The three boys, a few years older than him and much bigger, strode away laughing.
Someday he’d show them. Loki swore it on his mother’s unknown name.
The Parapets, many years later.
Castle Curanta, winter, 1319
Loki Grant sat on a stool on the parapets. While the biting wind made his eyes water, the glistening there was from more than the wind. His face fell into his hands and he set his elbows on his knees and allowed the tears to fall freely.
The door opened and one of his cherished grandsons, Ketill, stuck his head around the corner. “Grandda, Da is looking for you.”
Loki lifted his head and let out a long breath between his pursed lips. “Tell your da I’ll be down in a bit.”
“’Tis cold up here, Grandda.”
“It is, but I’m fine.” He turned to gaze at the young lad of seven years, about the age he’d been when Brodie Grant had found him hiding behind a tree in Ayr.
“Grandda, are you crying? Why?” Ketill moved over and set his hands on his grandsire’s knee and leaned in closer to take a good look at the tears dampening his cheeks.
“’Tis from the wind, Ketill.”
Ketill studied him a wee bit longer, then said, “Nay, I think they’re true tears. Is it because of Great-Grandda Brodie?”
Loki wasn’t about to lie to the lad. He knew the truth of all that had happened. The messenger had arrived two nights ago to tell them that his father, Brodie Grant, had passed away in his sleep at Muir Castle, leaving his dear mother, Celestina, heartbroken.
He nodded and said, “Aye. I miss him already.”
Ketill, sticking to the important facts of life as he knew them, said, “He was nearly ninety winters old. Do you not think that is old? He’s the only one that old, is he not?”
“Aye. Uncle Robbie and Aunt Caralyn, Uncle Alex and Aunt Maddie have all passed on. Aunt Brenna is a few years younger. Aunt Jennie is much younger. She’s still in her seventh decade. And then there’s Uncle Logan.” He had to think about that one for a bit. How old was the old warrior? He had to be close to ninety.
“How old is he?”
“I don’t think anyone truly knows.”
Ketill looked over his shoulder and whispered, “I dinnae think Uncle Logan will ever die. Do you?”
Loki chuckled and said, “Someday he will.” He reached for the lad and settled him on his lap, hoping to warm him, but these days, the young ones warmed him.
Ketill scowled and stared at him. “So why do you cry so?”
“Lad, my memories are haunting me. The mind does odd things sometimes.”
Ketill stared up at his beloved grandsire. “Good memories or bad ones?”
Loki chuckled, the child wiser than he ever was. “Both.”
The lad scrunched his face up the way he did when he had to think hard. “From the time you lived in the crate? Howdidyoulive in a crate? I would not know how to do that. It would be cold, would it not?”
“Cold and hard and hungry. That’s what it’s like living in a crate. Do you have time for a wee tale or two, lad?”
Ketill nodded, grabbing the fur across Loki’s lap and moving it over his legs, snuggling underneath. “I love your tales, Grandda. Especially the ones about the battles.”
“This is not quite about a battle. This is about an evil man. Shall I?”
“Aye, do tell.”
“When I was your age and I lived in the crate, every day I did the same things. I would run to the taverns to try to beg for scraps, then to a bakery to ask for a stale loaf of bread, then I would go to the center of town to see what was transpiring near the king’s castle. After that, I would go check on a lass I called Missy Angel.”
