Well, what can I expect? I’ve spent the past years of my life bringing out his memory again and again, polishing him up in my mind until he glows like the sun. Of course I can’t make myself forget him now.
Was that what she wanted? To forget him? That would be simplest, certainly. But would itwork?
So far, it was not working. She didn’t have a great deal of faith for future success, either.
Senga tried to concentrate on her work, scuttling up a narrow stone staircase that led to a stone parapet circling the training fields. The fields, at the back of the Keep, were full of people. Soldiers, all training, preparing for another battle, which theyall knew was coming sooner or later. Even Senga had heard the gossip about Laird Dickson mustering the last of his forces.
The last of his forcesmade it seem as though he were scraping together his last few soldiers, but everybody knew that wasn’t the case. The Dickson army was depleted, that was for sure, and a few outlying villages had suddenly dug in their heels and refused to give any more soldiers, probably encouraged by all the rebellion against Laird Dickson that was spreading in the Highlands. It was brave of them, but if the rebellion failed, there’d be consequences for this defiance. Heavy consequences that brought horror to Senga every time she thought about it.
However, Laird Dickson was said to have summoned all of his satellite clans, including the Murray Clan—Senga’s own clan. They were relatively unimportant and not large enough to threaten anyone, but their warriors were formidable. And in a battle of this scale, every warrior counted. Every warriormattered. From what Senga remembered, Clan Murray could offer skilled archers and terrifying horsemen. It only took a few of both to turn the tide of a battle.
And of course Laird Dickson had plenty of satellite clans, plenty of ambitious lairds, landholders, and merchants keen to curry his favor. They’d offer men—recruits and mercenaries alike—and coin, enough to help him win his fight. Enough to drown the rest of the Highlands in blood.
In short, Laird Dickson would soon have an army larger than any he’d had before, even if his son, the Dickson Hammer, was on their side. What would they do next? Whatcouldthey do next?
“Senga, there ye are!”
Senga paused at her friend’s voice and glanced over to find Freya standing by the parapet wall, elbows resting on the stone. She gestured, and Senga walked over to join her, setting aside her basket of supplies.
“I’m watching the training,” Freya explained, somewhat unnecessarily. “We have new recruits, but they’re green as anything. Brendan’s worried that they won’t be well-trained enough by the time the battle happens. We want our new soldiers to do more than simply stop up the enemy’s pikes.”
Senga shivered, recalling the piles of bodies in the Grahame courtyard, stinking to high heaven.
“Do ye think it will come soon? The next battle?”
“The last battle,” Freya corrected. “Even Laird Dickson doesn’t have a limitless supply of soldiers. He’s losing his grip on his lands. His losses have been noticed. Lots of his people are invested in him winning, but just as many hate him and only serve him out of fear. If there’s a chance to overthrow him, they’ll snatch at it. Which is why he needs to destroy us quickly. He won’t destroy our clans, of course. He’ll kill us, naturally, and whoever’s loyal to us. The convent and the Abbess must be destroyed. Then he’ll put his own loyalists in place of us. I imagine that men like Laird Murray and the others will have been promised new lands.”
This was something that Senga had considered before. Her memories of her father were deliberately vague—they'd never been close, not even before she left—but she imagined that he would be willing to sell his soul in exchange for greater power. He had been willing to sellherfor greater power, after all.
Stop it,she chastised herself.Worrying about this won’t do ye any good. Stay calm. Focus on yer work. That’s all that matters.
If she kept telling herself that, perhaps sooner or later the thought would stick.
Letting out a slow exhale, Senga gradually managed to focus on the training field below. Frost still glittered in the shadowed parts of the field, and now and then an unfortunate man wouldslip on hidden ice, either stumbling or landing heavily, much to the amusement of his friends.
Groups of men were divided up into archery practice, hand-to-hand combat, and of course swordfighting. A group of men on horseback thundered by, pikes leveled and glittering with polish.
Most or all of these men might be dead in a matter of weeks. Maybe within days,Senga thought, with a sudden shudder.
She fixated on one young man wrestling with a longbox, tilting his head to listen to the instructions of his tutor. Senga could hear the sound of the man’s voice, but the actual words were snatched away by the breeze.
Thenheappeared, as if from nowhere.
Senga’s chest clenched the instant she laid eyes on him.
Noah strode through a clump of men, all divided into pairs for swordplay practice. He didn’t limp or wince, even though his injuries must surely have been causing him a good deal of pain. His gaze raked here and there, taking in every detail. He watched the sparring men, eyes flicking up and down to search for a flaw, for a mistake, for something that could be corrected.
She saw how his men looked at him as they passed by, with awe and respect. They waited, poised, to see if he would offer any advice or command, and visibly relaxed as he walked by.
They admire him,she realized.Even the new recruits have so much respect for him. He has earned their respect. He is a man who can be admired in such an intense way, at such a time like this. What sort of man has he become? Was he like this when we were young? If so, did I notice it, or did I only see an idealized version of the man I wanted to love?
He shouted something incoherent, striding towards a particular pair of men. The men broke apart, gasping for breath, sweat sticking their hair to their foreheads. Noah spoke earnestly first to one and then to another, taking the wooden practice sword from his hand and displaying a few showmovements. He moved with sinuous grace, the sword appearing to be an extension of his arm.
He wore only a thin linen shirt, tucked into the waistband of a heavy Grahame tartan kilt. The material swung around his legs, the slightest movement making it spin out wide. She could see the shadow of the bandages around his chest through the shirt. When he parried a few blows against one of the trainees, she could see a pinkish tinge in his upper sleeve. The wound on his arm was bleeding through the bandages, then.
Probably because he’s moving it too much and not resting it,Senga thought furiously.Why will he not listen to me?
Oh, there was more to it than that; she knew that much. When they’d spoken yesterday, his eyes had flicked around the room, reluctant to land on her. Resentment and anger seeped through his every word.
