“Ye’ve a soft heart, Eithne Kinnear,” Ivor replied. She couldn’t tell if his tone was disapproval or worship. “Come on then, lad. Let’s go.”
The three of them walked back to Aibreann, who sniffed Callum suspiciously. Eventually, the horse very gracefully let the boy mount. The two adults walked ahead, leading her by the reins as they paced back on themselves toward Callum’s village.
“I dinnae ken why ye think this is a good idea,” Ivor muttered to Eithne as they walked. “Ye’ve nae idea if the animal is even still alive.”
“I ken,” Eithne said. “But we have to try, or the poor boy isnae gonnae get a moment’s rest.”
Ivor grunted but nodded.
The two of them walked on a little more, then Eithne said, “I didnae ken ye had a sister.”
Ivor stared at her. Eithne had never seen him look like that, so sharp as to be almost cold. His eyes blazed, and his mouth worked, but he seemed to bite back his words.
He looked away from her and muttered, “Aye. Once.” His rough tone brokered no argument or further discussion. “She died, just like me parents.”
Eithne shivered. It had nothing to do with the cold.
Chapter Fifteen
The Memory
(Fourteen Years Ago)
“It’s all right. I’ll find ye some medicine soon,” the ten-year-old boy promised his sister. She was only seven, and she coughed and shuddered like an old man taking his last breath.
“When, Ivor? It hurts,” she begged. “When?”
“Soon,” he promised. “Look, we’re gonnae stop at this next town, and I’ll get a job, and we’ll finally be safe.”
Ivor and Iona’s parents had died two years before. His Norseman father and his Scottish mother, whose surname he still bore, had only just managed to get their children out of the burning house, but the fire and smoke had overwhelmed them. When the flames died down, Ivor had left his five-year-old sister in the forest and gone back to see what he could recover.
There was nothing left of me mammy and daddy—just ash.
He’d only been eight, but he knew he had to take care of Iona. They had no other family, and so the two children had traveled from town to town, trying to find somewhere to take them in. Ivor stole when he had to because nobody wanted to hire a scrawny eight-year-old, but his sister still had to eat.
Iona needed him and trusted him, so Ivor had trained and worked and fought whenever he could – anything to get them the home she needed to fill the gap left behind by their parents.
After a year and a half, six months ago, Ivor thought he’d finally found a place that he could give to his sister. He’d only just turned ten, and they’d shown up at the border clan of Riven, just between the Highlands and Lowlands.
He was too young to be a soldier, but the captain of the guard had hired him anyway. They’d soon earned enough money for a little hut. It was breezy and cold, and it smelled of damp and mold, but it was theirs. Every day, Ivor would leave Iona in their makeshift home while he went to learn to fight. Every night, he’d bring her food and tell her gentle stories about the day.
Sometimes, she’d beg him to stay with her – but Ivor spent every spare moment he had with his fellow recruits, learning to be proficient. The better he was, the more money he’d make. He might even make enough money to educate them both.
I didnae ken at first that she was sick.
He rose through the ranks of recruits quickly, even despite his tender age. He showed promise with bow and blade, and he took part in his first battle at the age of ten years and three months. Two weeks later, he had made his first kill.
I hated how it made me feel. I never told Iona about it because I dinnae want her to look at me differently.
When the battles started, Iona would sometimes be alone for days at a time. Months passed, and she got more and more withdrawn. He had no idea how long she’d already been sick by the time of that fateful day he came home and found her collapsed on the floor.
“Help me, Ivor,” she’d begged once he’d roused her. “I feel so weak.”
He’d begged the commander to help him, but the army doctor had taken one look at the sores on her skin and the fever on her brow and shook his head. “The lass is a goner, son. Ye’d be best to let her die before we all take ill as well.”
Ivor couldn’t accept that. The commander warned him that if he left, he’d be a wanted man, boy or not, but Ivor didn’t care.
Me sister was – is – the only important thing.
