Maeve made herself look around at the gathered crowd. Many were the False King's people, people she remembered from a childhood that seemed almost like it belonged to someone else. There were advisors here and clan chiefs who were firmly on the side of the enemy, many of them. But there were other chiefs, too—those who were undecided; those whomight have been swayed to the rebellion if Maeve and Cailean had only had more time. It was so frustrating to stand here, unknown, amongst them, left without any idea if there would ever be anything she could do to stop all of this.
This wasn't the first time she'd been standing here like this, in this courtyard, staring up at that platform and waiting for her father to murder a man. The memory came so forcefully that it almost knocked Maeve off her feet.
Maeve was eleven years old, Breana thirteen, and they stood at the front of the crowd as their father triumphantly took center stage. Their mother stood at his side, and on his other side, her face a mask of fierce pride for being chosen, stood Nessa. Only nine years old, Nessa had already been trained to be cold and cruel, already selected as the favored daughter who performed all the duties of the firstborn in the absence of a son despite being the youngest.
Breana squeezed Maeve's hand. "I hate when she wears that look on her face," she whispered. "She reminds me of Father at his cruellest."
"I ken," Maeve agreed. She shivered, her young mind made uncomfortable by the large gathered crowd, but more so by the horror of what she knew was about to happen. "Do ye think she even cares about what she's here for?"
"She's nae as callous as ye think, I'm sure of it," Breana said virtuously. "Maybe she'll even plead tae father for clemency. She's still just a bairn, Maeve. Her heart cannae be fully frozen yet."
Maeve smiled faintly at her, though doubt flooded her heart. Yes, Nessa was very young, but wasn't she still a child too?Wasn't Breana still young enough to almost count? It seemed to her that, here in O'Sullivan Castle, there was no time to be 'just a bairn'. There never had been. And Nessa, who looked so much like their mother but with the expressions of their father, had been raised since birth to be filled with ice in a way that Maeve and Breana had only ever disappointed their parents.
Their father stepped forward and gestured behind him. His movement revealed the prisoner there, bound with a hood over his head. Maeve knew who he was—Patrick McAndrew, a laird of only nineteen or so whose father had recently died in a failed attempted uprising against the king. Patrick was now here to pay for his father's crime and to remind the people that such behavior would not be tolerated.
Maeve had snuck down to the dungeons last night to see him. She had been unable to resist, unable to fight the unsettling feeling in her stomach that something was very, very wrong. He'd called her 'wee one' and told her not to cry for him. She'd asked him why he didn't just say he was sorry, just disown his father's name and swear allegiance to Maeve's father and to the true king. Patrick had smiled at her sadly, trying to comfort her through the bars.
"I'll never pledge me allegiance where me heart is not. The False King can take me father's life, he can spill me blood too, but he'll never gain the love or trust of this country. If I'm tae die tomorrow, wee one, ken this—it isnae for nothin'." He'd touched her hand briefly. "Dinnae fret. One day, we'll be free."
Maeve hadn't understood. "But ye could be free now. I could get me father right now, and?—"
"That wouldnae be freedom," Patrick had told her. "If ye remember one thing of me, lass, remember that—we can never be free unless we keep the faith when it matters most. Anythin' else isnae worth toleratin'."
But now, bound and hooded in the courtyard, Maeve couldn't see how this was any kind of freedom. Patrick was going to die before he even had a chance to properly live, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Maeve wanted to scream and cry, wanted to dosomething, but she knew that if she moved, both she and Breana would be harshly punished. And so she stood still amongst all those gathered and watched.
Her father talked about the glory of the king and the intolerance they had for traitors. He rhapsodized about the new Scotland and the way the country was flourishing. It all fell hollow on Maeve's ears, but she just held Breana's hand and kept her eyes trained on Patrick.
"Me daughter, Nessa, is here today tae witness the new Scotland our revolution has brought for us," her father announced. "Nessa, before we continue, is there any boon ye would have from yer dotin' father? Anythin' ye ask, I'll give it tae ye. Should we spare this traitor's life?"
The crowd seemed to hold its breath. Breana squeezed Maeve's hand. "This is it," Breana whispered. "This is when she'll save him."
But Maeve saw the flash of something close to fear in Nessa's eyes before the coldness descended once more. Maeve heard the practiced tone to her words as she began to speak, and knew she was repeating what she'd been taught.
"Nay, Father," Nessa said. "Nae traitor tae our king deserves tae live."
Anger and despair flooded Maeve's heart at those words. How could Nessa do this? She had the chance to save the young man, and instead…
Her father finished his speech, and the hood was removed. Patrick looked beaten and broken, but when he glanced up into the crowd, there was still that same fire and determination in his eyes that Maeve had seen the night before.
"Any last words, traitor?" O'Sullivan asked.
"Freedom," Patrick said, his quiet voice somehow echoing around the courtyard. "Only freedom."
Maeve's father scoffed and raised his sword.
"Look away, Maeve," Breana whispered in her ear, hiding her own eyes.
But Maeve did not look away. As the sword swung down, she met Patrick's eyes one last time. She saw the small, sad, defiant smile on his face as he saw her, just for a second. And then it was over. His head rolled, his body slumped, and Maeve's father called out in triumph.
On the platform, Nessa turned away. Breana began to softly weep. But Maeve just stood there, still as stone, staring, and wondering. Wondering about freedom—and what it might one day mean. For all of them.
Maeve blinked away the tears that the memory brought to her eyes, and a renewed determination filled her. Ten years had passed since that day, ten years in which Maeve had grown and changed and flourished. She knew who she was now, more than she'd ever believed was possible. And she knew what it meant to be free—and to fight for that freedom. She understood now why Patrick had been willing to die rather than bow to the False King. She understood his bravery and his sacrifice.
And now she stood here again in this courtyard, waiting for the execution of a man who was not only the man she loved, but the one who symbolized that hope and freedom that Patrick had died for. She could not,wouldnot, do nothing.
The murmuring in the crowd fell into a dead silence as five figures ascended onto the platform that stood in the middleof the courtyard. Nessa, looking pale and drawn but otherwise stoic, was followed by two guards dragging a hooded figure between them. Maeve's breath caught as she recognized Cailean; even hooded, she'd know him anywhere.
But the last figure drew her attention as he took center stage, just as he had all the way back then. Her father, Laird James O'Sullivan—the man who Maeve feared most in the world—looked triumphantly over the crowd.
