It had been years since Magnus had set foot in Dun Crogan. The memories attached to it were too painful, too raw even after all these years, and he found his chest constricting and his stomach clenching with the weight of dread.
Inside the broch, things were just as he remembered. The entrance passage was narrow and dark, the only light coming from a few flickering torches along the walls. As they walked further in, Magnus could see the familiar stone rooms branching off from the main passage, and the stone steps that wound between the inner and outer walls of the broch and gave access to the upper levels. It was as austere as it had always been, a reflection of the man who ruled it.
At the end of the passage, they stepped into the tower’s main room, a circular, windowless hall. It was lit by firelight flickering from an enormous hearth on one side, casting long and ghostly shadows across the stone floor. The air was smoky and warm, thick with the smell of peat and roasted meat.
A man sat at a table by the fire, his wiry form hunched over an open ledger, a quill darting between his fingers as he wrote. His focus was such that he did not look up as they were paraded into the room but the heavy wooden chair creaked under his weight each time he shifted, which he did often, as though trying to find a more comfortable position.
One of their captors cleared their throat. “Lord McRae? We’ve brought Kerr as ye requested.”
The quill stopped its scratching. For a moment, the man stared at the page in front of him, unmoving. Then he turned slowly and Magnus forced his expression to remain impassive, even though his pulse ratcheted up a notch at the sight of the familiar lined face, the familiar intelligent eyes, the familiar messy, thinning blond hair.
“So ye have,” the man said, his voice deep and resonant, a voice used to command. Those icy blue eyes fixed on Magnus, and he gave a sad smile. “Hello, Magnus. It’s been too long.”
Magnus lifted his chin. “What do ye want?”
The man tutted. “That’s a little rude isnae it? Is that any way for a son to greet his father?”
Beside him, Isabelle gasped and Magnus felt her gaze spring to him but he didn’t look at her.
“I’ll ask one more time,” he growled. “What do ye want?”
Lord McRae looked away, instead fixing his gaze on Isabelle. “My son’s manners seem to have deserted him so I’ll have to be the one to make introductions. I’m Eamon. Delighted to meet ye, my dear.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened as the import of the words sank in. “Eamon?” she gasped, looking between Magnus and McRae. “You’re Eamon?”
“I can see Magnus has told ye about me,” he replied with a grin. “Aye, I’m Eamon McRae, the man who raised Magnus after his parents died.”
“But...but...” Isabelle stammered. “You’re...you’re dead. You...died.”
“Did I?” he replied, his eyebrows rising. “I think not. As ye can see, my dear, I am quite alive. My death is just another in the long line of lies that Magnus has told ye.”
“That’s enough!” Magnus snapped. He stepped forward but one of McRae’s men drew his sword and blocked the way.
“Enough is it?” McRae said. “I beg to differ. I think Isabelle deserves to know the truth.”
“What are you talking about?” Isabelle demanded, eyes darting between the two men. “What truth? Why have you brought us here?”
“To keep ye safe, my dear,” McRae answered. “I’ve brought ye here for yer own protection.”
“My own protection? From what?”
“From him,” McRae replied, pointing a finger at Magnus. “He isnae the man he claims to be, my dear. Ye canna trust him. When I got wind of his schemes and heard he’d dragged an innocent woman into them, I had to act.”
“Ye are a liar!” Magnus growled.
“Am I? I think not. Ye hurt those around ye, Magnus, and ye will hurt Isabelle as well.”
“That isnae true,” Magnus protested, clenching his fists. “I would never hurt Isabelle.”
“Wouldnae ye?” McRae challenged. “I of all people know the lie of that.”
He braced his hands on the arms of his chair and struggled to stand, waving off one of the men who moved to assist him. “I can manage.”
Pain flashed across his face briefly as he straightened, revealing a hunched posture that spoke of old injuries poorly healed. He turned to face them fully now, the quill falling forgotten onto the ledger. His hands found the edge of the table and gripped it tight.
Magnus’s jaw clenched as he caught sight of the huge scar that bisected McRae’s head, from the crown to the nape of his neck where it disappeared under his tunic. It was a vicious slash, healed long ago but the scar tissue was still an angry, puckered red. Magnus had seen that wound before many times, in his memories. It was the wound that had changed everything.
“I think ye know that I of all people know what ye are capable of. I also think ye remember this scar well enough,” McRae said, a dark glint in his eyes as he ran a bony finger along the length of the disfigurement. “After all, ye gave it to me, Magnus.”
