He shouldn’t have bothered. It had fallen into disrepair and now there were trees growing out of the middle of the building, most of the wood scavenged for other uses. The wooden sign was half-buried in the dirt, the painted letters faded and worn.
Might Ravenswing have changed as well? Aye, he would see for himself soon enough.
The path led him across rugged terrain, traversing hills and valleys, and skirting the edges of dense forests as he held each color, sound, and smell within himself, swearing to never forget. For who knew when he might return? If he ever cameback, Callan vowed it would be as a wealthy man, one the clan could no longer look down upon.
There was a deep need within him to uncover the truth, to find the man who had fathered him, to look him in the eye and ask why had the man never provided for his mother? Why had he left them unprotected, knowing the clan would cast them out?
Days turned into nights and back into day, time passing as Callan pressed on, sometimes walking, or catching a ride in the cart of a traveler. The landscape changed as he descended from the highlands, the air becoming milder, the trees more abundant. With one last glance over his shoulder, he sent up a prayer to Saint Christopher to keep him safe on his journey.
On the day Callan reached the outskirts of Ravenswing village, the skies were painted in shades of orange and pink, his heart beating faster, keeping time with his steps. The exhaustion from the long journey fading as each step took him closer to finding the answers he sought.
The people eyed him with suspicion as he walked through the village, several crossing themselves upon laying eyes on a wild, bearded Scotsman in his mud-splattered plaid and worn boots, striding through the simple village, whilst others went inside their homes, peering out the windows.
Slowly, hands open and at his sides to cause no alarm, Callan warily approached a man sitting outside a candlemaker’s shop.
“I have traveled here to see Hugh Brandon, the Earl of Ravenswing. Is he in residence?”
The old man squinted at him, his eyes reflecting the weight of his years.
“Hugh Brandon, eh? Ah, laddie, the old earl died a greatmany years ago. The estate taken by the crown, given by the king to some other lord who’s away at court for the winter.”
The man shrugged, “they come and they go, all on the whims of the king.”
Callan’s heart sank, weariness filling his bones. The man who held the key to his past was no more. The realization struck him with a force that threatened to knock him off balance.
The threads that bound him to this journey, already fragile, seemed to unravel and blow away on the wind. He had traveled so far, never thinking the man might be dead even though so many years had passed. What a fool he’d been.
Feet and heart heavy, Callan turned to go, where he did not know, for in truth, he was tired of being alone.
The candlemaker cleared his throat, voice scratchy and halting. “Might the old earl’s son aid ye, lad?”
The wind blew through his hair, tugging on the bit of cloth he’d used to tie it back, as Callan turned, the smallest kernel of hope blooming in his chest.
“Aye, he might. Where would I find him?”
The man spat into the dirt, muttering to himself a moment before his eyes cleared.
“William is his name. Last I heard, he was Lord Blackford, but he doesn’t welcome strangers, so best you ask in Blackford village, let the man come to you, lest you find your head on a pike on his drawbridge.”
“Thank ye.” Callan nodded to the man, and after getting directions to Blackford, he set out for the coast, for Blackford village, his steps and heart lighter.
Callan had a brother. Family.
The thought filled him with something he couldna explain.It had been so long since he had been happy or felt hopeful about what the future might bring.
As he traveled south and to the east, the land changed, giving way to rolling hills and meadows, leaving Callan much time to think upon his course of action even as a shadow lingered over his heart, a sense of impending doom that whispered through the rustling leaves.
What if his half-brother knew about him and wanted nothing to do with a Scot?
Callan lifted his chin. Then he would leave, and perhaps he would travel to some distant land to make a new life for himself.
The skies opened, rain pelting him, soaking the worn and patched linen shirt. When he crested the next hill and paused, looking out over the foreign lands, down in the valley, he spotted a small inn, set next to a muddy, rutted road.
The solitary inn stood at a crossroads, making Callan shudder even as its flickering lanterns cast a warm glow against the black sky.
Did they not know crossroads were where suicides were buried? A place between worlds. His hand went to his St. Christopher medal as he uttered a prayer for protection.
Then, as he thought on it, a snort escaped. ’Twas mayhap a sign to find an inn at a crossroads, a place where one’s path might be forever altered, a place of indecision.
