"I ken that, but that doesnae mean they must trust me immediately. Did ye?" Cailean gave her a slightly ironic smile, then faced ahead once more.
It made sense; Maeve had to admit it, and yet she could not help the squirming in her stomach. When would the day come, she wondered, when she would stop seeing shadows in every corner? She'd lived a whole life in the darkness until Cailean hadfound her and saw her. She trusted him to be her light, and she knew that he would always see her—but the world just seemed so full of the dark.
The whole group travelled in what was close to silence after that, watching as the night became the dawn as they chased the sun's rise. At last, the noise of civilization rose in the distance, then soon after, they saw the fence that circled the castle town that lay between them and McKenzie Castle.
As they rode through the town, the villagers were just opening their doors and windows and starting to set up their stalls in the streets. It wasn't many at first, but Maeve felt it as eyes followed them. A small group of children started giggling and following them through the streets, and slowly, but surely a bigger group of adults began to cluster at the sides of the streets.
"That's him," Maeve heard someone tell their friend, "The lost McNair."
"The lost king!" someone else exclaimed, hope in their voice brighter even than the rising sun.
The whispers and even shouts grew louder behind them, and Maeve felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the morning sun fill her. She'd known the hope that Cailean's return had brought to the villagers of the little places they'd travelled to as rebels, most noticeably Broken Windmill, and how he fuelled the rebels. She'd witnessed how faith in him had rescued many of the Darach men and helped bring the Bruce lands on the way back to their former glory. But this was the first time she'd ever truly gotten to witness strangers react to the news that the McNair prince had returned to save them, and she could not help but be inspired by the hope and excitement that blossomed around them.
"They're all feelin' like there's a possibility of livin' again," Darren told Cailean in a quiet voice that Maeve only just overheard. "And it's all because of ye."
"Let's hope I can live up tae their expectations," Cailean replied back quietly.
"Nae hopin', ye big bampot. Just doin'."
Maeve glanced at them to see Darren grinning and Cailean rolling his eyes with a smile. It made her smile, too. She thought of her own friends—of Eoin, back at the castle taking care of Breana; of Breana herself, struggling but succeeding slowly but surely to adapt; of Ferda, travelling off into the unknown to treat with the Sparrows. And, of course, Cailean, here by her side, the weight of the whole country on his shoulders.
She was proud of them—and scared for them, too. But she knew that she'd make her way through it because she'd always have Cailean by her side, just as he'd always have her, supporting him through his burdens, no matter what happened.
Around them, the crowd kept murmuring about the king who had returned. Maeve felt a renewed sense of determination as she listened to them. Because they'd been waiting all this time for Cailean—and now, at last, he was here.
They were here. Together. They'd save this country and the people at any cost, fight through whatever it took—and they'd do it all hand in hand.
McKenzie Castle was decorated grandly, and the great hall, where they were led to feast, had been designed to impress. Gorgeous tapestries decorated the wall, including, Maeve could not help but notice, a furling banner of the McNair capercaillie. The food laid out on the table was abundant and opulent, with various meats, fruits, and vegetables, and several different types of wine. It was certainly a welcome fit for a king, but Maevefound her unease return as she sat at the table next to Cailean and stared at the piles of food in front of them.
"I feel like I havenae eaten in years," Dirk said excitedly as he piled food onto his plate.
Darren elbowed his younger cousin discreetly under the table. "Be polite," he hissed. "Eat slowly."
"If Darren's tellin' ye to be polite, ye've definitely done somethin' wrong," Fergus noted in an undertone.
The cousins' banter continued, amusing enough, but Maeve could not help but think about the kernel of truth it hid. They never went hungry at Bruce Castle; the rebels were never short on food, but they deliberately avoided such opulence as this. After all, why should they feast so grandly while the villagers and common folk across their country suffered?
Maeve had to remind herself that not everyone thought the same way. This was a feast that had been thrown in Cailean's honor, and she needed to view it as such. Overthinking was helping nobody.
The banter and Maeve's rumination were both cut short as a tall man entered, his black hair streaked with grey and his dark eyes focused intently on Cailean from the moment he arrived. She knew immediately that this was the chieftain, Murtagh McKenzie. He looked very much like his cousin Seumidh, and beyond that, he wore the stature of a man who was used to being in charge.
"Welcome," Murtagh declared once everyone was settled, "And our thanks for comin' all this way, McNair."
"Thank ye, as well, for such a warm welcome," Cailean replied diplomatically. "And for the invite. We are very interested in findin' a way forward together."
They were introduced to the main group of their hosts—Murtagh and Seumidh, of course, and a group of other councilmen for the chieftain. A young woman also sat there, alittle younger than Maeve herself. She was tiny, too thin and drawn with blonde hair the color of straw, and her eyes focused on the table in front of them instead of anything around her. She was sparingly introduced as Murtagh's daughter, Sorcha, but otherwise ignored.
They ate for a while, then Murtagh got to his feet again and began to speak.
Murtagh beamed. "Me elder brother, Grodric, was a friend of yer father's," he said, with the fondness of an old uncle. "He was loyal tae a fault—and he fervently believed in the oath he took in yer father's name. These old oaths still last, ye ken, deep in our blood, even if the way we followed them fell away. But now they'll give us the chance for new beginnin's—for a better Scotland for all of us."
While he talked, Maeve watched him as carefully as he was watching Cailean. Though Murtagh's avuncular tone and joyful attitude certainly seemed inspiring, Maeve saw the deep curiosity in his eyes, and calculation there too. Whatever reason he had for suggesting this treaty, no matter how he spoke of Grodric and the old oaths, it was not purely from the goodness of his heart.
Her gaze found Sorcha again. The girl was still staring at the table, still shy and withdrawn, and Maeve found herself remembering dinner tables from long ago. In her mind's eye, she remembered little Breana, sitting staring quietly at the table in the same way while Maeve clung to the edge so hard that her knuckles turned white. Only their younger sister had ever been comfortable at the family dinner table.
Maeve wanted to reach out to Sorcha and ask if she was all right, to protect her the way she couldn't protect her younger self or Breana's younger self. She knew she was making assumptions and that Sorcha's demeanor could be from any number ofother sources, but she couldn't stop her instincts from prickling uncomfortably.
As she looked back at Murtagh, who was still speaking, she saw a shine in those eyes—a shine that was also uncomfortably familiar from her memories. His stare lingered too long on Cailean as he spoke, and Maeve had the dreadful feeling that this was a man assessing not an equal leader in a rebellion, but a prize to be won.
