"Better us in here than the rebels out there," Neala shot back, staring up defiantly from her position on the floor. "Murder me if ye want. Ye cannae stop it now."
"I should slice ye in half!" Ansel roared.
Part of Neala quailed, sure that he could make good on that threat, and reminded horribly of his father. In her mind's eye, she saw the moment again when James O'Sullivan fell dead to the floor. She remembered the blood she'd failed to clean, seeming to stain the floor forever. Her knife was still held loosely in her hand, and she felt a shiver of shame at the thought of how Laura would react to learn she'd been killed by her own weapon.
Well, if she was going to die anyway, she would say her piece first.
"Ansel," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "Listen tae me. Just… listen. What do ye have tae lose?"
He still stood over her, but he did not attack as she got to her feet, even with the dark rage churning behind his eyes.
She stood in front of him, her heart racing. "Listen, please. I've heard what this country was like before yer father took over. I've heard how the Highlands used tae prosper, and now they've burned away. Our people, the Celtic blood of our ancestors?—"
"Yerancestors," Ansel snarled.
"Nay.Ours. I ken who yer mother was. Seonag McDonald was stolen away from a proud clan and forced tae marry yer father, even before he stole the throne. I ken her story. I ken her father was tryin' tae work with mine tae save her," Neala said.
Ansel's eyes fixed on her. "Dinnae talk about what ye dinnae understand. Dinnaeevermention me mother's name."
"But it's true," Neala told him steadily. She stepped forward, her shaking hand raised to touch his. This time, he didn't pull away. "It's true, is it nae? He'salwaysbeen a monster. That's why the English king supported him. That's why he ruthlessly destroys the people he claims tae want tae rule. It doesnae matter who they are. His loyal servants like James O'Sullivan. His worst enemies. Innocent farmers, desperate brothel workers, and anyone in between. He'll raze the world before his bloodlust is sated."
Ansel clenched his free hand into a fist.
"Do ye ken the village of Broken Windmill? It had a name once, a true name," Neala told him. "They were good people. Strong people. The village was devastated by famine and blight when Edric Ashkirk took the throne." She shook her head. "But they persevered for two decades. They grew strong."
Ansel's eyes widened.
"Then, some time ago, word reached us Sparrows that Broken Windmill had once sheltered the rebels before theyretook Bruce Castle, and for a while, they prospered thanks tae the rebels' help. It was filled with good people. The elderly. The impoverished. Bairns. People who gave everythin' tae help one another."
He actually looked away. "Dinnae speak of this."
"So ye do ken," Neala said. "Ye ken that the English raided and found nothin', no evidence of the rebels ever bein' there, and Cailean's plan was successful. Ye ken that they left the village alone. But that wasnae good enough for yer father, was it? Even though the village had been deemed innocent?—"
"Ye've just admitted theydidshelter the rebels," Ansel said, though the fire was not there as it had been a moment before, and he would not look at her. "Ye admitted their guilt yerself."
Neala ignored him. "Even thoughthere was nae evidence of the rebels ever bein' there, what happened three months later, Ansel? What did yer father command tae be done tae those people after Clan Darach fell?"
"I told ye tae be silent."
"He didnae destroy the village fully, did he? He didnae make it a fight." Anger laced Neala's own tone now. "The False King commanded his soldiers tae wait til the dead of night. He didnae attack the men. What did he do, Ansel?"
The prince did not reply.
"Some escaped. But not all. An' what happened to those women? What happened to those bairns?" Neala whispered. "I'll tell ye—the same thing that's been happenin' tae women and bairns for more than twenty years. The same thing that's happened tae the lassies who've been violated by yer father's soldiers, or the bairns whose parents have been slaughtered before their eyes, leavin' them no choice but tae be raised tae fight. The same thing that's happened tae countless villages, countless clans. The very soul of our country, drained away,horror after horror, death after death, all the while yer father sits on his throne of skulls with the flames burnin' around him."
Ansel met her eyes again, but if anything he just seemed more furious, her example only fueling the dark wildness in his expression. She could barely recognize the man before her now as the one who had brought her here.
"I ken this isnae what ye want. I ken ye understand the hope the rebels have brought back tae this country, and I ken part of ye wants tae help end all of this. Choose a different path. Ye dinnae have tae follow him. Ye dinnae have tae?—"
"Shut yer mouth!" Ansel bellowed, so loudly and forcefully, that Neala took a step back. He pushed past her, running to the door, and threw his shoulder hard against it. It didn't budge, and he slammed against it again, harder, painfully colliding over and over again. "Open, ye bastard. Open!"
Alarmed, Neala exclaimed, "Stop that! Ye're gonnae hurt yerself, and it willnae make any difference!
"Hurt meself!" Ansel cried out, laughing furiously. "Why would ye care? It would save yer accursed brother the task!"
An image flashed across Neala's mind. She saw James O'Sullivan's body again—except it was not O'Sullivan anymore. Instead, on the floor lay Ansel, cold and bloodless, eyes staring sightlessly and breath gone forever. A shadowy figure stood over him, blade glinting.
Her heart tightened with a deep ache at even the idea. Shedidcare, no matter how much she shouldn't. She would never be able to kill him. She would never be able to stand by and watch him be killed. All she wanted was to free him from his father, even if it meant her own life—but she would not risk the life of her brother, or of the rebellion, in the process.
