He looked back to Lachlan. “You must have made an impression on the bullish, bitter Murdoch, who couldn’t come along after all his hard work because his stupid cow of a wife didn’t have the sense to be where he’d told her to be. Then the Carson ships we confiscated got set alight, along with my own hired vessels by none other than Murdoch’sbrother. Deliciously ironic, isn’t it? Was he ever found, by the way?”
Lachlan wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Then, lo and behold,” Hargrave went on, “it was discovered that Thomas Annesley escaped death that day. You, as his son, arebanished”—here Hargrave gestured around with his cup again—“from this lovely burg just short of seizing the mighty scepter, married off to the enemy town that is ruled by none other than the very man who no one ever suspected gave me the veritablekeyto hiscity! If it was a city. That required a key.” He flapped a hand. “Any matter.It was Murdoch, you understand.”
“And Harrell,” Lachlan added, looking over at the man who appeared to have gone rather pale.
“Yes, and him, too, I suppose,” Hargrave ceded. “Although he isn’t really very smart, is he, so you’ll understand that I think him to have a lesser part in the whole thing. I actually thought everyone would have figured it out for themselves by now, but I suppose your stupidity only worked to my advantage. So—”
He handed the chalice back to the soldier-cum-servant. “Now that everything is out in the open, and you have yet to provide me with the information I desire, I would request that my men begin forming orderly rows of the masses so that we might get on with it. I have every intention of getting a thorough night’s sleep after we march on to Carson Town. Traveling tires me so and I lose thatverveafter so long in the saddle. Not good for one’s humors.”
He wiggled his fingers at Marcas and Dand. “Two rows; those two at the fore.”
“Wait,” Lachlan shouted, drawing Hargrave’s attention with an exaggerated expression of curiosity.
“Yes, Lachlan?”
“I know where he is.”
Hargrave’s smile turned indulgent. “No. Really?”
“You’ll call off your men, though. Send them from the town first.”
“So you can have time to fabricate a likely sounding story? I think not. I promised myself that I would not leave anyone on this mountain alive this time, and I really must keep my word. It’s a matter of self-discipline, you see.”
“I’ll not make anything up,” Lachlan said and reached into his pouch for the now-worn, folded letter given to him by the black knight. He held it up in the air for all to see. “It’s right here. In Thomas Annesley’s own hand. Given to me by one Lucan Montague. Perhaps you know of him, Hargrave?”
Hargrave began marching across the green at once, all traces of joviality gone, his hand held out. “Give it to me now.Give it to me!”
Lachlan backed up until he was standing next to one of the balefires, and held the letter over the licking flames. All around him the creak of crossbows being drawn sounded.
“If they shoot me, the letter falls,” Lachlan pointed out.
Hargrave stopped his advance and held out his hands. “Disengage your weapons! Disengage.” He turned his face back to Lachlan. “I’m sure we can come to an understanding. What do you want?”
“I’ve already said what I want. Send your men away, and I’ll give you the letter.”
“And kill me straightaway afterward, no doubt,” Hargrave smirked. “No, I’m afraid that won’t work.”
“My arm’s getting tired, Hargrave.”
Hargrave’s face brightened. “Why don’t we let the mighty chief decide? Surely he will not risk your life—the life of the foster son he’s raised—over his own, isn’t that right?” He turned. “Marcas? Care to contribute?”
Lachlan’s foster father stepped forward, Mother Blair hanging on his arm and weeping. He shook her off roughly. His face was stony and he seemed to be staring beyond Lachlan, even beyond the ring of guards to the darkness past the green, as if he could not bear to meet his eyes.
Lachlan remembered the day at the falls after Dand was born, the water tumbling him over and over, holding him under. Marcas had not saved him then. He hadn’t saved him from the fine when Archibald lay dying. He wouldn’t save him now, and somehow, Hargrave knew it.
Then Marcas’s eyes were boring into his, with an intensity that Lachlan could nearly feel. “Forgive me, Lachlan,” Marcas began, and although Lachlan thought he could not be hurt any more deeply by this man, the only father he’d ever known, he feared he was wrong. His last, brief flicker of hope died and he wished there was a way to deafen himself to Marcas’s words.
“Forgive me for not fighting for you. For my pride and my cowardice. It has haunted me since the day you left Town Blair, and I wish everyone to hear it from my own lips, now. I didna do right by you. I didna do right by this town. I didna do right by our neighbors, the Carsons. I am no better than Archibald. I am not this town’s rightful chief. But we—hear me well, all you Blairs—we alone canna hope to defy this man who has invaded our home not once, but twice. We canna do it.”
He dropped to his knees, and when next he spoke, his voice broke. “Forgive me my failings, son. It perhaps would have been easier if I had not loved you as my own, but I did. I still do. Lachlan, my son. Forgive me, and trust me this final time, I beg you. We will not fail you again.”
Lachlan’s throat constricted. It no longer mattered. It didn’t matter what Marcas had done or failed to do. Even if he could not save him, Lachlan still loved him, too.
“I do,” Lachlan said.
Marcas nodded, and his eyes grew hard as his hand disappeared inside his shawl. “Drop the letter, son.”
