roisin, and the family’s common room which connected the two. Garrett had long ago taken his place with the rest of the unwed warriors in the barracks, another of the stone outbuildings that surrounded the fortress.
    At one time, many hundreds of years ago, the clan lived in a traditional broch. But it had fallen into disre pair like most brochs scattered across the islands had. The structure’s thick stone walls were almost completely hidden from view, strangled by the dense flora which crept up its crumbling bones. Some days, when the mist surrounding Fara dissipated, one could see the face of it gazing down from the cliff’s edge on the southern side of the island. Apart from such a rare glimpse though, no one ever visited the broch anymore.
    No one except Norah, that was. For her the broch was irresistible, exerted on her some sort of invisible pull which she could not ignore. It held a connection to her soul, that decaying shell of a dwelling. She could no more reject its necessity to her than she could air or water.
    She had never been able to explain why. Only that it was so, and that it was unalterable.
    Once she’d helped her mother reach the second floor safely, Norah climbed onto the bench which sat beneath the narrow, square window of the common room. Pulling her knees to her chin, she moved aside the woven wool curtain and peered out into the still, thick night. The cool spring air bit at her cheeks and misted her breath as it left her lips. She was grateful for the roaring fire which the servants had prepared for them in anticipation of their arrival. Its heat warmed the half of her that faced in towards the room.
    The water was visible from her vantage; the waves slapped the rocky shore in gentle rhythm. Their song was lulling. Spell-binding.
    The sea. It was another thing to which Norah felt inexplicably connected. But unlike the broch, whose connection was benign, wholesome in a way, the sea frightened her. For all her life she’d been terrified of the sea, had refused to ever set foot in a boat and had never learned to swim, a thing unheard of among the people of the islands.
    Y et she could not stay away from it. She’d pass long, lonely hours staring out into its blue-green depths, entranced. Resisting the pull that called her into its fold, enticed her to slip beneath the foam.
    The sea terrified her because it called her to her death. And she terrified herself because there was a part of her, primal in its strength, that wished to submit to its watery spell.
    A product of the constant telling and retelling of the legend, her mother insisted. To pacify her, Norah conceded. Outwardly, at least ...
    “Norah .”
    “Mmm?” she murmured, still gazing out over the dark and misty landscape.
    “Ye’re doing it again.”
    Norah turned her chin, eyeing her mother with chagrin. “I’m sorry, Mama.” Iseabal’s face was deeply shadowed by the scant light of the dying fire, but she could see the disappointment written there.
    Norah’s eyes darted to the flames as they swayed and skittered over the log, the fire now in the autumn of its time. But wait—had the fire