A man knelt in the middle of the room, hunched over, chin to his chest. He wasn’t tied up, as far as Una could see, but then light glinted off a chain, cuffed around one wrist and snaking across the earth to where it was fixed to the wall. It was a rough-looking chain, rusted and chipped. Would it hold him?
He glanced up at Una as she approached, and old, cold anger flooded through her.
“Remember me?” she said aloud. “Do ye remember dragging me up from the kitchens to show me off to my brother? Do ye remember warning Kai that if he stepped out of line, my life would be forfeit? Do ye remember that?”
He swayed ever so slightly, blinking slowly like a cat. He was covered in blood, a good deal of it his own, and his clothing was torn in places. As far as she could tell, however, he had no mortal injuries.
It was strange to think that behind that mask of dirt, blood, and despair lurked a handsome man. Una had caught glimpses of him before, in Keep Dickson. Somehow, Una had never imagined him as a man of her own age. She was twenty, and he was said to be three years older. He was dark-haired, like her, and lots of the women in the Keep fluttered over him. Respectfully, of course, and from a distance. They’d no more risk approaching him than they would risk approaching a mad dog.
His eyes, cold and blue, gleamed at her, catching the light.
“Nay,” he said coolly. “I remember yer brother, but I don’t remember ye.”
Una gave up. That was clearly a lie, but that wasn’t her problem.
“Where is he being taken?” she asked the man in charge.
The Grahame soldier sniffed. “Dunno. Off for execution, I imagine. They’ll want to make an example of him.”
Una gave a wry smile. “Oh, he’s not being executed. Not yet, at least.”
The man flinched. “What? That can’t be right.”
She shrugged. “He’s more useful dead than alive, eh?”
“What did ye say?”
It was another soldier who had spoken this time. This man was young, barely twenty by Una’s estimation. He was thin, growing a scruffy beard, and seemed to be trying to makehimself look bigger as he walked. His tartan was immaculate. There wasn’t even much mud on his boots.
“I said,” he repeated, more angrily, “What did yesay, lass?”
“Oy!” Janson snarled. “Don’t speak to her that way. Get back to yer post.”
The young soldier sneered at him. “I’ll speak to her how I like. Do ye have any idea, lass, who this man is? Do ye have any idea what he has done?”
She almost wanted to smile.
“Doye?” she shot back.
The young soldier did not seem to like this. He squared up to Una, face falling when he realized that she was taller than him.
“He deserves death,” he whispered. “Ye have no idea what he has done?”
“Don’t I?” Una whispered back. “Lad, I do not have the luxury of forgetting.”
The soldier stared at her, then glanced at the others. His Grahame Captain seemed uncomfortable.
“Come on now, lad,” he muttered. “Back to yer post.”
There was a breathless moment of silence. Then the young soldier bit out a curse and yanked out a knife from his belt.
“If none of ye have the courage to do what must be done,” he spat, “then I shall.”
He raced into the croft, the blade glittering. Una cried out, her limbs too tired and heavy to work as quickly as they should. The soldier advanced on Struan Dickson and raised the knife into the air.
Struan moved like lightning. He surged to his feet, the chain clanking. He jerked his arm, and the chain struck the young soldier full across the face with a sickeningcrack. The man gave a muffled cry and tumbled to the ground in a spray of blood.
Commotion erupted at once. The Grahame soldiers poured into the croft, aiming swords at Struan as they dragged their comrade away.
