Eithne’s energy went out of her, and her body went limp. She had lost. It was over.
“There. That wasnae so hard, was it? Take her to the keep, lads,” Rory said.
Dimly, Eithne was aware of being half-dragged, half-carried back to the castle that had once been her home. The men laughed and joked as they pulled her through the half-ruined building to the bedroom nearby where her older brother slept.
Where he used to sleep. He’s dead. He’s gone.
They tossed her inside, and she fell to the cold stone floor. She didn’t know how long she lay there, but eventually, she realized that she might get ill if she didn’t move. Life didn’t feel worth living, not anymore, but she would not give up and die for Rory MacDuff.
She crawled along the floor to the bed. It was still unmade and messy since they’d sent the servants away when the attack started. The sheets smelled like Killian. She laid her head on the pillow and pulled the blanket over her shoulders.
Killian. Faither. Mither. Neal. Oh, Neal…
Their names looping in her head, she eventually fell into a dreamless sleep, unsure if she would ever be able – or willing – to wake again.
Chapter Two
The Mercenary
“Did ye hear about the terrible happenings at Clan Kinnear?” asked the young man half in his cups to anyone who would listen. He’d been chattering all night about this and that, and Ivor, who had little time for idle gossip, had paid him little attention. At the mention of Kinnear, however, he looked up. He couldn’t help it.
Killian Kinnear had been Ivor’s friend since childhood, unlikely though their bond might have been. Ivor, the half-Norse Highlander with no clan, who had made his living with his bow and his sword since he was a boy, would never have expected to befriend the son and heir of a Laird. And yet, when he’d met Killian, they’d bonded instantly.
Ivor had been stealing some fruit from the Laird’s gardens, aged just eleven, and Killian caught him. Rather than turning him in, the young heir disappeared into the keep and returned with a whole basket of food. Since then, whenever Ivor was nearby, the two of them were inseparable. Ivor had even loaned his mercenary services to the Laird during some battles as a favor to his friend.
It’s been some moons since I heard from Killian, though.
“What happened?” he asked abruptly.
It was the first time he’d spoken all night, and it sent a visible jolt of surprise through the other patrons of the tavern. Ivor snorted into his mead. This was one reason he spent so little of his time talking to other people – he forgot how intimidating they found him.
Realistically, Ivor couldn’t blame them. He was tall and bulky, his muscles straining at his shirt no matter what he tried to wear because they simply weren’t tailored in his size. His long, rough brown hair with its blond traces in the sun stood out here, as did his eyes.
His eyes were maybe his most distinguishing feature. Previous lovers had called them honey in color, no doubt as a compliment. Previous enemies had, as well, but they meant it like a trap – a sweetness that hid deadliness just beneath.
Ivor tried to relax his stance a little for their sake, but his every nerve was on edge. There was silence after he spoke for a long moment, and he could taste the fear in the room.
Eventually, the drunken young man hesitantly said, “They’re all dead, sir.”
“What?” Ivor demanded, slamming his tankard down on the table. “What are ye saying?”
“The Kinnear's,” the lad explained. “The MacDuff’s attacked. I heard the younger lass got out, but the Laird and Lady are dead and the heir and the older sister and half the castle village. Rory MacDuff is claiming all the land for himself.”
That cannae be right—it cannae.
He thought of Killian – his dark hair, his tawny eyes, his easy smile – and found the idea of his death simply inconceivable. Killian was one of the mostalivepeople that Ivor knew. The Laird and Lady were strong, and the people…well, when Ivor had fought alongside them, he’d felt in good hands.
So then, what had happened? He pushed the young man for more details, but he didn’t seem to have any.
Ivor considered. He had been on his way to meet a contact nearby to sell his skills, but he was less than a day out now from the castle town of Clan Kinnear. Surely the lad was talking nonsense, but if he wasn’t…well, this was something that he had to see for himself.
* * *
As he rode, Ivor’s doubt faded, and his heart began to ache. Every person he passed seemed to be discussing the Kinnear massacre. The Laird, Lady, and heir were all dead – that much was certain. Half the country knew this already, despite the deed only occurring a day before. All of the women and the children of the clan lay dead in the streets…and Killian was gone.
I never even got to say farewell. The last thing I said to him was some silly jape.
Many wild rumors were flying around the country about the events, and often they contradicted each other. The youngest daughter was dead, or maybe the younger daughter had escaped. The older daughter was bedding Rory MacDuff. The older daughter had turned on her family. The older daughter was alive and still in the castle.
