Like Toby Strangerson swinging a broadsword, as opposed to a trained fencer like Captain Tailor. "You mean a spirit is a hob, but bigger, sort of?"
"Sort of." Sounding uneasy, Hamish dropped his voice. "A hob's an elemental — mischievous, unpredictable. The books say that a spirit is… bigger, I suppose. Benevolent. A tutelary has a sanctuary, with acolytes and worshipers making offerings. A shrine is in between, with a keeper or two. People make pilgrimages to shrines, though, if the spirit is well thought of."
Toby sounded them in his mind: hobs, spirits, tutelaries. Witchwives, keepers, acolytes. Grotto, shrine, sanctuary. Elementals, adepts. Demons, hexers… were these all just words in the night? Could they ever mean anything to an ignorant country lad?
"And demons?"
"They're bad!"
"I know that. Are they much the same, though? Bad spirits?"
Still the woman and her lute sang of sorrow and loneliness in the night. She had a gorgeous clear voice. Toby had never dreamed that his guide would turn out to be a woman.
Hamish had been thinking, anxious to impress his big friend, flattered by his attention. "There's differences. An acolyte worships and tends a tutelary, just like a witchwife and her hob — serves it. Hexers compel demons and use gramarye to force them to do their bidding. Any spirit is local, whether it's a tutelary or just a hob. Demons are not attached to one place. Well, sometimes they are. Mostly demons are attached to things."
"Or people?" Toby said.
"Sometimes people, yes — husks, they're called, or creatures. More often jewels, though. I read in a book that hexers imprison demons in jewels."
That explained Lady Valda's dagger.
"Thanks, Littledirk. You know something?"
"What?" Hamish asked warily.
"You've taught me as much in the last minute as your Pa did in five years of schooling."
Hamish chuckled, much pleased. "More, I expect, from the way he still talks about you."
CHAPTER THREE
Two people sat on a boulder in the moonlight. The small one, with her hair dangling in two long braids below her bonnet and bare feet showing under the pleats of her dress, was easily recognizable as Meg.
The second was a youngish man of no great height but notably wide shoulders. He had a clean-shaven face with a high, angular nose. The sword at his belt was a basket-handled short claymore, nothing like Toby's cumbersome broadsword. He wore a tartan shirt under his plaid; he had on hose and shoes. He stood up, still holding his lute.
As there was no one else present, the singer must have been Meg Tanner. Toby was surprised, yet not sure why — so strong a voice from so small a person, perhaps.
"Campbells are the most notorious liars in all Scotland," the man announced cheerfully. "They said you were big."
"I'm not?"
"Understatement can be carried to deceptive extremes. Still, you are the chivalrous chevalier who saved the damsel and slaughtered the unsavory Sassenach, so I will shake your hand."
Toby left his fists at his sides, not sure what to make of this stranger in the night. His voice was an odd mixture of Highland burr and English drawl. The fancy words indicated that he was not an ignorant peasant — and implied that Toby was.
"Sir, I'll shake your hand when I know who you are."
"Names can be dangerous. I have several." The stranger chuckled and glanced at Meg as if sharing a joke, meanwhile removing his bonnet to scratch at a head of sandy hair braided at the back into a stubby pigtail. The move was slickly done, for when he replaced the bonnet and adjusted it, whatever emblem he had been wearing on it had disappeared. "How about 'Rory'? Rory MacDonald of Glencoe. Will that satisfy you, Toby Strangerson?"
It had better. There was nothing uncommon about sporting an emblem to show whose man you were, but Toby had a niggling half-recollection that in Rory's case it had been a silver badge. A silver badge meant either a chief or heir to a chief.
Toby accepted the handclasp. Of course, what Rory MacDonald wore in a deserted glen at night and what Rory MacDonald dared to wear in daylight might not be peas from the same pod. His palm was smooth, but there was no frailty in his grip. He studied Toby's face for a moment with steady pale eyes, then turned to his companion. "What by the demons of Delia have you got there, boy? Been looting the castle, have you?"
Hamish had lowered his burden to the ground with grunts of relief. "Food, sir, mostly. Clothes. Ma thought—"
"Mothers always do. You'll sink out of sight with that load. A true Highlander carries one day's rations and nothing more, so throw all the rest away." He aimed an arrogant finger at the broadsword. "And you, Strangerson? What foul monstrosities are you planning to slaughter with that thing?"
"Lutists."
MacDonald stared at Toby for several seconds before making a small noise that might indicate amusement or just surprise. "Well, I suppose you can handle the weight. We'll be wading, remember."
Toby had concluded that he did not like Rory MacDonald of Glencoe. He turned to Meg, who was standing beside him — quite close beside him, eyes downcast. "Hello, Meg."
She looked up eagerly. "Toby?"
"I loved your singing. I didn't know you could sing like that."
"Did you ever ask me?"
"No… You're all right?"
"Thanks to you." She seemed to be waiting for something more.
He waited also, puzzled.
She bit her lip and turned away. "I did not have a chance to thank you properly, Master Strangerson, for your dauntless gallantry. It was very brave of you to rescue me like that."
Toby said, "Any man would have done the same."
Rory and Hamish were on their knees together, hauling objects out of Hamish's bundle. "Books? Why in the world do you need…"
Meg tossed her head without looking around. "Your courage is exceeded only by your modesty and does you great honor, sir. I was indeed fortunate that you were at hand to succor me in my moment of peril."
She must have got that out of a book, or else she had been infected by that Rory man's flowery way of talking. In Strath Fillan, words were short and meant what they said.
"Considering how stupid you were to be there by yourself, you certainly were fortunate."
She whirled around, braids dancing. "Stupid? I came to warn you of danger!" Her breath was a pearly mist in the frosty moonlight.
Toby laid his sword and pack on the ground and knelt to inspect the supplies Annie had added to it. Despite his superior airs, the Rory man made sense when he said that carrying unnecessary weight would be folly. Yet nothing in Toby's collection seemed superfluous. He could carry it all without tiring. He decided to leave the bundle as it was.
Meg's bare feet were still there, one of them tapping angrily on the stony ground. She was riled because he had called her stupid. So she was! Her folly had caused the deaths of Granny Nan and four men. It had led to Toby being possessed by a demon and driven from his home — even if he did not much mind the last bit. Still, he could hardly upset the kid by telling her all that. He looked up and smiled at her.
"It was a kind thought," he said gently. "But I can look after myself better than you can. You must realize that you're close to being a woman now. Soon men will begin to lust after you. You should have sent a man with the message, if you thought it was that important."
"Or a real woman, perhaps?"
The moon was behind her. He could not see her face under the brim of her bonnet.