He stared at her, as if in disbelief. “I cannot worry about my brother now, when I must defend my land from Bruce!”
Her heart sank. Didn’t he care about his brother? Or was he only afraid of losing this war to Bruce? Everyone was dressed for battle. Clearly, her uncle was leaving to take his army to war.
“His army has turned north,” Duncan said grimly. “They have left Lochindorb standing, perhaps because it is so small, and Iain of Islay leads them once again.”
They were marching north. They were marching north and Iain was leading them.
Her heart had turned over, but not with dread. Oddly, she was not afraid.
She had always assumed they would never meet again. Now she had the strongest feeling that the reverse was true—that they would meet again—and soon.
Buchan turned. “This would be an excellent time for a vision,” he said harshly.
“I want to help,” she whispered. “I truly do!”
“Good!” It was a shout. Buchan turned and seized a pitcher from the table and thrust it under her nose. “Then help! Do your duty! Prove your loyalty! Are you a witch or not?”
Alana flinched. She could not stand to look into her uncle’s cold, hard eyes. She looked into the pitcher, but was blinded by her tears. It was not that his words were hurtful, which they were, it was that his tone was so cruel.
The pitcher vanished, replaced upon the table, and she heard Buchan and Duncan heatedly discussing the defense of Nairn and Elgin—they did not know which castle would be attacked first. Buchan wanted to know where his damned spies were. Alana closed her eyes tightly, the tears burning.
Lochindorb had fallen—to Iain. Her father had been in the battle, and now, Buchan did not know where he was, or even if he lived. He desperately needed her help, and she desperately wished to give it!
She glanced at her uncle, who remained in a furious and frantic conversation with Duncan. Neither man looked her way.
He had just shouted at her—almost as if he despised her.
Impulsively Alana lifted her skirts and ran from the hall. As she did, she glimpsed her grandmother’s startled expression. She did not care, and no one shouted at her to stop, to return.
Twilight had fallen over the hills surrounding the castle, and the courtyard was filled with long, dark shadows. Alana tripped as she ran. No one called after her still.
Because no one cared what she did—no one cared for her at all.
She sank down on the ground, curling up, and cried.
She cried because Buchan was using her, and she had known it from the beginning, even if she had tried to believe otherwise. She cried because she had yet to see her father, who might be hurt or, dear God, dead. She cried because neither her uncle nor her father gave a damn. And she cried because Iain of Islay was the enemy, yet he was the only man who had ever looked at her with interest.
Realizing that she was mired in self-pity, she choked back her tears. Crying would not solve anything. A brief stay at Nairn would not change a lifetime spent being shunned by the Comyn family. Alana wiped her eyes.
I am a fool,she thought.
Why not lie to Buchan and give him the prophecy he wished for? She might be given Brodie—and if not, at least she would be able to go home.
Alana slowly stood up, filled with desperation. Was she truly considering more deception? Lying to her uncle felt so immoral. How could she live with such a choice?
There was a well in the center of the courtyard.
She tensed, staring at the dark shape of the wood fence surrounding it. A bucket hung upon a rope pulley above it. A ladder lay against the fence. There was a full moon in the dark night sky.
Alana slowly walked over to the well, her heart now thundering. The stockade fence was chest high. She reached it and clutched its top.
The wild pounding of her heart increased. She began to feel tipsy, faint. Her stomach began to churn.
I am going to have a vision,she thought, but there was no relief. Instead she felt dread—horror.
From where she stood, if she wished to, she could stare down into the well and into its black depths.
But Alana didn’t look down. She did not have to.
