Page 8 of Highland Prince of Darkness

Chapter Three

The ride to the McIver’s castle didn’t tire Iain out as much as he had thought it would. His body seemed driven with only one purpose; getting there. It didn’t seem to matter if the wind pushed sheets of rain against the traveling party. The horses were becoming quite reluctant to continue on when the terrain became too treacherous too. However, many hours later, they arrived at the gates to the once familiar land that Iain had loved.

From the exterior, it looked the same as the day that he had fled, although, he was sure that the people inside would show the years that he had missed. Six years of his life he had spent away, but this didn’t feel like he was coming home.

The castle up ahead was dark and looming against the pale grey blanket of clouds behind it, the stone made even darker in the wet weather. Iain had always felt safe with the position of the McIver’s stronghold; tucked neatly between two hills and rising up on to high enough ground that it would give them the upper hand should they ever face an attack.

“Nervous, lad?” Bruce muttered from his side, as they sat on horseback, waiting at the gates.

Iain had often told his guardian that he didn’t get nervous, that he didn’t know fear, and that he simply wasn’t capable of feeling such things. However, Iain knew that he was lying, and he was sure that Bruce knew too.

“Nae, I just never thought that I would see this place again, let alone be welcomed back.”

He wasn’t lying, he just wasn’t going to admit that he felt anxious at the thought of seeing May again.

She filled him with such anger and loathing when he thought about the path she had pushed him onto. However, he couldn’t deny that the thought of her also caused his heart to pound with a sensation that he hadn’t properly felt in years. Iain’s stomach fluttered with excitement at the thought of laying his eyes on her again.

He shoved the feeling aside and grit his teeth as the gates opened. They slowly moved inside, a large party representing the McAlister clan for all the townsfolk to see.

They rode through the center of the town as a group. Iain felt as though the idea of representing the clan had been ingrained into him ever since he had first been taken in by Bruce. But it was moments like these where it applied the most. He held his head high, yet he still let his eyes scan over the familiar buildings around them. The blacksmiths to his right was a place that he had once ran around and circled while trying to dodge the guards on patrol. He would sneak up the alleys and pass unnoticed through the streets, all in an attempt to get into the castle and see May.

As a soldier, he had once been able to freely move in and out of the castle without any worry, but as soon as word reached Alistair of their affair, he had been banned. Iain grit his teeth at the memory and glanced down at the butcher’s and baker’s houses. People were waiting outside for their turn to purchase meat and bread that he had never been able to afford. George Ferguson’s son could now be seen from the window, he must be around twenty years old, but he had been no more than a lad when Iain had last seen him. It seemed that he had since taken over his father’s business.

Iain caught the baker’s eye as he stood in the doorway to survey the new arrivals. He could see the shock and confusion that registered on his face before eventually the clouds of his expression seemed to clear and make way for casual recognition. This was a pattern that seemed to fall onto many of the townspeople that Iain recognized. He was a face from the past that they hadn’t expected to resurface.

By the time that they arrived inside the bailey of the castle, Iain’s grip on his reigns caused his knuckles to turn white

To catch even a flash of her skirts or dark hair, it caused Iain to shudder. The wind, he told himself, the wind was creating that chill.

He followed Bruce’s lead as he dismounted from his horse, enabling a flurry of stable hands to get to work at once with leading the horses away. It was as though the courtyard came alive all at once; people were gathered for the anticipated arrival of the man who they knew as Diabhal, the man who had come to take the Laird’s only heir.

Guards were positioned in formation outside the castle and stood to attention as the small procession moved from one of the main doors out of the structure. Iain knew those halls well; he had once walked around them as a free man, he knew his way through every crevice of the castle that now stood around of him.

Bruce stood to Iain’s left and they both watched as a feeble-looking Laird emerged from the group of people in front of them. Iain quickly realized that the years hadn’t been kind to the Laird, his health was fleeting and had evidently taken a toll on his appearance.

The Alistair McIver in his memory was bolder, stood a little taller, and was a completely different person from the shell of a man that stood before them. His hair, which had once been rich and dark with its deep, brown color, now blew with the wind. White whisps of grey also speckled his hair, marks of the years that had passed. Iain felt the slightest pang of pity tugging at his heart, but it was quickly burnt away by the thoughts of what Alistair had done to him. After all, it was he who had been the one to separate May and Iain all those years ago. He was the one that had imprisoned Iain.

But sickness was slowly ebbing at him, it was difficult to look at Alistair and think that he was the leader of a strong clan when he himself was so weak.

Iain waited patiently for the older man to properly look up and take in the situation in front of him. There was a moment of delay before the realization hit him quite hard. Iain held his chin up, his shoulders down, and pushed out his chest, projecting an aura of strength and power that Alistair had no chance of reciprocating.

“Ye,” Alistair whispered under his breath.

“So good to see ye again, Alistair. I’m glad to speak with ye in person after all this time, instead of just through letters,” Bruce stepped forward to speak.

“This must be some kind of trick,” the Laird muttered, and glanced behind him at his clueless advisors.

“Nae, there isn’t trickery at play here. This is my ward, known as Diabhal by many, but I feel that ye may better ken him as Iain.”

Alistair’s eyes locked with Iain’s. The younger man narrowed his eyes slightly as he suppressed the anger rising up within him. There was something in the old Laird’s eyes that shifted as he understood the situation more clearly; it resembled fear.

“This is nae joke?”

“I couldnae jest about somethin’ so important,” Iain said, and shook his head. He kept his voice calm and light, not wanting to allude to his true intentions, especially with so many eyes on him.

“Let’s take this conversation to the great hall, shall we?” Alistair spoke in a slightly lower voice. Bruce nodded and followed the older Laird’s instructions. Iain shivered as they stepped inside the castle. The halls were flocked with servants, but Alistair made sure that they were to be the only three in the great hall.

“How have ye done this, boy?” Alistair turned to him and asked, almost as soon as the doors were closed. Iain could see the anger in the Laird’s eyes, it was blazing like the torches in their brackets on the wall. However, Iain was too preoccupied with looking around at the familiar room that he hadn’t thought he’d ever see again.