Elvira drew her neck back and regarded him with an icy stare, but this coldness was not meant for him, it was meant for the man who had started all this; Laird McKovac himself.
“Rory, while I appreciate that ye hae put yeself in danger for me, I dinnae need ye tae protect me. I hae been surrounded by danger my entire life. I hae seen friends and family be hunted by Laird McKovac’s men. I hae seen our homes burned. I hae skulked away in the night hiding from his patrols. My Da died at the hands of his men. I hae always known fear and danger. It hae been a part of my life, sae this is nae new tae me. It is the curse of every Romani tae know that a fate like this is likely, yet still, we live. Still, we thrive. Still, we dae everything we can tae survive. I am nae afraid of the Laird because he is a cruel, petty man whose heart is twisted with rage. There is nae joy in his life. No matter how many Romani he kills, he will still be bitter, a hollow husk of a man. He is nae even a ghost. I am nae gaeing tae waste my time being afraid of him. I only fear what may happen tae my people. But, as long as I am being held against my will, it means that others of my kind are free. I will take the punishment if it means they can be saved. And when I stand before Laird McKovac I will look in his eyes and he will nae see me cower in fear. He will nae hear me beg for my life. I am a Romani, and while we are intimately familiar with death, we dinnae fear it from men likeMcKovac. I will nae give him the satisfaction. He might kill me, but he will nae win. I promise ye that.”
Her words dripped with determination. She was tenacious and unflappable, and she meant every single word she spoke. The Laird had set many things in motion. People had died by actions carried out by men under his command, and this atmosphere of hatred and prejudice had festered under his rule. However, he was the one at the heart of it all and while Elvira had always been scared about what could happen, she was not scared of the man himself. The worst he could do to her was take her life, and she had been prepared for that a long time ago.
Elvira could feel her heart hardening inside her, becoming like stone. Rory’s lips were parted. He didn’t know what to say. Perhaps there was nothing he could say. He started to reach out to her with a tender hand, but then they heard the sound of guards stomping towards them. One of them took out a key and unlocked the door. Rory stood up, facing them.
“It’s time for ye tae come with us,” the guard said.
“We are nae gaeing anywhere,” Rory said defiantly.
“Dinnae be stupid,” the guard said. Another man came up and struck Rory across the face, his fist moving so swiftly that Rory did not get a chance to defend himself. Rory cried out, more from shock than pain, cradling his face. Elvira pushed herself up and went to his side, inspecting the blow. Thankfully, there would be no lasting damage.
“Come on, the Laird is waiting,” the guard said.
“We will nae make any trouble,” Elvira replied.
The guard snorted. “Aye, fine words coming from ye. Ye people always make trouble,” he said. Elvira scowled at him. The hatred in his words was so casual. There was no shame from any of them. Before Elvira left, she let the cloak fall from her shoulders, leaving it in the dungeon. She was tired of hiding her face. If they were going to mock her and torture her, then theywould have to see her for what she was. They would witness the pride on her face and the resolute expression. She would show them that she could handle death better than any of them could handle life, and perhaps, through her efforts, she could shame them into seeing themselves.
Elvira and Rory did not exchange a word as they were led up from the dungeons, through winding hallways, towards a great hall. Elvira’s heart thumped in her chest, but her face belied none of her fear. Her expression was placid, and she tried to make herself as cold as the stones that had been used to build this keep.
The guards opened the sturdy doors of the great hall. There were feasting tables arranged around the room, as well as copious amounts of alcohol. There was a stale smell lingering in the hall, hinting at the revelry that stained the air. At the end of the hall, Laird McKovac sat on his throne, a man who looked as though he had been carved out of granite. His face had a deathly pallor, while he was draped in thick black cloaks that hid his physique. He was flanked by his advisors and his son, Hamish. Elvira looked in Hamish’s direction, but could not discern anything from his face. She feared that his rebellion had been a lie all along, a way to give people false hope that things might change.
As soon as they entered the hall, Rory sidled past her, trying to put himself in between her and the laird. Elvira appreciated his efforts, but knew they were futile. The Laird was obsessed with Romani people. As they walked forward, the guards pushed past her as well to draw Rory back. They grabbed him and tore him away, pushing him aside. Elvira maintained her composure, not wanting to show any sign of weakness. She feared that if she showed concern for Rory, then Laird McKovac might prey on that, might hurt Rory to get at her. Next to him was a youngerman, the spitting image of his father, but a much kinder aura emanate from him; Hamish.
“Bring this mongrel tae me,” Laird McKovac said, beckoning Elvira forward with a bony finger. The nail at the end was long and yellow. Wispy white hair fell about his face. His eyes were beady, like a hawk. Elvira stepped forward and met his gaze, wanting to show that she was not daunted by his presence. As she came closer, Laird McKovac’s expression changed. His eyes widened, as though he had seen a ghost. His mouth parted, revealing yellowed teeth and a black abyss. He pointed to Elvira, trembling. At first, she thought it was anger, but she quickly realized it was fear.
“Ye… this cannae be!” he cried, and then leaned forward, perching on the edge of his throne. One more inch, and he would have toppled off. “Nae,” the breath rushed out of him. “Maria… it cannae be ye… Maria. Ye look just like ye did back… ah, ye devil woman! Ye witch! Release me from this curse,release me!”
His tone turned from low to desperate in an instant, as though some force possessed him. He lunged forward, pushing himself from his throne and falling to his knees. He clasped his hands together and looked up at Elvira, haunting desperation in his eyes.
“Please, Maria. I hae suffered… oh how I hae suffered. Ye must release me from this terrible curse. Please, I am begging ye,” he croaked, and muttered insane, unintelligible words that barely made any sense. His advisors ran forward and grabbed him, hauling him back to the throne. He was still babbling, talking about how Maria had haunted him for years, how he had been unable to sleep because of the curse. He was shaking terribly, and at that moment Elvira realized that she held all the power. It wasn’t her who needed to be afraid of the Laird at all. Rather, he was afraid of her.
19
Maria…
The name echoed in Elvira’s mind. She had always been told that she bore a striking resemblance to her mother. Now she understood that when the Laird looked at her, he did not see Elvira, but her mother. She had not expected to have this effect on him, but her mind worked quickly to take advantage of the situation.
“Get off me!” Laird McKovac yelled, pushing his advisors away. Hamish was still unmoved. The Laird turned his attention back to Elvira. “For years ye hae tasked me. The words ye left burrowed in my mind, and I hae never been able tae forget them. All of this… all of this is yer fault!” he rasped. He pointed a finger at his skull, and then clenched his fist, bringing it crashing to the arm of his throne. “Maria, lift this curse. Stop this torment. I need peace… peace! I need it now. Ye dinnae know what ye hae done tae me. For years, I hae searched for ye and now… now that ye are in my presence again… I implore ye, free me from these shackles.”
Elvira quickly understood what must have happened, why her parents had fled these lands in the first place. They hadalways been coy about the true reasons, but now she saw. She could see every aspect of the way Laird McKovac looked at her. The fear, the anger, and the desire. Was all his hatred really borne from being spurned by her mother? Elvira knew she had two choices; either she could deny his words and tell him the truth, or she could play into his delusion. She chose the latter, thinking it might be the only way to navigate a conversion with his cracked mind.
“I will free ye, as long as ye swear tae stop this cruelty tae my people. Let us live freely. Abandon all ye plans of war, against us and the neighboring clans. Give us all peace,” Elvira said, drawing her head back. For a moment, she felt the spirit of her mother flow through her heart.
Laird McKovac snarled and sneered. “Ye are just the same as ye always were, speaking of peace,” he spat. “There can be nae peace! Ye need tae break the curse. There is nae other way!” McKovac said.
Without knowing exactly what the curse was, Elvira could do nothing more. The curse wouldn’t have any truth to it anyway. Maria must have played upon the Laird’s superstition and tricked him.
“I cannae break the curse, only ye can dae it. Dinnae ye see the curse that hae plagued this land? All of this death and horror, all of this fear… that is the real curse, and it comes from ye,” Elvira pointed at the Laird. “Ye hae the power tae stop it, by declaring peace here and now, by bringing yer guards back tae the keep and ordering them tae sheath their weapons, by proclaiming that Romani people are welcome in yer lands again.”
“Nae…nae!” the Laird frothed at the mouth as he beat his fists against the throne. He rocked side to side, and the throne moved with him. His eyes were manic, the whites of them wide, the pupils two small dots that were focused upon Elvira. “Ye toldme I could be free. Ye told me…ye need tae fix this, Maria. Ye need tae save me. I cannae gae on like this. I cannae live!”
“I cannae break the curse, but I can read yer palm. Let me give ye a glimpse intae yer future and to help ye see the right course of action,” Elvira said, hoping that if the Laird bought into these superstitions, she might be able to guide him towards making a sensible decision. While she found the idea of touching him revolting, she knew it was necessary in order to save her people.
The Laird’s head dropped upon hearing her words. Everything went silent for a moment. Then, a sound of dread laughter emanated from him. There was a crazed look upon his face as he slowly lifted his gaze. He was not a man who possessed sanity any longer, and it was no wonder that his clan had fallen into such disarray. He had been driven mad a long time ago, mad by a woman’s words. He laughed as he lifted his palms and showed them to Elvira, revealing charred flesh. The skin of his palms and fingers was mottled by fire, all the lines that were used as a guide burned away, with nothing left.
“Never again,” he hissed. “Never again will ye lie tae me! I thought if I could get rid of these lines then it might free me from the curse, but it dinnae work. I thought driving ye all from my land would free me, but that dinnae work either! Now there is only one thing left. If ye refuse tae help me, then there is only one way I can free myself from the curse, and it’s tae take the heart of the woman who placed the curse upon me. The only way I can be free is tae kill ye,” his eyes flashed intensely as he left his throne again. He made a dramatic gesture, pushing his cloak away. He reached for his sword, which was as bony and thin as his own body, but it was still deadly. He held it like a needle, ready to jab it at her, and he lunged forward. Elvira’s eyes went wide with fear. There was nothing more she could say to the man, no reasoning with him, no bargaining with him. Hewas convinced that this curse that addled his mind could only be resolved by killing the woman he thought to be Maria. He roared, deaf and blind to anything except Elvira.
