Oath of the Outcast
Date: 2019-07-23 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Adventure; Christian; Christian Fiction; New Adult; Historical Fiction; High Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Medieval; Fiction
Description: A lost brother. An unwilling outlaw. A rising enemy. An unusual alliance. Years ago, Rhys MacDuffy was brutally cut off from his clan, stripped of his name and inheritance, and banished to the remote Dragon Keep. Perched high above the Shang Pass in the land of Alsaya, he assumed the mantle of the Mountain Baron, serving out his sentence as the overseer of the worst outlaws and outcasts. But one day he receives a desperate message from the clan who disowned him: MacDuffy’s Seer—his beloved brother—has been taken by their enemies. With his band of Mountain Brigands and an unwelcome sidekick, Rh
Publisher: Crosshair Press

C.M. BANSCHBACH

Crosshair Press LLC

P.O. Box 154

Haven, KS 67543
www.CrosshairPress.com

Copyright © 2019 C.M. Banschbach

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior
written permission.

First edition July 2019

CROSSHAIR PRESS brand and logo
are trademarks of Crosshair Press LLC

Interior design by Studio 1212 (www.studio1212.us)

Cover design by Magpie Designs, Ltd.

To the lost, the lonely,
the dispossessed

Other Works

C.M Banschbach (New Adult)

The Dragon Keep Chronicles series

Oath of the Outcast

Blood of the Seer (Coming Soon!)

Claire M. Banschbach (Middle Grade/Young Adult)

The Rise of Aredor series

The Rise of Aredor

The Wildcat of Braeton

The Faeries of Myrnius series

Adela’s Curse

The Wolf Prince

Winter Spell (Coming Soon!)

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Coming Soon

Glossary

Acknowledgements

Other Titles from Crosshair Press

About the Author

About Crosshair Press

Chapter 1

MacDuffy’s Seer has been taken.

Gloomy fog clung to the mountain’s slope, obscuring the Mountain Baron’s vision past twenty yards. Rocks and desperate shrubs loomed before him only to fade away as quickly as they had appeared. Draco’s thick hooves echoed dully off the mountain path. The leathers, protected by oil, beaded with moisture. There were no spare bits of harness to make extra noise, but even if there were, he didn’t fear an attack here.

He adjusted his seat as the shaggy, black mountain horse slid a step down an incline and snorted in irritation at losing his footing. The clustering pines and spruce began to spread further from the path, another reminder that the highlands were behind them. A glimmer of sunlight broke through the fog before it was swallowed back up, the way life seemed to allow a glimpse of hope before concealing it yet again.

He tugged at the high collar of his leather jerkin. Seven years he’d been content to remain in the mountains, carving out his own form of justice. But the summons had upset the fragile balance he’d maintained over the memories of his past. Draco jerked at the sudden tightness of the reins, and he apologized with a light tap to its neck.

“MacDuffy’s Seer has been taken.”

The words taunted him. The chieftain of the seven northern clans was playing a dangerous game sending a message to him of all people. The one person in Alsaya who couldn’t do anything.

“Chieftain MacTavish requests you return to speak with Laird MacDuffy and gives you permission to return to the Seer’s family.”

That last part of the message might have been a peace offering. Visiting the Seer’s family, being able to see them all again—he wasn’t ready. Even if he were, they might not be.

This is a mistake. He rubbed at the scar that ran a jagged line from below his right eye to his jawline.

He reined in, and half turned Draco back up the path toward the mountains, where the Dragon Keep kept stately watch over the barren highlands.

But Sean’s been taken.

Sean, Seer of Clan MacDuffy, once his closest friend. His—

No, not my brother. Not anymore.

Draco shook his coarse mane in the damp, still air, snorting impatiently. Return to the clan or return to the keep, the horse didn’t care as long as they moved.

Brother or not, outcast or not, the only way left was forward.

Sean might not be his brother anymore, but he would still do anything for him, whether it meant returning to the Clan or facing the rest of his—no, Sean’s—family.

The Mountain Baron directed his horse down the trail to the lowlands, nudging him up to a walk with a muttered curse.

By the time the mountain trail ended and the road to the lowlands of Alsaya had begun, the fog had lifted, slowly, grudgingly as though nature were determined to keep him in the dark. The sun hovered well into the sky. Draco shook any remaining moisture out of his mane and obediently increased his pace to a trot.

The light had begun to fade into the long shadows of evening when he came to the edge of the farmlands he remembered. A tall hill covered in tumbled chunks of granite— once perfect for children to wage mock-battles— rose up in the distance. Low wooden fences branded with the crest of Dermot, the Seer’s father, ran alongside the road, separating the dirt path from lush fields and farmhouses. The brand’s inlaid circles, cut through with a vertical line, had once been stamped on the Baron’s own gear, but that had been seven years ago before his exile.

The hills, the farmland, the mark—they used to be his whole world. Not anymore.

Now, a brand like a coiled dragon marked his armor and tack, a symbol all of Alsaya had come to know. The mark of the Dragon Keep, the mark of the Mountain Baron.

A young boy playing on the side of the road watched him as he rode up the path. A knot formed in the Baron’s chest at the sight of the unruly thatch of hair, the narrow features that promised mischief. Sean had looked like that as a child.

The Baron pulled Draco to a halt, and the small boy ran toward the straw-thatched farm buildings, shouting for his mother.

A dark-haired woman emerged from the barn with a pail in her hand. “What is it, Art?” Her tired voice rang against the darkening sky, still beautiful even in weariness.

The boy clung to her skirts and pointed at him, chewing his lip nervously, and the woman froze with white-knuckled hands on the pail.

The Baron dismounted and strode toward them, reins in one hand, the other hand resting against the hilt of his sword.

The woman pushed the boy behind her. “Who are you? What do you—?” She trailed off, her gaze sweeping up over the Baron. A gasp escaped her lips, and the bucket clattered to the ground, spilling water across the dirt. “Rhys? Is that you?” Her wide eyes filled with shock and a touch of fear.

He halted at the name. It had been years since he’d heard it.

“Sarah.” His voice rasped. The scar that traced the left half of his throat had long ago stolen any softness from his voice. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The woman stooped slowly to retrieve her pail. “That is has. Why are you here?” A bit of hardness edged her voice as she darted a glance around as if making sure she hadn’t been caught saying his name or speaking to him.

Another child tottered out of the barn to grab hold of her skirts—blue eyed, with a headful of dusky red curls. There was only one place she could have gotten that hair. The knot in his chest wound tighter, blocking his breath for a moment. I should have known. He nodded at the girl.

“You and—Sean then?” He forced the words past the deeper rasp in his throat.

“Yes, we married about six years back.” She crossed her arms, the hardness settling across her shoulders. “You didn’t seem to care enough to make it to the wedding, so why are you here now?”

His jaw clenched. She knew why he couldn’t come. “I’m here about Sean.”

“What, you think you can get him back? What makes you think you can?” Despair leached into her sarcastic laugh.

The sound stirred unease in his heart. How powerful is this lord that took him? And how long has Sean been gone?

“You know what I’ll do for him,” he said.

She looked away, lips pressed together as she rested a hand on her daughter’s head. He caught an extra blink in her eyes before she nodded and met his gaze again, a bit of relief lingering in her expression. They’d grown up together. She’d remember the bond between him and Sean, the people they’d been before the Sea Wars had begun and taken Rhys away.

“They won’t welcome you back here.” Her hand flicked up the path.

“They sent for me,” he said. “Looks like they’ll have to invite me back under the roof for one night at least.”

Sarah softened a fraction, a bit of pity glimmering in her eyes. “It’s almost time for supper. We’ll walk you up there.”

He inclined his head in acceptance and waited while she ushered the children toward the farmhouse. They spilled back out moments later, faces wiped clean, and cloaks tucked around them. Sarah firmly shut the door of the farmhouse and wrapped the blue-and-yellow checkered cloak of MacDuffy around her shoulders. It seemed out of place on her. His last memories of her were in the green-and-red checkered cloth of MacGaffrey.

Sarah’s children clung to her hands as they turned back onto the road.

“We’ve eaten at the Talam’s house most nights since Sean’s been gone,” she said.

“How long since he was taken?”

“Almost two months now.” Her voice caught.

He clenched a fist. Two months and they’re only just now doing something?

“When’s Dada coming home?” The girl turned her face up at Sarah and tugged at her fingers.

“Your uncle has come to see about bringing him home.” Sarah squeezed her hand.

At the word uncle, the boy turned a quick, inquisitive look up at Rhys. Rhys cleared his throat in remonstrance at the title. Sarah sent him a frigid glare, daring him to correct her.

The girl sighed and looked down at her small feet. “I miss him.”

“I know you do, darling. We all do.” Sarah lifted her daughter into her arms.

The girl regarded Rhys with solemn blue eyes. “Can you bring him home soon?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” For once he was glad of the rasp in his voice. “What happened, Sarah?”

She stared ahead, her jaw tensing slightly. “Sean had gone out early that morning to tend to the animals. I was gathering eggs from the coops behind the barn when I heard hoofbeats and shouts.” Her voice shook. “I ran around to see some strangers trying to take Sean. He—he was fighting back as well as he could, but there were too many of them. The lads that had been helping us with the spring planting weren’t there yet. I tried to get to him, but they shoved me away. The children woke up with the noise, and I had to try and keep them inside.” She pressed a hand against her stomach, steadying herself again. “There was nothing I could do by myself.”

“What do they know?” Rhys gestured to the children.

“I just told them that Sean had to leave for a while. I didn’t want to scare them more than they already were.”

The steep path leveled off, and the boy ran ahead to the two-storied wooden house that rose at the end. Dermot, the man Rhys had once called father, was the Talam of these lands, a steward to the Laird. He oversaw the farmers who housed on the land. But that was nothing to who he’d once been to Rhys. A firm, guiding hand. Advice when he was troubled. Quiet, unspoken pride in a task he’d done well. Pride, even when he’d taken up the sword and put aside the plough.

What will he think of me now? What have they heard about me? The thought was enough to kill the faint hope that whatever lay beyond the doors would be anything other than rejection.

Rhys took his time tethering Draco at the hitching post, studying the familiar barn and open fields. He’d once known every corner, every inch of the place.

I’m not supposed to be here. He angrily shoved childhood memories away and followed Sarah inside.

He stopped just over the threshold, fighting to keep more memories at bay. A large common room took up most of the house. A staircase rose against the wall opposite the door, leading to an upper loft and family bedrooms. Heavy beams held up the thatched roof, the wood darkened with age and smoke.

A long table stretched the length of the room, filled with tenants from the farms. There had always been guests at the Talam’s table. The evening meal was just being laid out. Rhys recognized most of the farmers sitting around the table. But no one had yet noticed him as he remained frozen in the doorway. Sarah paused at the head of the table to kiss Dermot’s cheek as Lomán, the Talam’s brother, helped settle the children into chairs.

Rhys forced himself a step forward and flinched as the one loose floorboard creaked under his boot. Heads turned and conversations trickled to a halt. Eyes widened in recognition, most expressions turning then to surprise or disgust. They saw him as a shame upon their Talam.

The Talam’s eyes widened in shock, and he stared at Rhys for a long moment. Rhys stared back in something like desperation, fear pulsing in his chest that they’d turn on him with hate and cast him out again.

“What are you doing here?” Dermot growled as he set his beaker down with a thump. He hadn’t changed very much over the years, maybe a little bit more grey in his hair, but the same gruff voice and sharp brown eyes that caught every detail.

Rhys tensed his jaw as the response stabbed through him. “Ask yourself that. You summoned me.”

“I didn’t want you here. MacTavish ordered it. He wanted you to go after Sean instead of sending his warriors. Said it’ll cause war if we ride after him.” Dermot clenched and unclenched his hand, a little of the loss and betrayal that Rhys knew all too well in his voice. “That dialan outsider rode in here and stole him as if he were free for the taking!”

Rhys’s anger flared up again, at the Talam’s rejection, at the clan for waiting to even try to rescue Sean. “Do you want me to find your son, or would you rather I start a war to prove a point?”

“He’s still your blood!” Dermot slammed his palm against the table.

“If it comes to war, the MacDuffys have always known how to fight,” Lomán spoke up.

“We don’t need a war,” Dermot said. “Apparently our sons can only coat themselves in dishonor in wars.” He stared at Rhys who clenched his fist in anger.

Does he truly believe the stories?

“I didn’t come here to be insulted,” Rhys said. “You wanted me, and here I am.”

“You have no home here. You can bring my son back without shattering the country. That’s all I have to say to you. Go meet with Laird Brogan and plan with him. You can leave now.” Dermot drank again, looking away from Rhys, not quite disguising the sudden brightness in his eyes or the way his jaw clenched as if to hold back more words.

“He’s not leaving yet.” A woman’s voice, quiet, but firm, interrupted from the door to the kitchens. “I want a few words with my son.”

A new lump rose in his throat at the sight of the woman. Ciara MacDuffy, the Talam’s wife, hadn’t changed much in the seven years since he’d last seen her. She stood as strong and tall as ever, greying hair swept into a loose braid. Her hands clutched the apron tied around her waist. A faint quiver of her chin belied the previous calmness of her words.

“You’ll not call him that!” Dermot growled, still looking down at the table. “You know the laws, Ciara.” His gaze flicked up enough to reveal the pain that laced his voice, enough to show that maybe he didn’t truly mean his harsh words. Rhys’s heart twisted, and he shoved away the hope. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t staying.

Ciara beckoned to Rhys, and he strode towards her. She took his arm and led him into the kitchens. Behind him, Dermot roughly called for more ale.

Ciara indicated a low table, and the maids made themselves scarce. He remembered the look in her eyes—kindness, compassion, love. A mother’s look.

He hadn’t had a mother in so long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

Her gaze lingered on his scarred face, cataloguing every change and every mark.

“How did it happen?” She briefly touched her own throat as she took a chair.

“Shaving accident.” He sat opposite her.

A smile flickered across her face. “You’re going to lie to me?”

He shrugged slightly. “It sounds better that way.” He didn’t want her to know how it really happened.

“You are a true MacDuffy.”

“Not anymore.” His voice hardened. “I’ve been dishonored. The clan can’t have anything to do with me.”

“There are some who don’t believe the stories or fear the legends of the Mountain Baron. Someday the clans will realize the truth too and let those of us proud enough, call you family again.” She tilted her chin up, but the defiance wasn’t enough to hide the sadness in her eyes.

“I’ll be laughing when that day comes, because it won’t be anytime soon.”

“What really happened?” She reached for his hand. “Did you really--”

Rhys pulled away. “Try to kill the prince? They say I did, so I did.”

“They never proved it.”

“But they needed someone to blame.”

“So why are you still alive?” Her hand rested on the table as if ready to reach out to him again. “If you killed the prince, they should have killed you.”

“One laird thought he was doing me a great mercy by convincing them to spare my life.” Unlike the laird he’d trusted, who had done nothing.

“I’m grateful he did.”

Rhys curled his lip in a sneer. “You’d be the only one then.”

“Rather dead than dishonored?” She shook her head, her fingertips pressing against the table’s smooth grain.

“My name is a curse in the south.” Rhys fisted his hand on the tabletop. “I’m a glorified executioner for the men who are cutting this country apart. My own father only sent for me—” He jerked his hand away, cursing his lapse. Not my father. “I was only summoned here to do the work the clans are too afraid to do. It’s perfectly clear how they think of me.”

“Don’t take Dermot’s words to heart. He spoke against bringing you here only because he knew how hard it would be to see you again after—” She glanced at her hands, twining her fingers together before meeting his gaze. “We’ve all missed you. I’m glad you came, son.”

“Your son is a captive.” Rhys shoved back from the table and stood. “I’ll save him, only because I remember our bond. And I look after my own.”

Ciara grasped the cuff of his sleeve, her fingers twisted into the rough fabric. “Lord Adam is a dangerous man. Be careful.” Her gentle blue eyes pleaded with him. “But please bring my son back.”

The pull of her hand shook the stone around his heart. His voice rasped deeper as he forced the words out. “You know I will.”

A small smile eased some of the lines around her eyes.  “Come back to us when you’re done. I’ll keep praying for you as I have since the day you left.”

“Pray?” He scoffed and pulled out of her hands. “To who? Your just and merciful god? He’s just a pretty story. He wasn’t on the battlefields, and he wasn’t around when I needed him the most. You can’t trust a god to do anything for you.”

She stood, new sadness deepening the lines around her eyes. “One day you’ll find yourself calling out to Him again.”

“Then I’ll be laughing on that day, too.” He turned and left her in the dim light behind him.

The common room had emptied of guests, likely sent away after his unexpected arrival. Rhys walked past Dermot toward the door. Sarah glared at the Talam. He stirred, setting his mug down on the table.

“Baron, wait!” he said.

Rhys stopped, his back to the table, and cast a glance over his shoulder to the Talam of Clan MacDuffy.

“I’ve sent for Brogan,” Dermot said. “He’ll be here in the morning to talk to you.”

New anger twisted in Rhys at the mention of the laird. He shifted toward the door again.

“So you might as well sit down and eat. I don’t want all this food to go to waste.”

Rhys paused, turning to regard him for a moment, remembering Ciara’s words. Dermot could never welcome Rhys as a son, no matter how much Rhys wanted it. Sitting down with him would only make it worse.

Dermot rested his hands against the table, and he watched Rhys with cautious hope. Sarah tilted her head, her expression pleading. Some of the tension released from Rhys’s shoulders. He shouldn’t.

I’m already here. Might as well. He wordlessly took a seat by Dermot, and Sarah filled a plate and beaker for him.

The two children stared at him across the table with wide and curious eyes.

“I didn’t know I had an uncle,” the boy piped up.

“You don’t,” Rhys growled. “But I suppose we’re even. I didn’t know Sean had children.”

“Why not?” The boy’s innocent question sent his hand back into a fist.

Dermot’s ale mug rattled against the table.

Rhys searched for an answer that wouldn’t bring his anger crashing over the boy. “I haven’t lived here for a long time, so your parents couldn’t tell me.”

“Why?”

“He’s got Sean’s talent for questions, doesn’t he?” Rhys turned to Sarah.

She smiled for a second then leaned toward her son. “Rhisiart, leave him alone. I’ll explain later.”

Rhisiart? The boy’s full name was Rhisiart?

Rhys shook his head. It was no accident the boy’s name mimicked his own so closely. That was Sean, indirectly naming his son after him.

“I just want to know how he got that scar,” Rhisiart whispered back, pointing to his own cheek.

“I’m willing to bet it was a shaving accident.” The corners of Dermot’s eye crinkled in faint amusement.

Rhys repressed a small smile as he drank. It was a long-running joke among Clan MacDuffy dating back a hundred years when one of their lairds had been attacked during his morning shave. The assassin had not survived. The laird did but came away with a fearsome scar on his face.

Dermot finished his ale and stood.

“I had the guest room prepared for you,” he told Rhys.

Rhys crumbled a bit of bread between his fingers. A guest. It was more than he had hoped for, but it still stung.

Dermot kissed his grandchildren and bid goodnight to his daughter-in-law, then left the room without another word.

“Your horse has been taken care of.” Sarah toyed with her napkin.

“Thank you,” Rhys replied.

A serving girl came in and began to clear the table. She seemed to be the bravest of the three who helped Ciara, surreptitiously watching Rhys out of the corner of her eye.

Sarah waited until the girl went back to the kitchen. “You’ve got a bit of a legend, don’t you?”

“It’s what every man dreams of, isn’t it?” Rhys pushed his plate away.

“Sean misses you, you know. We all do.”

“It wasn’t my choice to leave.” His voice rasped deeper and his hand threatened to break his beaker.

“He didn’t believe any of the news when it came.” She leaned forward as if desperate to reassure Rhys.

“A man can believe what he wants.”

“Did you really—do what they said you did?” Sarah asked, hesitation stumbling through her words. She hushed Rhisiart who looked too eager to try and ask another question of Rhys.

“There seemed enough proof that I did.”

She shook her head in frustration. “That’s not an answer.”

“My side of the story never mattered.” He crossed his arms on the table.

“Maybe it’s time you told your side.”

“It’s seven years too late for that.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “The clans already decided for me.”

“Why are you always so stubborn?” She slammed a fist against the table. “You should care enough to try and clear your name.”

“Enough, Sarah.” Rhys’s voice came harsh, and Sarah flinched. “You only heard it. I lived it. And I don’t want to live it again.”

He shoved away from the table and went to the room prepared for him.

Chapter 2

Rhys woke before dawn.

He dressed and went to the barn as the rest of the household began to stir. A light mist hung over the tops of the growing wheat stalks. A breeze brought the earthy smell of the fields toward him with a soft whisper. Somewhere over the hills, a cow lowed, waiting for breakfast. A rangy hound trotted around the corner of the barn and paused to regard him with curious eyes before loping off to beg for scraps from the kitchen door.

Seven years had changed nothing—and everything.

His sword slapped against his leg as he walked. He’d never been called to work the land; he’d answered the call of war eleven years earlier, and Rhys MacDuffy, eldest son of Dermot MacDuffy, had never really returned. Not in any way that mattered. The Sea Wars had seen to that.

His shaggy black horse stood next to the plough horses, happily crunching through a measure of oats. Draco raised his head and greeted his master with a nicker before going back to the bucket.

“Baron.”

Rhys turned to see Lomán, the Talam’s brother, in the door of the stables, hesitation marking the set of his shoulders. Like the night before, his face remained clear of any anger or disdain. That was something, at least.

“Here.” Lomán tossed Rhys some fresh bread and cheese. “I thought you might be avoiding breakfast.”

Rhys nodded his thanks. “That easy to tell?”

Lomán had always been the peacemaker in the family and the one most likely to ask about the last seven years without bringing up his banishment.

Lomán chuckled and leaned against the wall. “Life has seemed to treat you well as a Mountain Baron.”

“No better or worse than it always has,” Rhys lied. No need to reveal anything about life in the Dragon Keep. Besides, he had a feeling that whatever he said would be reported back to the Talam and his wife. “How’s your family?”

“Well enough. Peadar hasn’t let the loss of his hand stop him.”

“Good.”

Peadar hadn’t shared Rhys’s eagerness for war. He’d been conscripted because the clans needed men to fight. And Rhys had promised to look after him.

It was a bad habit.

Rhys nudged some straw from his boot. “If you’d be willing, tell him an old war comrade asked after him.”

“I will, lad.” Lomán crossed his arms, pushing away one of the barn cats that had come to curl around his boots. “And I don’t know if we ever told you how grateful we were to you for bringing him back alive from that war.”

“I promised him I’d get him home.”

Lomán sighed. “If only someone had done the same for you.”

Someone did, and then he turned on me. Rhys swallowed hard. “I was never very good at farming.”

Lomán’s weathered features slowly creased into a smile as if he hadn’t noticed the abruptness of Rhys’s words. “Well, from all accounts, you’re doing quite well up in the Cardics. Do travelers really offer you half their possessions if you rescue them from other bandits?”

“It would be rude to refuse.”

“Can’t quite take away the MacDuffy, can they?” Lomán chuckled.

Yes, they can. Rhys gripped the top of the stall door, not having the heart to correct Lomán.

Hoofbeats pounded into the yard, and an authoritative voice called out, “Dermot, we’re not too early are we?”

A flood of memories rose at the sound, suffocating and heavy, and Rhys clenched his fists. Broken promises made with earnest eyes, and a curse that destroyed his world. Rhys shook the dark mood away with a short breath as tension sank talons deep into his body.

With a nod to Lomán, Rhys turned toward the voices in the yard and walked outside to where Laird Brogan greeted his Talam.

Brogan sat his saddle with a confident assurance as eight mounted warriors milled about the yard. A bit of grey streaked his hair but no sign of regret. No remorse shown to the Talam for the promises he’d broken to Rhys.

“He decided to come then? He’s here?” Brogan leaned toward Dermot, his deep voice impatient.

“I’m here.” Rhys stopped Dermot from answering. He didn’t even try and control the hatred that bubbled back up at the sight of the laird. He fixed a glare on Brogan, his body tensing for a fight. Brogan shifted in discomfort.

Rhys flicked a look at the warriors. He had fought beside many of them in the wars. Their bright clothes and blue-and-yellow checkered cloaks contrasted to Rhys’s dark blue shirt and black tunic. Not many of them would meet his eyes.

“So you are.” The laird stared back evenly. “I suppose Dermot has told you what we need you to do?”

“If you mean, did he tell me that not one of you would go to that lord and demand he return Sean, then, yes, he did.” Rhys directed a scathing glare up at Brogan.

Brogan’s shoulders stiffened. “You don’t understand.” He dismounted and handed his horse off to one of the farmhands. “Lord Adam is seizing power wherever he can. He’s got half the country in his pocket and is looking for more. Chieftain MacTavish and I are seeing to the clans’ alliances, so we need you to go to Lord Adam as a neutral party. We want retribution for Sean’s kidnapping, but we’re not so foolish as to start a civil war without trying diplomacy first.”

“And you don’t think this Lord Adam will just kill me and march on you anyway?” Rhys sneered.

“You’ve a bit of a reputation that we hoped to use to our advantage, seeing as you know him.”

Rhys blinked.

Surly they didn’t mean Adam Barkley? Adam Barkley who’d been a general at the end of the Sea Wars. Adam Barkley who’d cried loudest for Rhys’s execution in the wake of the prince’s murder.

Adam Barkley was the lord who’d taken Sean?

Rhys set his jaw. “Lord Adam Barkley.”

“Aye.”

“And you think sending me to treat with him is a good idea?” Rhys snorted. “I’d be more inclined to kill him than talk to him.”

“I’m counting on him realizing that.” A bit of smugness tinted Brogan’s voice.

Rhys twitched the corner of his mouth into a faint smile. Maybe there was one positive from the entire situation. “Then I’ll be on my way before you think up any more ways to use me in your grand plans.”

Dermot pursed his lips, dangerously close to a laugh.

“Wait,” Brogan said. “I’m sending someone with you to represent me and to remind Lord Adam that the clans will not forget this insult.”

A young warrior urged his horse forward from where he’d been half-hidden behind Brogan, and Rhys tilted his head, arguments bristling on his tongue. Alan MacDuffy, Laird Brogan’s nephew, had been his constant companion as a child. They’d been as close as brothers. They’d fought together in the hell that had been the Sea Wars. Until the exile, when Alan had watched his banishing and done nothing since.

The only thing worse than seeing Sean again would be taking Alan along for the ride.

“Alan is the official representative of Clan MacDuffy in this matter. You will follow his lead,” Brogan spoke sternly.

Alan sat on his horse, saddlebags bulging with provisions for the journey. He met Rhys’s stare, his jaw set in well-remembered resolve. Alan was coming whether Rhys wanted him to or not.

Rhys narrowed his eyes. As if he can still give me orders and expect to be obeyed. “Understood,” he said instead.

The corner of Alan’s mouth curled slightly at Rhys’s response. At least Alan remembered that Rhys had never truly excelled at following orders.

As Ciara brought out cups of ale for the laird and his men, Rhys returned to the barn to saddle Draco. He finished in minutes, and Sarah met him at the doors of the stables.

“I just wanted to wish you luck.” She twisted her skirt in her hands, pressing her lips together as a brightness welled in her eyes. “Please bring him back.”

“I’ll do my best,” Rhys promised. He paused for a long moment. He wouldn’t be coming back there, and he didn’t want to leave things so bitter between him and the Talam’s family. “And tell Ciara I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

Sarah nodded and stepped aside for him to join the others. A black-robed priest had ridden with the lord and waited patiently, the gentle wind tossing his robes around his legs.

“Brother Shamus will give you a blessing before you go,” Brogan said.

Rhys pulled his horse around to the path. “Don’t waste your breath on me, Brother.” He kneed Draco and left the priest and Brogan behind in a cloud of dust.

Alan could catch up.

Chapter 3

Two months and three days.

The grey stone of the prison pressed cold against his back as he shifted on the hard wooden cot. Two months and three days since he’d been taken from his family. He pushed away the thought of them, not willing to give his tormentors anything else to use against him.

He fought the relentless drooping of his eyelids. He’d not slept at all that night, for fear that he might dream. Dreams were the doorway to his sight, and the druids lay in wait for the moment when they could seize control of his mind.

They tried so hard to get him to reveal his gift, but it was not something he could call upon. The visions were sent to him when the time was right. Sometimes they came while he was with the druids. Then they would scream in triumph and do all in their power to hold him in that trance, hoping to give the darkness time to take control of his vision.

He idly watched through the barred door as the guards paced back and forth on their rounds, their heavy tramp punctuated by the interminable drip of water from deeper in the dungeon.

Sean wished away the intrepid sunbeams that crept through the slitted window of the cell opposite him. As if cued by the light, footsteps muffled by long robes shuffled toward his cell. A guard unlocked the door, and a druid strode into the cell. Graceful and ageless, the druid’s gaze burned with fanatic fire, relentless and fierce. His long trailing beard revealed no trace of grey.

Alisher.

Dread tightened his gut.

The druid spoke first. “You look tired.”

“I’ve been waiting in breathless anticipation for your next visit.”

Alisher folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his green robe. “You know there’s an easier way.”

“There always is.”

“Come now, Sean.” Alisher tutted almost kindly. “You’re going to help us eventually whether you want to or not.”

Sean set his jaw, shaking his head slightly. I’ll die first.

“Why not serve Lord Adam? He only wants the best for his people.”

“Maybe because he’s a demon-worshipping murderer?” Sean adjusted himself more comfortably on the cot.

Alisher’s eyes flashed in anger. “Have a care how you speak. The great god Deronis is more powerful than you could possibly imagine. I serve at his pleasure.”

“Hurrah for you.”

Alisher drew himself up to an even greater height. “We have need of your gift. You can offer it to us freely, or we can take it from you. Our sessions so far should remind you of that.”

“If you’re so confident you can take it from me, then why am I still here?” Sean rested the back of his head against the cold wall.

The druid clenched his fists. “We’ll see how quick your tongue runs after today. Guards!”

They yanked Sean to his feet and pushed him after Alisher as he left the dungeons. Sean had learned not to fight, but the memories of the repeated trips down the same white stone corridor locked his muscles in fear. The guards’ grip tightened around his arms and forced him onward. The beat of distant waves against rock hammered rhythmically through the narrow slits of windows interspersed along the walls. Dread mounted as they passed the blue and gold tapestry depicting a naval battle from long ago. Not much further.

Alisher pushed open a door and the guards dragged Sean to a circular stone room, devoid of windows.

Torches hanging in brackets cast small flickering circles of light on the floor. The soldiers shoved Sean into the chair in the center of the chamber, and strapped down his arms and legs. His throat tightened, and he forced a breath. Ilan, give me strength.

More green robed figures entered the room and took up places against the wall. As always, Alisher came forward with the choice.

“Share your visions with us, Seer.” Alisher tucked his hands into his sleeves. “Tell us how they come and no harm will befall you.”

“You’ve no good use for the visions I see,” Sean replied. “And I’ve already told you, they come at the discretion of Ilan, the true god.”

Alisher flinched away at the sound of the name. He signaled his followers to begin.

“We call upon the great god Deronis, lord of darkness. Hear our prayer, shield your worthy followers from the dark.”

Alisher spread his hands wide, inviting, welcoming an unseen evil to slither its way into the windowless chamber.

A shudder ripped through Sean as it entered the room—the dark force that the druids controlled. The others chanted and swung burners of sickly sweet incense as if they couldn’t detect the shadow consuming the air around them. All except Alisher. He leered triumphantly at Sean and pointed.

Heat stung his eyes and nose, and ringing filled his ears. Pain lanced through his head as if someone drove a knife between his eyes. The sensation of claws swept across his skin, and he shuddered. The whispers started, conjuring fears and horrors as the unseen entity burrowed inside to reach for his very soul, trying to reach the part of him connected to the other world.

Sean clenched shut his eyes and prayed for strength. If the darkness won, he would be but a tool for the druids and their demon to twist the future for their own purpose.

The room spun. A vision washed over him with the same force as the waves pounding on the shoreline on the other side of the stone walls.

~

Mist coiled around him, pulsing as if anxious, soothing the aches in his battered body. He drew a shuddering breath. The mist parted and he Saw.

Lines of marching soldiers.

Charging horses.

Writhing masses of men fighting one another on a blood-stained field.

Tattered banners flapping weakly in the breeze. An albatross on a green field flew by the clans’ banners. The king’s sign. But there was no king anymore.

A lonely rider on a mountain path, scars etched into his face.

Booming surf crashing against the white-stone castle that faded to red as if covered in blood.

A figure of shadows looming over Alisher, darkness spewing from its mouth. Sean turned away as the shadows tried to reach for him. The mist rushed forward, dispelling the darkness before the vision ended.

~

Sean awoke with a bitter taste in his mouth. He hunched in the chair against his bonds. More noxious puffs of incense released into the room with each light rattle of chains from the burners.

He raised his head to find Alisher hovering above him like a shadow.

But the vision hadn’t been for the druid.

Sean narrowed his gaze at the figure who loomed in the darkness behind the druid, Lord Adam Barkley. He’d been present for nearly every session. He always watched the dark proceedings with sharp eyes. Waiting for something.

Maybe for this.

Sean thrilled at the tiny brush of hope in the corner of his heart. The vision had revealed a glimpse of something he’d longed to see for years, but what brought him hope would bring despair to the men who held him captive.

“What did you see?” Alisher demanded, leaning close.

Sean turned to Adam instead. “A warning for you, my lord.” He spoke around a thick tongue. “War lurks on the horizon.”

Adam smiled. “War, yes. Will I be victorious?”

“I see men and horses, spears and swords. I see death coming to this castle.”

“Yes, but will I win?” Lord Adam pressed closer toward him.

Now Sean smiled. “Only if you can escape what is coming. The past rides closer every day.”

“What does that mean?” Adam demanded.

Sean looked away. He had delivered the message in the vision, and he would say no more. But his silence would exact a cost. It always did with the druids.

“Answer him!” Alisher shouted.

Sean writhed against his bonds as the sensation of a thousand burning needles pierced his spine. It faded after agonizing moments.

“What else did you see?” Alisher asked and the pain began again, this time in a different nerve center in his shoulder.

Sean screamed until Alisher released him. He strained to draw air into his lungs as Alisher leaned close.

“You saw something else.” Alisher’s voice invaded his senses like a fog creeping over the mountainside. “What did you see?”

Sean spat blood at the druid’s feet. “Your days here are numbered. Your god will demand a reckoning of you.”

Alisher snarled and clenched his hand. Agony consumed Sean until the darkness swallowed up his conscious mind.

When Sean woke, he lay on the cot in his cell. A deep, hollow ache throbbed throughout his body, but the druids had left no physical wounds to treat. They never did. But wounds to the soul cut deeper and lasted far longer than any mark on the skin.

The cell door clanged open, and a guard approached. With the creak of leather armor and the clump of boots against stone, the guard knelt and extended a beaker of water.

“Here.” The guard pressed the beaker to Sean’s mouth and tilted it so that the crisp, cool liquid inside slid down his throat, chasing away the lingering fog in his mind.

“Thank you,” Sean said. Gerard was one of the few in the lord’s household that could be counted on to show a bit of kindness. “You probably shouldn’t be doing this.”

Gerard shrugged. “They want you kept alive, don’t they? Though it might help if they stopped torturing you.”

Sean managed a wan smile. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“Did you foresee that?” Gerard asked with a wry chuckle as he left the cell and locked it again.

Sean flashed a weary half-smile at the guard’s back. The Sight wasn’t something to share with just anyone, though this time he might make an exception.

As the painful throbbing in his body faded slowly, Sean shut his eyes and allowed the faint smile to stretch across his face.

Lord Adam should beware. Alisher and his druids too. The past was coming with a face that promised vengeance.

Chapter 4

How long do you think this’ll take?”

Alan broke the silence they’d ridden in for most of the day in a calm, conversational tone. “My wife is expecting any day now and I’d like to get back as soon as I can. She only consented to my coming because she loves stories of dashing heroes and daring escapes.”

Rhys ignored most of his comment—reminders of more he had missed over the years. “It’ll take almost a week to get to Adam’s castle, and then the journey back. Going to the Talam’s house took me at least two days out of my way.”

“Coming here was an inconvenience for you?” Alan raised an eyebrow in mock offense.

“So was getting saddled with an extra person.”

“That hurts,” Alan said cheerfully. “I’d like to think myself a bit more useful than an extra piece of baggage.”

Seven years ago there was no one Rhys would have rather had by his side than Alan. Now it almost felt like an insult to bring him along.

Alan lapsed back to silence for some time, long enough for Rhys to grow used to the sound of birds and the rustling of tree branches.

“What’s life like in the mountains?”

“Why would you care?” Rhys snapped.

“I’m wondering if everyone there is as grim as you. Two weeks is a long time. Are you ever going to smile?”

“Are you going to keep asking stupid questions?”

“On a regular basis.”

Rhys muttered a quiet oath. Alan was making it difficult to keep the past behind him. He didn’t want to be reminded of the laughter and friendship they’d shared in a life he could no longer have.

“I know you probably won’t get much thanks for doing this,” Alan continued after a brief pause. “But I wanted to say thank you because I like to remember we were friends once.”

Rhys stared at the ruts carved into the dirt road. Friends. They’d been brothers in all but name. “We can’t be friends now.”

“Oh, don’t worry; I’ve been assured that I won’t contract some infection of the mythical blood of the clans by sharing the road with you.” A hint of bitterness stained Alan’s voice.

“And who told you that?”

“Well, that’s my version. My uncle made it sound a bit more grand so he could get someone to go. I didn’t think you’d be contagious, so I offered.”

Rhys cast a quick glance at Alan and saw his hesitation mirrored in the slight tilt of Alan’s head and the way he tapped his thumb and index together in a continuous beat. They’d been forced their separate ways seven years ago, and Rhys didn’t really know where that left them. He’d never blamed Alan for anything that had happened, but the caution in Alan’s eyes showed that he didn’t know that.

Rhys decided to acknowledge the tentative hand of peace being extended to him.

“Maybe he thought you were still as reckless as you were when we were younger.”

Alan’s laugh carried a bit of relief. “That would be no great stretch of the imagination.”

Rhys flicked another glance at his companion. Alan’s wavy dark hair fell to teasing blue eyes, deep set in his face. One hand guided his horse with simple twitches of the reins while the other rested easily on the hilt of the longsword buckled around his waist.

Maybe he’d finally run out of things to say. Several more miles passed and Rhys broached a subject.

“What can you tell me about Sean?”

“He speaks!” Alan feigned surprise.

Rhys frowned and turned away.

Alan chuckled. “Sean is still as caring as ever. He knew the gift was something special and he uses it to help as many people as he can. The elders say he might be the strongest Seer in the past hundred years.”

“Would he use it to help Adam?”

“Doubt it. Not after the lord’s men hauled him off in front of his family and struck Sarah down. Besides, what would Adam want from his gift? Nothing good, and we all know it.”

Rhys nodded.

Alan schooled his expression into something grim as he spoke again. “You know I can foresee the future a bit myself.”

“Can you foresee yourself shutting up for more than five minutes at a time?” Rhys said.

“Not at all. I foresee this being an incredibly boring trip based on the stimulating one-sentence conversations we’ve had so far.”

“You were right earlier.” Rhys spurred his horse up to a trot.  “This is going to be a long trip.”

~

Rhys kept a hand on the hilt of his broadsword as the miles crept by. Four days of travel had brought them out of the clans’ lands. Trees and hedges lined the wide road they travelled, farmland on the other side of the spreading branches. The smell of fresh tilled earth mingled with the scents of the flowers and herbs growing on the wayside. A squirrel chattered a warning at a magpie that came too close to its nest.

Alan whistled carelessly behind him, the sound blending with the resonating birdsong. Rhys hadn’t decided yet if Alan was trying to annoy him into talking again. Despite the tentative peace between them, they’d spent most of the past few days in silence, which was fine by Rhys.

Alan maintained a nonchalant attitude, but he remained alert, confident in his saddle, hands never too far away from his sword, eyes constantly sweeping the road for danger. The man may have been an unwelcome addition to his mission, but if someone had to accompany him, Rhys was grateful Alan had been chosen. He might be the only one in the seven clans I don’t hate.

They made camp for the night well away from the road. Alan snared a rabbit, and Rhys seasoned and cooked it over the fire. The juices served to soften the waybread they ate with it. Alan sat back and bit into an apple as Rhys re-stitched part of his girth that had come loose over the course of the day.

“So, do you actually have a plan for when we get to Lord Adam’s castle?” Alan crunched on his apple with casual interest.

Even if you’re supposed to be in charge of this mission? But Alan had always been more content to follow his lead.

“The polite thing to do would be to request an audience, inform him of the situation, and see how he reacts,” Rhys said.

“And the alternative to that?”

“I shove my sword through that treacherous snake, take Sean, and we leave.”

Alan tossed the apple core away and wiped his hands. “I assume we’ll be trying the first way instead of going directly for war?”

“We’ll try it once.” Rhys tied off the stiff thread and put the girth away. He took up his sword and whetstone.

“Where’d you get that?” Alan appraised the two-handed blade in his hands.

Rhys tensed. He’d had to find a new sword after his clan-made blade had been tossed aside. “It was given to me by a man who thought I could put it to good use. His son had no need of it.”

“What did you do with your old one?” Alan’s voice rose barely above a whisper.

“You can’t do much with a broken blade, can you?” Rhys sneered. It wasn’t really an answer, but Alan didn’t press.

“Tell me about Lord Adam.” Rhys abruptly changed the subject. He hadn’t been out of the mountains in two years. The world had probably changed since the last time a new recruit brought news a few months ago.

“Adam came into power shortly after the war. He’s been slowly adding the other lords under his banner. He controls nearly half of Alsaya. Lord Sarksten controls the other half.” Alan tossed another piece of wood onto the fire, sending sparks snapping into the air. “The Highlanders and Clans keep their own corners of the kingdom.”

Lord Sarksten. That was a name Rhys hadn’t heard in a while. Rhys had met the nobleman during the Sea Wars. The gruff old man had been chief among the king’s advisors, which was likely why everyone listened when he urged them to let Rhys live instead of executing him for the prince’s murder.

Some felt Rhys owed Sarksten his life. Rhys felt otherwise.

Sarksten controlled the eastern half of Alsaya closest to the Cardic Mountains but had seemed content to allow Rhys to rule the region without interference.

“Brogan spoke of forming alliances,” Rhys said.

“He and Chieftain MacTavish have been in council these past weeks,” Alan said. “They’ve brought the Highlanders to our side. MacTavish sent riders out to Lord Sarksten as well. The last messenger reported that a pact between Sarksten and the Clans looked favorable.” He paused. “I’m also to see where a certain Mountain Baron’s decision might fall should a war start.”

Rhys shook his head. “Brogan thinks I’d ride to his aid? After he stood there and did nothing for me? After he cast me out?” His voice cut like a whip. “Even if that were not the case, half my men are outlaws in every county between the mountains and the Doorn Strait. Give me one good reason why the dispossessed like me should come fight for those who exiled them.”

“You might not know it, but Brogan did everything in his power to help you,” Alan said.

“He stood by and watched, Alan.”

“It was too late by then.”

“And after? He made sure the Clans distanced themselves from me. MacDuffys look after their own, right?” Rhys chewed on the old family motto. “It didn’t quite seem that way.”

“I don’t know, Rhys,” Alan sighed. “He was chieftain at the time. Maybe he had a reason. He never told us.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Rhys snapped.

“Rhys—”

“You shouldn’t say that name,” Rhys cut him off.

“I don’t—”

“I don’t want to hear that name, Alan.” Rhys clenched his hands around the hilt. “Rhys MacDuffy died on that beach, and it was Brogan that killed him. The Clans have forgotten him, and so should you.”

Alan stared at him in silence as Rhys burnished the blade and slid it home into its sheath.

“And you can tell Brogan that he can expect nothing from me. Our place is in the mountains, not in his wars.”

They said no more that night.

~

By noon of the next day they reined in at a bridge with broad planks wide enough for two men to ride abreast across the rushing torrent.

“The Bear River,” Alan spoke. “Across it lie Adam’s lands.”

“You’d think there’d be a guard.” Rhys contemplated the bridge before them. Everything seemed peaceful enough.

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” Alan dismounted.

Rhys did the same and led the way onto the bridge. They were five paces from the edge when four figures stepped out and blocked their way. Rhys glanced behind and saw six more men had come up on the opposite bank. Their motley collection of clothes and weapons declared them as bandits.

“No guards. Only us.” A man in a stained jerkin swaggered forward. He carried a plain short sword that looked like it had begun its life as a foot soldier’s blade.

“Let me guess, you want our money?” Rhys dropped Draco’s reins to free his hands. Bandits from the lowlands were harmless as kittens compared to the outlaws who roamed the mountain wilds.

“That had crossed my mind. But I don’t like your tone, so we’ll be taking your horses and weapons as well.” The bandit leader smirked.

“Demanding type, isn’t he?” Alan turned to confront the thieves that approached them from behind.

“You’re out of your lands now, clan boy. No room for your arrogance here!” another man snarled.

A smile tugged at Alan’s mouth. “Clan boy? Well, I’ve heard worse, I suppose.”

The man drew a dagger and jabbed it threateningly at Alan.

“And if we don’t comply?” Rhys asked the leader.

“We cut your throats and leave you for the crows.”

“How many people do you usually ‘leave for the crows?’” Rhys asked, genuinely curious. I could possibly get something out of this. If they’re halfway decent, we could use them up at the Keep.

“As many as we have to. Most are usually smart enough to do what we say.” The bandit puffed his chest out, obviously pleased by their thieving prowess.

“They’ve got me trembling in my boots now. What do we do?” Alan tapped his thumb against the pommel of his sword.

“Yes, what are you going to do?” The bandit sneered, leaning closer to Rhys.

It worked out better than Rhys could have planned. He grabbed the leader’s tunic. A moment later, the man found himself halfway over the rail and dangling above the raging water below.

Rhys grabbed the bandit’s right hand and raised it for inspection. Alan had half-turned at the commotion behind him and a smirk crossed his face at the look of slack-jawed amazement among the bandits at seeing their leader in Rhys’s hold.

As Rhys expected, an X had been branded onto the back of the man’s hand, and he twisted to let Alan see.

“Do you know what this brand means, Alan?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Alan said. “The brands aren't widely used among the clans.”

“It means that this man is an outlaw and destined for the Cardic Mountains. So tell me.” Rhys jiggled the man a little further over the rail. “Why aren’t you in the mountains, bandit?”

The man eyed the river fearfully. “That’s the Baron’s territory. He wouldn’t want me in his service, so he’d kill me.”

“You’re right. I don’t think I’d want you, but to assume I’d kill you right off?” Rhys clicked his tongue. “I don’t like the fact that the people who insist on making outlaws think I’ll be their executioner.”

“You’re the B-Baron?” The man’s eyes widened in fear and a little incredulity.

Rhys nearly rolled his eyes. The reaction was almost always the same. Most didn’t believe that a man only a few years from thirty could already have such a fearsome reputation.

He released the bandit onto the bridge. “Indeed I am, and even though I don’t like your tone, I might just let you all live.”

There was much muttering and shifting among the band as they finally recognized the curling dragon insignia stamped on the left breast of his jerkin, and the unfortunately legendary scars. Rhys pushed through them onto the road and Alan followed.

“Let me see your hands,” Rhys barked at the bandits. A flurry of hands shot into the air. Some were bare; others had only one horizontal mark signifying they had only been outlawed in their county. There were a few more burned X’s on the hands of those banished to the mountains.

“I’ll give you one chance,” Rhys addressed the leader. “Take your men and go to the Dragon Keep. Ask for Fulke, and tell him the Baron sent you. He’ll deal with you in my name. No, he won’t kill you!” Rhys raised his voice in exasperation at the quick look of fear in the bandit’s eyes. “But, if you don’t go, and in one month I send a man down here and he reports getting attacked on this bridge, I will.”

“What if we kill your man?” another bandit tremulously asked.

“You have very high opinions of yourself.” Rhys turned away and mounted his horse. “The choice is yours.”

He and Alan rode away leaving a very somber group of bandits behind them.

Once out of range, Alan burst out laughing. “Never thought I’d see the day when one man could defeat ten bandits without drawing his sword! I think I underestimated your reputation.”

Rhys raised a shoulder in acknowledgment of Alan’s merriment. “I have to keep in practice.”

Alan laughed again. “I think I might have to come visit you.”

“Be warned, we do have more creative ways to insult you, clan boy.” Rhys almost smiled.

“Good, I do have certain standards.”

“Perhaps we can accommodate.”

“So is that an invitation, or do I just need to ambush you at the nearest bridge?”

Chapter 5

Sean jolted awake from wild and confusing dreams. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. None of it made any sense.

“You dream again?” the prisoner in the opposite cell asked.

The other prisoner had been in his cell long before Sean had arrived, and though Sean had yet to see his face, the other prisoner had been a source of sanity when the world kept turning upside down.

Gerard patrolled the hallway so they could talk without fear.

“Yes, but I don’t know what any of it means,” Sean admitted. “That should make the long beards happy.”

“Why don’t you do what they want?” The man crossed his arms and settled more comfortably against the stone wall, the dark shadows concealing most of his features.

The man’s voice lacked the gruff deepness of full maturity. As always, Sean wondered how old his neighbor actually was. Surely he couldn’t be much older than Sean himself was.

“They’d use my gift to serve their demon god, and innocent people would suffer.” Sean scoffed. “Lord Adam wants war, and he’s bent on me being his fortune teller.”

“Do you think you can resist them forever?” The prisoner shook his head, his tone growing sad and soft. “I’ve seen some of the prisoners they experiment on, the so-called criminals.”

“My Clan will send someone for me. I don’t know who or how they’ll try and free me, but they’ll come.”

“Well, you have more to hope for than me.”

The sound of despair so deep in a voice so young twisted Sean’s heart.

The dim light of the dungeons made it hard to make out much of the man’s features. He might be around my age. But he was already here when they threw me in this cell. I wonder how long he’s been here?

“What’s your crime?” Sean asked.

“Existing,” the man said wryly. “I stood in the way of power, and Adam did away with me. I’m not the last one he’s destroyed to gain more control. He’s taken over most of the western half of Alsaya. He imprisons those who don’t immediately bend to his demands, kills some, or--”

“Or what?”

“Gives them to the druids.”

Sean shuddered, forcing away thoughts of the long-bearded men. “How long have you been here?”

“Seven years, since my eighteenth birthday.” He pulled his legs up onto the cot, as though the action might soften the bleak truth.

“Seven years!” Sean whistled.

“I don’t have any family left or anybody who knows I’m still alive.” The creeping moonlight illuminated his shrug. “So, here I am.”

Sean shook his head. He’d watched the man exercise as well as he could in the confines of the cell, balancing on his hands and toes and pushing himself up and down, or hauling himself around the bar that stretched across the top of the cell.

“After that long, why bother with the exercise?” Sean asked.

“Because one day I will get out of here and I won’t be helpless when I do.” His voice rang with determination. “And until then, I’m doing it to spite Adam. I’ll force him to expend resources on me by not giving up and dying.”

The two months of Sean’s own captivity had dragged on with horrifying slowness. He couldn’t imagine being trapped here for seven years. All the moments where he and his fellow prisoner had shared brief snatches of conversation felt more poignant now. Why had he not engaged with his neighbor sooner? He could use the excuse that he spent a good deal of time in his cell unconscious after the sessions with the druids, but that wasn’t the truth.

If he got comfortable, if he got familiar, it felt like giving up. It felt like admitting that no one would come for him. It felt like accepting that his remaining days would be contained in this dank, dreary dungeon.

What good had guarding that part of his heart done for him? Not much. And it certainly hadn’t helped his neighbor, who had kindly offered stability and some sense of normalcy to him after every earth-shattering session with the druid’s dark god and asked nothing in return.

Sean cleared his throat. “I never asked for your name.”

A sad silence followed, long enough that Sean wondered if his neighbor had even heard him.

“I'm nobody.” The prisoner sighed. “Not anymore. Adam made sure of that.”

But he was somebody. The darkness obscured the man’s features, but he pronounced his consonants with an abnormally crisp edge. He’s not just anybody.

“Why didn’t he kill you then?”

The prisoner shrugged. “Maybe he thinks it’s more entertaining to let me sit down here and dwell on my helplessness.”

“From what I’ve seen of Adam, that sounds about right.” Sean offered a smile even though his friend couldn’t see it. “But everyone is somebody, and I’d like to know your name.”

The prisoner chuckled. “Damon. My name is Damon.”

“Nice to meet you, Damon.” Sean leaned forward and bowed toward him with a painful laugh. “My name is Sean MacDuffy.”

The man lifted his head. “MacDuffy?”

Sean raised his eyebrows. “Aye, that’s right.”

Damon paused for a moment, settling back against the wall before he spoke. “I knew a few MacDuffys in the war.”

“You fought in the war?”

Rhys had been seventeen when he joined Brogan on the way to fight in the war, and it had lasted four long years. Four horrible years of bloodshed and turmoil and trauma that had transformed his beloved elder brother into someone he barely recognized. If Damon had fought in the war--well, maybe he only sounded young.

“Every man and boy fought in the war.” Damon’s voice held the same sadness that everyone’s did when they spoke of the Sea Wars.

“I didn’t. It took my brother, so I had to stay home and help farm. Laird MacDuffy let me remain home out of respect for my father. Besides, I don’t think my older brother would have let me go to war.”

“Older brothers are always protective, aren’t they?” Damon’s words were heavy with wistfulness.

“You lost yours?”

Damon gave a nod, crossing his arms tighter across his chest.

“So did I,” Sean said.

“I’m sorry.”

Faint bitterness welled in Sean’s throat at the thought of Rhys. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to get out of here someday.”

Damon huffed a rueful laugh, leaning his head back against the cell wall. “No matter how I train, no matter how I hope, I’ll most likely die in this cell.”

“Maybe,” Sean said. “But if I were you, I’d find a way to escape, and spend the rest of your life making Adam regret leaving you alive.”

Damon chuckled in the darkness. “I’d forgotten how stubborn you Clansmen can be.”

Sean smiled. “That’s the hazard of being born in the clan. Everyone expects it of you.”

“What happens when your people come for you?”

“That depends on who they send.” Sean took a slow breath. “Lord Adam wants war, and there are more than one who would happily give it to him.”

Chapter 6

Ihate rain. Alan hunched deeper into his cloak.

Rain had been pouring down since early that morning, but Rhys, no the Baron, had insisted on riding onward. Alan gazed wistfully at the lights of the town below them, nestled on the banks of a small river that powered the town mill. The now-swollen river threatened to spill out of its banks as it rushed and roared beneath the stone bridge that spanned its width.

“We’ll go around,” the Baron said.

“Why not stop for the night in the inn?” Alan sagged in his saddle. “I can see it from here.”

“I don’t trust the river.”

“You don’t trust anyone or anything.” Alan rolled his eyes. “The bridge looks sturdy enough. We’ve been on the road for days now. Surely a warm bed and a fire wouldn’t hurt us.”

“No.” Finality rang in the Baron’s voice. It startled Alan.

“You don’t want to—Surely no one will recognize you.” He looked closer at his companion. “How long since you’ve been in the south?”

The Baron looked away, the rain soaking through his thick dark hair.

“Long enough,” the Baron replied shortly.

It didn’t matter what town or village they stopped in. The Mountain Baron had a reputation, one that issued a siren song to bandits and thieves eager to prove their worth and forge a reputation of their own. Avoiding people was a wise precaution if they didn’t want to get into some type of skirmish every other mile.

“You don’t think anyone will want to challenge you in this downpour, do you?” Alan grimaced.

The Baron sat back in his saddle and turned his face to the sky, allowing the rain to stream down his face in rivulets. He sat like a statue in the rain until Alan wondered if he’d frozen in place.

“Fine.”

Alan arched his eyebrows. “Fine, what?”

“We can stop tonight.” The Baron reined his mountain horse toward the town.

Well, that was sudden. Alan gathered his reins and urged his own horse to follow the dark bulk of the Mountain Baron toward the village. “Any particular reason why you changed your mind?”

“Ask me any more questions, and we’ll keep going.”

Alan raised a single hand in promise and silently guided his horse into step with the Baron’s. The Baron spurred his horse forward without another word and they entered the town. Most of the houses had a foundation of pale sandstone, and finished with white pine from the surrounding forests. Darker boards trimmed the windows and gables.

The rain kept most of the decent folk indoors, but there were still a few passersby that barely spared them a glance. Stray dogs huddled in alleys and doorways.

Their horses slopped through the mud, occasionally stumbling over a stray stone on the path. The Baron tugged the collar of his jerkin higher in what appeared an attempt to cover the scar on his neck. He pulled his cloak forward to better hide the crest of the Dragon Keep. The Baron glanced up to meet Alan’s gaze for a second, and something akin to panic sparked in his dark brown eyes. Alan almost grabbed the reins to drag them both around and out of the town, but the Baron spurred his horse up to a trot.

Shaking his head, Alan followed as the Baron headed for the two-storied inn across a wider paved street. Lights flickering in the numerous windows revealed a full common room on the first floor. A large wooden sign featuring a plump black-robed friar holding an overflowing mug hung above the door declaring St. Erskine’s Pint.

A stable boy ran out from behind the inn under the shelter of a piece of burlap sack and took their horses.

Alan led the way inside. A blast of heat welcomed them as they stepped up into the common room. Smoke from the fire and a few patrons’ pipes lingered in a haze near the heavy wooden ceiling beams darkened with age. Conversations buzzed from the crowded tables, nearly drowning out the loud crack of the fire that roared on the hearth.

Alan headed for an empty table in the corner and sat in a chunky wooden chair while the Baron sat across from him in the seat that allowed him full view of the room. Alan adjusted his seat so he comfortably leaned against the wall and stretched his legs out under the table. They tossed their cloaks over the backs of the chairs and the damp cloth steamed gently in the warmth from the fire.

The innkeeper made his way over, drying his meaty hands on a stained apron.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” His reddened cheeks dimpled in a jovial smile. Alan returned the smile. The innkeeper bore more than a passing resemblance to the saint on his sign.

“Some ale, a meal, and rooms for the night,” Alan replied.

“It would be my pleasure.” The man beamed. “We don’t see many Clansmen around here.” He nodded at Alan’s checkered cloak. “What brings you two down this way?” His smile faltered a little when he met the Baron’s simmering gaze.

“An old comrade of ours from the war died. We’re on our way to pay our respects,” Alan said easily.

“Ah, the war. I’d like to thank you lads for your service then.” The innkeeper bobbed his head respectfully. “That’d be how you got that, then.” He looked to the Baron and gestured to his own cheek.

“Aye, that’d be how I got it.” The Baron gave an acidic half-smile.

The innkeeper’s smile fell and he hurried away to get their ale.

“Would it kill you to smile occasionally?” Alan pressed his palms into the rough wood of the table.

“It might,” the Baron retorted.

Alan waited until they had mugs in their hands before daring to ask. “How did you get that scar anyway?”

“I tripped and fell.”

“Of course, you did.” And when no real explanation seemed probable, “Oh, come on, Baron, what will it take for you to trust me?” As much as he hated using the title, he didn’t dare use Rhys’s name.

The Baron could stab him whenever he felt like it.

“I don’t trust anyone anymore. And you might as well give up trying to befriend me again. You know the laws.”

“To flames with the laws.” Alan clenched his fists in sudden anger. “I don’t believe you killed the prince.”

The Baron’s expression turned hollow, his eyes sad, as he stared down at his mug. “Believe as you like. There’s no way to prove I didn’t.”

A serving maid came and set down two plates of food for them. They received generous portions of meat, potatoes, and bread for three coppers. They ate in silence, more than happy to apply themselves wholly to the task of eating.

The innkeeper came by to top off their drinks and inquire after their meal. Alan assured him that all was well on that count.

“My boy took your saddlebags up to the room prepared for you.” The innkeeper wrung his hands as he looked at the Baron and inched closer to Alan as he continued. “But if you’d like to stay, Balic will be singing this evening. He’s as close to famous as you can be in this area.”

“I think we could stay for a song or two.” The Baron said amiably, something like a smile flickering across his face. Alan blinked at him in momentary shock at the sudden change. He’s playing at something.

But the innkeeper beamed, pleased to have won him over, and returned to the bar.

“We’re deep into Adam’s lands now. A few songs can get people to relax, open up and talk about their lives. Let’s see how popular Lord Adam is.” The Baron rested his elbows on the table.

“Trust you to have a reason like that,” Alan murmured with a roll of his eyes.

The Baron scowled.

That particular expression appeared on his face more than any other. Alan decided that it must be the Baron’s equivalent of a smile--and even if that weren’t the case, Alan would believe it anyway.

True to the manager’s word, a man shortly took a seat on a raised stool to the accompaniment of cheers from the patrons. Alan leaned back more comfortably in his chair and propped an arm on the table to better watch the minstrel. Balic, the minstrel, strummed his brightly painted lute and filled the tavern air with a strong, unwavering voice.

He began with a few well-known folk tunes that had everyone tapping along. Alan hummed under his breath as a few others began to sing along to the tongue-twisting “Riordan’s Riddles.” He shook his head slightly as the Baron studied the room with no indication he even heard the music.

Balic stood and pointed to Alan’s blue-and-yellow checkered cloak in the back corner, and with a nod to Alan, began a jovial song from the Clans, “The Maiden and the Mountain Round.”

A few chords into the song, the Baron’s grip on his ale mug turned white-knuckled, and he stared at the fire on the hearth without blinking, almost as if he didn’t see it. Maybe he didn’t. They’d heard these songs before, with ale in their hands, surrounded by comrades and family. Maybe his mind was lost to those years before the war when life had been so much happier and so much simpler.

He’d never thought he’d share another pitcher of ale with Rhys again. The privilege of doing so felt like a missing stone had been returned to its empty spot in the fence, like something that was broken had been made whole again. But the Baron didn’t act as though he shared the feeling.

Why would he? After all he’d been through, he had no reason to trust Clan MacDuffy or anyone representing them.

As the song ended, Alan finished his mug of ale and pretended he didn’t see the Baron unclench his shaking hands.

The doors flung open with unneeded force, and a group of six soldiers trooped in. The merchants who occupied the best seats by the fire instantly retreated without protest, scurrying to tables farther away as all conversation died to barely a murmur. The soldiers took the seats by the fire, stripping off gloves and helmets in a clattering chorus. Those closest to those seats edged away as surreptitiously as they could. The soldiers called loudly for ale and the innkeeper hurried to serve them with none of his previous cheeriness.

A green-robed figure ghosted inside the tavern behind the soldiers, and as the people in the room noticed his presence, an appalling silence descended, as though a woolen blanket had muffled everyone in the room. Even the soldiers shifted in vague unease when the man came closer to their table.

Alan sipped at his brew, studying the change in the room with interest. Guess this is what the Baron was waiting for. He lifted his mug and the innkeeper hurried over to refill it. The Baron’s gaze flicked rapidly around the room before settling on the newcomer.

“Don’t stare!” The man hissed at him. “Haven’t you seen those druids before?”

“I haven’t,” the Baron replied in the same tone. “What are they doing here?”

“They are here to speak of a new god, Deronis. They’ve converted Lord Adam and half the court. Ilan save me, but I’ve seen some of the things they can do. It’s not natural!” The man’s voice rose, and he clutched at his apron as if to regain control of himself.

“What kind of things?” Alan leaned forward. He’d heard some rumors of a new religion rising outside the Clan lands, but he hadn’t given it much thought.

“Magic, divine power, call it what you will.” The man shook his head. “They can control fire, beasts, some can claim to see the future. I even saw one rise up off the ground!”

“Seeing the future is not unheard of,” Alan remarked in mild amusement. He sometimes forgot that people didn’t grow up knowing a Seer.

“Not in the ways of your Seers.” The man shook his head vigorously. “They chant and throw bones and sacrifice animals. I heard in one village that spoke against the druids, all the dogs went wild and attacked their owners. Tell me that’s not natural!”

“I’d have to say not,” Alan agreed. “What of the Brothers?”

“They’re all but driven out. A few have been killed, others in hiding, and the rest fled to safer counties.”

“He’d kill the Brothers?” Alan asked in shock.

“A necessary sacrifice to appease Deronis.” A new voice said.

The innkeeper jerked to see the druid standing behind him. Alan’s hand automatically fell to his knife. The Baron tensed as well but remained still, sipping his mug of ale.

“Blood has always been required to appease the most powerful spirits.” The druid straightened the collar of his green robe, the flickering firelight shining in his long beard.

“Your god demands blood sacrifice?” The Baron adjusted his position to better regard the newcomer. The manager shuddered and turned to leave, but the druid blocked his path.

“Deronis demands the extinction of false beliefs that would oppose his glory.” The druid folded his hands into his wide sleeves with the placid assurance of a man who knew he was in the right. “He is willing to confer riches on all those who follow him.”

“A god of riches then? Convenient for rich men.”

“Riches are not always silver and gold. Wisdom, understanding, power, these Deronis also promises.”

“What happens when all men have what they want?” The Baron tilted back in his chair, a mocking smile on his lips. “Or does this Deronis just bestow these riches on the favored few?”

Alan nearly kicked him under the table in a warning to tread more carefully.

The druid arched one eyebrow. “I see you are an unbeliever.”

“Your god tell you that?” The Baron’s lip curled in derision.

“Allow me to show you what my god can tell me.” The druid twitched the sleeves of his robe back.

Alan reached for his knife.

The Baron gave him a flat stare. “Save your breath. I don’t believe in anything, and a few paltry tricks won’t convince me.”

The druid returned his hands to his robe. “I sense you are on a long journey. Perhaps you will be enlightened on the way.” He turned and made his way over to the men-at-arms.

Alan watched the druid, not relaxing until the man sat down at the table.

“How’d he know that about you?” The innkeeper’s eyes were wide in fear.

“Anyone could tell that by looking at us,” the Baron said. “Cloaks, swords, our clothes; we’re in an inn and clearly not from here.”

The man subsided with some reassurance and hurried back to the bar to pour himself a glass of his own brew.

The Baron scoffed under his breath as he took another drink of his ale.

Alan scooted his chair closer to the Baron. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Tales told out of proportion most likely.”

“He didn’t look to be bluffing. And to kill the Brothers?” Alan faltered.

“How do you know the Brothers aren’t fakes, too?” The Baron tossed back the last sip of his ale.

“Surely you can’t mean that?” Alan jerked in shock.

The Baron had gradually stopped going to the Brothers’ services during the war, as his duties always seemed to get in the way. But this was something different. Defiant disbelief.

“I can say that, and I will,” the Baron returned. “You see how frightened that man is? People like him are held in place by intimidation and imagination. Half his stories of the druids have undergone several versions since the original event. The rest are ghost stories to frighten children and the superstitious.”

Alan shrugged, not quite as willing to dismiss the stories, even if they were told by a man who made a living off gossip. “So you think he’s not dangerous?”

The Baron sent the druid another quick glance, his mouth tightening on one side. Rhys MacDuffy might have died, but his expressions hadn’t.

Not so unconcerned after all then, are you, Baron?

The soldiers called for more music, and Balic reluctantly picked up his lute again. He played a few more songs with none of his previous energy before the other patrons began slipping out into the rain or up to their rooms.

Somewhere in the third song, the Baron stood and gathered his weapon and his cloak. Alan did the same and motioned to the innkeeper, who escorted them up the stairs, a single candle flame illuminating the worn oak walls of the inn.

The second floor of the tavern smelled less like ale and roasting meats and more like dust and oil lamps. The innkeeper showed them to a room and lit the lamp on the small table against the wall before he bowed and retreated into the darkness of the hallway, shutting the door behind them.

The Baron took a chair from the table and set it by the door so to announce anyone who tried to enter uninvited.

“Clever.” Alan pointed to the chair.

The Baron ignored him and lay down on the cot, only removing his sword from its belt and pulling his boots from his feet.

Alan did the same and stretched out on his own sturdy cot, staring at the darkened ceiling overhead. He needed to sleep as well as he could. Something told him that nights under an actual roof would be few and far between as long as he traveled with the Mountain Baron.

Chapter 7

The innkeeper served them steaming bowls of porridge, great hunks of sharp cheese, and a fresh loaf of crusty bread when they arrived in the dining area the following morning. Another few coins bought them another loaf of bread, which Alan wrapped in a cloth and stored in his saddlebag.

The Baron said nothing as they ate, nothing as they saddled their horses, nothing as they started off down the road toward Lord Adam’s lands. The skies had cleared, but the rain left a residual coolness that filtered through on a light breeze. Their mounts sloshed through mud and deeper puddles on the road.

Alan rubbed his chin, still unable to shake the uneasiness he’d felt when the druid had approached their table. “That innkeeper said that the druids claim to see the future. Do you think that’s part of the reason Sean was taken?”

“Maybe.” The Baron’s voice rasped in the early morning air. “But if they’ve laid a hand on Sean, I’ll kill them all.”

They said no more until the Baron pulled his mountain horse to a halt a few miles later. Alan frowned.

“Why are we stopping?”

The Baron didn’t answer.

Alan cast a look up the road and down. He could see no reason to stop in the middle of the path, but the Baron calmly waited astride Draco, hands loose on the saddle horn.

After a few minutes, Draco pricked up his ears and lifted his nose to take in a new scent. Alan’s mount shifted, and gave a curious rumble as it turned to look the same direction as Draco.

Moments later, hoofbeats announced three other riders who emerged onto the road from a screen of oak trees. All three rode mountain horses, the same shaggy, hardy breed as Draco, but the men were outfitted as if they had stepped off a mercenary ship.

A Highlander reached them first, his head shaved and tattooed in an intricate pattern of blue spirals and swirls. The small tattooed line under the corner of his left eye marked him an outcast of his people. He carried a heavy broadsword across his back, and his plain jerkin showed off muscular arms.

The second had the olive skin and narrowed eyes of Gedrin, the country just east of the Cardic Mountains. Long black hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck with a leather band. He carried a short sword on his hip and a Gedrinian recurve bow decorated with etchings and colorful braided leather straps.

The third’s plain leather tunic stretched across broad shoulders, his stockier build contrasting with his companions. He carried a plain short sword at his hip, and multiple knives sheathed in belts across his chest. Leather gloves covered both hands.

Alan clutched his reins, tense and ready to spur his horse into a gallop if they needed to escape quickly, but the Baron remained loose and calm in his saddle, his expression neutral except for the ever-present scowl.

Unsurprised.

The mercenaries halted a few paces away and saluted the Baron, and Alan blinked in surprise. Were these the Baron’s men?

The Highlander gave Alan an openly curious look.

“You were almost late,” the Baron addressed them.

“Sorry, Baron.” The third man—the plain, stocky one—rested a hand on one of his knives. “Someone thought they recognized me. We had to persuade them otherwise.”

“Any other trouble?”

“No, Baron.” The stocky man flicked a knife in and out of its sheath with his thumb, sizing up Alan in thoughtful consideration. Alan stared back evenly. It appeared that he wasn’t the only one to be surprised by a new addition to the mission.

“This is Alan MacDuffy.” The Baron gestured to him. “The Clans wanted him along to represent their case.”

“They didn’t trust you, Baron?” The Highlander smirked. “I see the Clans still think they know best.”

“I think Laird Brogan wanted someone who appreciated the meaning of tact,” Alan broke in.

The Baron regarded Alan with a peeved raise of an eyebrow but didn’t deny it as the most likely truth.

The Highlander gave a snort of laughter. “Rorie is my name.” He extended a hand to Alan at the Baron’s slight nod of permission.

“You cannot pronounce my name, I think.” The Gedrinian touched his hand to his heart in the traditional greeting of his country. “You may call me Jes.”

“I won’t know until you tell me what it is,” Alan smiled, instantly curious.

“Jessimalan Brovinisti.”

The words flowed in a ripple with a lilting accent that Alan couldn’t hope to master with his tongue trained to the harsher consonants of the Highlands.

“Jes it is,” Alan agreed.

He picked up a faint bit of smugness from the Baron. No doubt he could pronounce the Gedrinian name, but he’d always been better with accents and languages. Alan refrained from an eye roll. He needed some more time to figure out the Baron before determining how far to push him.

Rorie flashed another smile.

The stocky man nudged his horse forward and reached out to Alan.

“I’m Bryn.” His firm handshake held cautious approval, but a clear warning that Alan wasn’t accepted yet.

“How are your horses?” the Baron asked.

“Still fresh,” Bryn replied.

“Good, then let’s be on our way.” The Baron spurred Draco forward and the others fell in behind him. Bryn not-so-subtly took the position closest to the Baron.

Alan fell back, allowing the men to move around the Baron in a preordained pattern which still allowed them to keep an eye on him.

It wasn’t surprising that the Baron had not told him about the men. It made sense: Alan was Laird Brogan’s insurance, and the Baron had brought along his own. Rhys MacDuffy wouldn’t have bothered with that sort of forethought in the war. But Rhys MacDuffy and the Baron were very different men.

Alan lost track of how long and how far they rode that day, but by the time they stopped, he was sore and achy and ready to stand on his own two feet. They made camp or the night in the shelter of a small wood. It looked to be the source of timber for the surrounding area but was still private enough to hide their fire.

Jes ground-tied his horse and volunteered to collect firewood. “I would not want Rorie to get lost again.” A faint smirk played across his angular face as he headed into the trees.

Rorie flicked a handful of grass after him. “Don’t overexert yourself, little man.” But he laid out Jes’s bedroll along with his own.

“You have trouble down in Darrow?” The Baron dumped his own pack on the ground near Bryn.

Bryn nodded. “Nothing we didn’t handle calmly.”

The Baron looked to Rorie for confirmation. The Highlander raised his hands in a gesture of affronted surprise. “Of course we kept level heads about it, Baron.”

Bryn snorted. He took off his gloves, revealing the X burned into his right hand.

He’s taking a big risk. Alan placed his saddle on the ground and rubbed down his stallion.

Somehow Bryn didn’t seem like the type of man to have the mark burned into his skin, not like the rougher men at the bridge.

“But how could we keep such level heads when we were pursued by no less than thirty men?” Jes emerged from the woods on soundless feet and knelt to stack wood he’d gathered, every movement fluid and purposeful.

“Only thirty?” A faint quirk of amusement showed around the Baron’s eyes as he kindled the fire.

It was the most familiar expression Alan had seen on the Baron’s face yet. Something almost comfortable. Whoever these men were before they joined the outlaws of the Dragon Keep, right now they were the closest family the Mountain Baron had.

Rorie glared at Jes before mumbling something about the five men that they’d deterred. He reached for the food packs and received a slap from Bryn.

“You know you’re permanently off cooking duty.”

“It was one time!” The highlander muttered, sitting back with a sulk as Bryn took over dinner preparations.

But Bryn and the Baron seemed to share some sort of understanding, and Alan could see why Bryn had come. Most likely the same reason he’d volunteered to come on the mission. Somewhere under the ice of the Baron, part of Rhys MacDuffy still remained.

Chapter 8

The steward of the Carraig ushered Laird Brogan MacDuffy into Lord Sarksten’s private chambers. Light refreshments adorned the table, waiting to satisfy the traveler’s hunger.

The steward dismissed the other servant and prepared to wait on his lord.

“Laird Brogan, it’s been some time.” Lord Sarksten reached out to his guest.

“Sarksten.” Brogan clasped Sarksten’s hand.

The lord of the Carraig did not appear to have aged at all in the years since the war. He still stood tall and straight and moved with a younger man’s ease, despite the white of his hair. Age hadn’t dulled his craftiness either. That was the reason that Brogan had come to him.

“Have a seat.” Sarksten gestured to one of the carved chairs on the other side of his desk. Brogan eased his travel-tired body into the chair. His guard took up a stance behind him, hands clasped in front of his sword belt, ready for action should the need arise.

“How was your journey?” Sarksten poured a glass of wine and handed it across the table to Brogan.

“Uneventful.” Brogan took an appraising sip.

Sarksten leaned back in his chair, holding his own cup of wine. “I heard what happened with your young Seer.”

Brogan nodded. “It’s a bad business. MacTavish and I have been in council these last months trying to decide the most prudent course of action.”

“It was a bold move on Adam’s part.”

“Too bold.” Anger stirred again in Brogan’s chest at the memory of Dermot and his family after Sean had been taken.

“And how are the Clans going to respond?” Sarksten’s eyes narrowed shrewdly over his wine glass as he took another sip.

“That depends. You received our messenger?”

“I did.” Sarksten inclined his head. “He explained everything as fully as he could, but I think there’s more to say. Hence, this meeting.” He gestured to Brogan.

Brogan allowed a slight smile. “We are gathering our forces as we speak. We’ve sent a man to parley with Lord Adam to give us more time and keep him distracted from us.”

“Who did you send?”

Brogan sipped at his wine. “He seems well known in these parts.”

“The Mountain Baron?”

Brogan nodded, noting how Sarksten graciously refrained from mentioning the disgraced man’s name.

“The same. The Seer is his blood. It is my hope that Adam will consider him sufficiently neutral to not take immediate action against us.” Even if war is on its way.

“And if the Baron should take immediate action against Adam?” Sarksten raised an eyebrow. He knew the history between the men as well as Brogan.

That’s what Alan is there to prevent. Hopefully.

“Adam should also take his presence as a signal that I will not hesitate to defend my own.”

“The Baron might say you failed in that duty seven years ago.” Sarksten observed with a slight frown.

“Except that it was you who advised me to distance myself from him, lest it appear that the Clans had a hand in the assassination.” Brogan’s voice sharpened as he leaned forward. In the tumult following the assassination and trial, it had seemed the only thing to do to maintain peace.

Sarksten dipped his head in acknowledgment of the accusation. “We could not afford another war in those days. I doubt we can afford one now.” An infuriating calm filled his words and his face as he drank again.

“I don’t want it to come to war, but Adam has been pushing toward it for the last year. There have been raids along the Highlanders’ southern borders for months, but he won’t take responsibility.” Brogan said. “I’ve never trusted him.”

“Neither have I.” Sarksten pushed aside his goblet. “Though perhaps we brought this on ourselves by allowing him to sit as steward in Castle Bright.”

“You would have elected a new king then? Or left the seat empty?” Accusation crept through Brogan’s voice. It had been a hard decision, hotly debated, to allow then-General Adam Barkley to become lord in the castle he’d sworn to protect.

Sarksten gave a thin smile. “And who would we have chosen to replace the Seabright line? We might be in a worse position than we are now.”

Brogan tipped his head. Many would have taken the throne, but the council could not reach a consensus. “It seems Adam plans to make himself king. Perhaps we just gave him what he wanted.”

“You think there’s some truth to what the Baron claimed all those years ago? That Adam was behind the assassination?” Sarksten steepled his fingers.

Brogan shrugged. He’d wanted to believe the Baron, but the evidence against him had been overwhelming. No witnesses. Nothing to prove he hadn’t killed the last prince of the Seabright line. His wild claims that Adam Barkley had set him up were nothing more than the desperate ravings of a madman, striving to hold on to his clan.

“We had no witnesses then, and we surely have none now.”

“That is why I wanted the Baron left alive,” Sarksten said. “I knew we might need him one day. Maybe soon, if we need a way to bring Adam down.”

“Something tells me he won’t be inclined to help us.” Brogan gave a wry smile. The Baron had made no effort to hide his hate and anger at the Talam’s house. I have only myself to blame for that.

“And if some sort of promise were made in exchange for his help? Every man wants some sort of redemption.” Sarksten tilted his head, candlelight glinting off his white hair. The crafty gleam in his eyes looked just like one of the mountain lynxes that he had taken as his sigil.

Brogan shook his head. “The Baron’s an outcast. No man has ever been brought back into the Clans after that pronouncement. In the eyes of the Clans, there’s no way for him to atone for his crime.”

Sarksten shrugged, not quite hiding the slight narrowing of his eyes as if he was disappointed in Brogan’s response. “Perhaps. But maybe you should consider it an option should we need his help. He and his men have a reputation and skills that could be assets in the coming conflict.”

Brogan tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. Using reconciliation with Clan MacDuffy as a bargaining chip to manipulate the Mountain Baron sounded plausible in theory, but no one could convince the man to do anything he didn’t want to do. A more stubborn clansman had never lived. And if such an agreement turned sour, it wouldn’t be the Baron who ended up burning.

“Hopefully it won’t come to that, because I wouldn’t count on the Cairns’s help,” he said. “We’ll wait to see the outcome of the Baron’s meeting with Adam first before deciding our next course of action. My nephew went with him to help negotiate. They should reach Castle Bright within the next two days.”

“Do you think Adam will release your Seer?”

Brogan hesitated. He and MacTavish had debated this many times. They truly didn’t see Sean being peacefully released. Which is why they’d elected to send for the Baron. He’d do whatever it took to get Sean back to the Clans. And if nothing else, he’d serve as a distraction while they made final preparations for war.

“No,” Brogan said. “Adam’s moved too far now to simply release Sean. He hasn’t directly attacked our borders yet, so taking Sean was an act of aggression. He knows what the Seers are to the Clans, especially during war. If he wants war, then he’ll hold on to Sean.”

Or try. Though there’s no guarantee what will happen once the Baron arrives.

Sarksten rubbed his short beard. “What forces have you gathered?”

“The Highlanders have pledged their men. They’ve no fondness for Adam. I don’t know that they ever did. And as Chieftain of the seven clans, MacTavish has brought the other five under our banner of war should it come to that.”

“I thought MacTavishes never called for war.”

Brogan allowed a smile. Sarksten was still well-versed in the ways of the Clans. The personality of the Clans could change every five years, depending on which clan was elected to hold the title of chieftain over the other six. “Aye, the MacTavishes are politicians, and the MacDuffys are warriors. But we need each other. I went to the Chieftain with my grievance, and he called the Lairds. The north is preparing.”

“You know that even with the combined forces of the Highlanders and the Clans, Adam can still overwhelm you?” Sarksten leaned forward, pressing his hands against the desk.

“And that’s why we’ve come to you. We need more men. Adam won’t stop after he defeats us. He’ll come for you next.”

Sarksten had long been one of the most powerful lords in Alsaya behind the Seabright Kings. He held the fealty of the coastal lords east of the Bear River and the smaller northern barons whose lands abutted the Clans’. Allying with him gave the Clans and Highlanders their only true chance to challenge Lord Adam.

“And if we are to defeat Adam, then what? It still leaves the Seabright seat empty and we are in the same position we were in after the Sea Wars.” Sarksten leaned on the arm of his chair, rubbing at his chin. Interest gleamed bright in his eyes.

Brogan laced his hands together, tapping his thumbs together. Another thing that MacTavish and he had discussed with the other clan lairds at length. “The Clans at least are agreed that we still have no claim to the throne. We’ve governed ourselves for generations under a Chieftain while swearing allegiance to the Seabrights. But we will see a better replacement to take over Adam’s governances,” he said, steel in his voice.

Sarksten straightened, nodding again. “And the Highlanders?”

“They say much the same.”

Sarksten pressed his fingertips together, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at his desk before flicking his gaze up to meet Brogan’s. “And who do you think would make the best replacement? There are other lords to choose from, and many that I would bring in an alliance with you.”

Brogan sat a little taller. The messenger they’d sent had offered terms already. Alliances never came cheap, especially with one of Sarksten’s stature. But the more shrewd MacTavish had wondered if there might be something worth more to Sarksten than gold or trade. And he’d given Brogan the liberty to use it as he would in any further negotiations.

He pressed aside his last reservations and regarded Sarksten steadily. “The Clans will give our loyalty to the man best suited for the position.” Not an outright declaration, but enough for Sarksten to sit back, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth the only sign of his pleasure.

“What say you, Sarksten?”

The lord of the Carraig paused for only a moment before replying. “You have my support, Laird Brogan.”

Chapter 9

Lord Adam Barkley paced the council chamber of Castle Bright. The crying of seagulls floated through the open window along with the constant assault of waves against the cliffs. He turned away from his paper-laden desk, wishing for the relative simplicity of his time as a general before the Sea Wars when the Karanti had descended on Alsaya with their ships.

Adam shut the window against the incessant shrieking of the gulls, frowning in irritation at the headache that had only grown worse over the course of the day. Years ago, he’d convinced the council of lords to let him hold Castle Bright. The seat of their kings shouldn’t be left to decay.

And they bought it. He scoffed at the memory. Though the fact that he’d commanded half the army had helped his cause. But with the rise to the title of noble, and accompanying addition of over half of the southern territories under his banner, had come endless amounts of paperwork.

But shows me how broken the country still is. And I can fix it. Alsaya can be a proud, united nation once again.

He took his seat at the mahogany desk, spreading new missives before him. As the Seer had predicted, war was coming. He had been preparing for a long time. He was almost ready.

If only the Seer would cooperate. I just want to know the future. It’s a simple request. He rubbed at his temple. He should have remembered how infuriatingly stubborn Clansmen were. Second only to the Highlanders.

The Clans and Highlanders were no large concern. Lord Sarksten, however, was a different matter altogether. Sarksten controlled the eastern half of the lowlands, and the crafty lord posed a significantly greater challenge in terms of men and strategy.

Spies brought word that the Clans were seeking an alliance with him. Adam would need to move fast.

“The past rides closer every day.” He tossed down his pen as the Seer’s words floated back through his mind. He couldn’t seem to get rid of them.

Did he mean the gathering Clans and lords? They all had a past together from the war. Though if they weren’t all so stubborn there’d be no need for this war.

His headache throbbed in time to the crashing waves still audible against the cliffs. He knew Alsaya would still be a strong, proud country. The old king and his sons had died, leaving the way for fresh blood to step in and bring the country to a new power that she could never had achieved under the Seabrights.

And in the power vacuum after the last prince had met his untimely demise at the hands of the banished Rhys MacDuffy, he’d built up his position in order to do that very thing.

A knock sounded at the door, sending a fresh spear of discomfort between his eyes.

“Enter!” he growled.

The guard opened the door. “It’s Alisher, my lord.”

Adam flicked his hand in permission for the guard to allow the druid in.

Alisher swept in, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth as the guard leaned back to put some sort of distance between them.

The guard retreated at Adam’s signal and the door clicked softly shut. He stood to greet Alisher, still staying a few steps away from the druid. The man always made Adam vaguely uneasy.

“Deronis has a request to make of you, my lord.” Alisher bowed ever so slightly, waving like the seagrass in the light morning breeze. It irked Adam whenever Alisher began conversations this way.

“Then make it in his name.” He gave the odd formulaic reply that the druids insisted on.

“It is about the Seer, my lord. His spirit is strong, and it will be too long before we can bend him to our purpose. But we have consulted our scrolls and there is another way we can try to make use of his gift,” Alisher said. “We need his blood.”

“His blood?” Adam started at the request. “No, I told you that no irreparable harm was to come to him!”

Alisher raised an eyebrow. “You have been at our sessions, have you not?”

“Yes, but I don’t need him maimed or dead before he’s served his purpose.”

“We will keep him alive,” Alisher promised. “We accepted your invitation to come here because you told us you could provide us with new servants of Deronis. You are not the only one who has a purpose with the Seer.”

“And how will his blood help?” Adam crossed his arms, a sort of morbid curiosity sparking the question. He’d given the druids access to any prisoner for their occult experiments. Well, any but one. They’d never made such a request before.

“Blood is power. You die when your body drains of blood, do you not? It holds the power of the soul. With the Seer’s blood, we will be able to unlock his soul and bend it to Deronis’s will.”

A shiver cut across Adam’s skin. He’d met one of the druidic order years ago on a trip to Cressa under the old king. He’d sought them out again two years ago, interested to learn more about their power. When they’d promised him success in exchange for a few simple requests and service to Deronis, it hadn’t been a difficult decision. But still, some of their demands raised flags in his mind, verging on darkness he didn’t feel confident embracing.

I’ve spilled plenty of blood to get what I want. Why is this different?

“Perhaps you would like to see what we can do with his blood?” Alisher gestured to the door.

Adam shook his head. Alisher’s invitation was not the distraction he’d wanted a few minutes ago.

But a little blood can’t hurt. Wars always start with blood.

“Fine, do what you must with him. Just leave him alive.”

Alisher gave his small bow again, the tip of his long beard brushing the surface of the desk. “There is one more thing.”

Adam tilted his head.

“It seems that the Seer has been speaking with several guards and another prisoner in the cells. They give him news of the castle and the world.”

Adam tensed. “What?”

Alisher shrugged. “The prisoner is of no concern, but order your guards not to speak to him. He must be isolated, cut off any connection to an outside world. Let him know that the only future for him is Deronis’s.”

Adam barely heard the druid. I wasn’t thinking. The Clansman is a Seer. Who knows what he’s seen and heard in the dungeons? His blood ran cold. Perhaps I do have something from the past to fear.

“I’ll take care of it,” Adam said sharply.

“Deronis smiles upon you,” Alisher intoned, spreading his hands in a sort of benediction.

Adam gave the appropriate bow and murmured, “I am his to command.”

The smug look returned to Alisher’s face at his obeisance. “We will triumph with the Seer, and the future will be ours to rule.” He leaned a little closer as if he’d read Adam’s thoughts. “There is nothing to fear. The Seer will be weakened as we draw his blood, and his power given to us instead. We will have our victories.”

Adam’s tension eased at the reassurance. Perhaps the druids’ plan needed to happen. He wasn’t worried about the guards. He just didn’t need Sean seeing more than he already had.

Chapter 10

The green-topped towers of Castle Bright loomed over the peaks of the pine trees surrounding the road. The salty scent of the ocean wafted on the breeze. Rhys reined to a halt by the Raven’s Tooth, a large rectangular stone standing at the crossroads.

He clenched his hand tight around the reins as he stared up at the raven carved in relief atop the narrow stone.

“Head for the mountains. You’ll only have trouble if you stay here in the lowlands.” Neil’s voice rumbled in his mind again. They’d stood in this exact spot seven years ago, his body still aching and sore, but it was nothing compared to the raw pain that still lingered in his heart.

“Never understood why it was called the Raven’s Tooth.” Alan’s musing voice jerked him from the memory.

“Looks like a tooth.” Rorie shrugged.

“But ravens have no teeth,” Alan pointed out.

“Your people have strange ideas on the naming of things.” Jes tipped his head back to regard the stone. “I agree with Alan. This makes no sense.”

“Better than that hill you called a mountain in Gedrin. ‘The head of a cow,’ or something, wasn’t it?” A smirk twisted Rorie’s mouth.

Jes lifted his chin as he sniffed. “The mountain is known as the Spirit of the Black Dove, as you well remember.”

“Black dove? Is that just another name for raven?” Alan tilted his head, the faint quirk at the corner of his mouth belying the seriousness of his voice.

Rorie tossed his head back in a laugh as Bryn smirked. Jes narrowed his eyes before allowing a smile.

Rhys couldn’t bring himself to appreciate their levity. All those years ago, standing alone and lost under the shadow of the Raven’s Tooth, he’d had no idea what he would become.

Full circle. The path through the pines taunted him, glimpses of the white towers of the castle enough to make his stomach churn. As before, once he passed the Raven’s Tooth, there was no turning back. His men would disappear into the town to gather what information they could, and he’d be on his own once again to face Adam.

Alan’s chuckle broke through his reverie. Not alone. Alan would be with him, and Alan was still stupid enough to have his back, no matter how many times Rhys tried to push him away.

Rorie pulled a grey woolen cap over his distinctive tattoos. “You ready then, little man?” He clapped Jes’s shoulder.

“Do you really think that will be a disguise?” Jes straightened the sleeve of his jerkin.

“We won’t be here long, will we, Baron?” Rorie turned to Rhys.

Rhys shook his head. If all went according to plan, they wouldn’t be at the castle more than a few days. He caught the flashes of concern on his men’s faces, most obvious in Bryn’s. They knew something was wrong, even beyond his usual terseness.

“You know the plan,” he said. “Head out.”

They saluted and spurred their horses down the paths. Rorie and Jes went one direction. Rhys nodded to Bryn, and he took the opposite fork.

“You all right?” Alan asked after the men were safely gone. The concern in his eyes held an unsettling knowing.

“What happened to Neil?” Rhys abruptly asked.

Neil MacCullough had ignored the edict of the Clans and stood to help him when no one else would. They had parted ways here years ago.

“Respected by some, shunned by the rest,” Alan replied. “I think old Laird MacCullough is secretly proud of what he did.”

“But he never got any trouble because of me?”

“Have you forgotten what Neil is like?” Alan scoffed lightly. “I could count on one hand the number of people he doesn’t scare with that glare of his. Did he teach you that look?”

“Shut up,” Rhys growled and spurred forward. He’d gotten used to Alan’s cheerful banter again over the past week. But as they drew near to the castle, too many old memories were resurfacing. If he wasn’t careful, they’d overwhelm him.

Rhys and Alan pushed their way through the narrow and crowded streets. Vendors hawked their wares on the corners, and orphans and street urchins darted through the crowds relieving any unsuspecting passersby of their valuables. Most veered away before approaching Rhys, and the way cleared imperceptibly before them.

A merchant nearly fell over trying to get out of their way and Alan gave a strangled snort. Rhys turned in time to see him assume a mock serious expression. He rolled his eyes, and Alan smirked.

Several women waved coyly at Alan, their smiles turning to pouts as he ignored them.

They reached the drawbridge and paused for a moment to allow a troop of soldiers to march past.

“It’s not like you to be so quiet.” Rhys looked up at the imposing battlements and turrets soaring above them. The white stones used to be a welcome sight after returning from patrol or battle. Now they just reminded of him everything he’d lost in the shadow of the walls.

Alan’s gaze darted around, taking in the guards marching across the walls, and the soldiers standing at attention at the gates. “Do you think this will actually work?”

“It will, even if I have to pull this place down around Adam.” And slowly, if they’ve hurt Sean. Rhys led his horse over the drawbridge into the castle courtyard.

Rhys stated their purpose to a servant who ran for the steward. They were not kept waiting long. A thin, angular man descended the steps and approached them.

“I’m told you have business with my lord?” he said in a nasally voice.

“You can tell him that Clan MacDuffy is here for its Seer,” Rhys said flatly.

The steward shifted uncomfortably.

“And you are, sir?” he asked.

“The Mountain Baron.”

The steward took a full step back before regaining his composure. “I will inform Lord Adam of his visitors.”

Stable hands took their horses and the steward led them inside. The polished marble floor of the main hall reflected their blurred figures where the steward left them standing by the dais and hurried through a wide arched doorway. Similar openings connected to various halls that meandered the castle. The closed door of ocean pine to Rhys’s right led to what once had been the royal chambers. He used to walk it every day with the prince.

He jerked his attention away. Galleries opened up above the dais, wrapping around the entirety of the upper hall. Guards were stationed beside the fluted columns that rose up to support the vaulted ceiling on the upper levels.

Adam’s banner, a sea osprey on a grey and red field, hung behind the throne. Rhys scowled at the sight. The Seabrights’ banner, a white albatross on green field, had been moved to the eastern wall, still displayed in a position of honor, but shunted aside. The guards and servants all wore livery in Adam’s colors. Besides the banner, there was no other sign of the royal green and white.

“Subtle, isn’t he?” Alan muttered under his breath.

“Not like anyone tried to stop him, is it?” Rhys returned.

“They didn’t have any reason to.”

Rhys clenched his fist. They would have if they’d listened to me.

Along the western wall hung the banners of the lords who’d sworn fealty to Adam. Under the Seabrights, it held the colors of the Highlanders, Clans, and eastern lords. Now the wall looked tired and empty, the banners spread wide to fill the space.

They waited for nearly half an hour, left standing without offer of refreshment. Alan began to fidget. He kept glancing at Rhys, expression wide and worried as if expecting him to explode at any moment. Rhys remained as still as a stone, refusing to let any emotion show. The last time they’d stood together in this hall, he’d been in chains in front of a council accusing him of murder.

The steward reappeared, his hands fidgeting nervously. He looked to Rhys.

“Lord Adam Barkley,” he announced. Around the hall, spears rapped the marble floor as guards stood straighter in attention.

Lord Adam strode onto the dais from a side door and took a seat in the chair that had once belonged to a king. Rhys clenched his hands, jaw tensing at the ownership in Adam’s confident posture.

Adam stared at Rhys for a long moment. His eyes brightened with recognition. He reclined more comfortably in the throne. “Well, well. The traitor returns. I hear you style yourself a baron now.”

“And I see you’re still pretending to be better than you are,” Rhys replied through clenched teeth.

Adam sniffed, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. “And your companion?”

“Alan MacDuffy. He stands on behalf of Laird Brogan to bring about a peaceful resolution.” Rhys’s tone dripped skepticism.

“A resolution to what?” Adam raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the smirk remained barely hidden around his mouth.

Rhys shifted, but Alan smoothly stepped in front of him.

“You took our Clan Seer, Sean MacDuffy. My clan demands that he be returned home immediately. I am to warn you of the consequences should you refuse.”

“Consequences to me? What will people say of the Clans when they hear they sent a known traitor to my court?” Adam flicked a hand around the hall.

Rhys flexed his wrists, his fingers itching to draw a weapon.

“Laird Brogan felt it necessary for him to be involved. He has blood ties with the Seer,” Alan said tersely.

“I see.” Adam tapped a finger against his chin. “And what can I expect from your Laird in return?”

Alan took a letter from his belt pouch and handed it to Adam.

“The terms, set down by Chieftain MacTavish and Laird MacDuffy.”

“You will forgive me if I take some time to read over this?” Adam waved the papers.

“Please, my lord, we want no unfortunate misunderstanding to occur.” Alan smiled, but iron edged his voice.

Adam inclined his head with a return smile. “Until I’ve reached a decision, you will lodge here in the castle. I insist.” His façade dropped for a moment, and his smile turned threatening as he waved to his steward. “See it done.”

Alan gave the shallowest of bows. Rhys didn’t move.

“While you take your time, we wish to see Sean,” Rhys said. “Those terms depend on his healthy return.”

“As you wish.” Adam shrugged. “I’m afraid he’s in the dungeons. He viciously attacked and injured two of my men. He had to be restrained for everyone’s wellbeing.”

Rhys started forward, but Alan gripped his arm, restraining him for Adam’s wellbeing. Sean would never attack anyone.

“We understand, my lord,” Alan said.

Adam inclined his head and waved them away.

A servant and two soldiers guided them to the dungeons, staying a few steps ahead of Rhys.

“What happened to trying the diplomatic approach first?” Alan muttered to Rhys.

Rhys ignored him, the tension only building as they walked along the halls. He caught glimpses of the sea through the narrow slits in the walls. The only escape that way lay in a sheer hundred-foot drop to the rocks below. The corridor halted under the base of the southeast tower where a staircase wound down to the lowest levels of the castle and the dungeons.

Natural light dimmed and faded with each step they took down, replaced by lanterns hanging from iron brackets on the walls. A suffocating mustiness seeped from the stones as they descended, fading to the dampness of mold and worse smells as they passed under the archway into the cells.

The warden came to greet them from his small room protected by an iron-bound door. The jangle of his keys clattered in the stillness of the dungeon as he led them further down the narrow hallway between the cells that ranged on either side. The hall ended in darkness, leading to another level below even that.

Rhys choked a breath at the memory of the last time he’d seen the prison. Strangely enough, most of the cells stood empty, except for where the warden halted.

He unlocked it and stood aside. Rhys extended a hand, keeping Alan in place outside the cell as the guard gestured into the gloom of the cell. Rhys stepped inside and paused by the unconscious figure on the cot, heart pounding as he looked at his brother for the first time in over seven years.

Boyish features had hardened to those of a man. The beginnings of a beard stubbled the lower half of his pale face. He wore his thick auburn hair a little longer than Rhys remembered.

He clenched his fist in anger as he noticed the bloody bandage wrapped above Sean’s wrist.

“What happened?” Rhys asked in a measured tone. The soldiers outside the door glanced at one another, reluctant to reply. “What happened?” he thundered.

“It was the druids,” another prisoner spoke up from across the corridor. “They’ve been bleeding him for the past two days.” A soldier hit his spear against the cell door and the man stepped back.

Sean stirred as Rhys lifted the edge of the bandage to reveal a crusted and oozing wound. His eyes cracked open.

“Get me clean water and bandages. Now!” Rhys’s voice lashed.

Alan leaned against the door of the cell, hand on the hilt of his sword, and stared down the guards until one hastened to obey Rhys.

Rhys knelt by the cot and brushed hair from Sean’s forehead as he checked for fever.

“Rhys?” Some alertness came into Sean’s eyes. Rhys’s heart clenched at the sound of his voice, so different from that of the gangly youth he’d left behind. “You’re here.”

“Late again, am I?” Rhys unwound the bandage.

“It’s a bad habit.”

The wound had closed, but the precision of the cut confirmed the truth of the guard’s words. Sean had been wounded specifically to obtain his blood. The bandage had been tight enough to stop the flow, but a clear fluid leaked from the cut.

“As I remember most of the time it was your fault.” Rhys turned his gaze back to Sean.

Alan stood aside to let the soldier through with bandages and a cup of water. He set them down on the cot and quickly scuttled away after a glance from Rhys.

Rhys began to wash the wound, gently cleaning away the grit around it.

“Haven’t seen you in years, and you’re still trying to take care of me?” Sean lifted a shaky hand to keep the damp cloth against his arm as Rhys reached for a bandage.

Rhys came dangerously close to a smile. “You’re the Seer. What did you think was going to happen?”

Sean’s chuckle degenerated into a dry cough, sending another pang of concern through Rhys. After he tied off the fresh dressing, he lifted the cup for Sean to drink. Rhys allowed him a few sips before letting his head rest back on the cot.

“Time’s up,” the warden spoke up, gruff authority in his voice.

Rhys turned a glare on him, but Alan shook his head imperceptibly—don’t fight just yet. The same anger shone in Alan’s eyes, and his knuckles were white around his sword hilt, but they must wait until Adam gave them an answer to the Clan’s terms.

Rhys turned back to Sean, fighting the roaring protectiveness that had come rushing back after years of suppressing it.

“I’ll be back.” He made to stand.

Sean grabbed his arm in an urgent grip. “Rhys, be careful here. There is another power to be feared.”

“The druids?”

“They’ll stop you if you try to take me,” Sean warned.

“Don’t worry, Sean, we’ll get you home. Your family misses you.” He stumbled over the word. He swallowed hard, shoving away the anger and pain to focus on the task at hand. Getting Sean out.

“You saw them?” Sean asked, painful longing in his voice—the same longing that pounded at Rhys heart on his worst days.

“Aye, they’re well,” Rhys reassured him.

“I wanted to tell you--” Sean searched his face.

A scuffle at the door jerked Rhys’s attention away.

Alan had his hand pressed against the warden’s chest, preventing him from pushing into the cell. A dangerous look sharpened Alan’s features. His patience was wearing thin.

Rhys had only to give the word, and they’d both rain down destruction on Adam and his men. But Sean’s grip on his arm nudged a small amount of sense back into his mind.

He took a breath, letting the cold rush in and surround his heart again.

Rhys pressed his hand. “It’s all right. Rest. We’ll come for you soon.”

Chapter 11

Seven years ago

Rhys stood in the great hall, flanked by guards. The manacles about his wrists clinked as he trembled with the effort of holding his aching body upright. Dark cloth covered the Seabright banner hanging behind the empty throne. The council stared back at him, no mercy in their eyes. All except for General Barkley. Faint triumph sparked in his eyes as Sarksten read out the sentence.

“Rhys MacDuffy, you are hereby named traitor to the clans. Your sentence will be carried out immediately.”

The guards grabbed his arms and turned him away as the council adjourned. Chieftain MacDuffy wouldn’t even meet his eyes as he moved past.

Rhys kept his head down as they marched through town, through angry, jeering townsfolk to the beach. The night before, Brogan had warned him about some of what would happen. Rhys had asked for death, but Brogan had said the council’s mind was already made up.

Death was too easy for what he had done.

Paved stone gave way to white sand as they passed the last low harbor wall. His feet stumbled through the thick sand as the soldiers took him forward, their hands still like iron around his arms.

It’ll be over soon.

They passed ranks of soldiers, some faces not caring, others vaguely sympathetic, but many filled with hate. He turned his gaze away, focusing instead on the grains of white sand that coated his boots with every step.

His breath pressed tight against his chest when he looked up again.

A post had been driven into the sand, ropes dangling from the top. A fire crackled under a shallow brazier, an iron heating in its grip.

“You’ll be marked,” Brogan had told him the night before.

Movement killed the thought. Kane paced in the open circle, an almost feral smile crossing his face when he met Rhys’s brief stare. It was the same expression the man had worn during the full day of interrogation Rhys had endured at his hand.

Rhys had thought he’d understood torture until he spent a day with Kane.

The soldiers had to force Rhys to move again, finally jerking him to a halt in front of the post. They unlocked his manacles and stripped him of his shirt roughly, the salty air stinging in the oozing, exposed cuts and gashes that pockmarked his skin.

“Kneel.”

He barely registered the command before his knees were kicked from under him. He thudded to the sand, just trying to breathe as his arms were yanked overhead and tied.

It’ll be over soon.

It was only thought he seemed capable of. He glanced up and saw Alan’s strained face. He stood next to Brogan, whose own expression remained an impressive mask.

Alan. His best friend. A brother in all but name. He stood by and did nothing now, though his eyes were wide with horror.

I’ll do whatever it takes to get you home. Brogan’s reassuring words spoken before the trial were his only hope at the moment.

He wouldn’t be able to go home for a while, but he could eventually. On that day, he could explain everything to his family. To Sean.

The official called out to the crowd surrounding the post. “Rhys MacDuffy has been declared guilty of the murder of Prince Seabright, the last of his line.”

Angry cries echoed from the gathered crowd, shouts of hate and rage louder than the crashing waves of the ocean.

“The council decrees that there has been enough death in this war,” the official called to another angry chorus of furious shouts. “The council will not stain the prince’s legacy even with the death of a traitor. Therefore, Rhys MacDuffy will receive the mark of dishonor, thirty lashes, and the brand of a traitor so that every soul in Alsaya may know his crime.”

Rhys forced a breath. Then another. But his muscles froze when Kane circled around him, a long whip uncoiling in his hand. The torturer smiled and passed out of his view.

Breathe. Just breathe. It’ll be over soon.

Pain seared through his back and his body jerked of its own accord. The second strike freed him from the shock, and a cry clawed at his throat.

In the crowd, Alan’s face paled, his expression stricken and his fists clenched tight. Surrounded by a crowd of raging onlookers, Rhys had never been more alone. He smothered a cry as the third lash cut into him.

It’ll be over soon.

The gasping, strangled sounds in his throat grew raspier, deeper with every lash, but he didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. Not for the fifth lash. Not for the tenth. Not even for the fifteenth. But his resolve began to waver as the sixteenth lash was called.

A small trembling cry escaped as a sheen of red stained the sand around him.

Will it ever be over?

He sagged against the ropes, his body jolting with every new blow. Another cry escaped with twenty, louder this time. And then it seemed he couldn’t stop, even as darkness threatened his vision.

Then it stopped. He sobbed for a breath as his body shook. Blood slicked his back and a small breeze stung. The scent of burning forced its way into his battered senses.

“Not done with you yet, traitor,” Kane’s laughing voice whispered in his ear.

His right arm was wrenched around to expose his forearm. He didn’t have time to think before fire engulfed his arm. From the corner of his eye he saw the angry yellow and red iron pressed against his arm. Holding, searing, burning. Then released.

His skin had been warped and scorched into a T, facing out to the world and declaring him a traitor.

Finally. It’s over. It’s done. He found some relief as his body throbbed in agony.

“You still awake?” Kane yanked his head up by his sweaty, blood-streaked hair.  “Because I want to see this.”

Rhys couldn’t puzzle a meaning as his hands were untied and they dragged him away from the post. He remained on his knees, the soldiers pinning him in place.

What’s happening? It’s over.

Brogan came into his narrowed field of vision. He held a bundle of cloth. Blue and yellow checkered.

“Rhys MacDuffy, you stand accused of treason and murder. You’ve dishonored your clan.”

What is he doing?

Brogan ripped the cloth, the rending of the fabric somehow louder than the crowd’s infuriated roar.

No.

Time seemed to freeze. Brogan took something from a clansman, and Rhys recognized his sword. But a deep notch had been cut into the blade.

No.

He wanted to scream, to beg, to plead, anything to make Brogan stop what was about to happen. But the words locked in his chest and he watched in horrified silence as Brogan set his notched blade beneath his foot and broke it. Something snapped deep inside him as the echo faded across the silent beach.

“From this day forward you have no father, no brother, no sister, nor mother within the seven Clans. Your name shall not be spoken again unless to curse and you will be forgotten. You are outcast.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Liar. He lied to me.

The soldiers released his arms, and he swayed without their sudden support. Above the roaring of the breakers, Rhys could barely hear Alan shout from somewhere in the crowd.

Brogan turned his back on him and walked away. Kane stepped into view, a wicked smile on his face. He raised his hand, clenching the butt of the whip, and brought it down.

Fire exploded across his face and he tumbled to the sand, new blood dribbling from his temple. Grit clawed into his wounded back, but he didn’t care. He could hardly feel the pain through the shock. Darkness began to take him, but not before he saw boots stirring the sand in front of him. A bundle of plaid clattered to the ground.

“Come on.” He barely heard the words. Movement sent every injured nerve screaming in protest.

Just let me die, was his last thought before the darkness took him.

“Baron.” Alan’s voice jerked him back to the light. Rhys unclenched his hands, palms throbbing from where his fingers had dug into skin. He shuddered a breath and focused on the white sands of the beach that stretched beyond the harbor. From the height of their room, the sweeping curve of the harbor was visible, filled with ships of every design, and guarded by a towering lighthouse rising on the cliffs at the harbor entrance.

He rested a hand on the windowsill, taking another deep breath.

“This was his room, you know,” he said. “This is where it happened.”

“Dialan,” Alan whispered, glancing around at the wide room they’d been escorted to after being told that Lord Adam would speak to them at the evening meal. Guards tramped through the halls, leaving little doubt that they were, in effect, prisoners.

A prisoner once again within the castle walls. He’d asked for death, and they’d given him a brand and a curse.

He’d been trying to die ever since. But Neil MacCullough hadn’t let him. Neil had stood forward as Alan was dragged away with the Clan. He’d knelt by Rhys, wrapped the sword in the tattered cloth, and carried the broken blade and the broken man away.

He’d stayed until Rhys was strong enough to travel on his own. They said goodbye at the Raven’s Tooth, and Rhys began his journey to the mountains.

Alan’s chair squeaked against the stone floor as he stood. “If I had known that my uncle was going to exile you, I would have told you.”

“He should have told me himself. It was the least he could have done.” Fire came back to Rhys’s voice. There had been plenty of opportunities.

“Rhys.” Alan moved to his side.

“Don’t say that name.”

“To flames with my uncle and his laws! I don’t care about them anymore.” Alan slammed his fist against the wall with a curse. “You were my brother, Rhys, and I shouldn’t have abandoned you.”

“What could you have done?” Rhys whirled to face him. “Did you have evidence to clear my name? Any proof that I didn’t murder him? No one did. It was my word against theirs, and it still is.”

“The prince counted you as a friend out of all of the guards.” Alan sagged. “You had no reason to kill him.”

“Friend.” Rhys scoffed. “I sounded desperate with stories of another assassin who couldn’t be found as I stood there with the blade that killed him. No, there was nothing to be done.” Rhys turned away, unable to hide the despair that crushed him. His world had been shattered that day. He’d never been able to rebuild it.

“I still shouldn’t have left you.”

Rhys shook his head, moving away from Alan. “No.”

“If I was in your place, you would have done it for me.” Guilt darkened Alan’s voice. Rhys hated it.

“If you’d helped me, you would have ended up just like me.” He backed away again. “It’s better this way.”

Alan opened his mouth to keep arguing, but the door’s latch scraped. Rhys tensed as two guards entered, another two visible outside the door.

“We’re to escort you to dinner,” the guard with the two horizontal lines of an officer stamped into his right shoulder plate spoke. “Leave your weapons.”

Rhys exchanged a look with Alan. As one, they undid their sword belts and laid them on the table before allowing the soldiers to escort them out.

Chapter 12

Rhys walked next to Alan as they were led down a winding staircase and across a smaller audience hall.

Rhys pressed his left arm against his side, reassured by the pressure of the knife under the hidden slit of his jerkin. The strap of another knife wrapped around his calf inside his boot. He slowly relaxed his arm, turning his focus onto the castle around him, allowing the memories of every passage and hall to return. They might need that information later.

Long tables stretched the length of the dining hall, reaching toward the table set atop the raised step at the head of the hall. Men, women, and children filled the lower tables. Most were in the livery of servants or higher ranked members of Adam’s household. Six druids sat in a cluster of green robes at the end of the table closest to the dais.

Tapestries hung along the walls depicting scenes of hunts and revelry in bold colors, light from the torches between them glinting off their gilded edges. Rounded chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the iron ornamented to look like raised seagull wings supported the dozens of candles casting extra light on the tables below.

A gaunt druid sat at the head table at Adam’s right side. Uniformed captains and men in the finery of noblemen filled the other seats.

The officer led Rhys and Alan all the way up to the high table. Adam greeted them with a smile as if they were honored guests and waved them to two empty seats on his left.

Heads turned as Rhys sat, and he caught more than one whispered mention of Baron. The title lent him some reassurance and strengthened the icy barricade against the anger that proximity to Adam stirred.

“Ah, thank you for joining me.” Adam smiled.

As if we had a choice.

“I hope your accommodations are to your taste.”

Rhys’s hand strayed down toward his boot. Alan kicked his leg.

“Yes. I’d forgotten how impressive the castle is,” Alan said smoothly.

“Indeed. It’s a shame that we no longer have royalty to grace its halls, is it not?” Adam toyed lazily with the silver-filigreed knife by his plate.

Rhys fisted his hand against his thigh. “Makes me sad to see how far it’s fallen since the war.”

Adam chuckled, but it came a little forced. “From all reports the Clans have had a prosperous year.” He looked past Rhys to Alan.

A muscle twitched along Alan’s jaw before a tight smile emerged. “We have.” His gaze sharpened. “Now, to business please, Lord Adam. Have you considered the terms?”

“Ah, I find I don’t agree with most of them.” Adam turned to Rhys. “And I feel a little offended that the Clans would send you to deliver them.”

“No one else would treat with you,” Rhys said. “It seems they didn’t want to meet a pretend lord.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed for a moment before his features smoothed. “I’d take care who you call pretender—traitor.”

Rhys matched his glare. “What of the terms?”

“They are too rigid for my taste.” Adam reclined in his seat with a smile. “I must refuse.”

Rhys clenched his jaw and briefly considered joining the war against Adam.

“So, you won’t release the Seer?” Alan rested a hand against the table, carefully enunciating each word.

“No, he can be useful to me. As can the two of you,” Adam signaled to his guards. Two guards stepped behind their chairs in a quick rush. Rhys refrained from reaching for his knives again.

A hush settled over the hall.

Alan turned to Adam, still outwardly relaxed even with the sudden proximity of the soldiers at his back. “You realize you’ve just declared war against Clan MacDuffy? We have the full strength of the seven clans behind us.”

A slight smile played across Adam’s face. “I do.”

“When I do not return, the Clans will begin their march.”

“Understood,” Adam said calmly, as if discussing the changing of the tides.

Alan’s face betrayed no surprise or anger at the turn of events.

Rhys clenched his fist against the arm of the chair. The Clans knew it would come to war. As Brogan said, we’re just the distraction. Did he even believe we’d get Sean out?

“Now, there’s no reason we can’t be civilized and finish supper, especially as you two will be my guests for some time.” Adam snapped his fingers. The soldiers relaxed their stance, but still flanked Rhys and Alan. Servants began to bring out dishes and lay them on the tables. Conversation gradually resumed along with the clatter of dishes.

Rhys forced his hand to unclench. Bryn, Rorie, and Jes are still outside the castle. We planned for this. We’ve gotten out of worse situations in the past.

Beside him, Alan shifted in his chair, a quick exhale escaping. Not unexpected for him either. Neither of us is where we want to be right now. Wonder why Brogan sent him if they knew this would happen?

“Been practicing diplomacy, have you?” Rhys murmured to Alan. He took several pieces of warm flatbread from a platter, scooping a mixture of tender lamb and thinly sliced carrots and onions on top—a recipe adapted from the Karanti, and the only good thing to come from the wars.

“Figured someone needed to model it for you.” Alan pushed his wine glass forward for a servant to fill it.

Rhys rolled his eyes and sprinkled more spice atop his food.

“Still ruining the taste of perfectly good food, I see.” Alan reached for the braised venison and roasted red potatoes.

Rhys clamped down on a retort. He couldn’t fall back into the easy comradeship with Alan. It wouldn’t last, and he wouldn’t give Adam anything else to use against him.

“So, Baron.” Adam half-turned to him. “We’ve heard all these terrible stories about the Dragon Keep. Is it true that you take in other murderers and traitors?”

Rhys forced his shoulders to stay relaxed. “Why? Looking for a new place to live?”

Adam scoffed a light laugh. “No, just trying to determine who to have my soldiers look out for. You don’t expect me to believe you came alone? Or does loyalty mean as little to your band of criminals as it did to you?”

Rhys wiped his hands on a cloth napkin, easing out a breath to control his urge to stab Adam. “I’ve seen more loyalty with outlaws that I ever did in your men.”

Lines hardened around Adam’s mouth. He took a sip of his wine to cover it up.

“Since we’re being so informal now, you might as well tell me why you took Sean,” Rhys said.

“I’m sure both of you remember how useful the Seers were during the Sea Wars. What else would you need a fortune teller for?” Adam poured himself more wine.

Rhys arched an eyebrow at the term fortune teller, something only someone not raised in the clans would call a Seer. Sean will be flamed to know Adam calls him that.

“Oh, where are my manners?” Adam said. “Let me introduce you to Alisher. He leads the druids in Deronis’s name. He and Sean have had some—conversations.” Adam smiled smugly as he gestured to the druid.

Dark eyes glimmered above the druid’s thin cheeks, boring into Rhys with a startling intensity as if trying to search out his deepest secrets. A faint smile lurked on his bearded lips, giving the uncomfortable feeling that he had in fact, found those secrets. Rhys blinked slowly before deliberately turning his gaze away.

“Yes, our discussions with the Seer have been—informative,” Alisher said.

He’s the one that’s been bleeding Sean.

Discomfort prickled down his arms. This druid was nothing like the one they’d encountered in the inn. But anyone who hurt Sean was going to pay.

Rhys had in his service a Darvani—a sea-faring race, the misborn offspring of the Karanti and their conquered nations—who whispered tales of the cult that reigned in the southern deserts of Cressa. After Sean’s warning, and seeing the head of their order—were the tales indeed true?

He finished the last of his wine, wishing instead for the dark ale of the Keep. Alan tossed his napkin down, his gaze darting over to Rhys and passing to Adam. The lord nudged his plate away and sat back, nursing the last of his drink.

“I look forward to speaking to you tomorrow. We have a little unfinished business.” Adam waved his hand and the soldiers closed in around them.

Rhys slowly stood, turning the full force of the glare that cowed hardened outlaws at the soldiers, daring them to touch him. They shifted back enough to let him lead the way to their room.

They said nothing until the door closed behind them and the lock turned.

“Well that didn’t go exactly according to plan.” Alan took a seat, rubbing a hand across his face. “You have any ideas other than scowling at everyone?”

Rhys ignored him, instead taking the extra candle from beside the bed. He lit it, then set it in the left-hand corner of the paned window and waited.

Chapter 13

Bryn leaned against a wall in a dark alleyway below the castle, rubbing the pommel of one of his knives as he waited. A faint scuff sounded behind him, and it wasn’t a cat. Half a second later he had a knife at someone’s throat.

“Take it easy!” Rorie snorted, brushing the blade away.

“Some warning next time, Highlander,” Bryn said.

“I kicked a rock back at the entrance,” Rorie said in mild offense, tugging at his cap.

It was Bryn’s turn to snort.

“Any word from the Baron?” Rorie rested a broad shoulder against the opposite wall.

Bryn pointed up at the flickering candlelight sitting in a window high on the eastern side of the castle. “It appeared ten minutes ago.”

Rorie nodded. They had at least another fifteen minutes before the Baron expected a reply.

“Where’s Jes?” Bryn glanced back down the empty alleyway.

“Moving the horses. Guards started asking questions about newcomers to town not too long ago.”

Couldn’t Adam have waited ‘til tomorrow? I wanted to sleep in a bed tonight. Bryn flicked a knife in and out of its sheath with his thumb. “He know where to meet?”

Rorie scratched his forehead under his knit cap. “That urchin you sent over with the message found us before he left. He’ll be coming soon.”

“See anything else around town?”

“Plenty of soldiers. A few of those green robed druids we’ve heard about. Folk seem fairly superstitious about them.”

Bryn raised an eyebrow. “You’re one to judge about being superstitious.”

“It’s part of being a Highlander. These lowlanders live such boring, safe lives they have no time for it.”

Bryn held up a hand to silence Rorie, and they both pressed back into the shadows as three soldiers clanked by on patrol.

Bryn shoved away from the wall as soon as the street quieted again. “Calling me boring then?”

“Eh, you’re not so bad.”

Bryn rolled his eyes. “Come on. There’s a few nice rooftops around here that we can use.”

Rorie followed close on his heels as he led the way down another narrow alley.

“Think the Baron’s hurt anyone yet?” he asked almost hopefully.

“He hasn’t been in the castle twenty-four hours yet. There’s still time.” Bryn checked to make sure a street was empty before crossing. Rorie joined him behind a tailor’s shop.

Rorie laced his fingers together, bracing them against his leg as Bryn put his boot in his hands and accepted the boost up to the flat roof. He lay prone and stretched an arm down to Rorie. The Highlander was tall enough to reach his hand, and he scrambled up to the roof with surprising ease for his bulk. The building stood tall enough to shield them from the street below, and enough lights still winked from the surrounding houses that one more wouldn’t go amiss.

They pushed up to a low crouch on the roof, Bryn keeping an eye on the flickering light in the distant castle as Rorie attempted to light the lantern. His flint rasped a few times, sending sparks but no flame.

“Hurry up,” Bryn whispered. “He won’t be happy if we’re late.”

Rorie cursed under his breath, then exhaled in satisfaction as the wick flared to life. “He’s never happy.”

That’s true enough. The Baron usually maintained a veneer of icy calm, but Bryn had been seeing worrisome cracks ever since the messenger waltzed up to the Keep and delivered the summons.

He pulled a stiff piece of folded leather from his tunic and flicked it across the lantern’s face, blocking the light in one long flash, then two short ones.

A moment later, the light in the window flickered in two short flashes, then one long one.

“Baron’s ready,” Bryn whispered.

Rorie propped on his elbows beside Bryn, keeping an eye out for soldiers as Bryn sent the messages.

Soldiers know we’re here. Bryn said.

A long pause followed, then the light flickered. Guards watching us too.

“Adam moved on them,” Bryn told Rorie.

The Highlander shook his head. “Faster than he thought, isn’t it?”

Bryn nodded. The Baron had hoped for at least another day before they were forced to try something else.

Plan?

Ready to move?

Bryn sent back three short flashes in affirmation, then passed the leather up and down in front of the light twice. When?

Tomorrow night. West side.

“Rorie, you get what we needed today?”

“Aye.” Rorie chuckled. “Nice gelding that some drunken sod won’t miss.”

Bryn allowed a smile. Have spare horse. Time?

Midnight. Be careful.

Bryn translated the last bit to Rorie who snorted in derision.

“Who does he think he’s talking to?”

“You probably.” Bryn blew out the light and set the leather by the lantern.

“Do you think this will actually work?” Rorie asked after a moment of uncharacteristic silence.

“It’s not like you to doubt the Baron.” Bryn regarded him from the corner of his eye.

Rorie shrugged. “I know, but isn’t this where it all began? I just wonder why he agreed to come here.”

Bryn glanced back up at the window. The light had disappeared. He’d stood by the Baron when the message had come that the Seer had been taken. The look on his face had been a mix of anger and fear. Bryn hadn’t seen a look like that since he’d met the Baron years ago. “He won’t admit it, but the ties of blood run deep, don’t they? What would you do for your brother?”

“Kill every last misborn that laid a hand on him.” Rorie’s cheerful voice hardened.

“I think he might be planning the same thing.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Rorie tugged at his cap.

It might not be, but it still worries me. “As Jes says, there are easier ways to court death,” Bryn said. “But I’m glad that Alan is here. I think he’ll keep the Baron from doing anything too rash.”

Even if the Baron was obviously holding the clansman at arms-length.

“You might need a word with your saints as well.”

Bryn huffed a wry chuckle. He didn’t think the saints would like the solution they planned for the current problem they faced. If they even listened to someone like him.

“What is the plan?” Jes’s voice came from behind them.

Rorie nearly knocked over the lantern, stifling a curse at the Gedrinian’s sudden appearance.

Bryn returned his knife to its sheath. “Jes, what have we told you about that?”

Jes dropped to a crouch beside them, a ghost of a smile visible in the pale moonlight. He moved his recurve bow to rest across his legs.

“You told me to meet you two streets over, so I am thinking that it serves you right.”

Bryn pushed up to a knee. “Where’d you come from?”

Jes pointed out over the rooftops.

“Where are the horses?”

“About a mile to the west. We can camp there,” Jes replied.

“A midnight stroll is exactly what I wanted,” Rorie grumbled.

“You can take the first shift up here then.” Bryn tossed him the leather piece. They’d watch the window in case the Baron needed to contact them again.

“Plan?” Jes patiently asked again.

“They’re grabbing the Seer tomorrow night. We’ll meet them at the west gate and hightail it out of here,” Bryn said.

“How does he plan on getting out?” Jes asked.

“He didn’t really say.”

“Typical.”

Chapter 14

Aservant who refused to meet their gaze or speak delivered breakfast to Rhys and Alan a few hours after dawn.

“Guess we’re not leaving anytime soon.” Alan said.

Rhys rolled his eyes. “Good to know you can still state the obvious.”

Alan shook his head and began to pace. Rhys put his boots up on the table and settled more comfortably into his chair. Alan never had been able to sit still. No word passed between them for over two hours.

“Since when did you become so patient?” Alan tapped his boot against the leg of Rhys’s chair as he moved past to take the seat opposite him.

“Well, you’re doing enough moving for the both of us.” Rhys barely opened his eyes.

Alan stood and went to look out the window. Rhys cocked his head and watched him start pacing again.

“You make a terrible prisoner,” he stated with a hint of amusement, closing his eyes again.

Alan halted, looking at him with some surprise. “So what’s your secret then?”

“Practice.”

“You’ve been locked up more than once?” Affected surprise filled Alan’s voice. “Doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Rhys shook his head. He opened his eyes to meet Alan’s smirk. The air felt like it cleared a fraction between them, enough to finally ask about Alan’s life for the past seven years.

“Who’d you end up marrying?”

Alan smiled and sat down. “Caitlín.”

“You married Caitlín MacLarrah? How’d you ever convince her?” Rhys asked in frank shock. She’d been a bare-foot and wild haired girl, easily keeping pace with them growing up. The last time he’d seen Caitlín, she’d been soundly trouncing boys two years her elder in the training ring while wearing a dress.

“I wish I could say I won her over with my considerable charm and wit, but honestly?” Alan shrugged with a wry grin. “I’ll never really know.”

“She calmed down any? She used to have a mouth as foul as some of us,” Rhys said.

“You’d know.” Alan snorted. “You picked up words in half a dozen languages during the war.”

Rhys settled back in his chair with a hint of smugness.

“I just hope the babe doesn’t give her too much trouble.” Alan pensively tapped his fingers together.

Rhys still had trouble believing Alan was going to be a father. “Boy or girl?”

“I want a girl, but she’s set on a boy.” Alan laughed.

“You know Caitlín. It’ll be a boy.”

Alan laughed again.

“I’m surprised you don’t want a son.”

“Ah, I’ve seen too much violence to wish for a son.” Alan settled against the chair back. “I don’t want him to see the things I’ve seen.”

“Aye, but war never spares anyone.”

“What about you? Surely there was some helpless maiden to rescue on the mountain pass?” Alan changed the subject with a grin.

“I’m afraid I don’t usually live up to idealized expectations.” Rhys allowed his voice to rasp deeper than normal.

“Must be your famed hospitality,” Alan said.

The faintest of quirks at the corner of Rhys’s mouth betrayed him. “Must be.”

“You never got over Sarah, did you?” Alan asked quietly.

Rhys paused for a long moment, then shook his head. He’d always known that she and Sean were meant to be. “She was never for me. She never felt the same as me. She deserved someone like Sean, someone who could take care of her like she deserves.” He crossed his arms tighter across his chest. “Don’t ever tell him.”

Alan nodded his agreement. The door wrenched open with a thud, and Adam strode into the room.

“I’ve heard reports that strangers were out in town yesterday asking questions. You brought men with you, Baron. Where are they?” Adam demanded as guards sheltered the door.

Rhys lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes at Adam.

“Didn’t think I’d figure it out, did you?” Adam sneered.

“Your all-powerful druid friends tell you that? Or did you finally find some competent men?” Rhys allowed a faint smirk.

“My men managed to catch you last time, didn’t they?” Adam smiled tightly.

“Aye, conveniently close by, weren’t they?” Rhys didn’t break Adam’s gaze.

“Tell me where they are, and I won’t take it out on your brother.” Adam leaned closer.

Rhys rose to confront him, wound tight in anger. Two guards stepped forward, swords drawn. Alan slowly gained his feet, his body tensed for action.

“You lay a hand on him, and I’ll kill you even slower than I’m already planning.” Rhys made his own threat.

“I’ve sent for Kane.”

Dread twisted in Rhys’s stomach. Phantom pain flitted across the scars on his back.

“You remember him, don’t you?” Adam backed up a pace toward the door. “After he finds your men, maybe I’ll have him pay a visit to Sean. Think about it.” He waved the guards out and slammed the door shut.

Rhys clenched shaking hands, refusing to meet Alan’s concerned gaze until his breathing steadied.

“Who’s Kane?” Alan lowered his voice.

“Adam’s hunter and executioner. He’s the one who questioned me after I was arrested. And he carried out the sentence.” Rhys briefly touched his right forearm, the brand bulky enough to be felt through his sleeve.

“I remember him.” Alan’s voice hardened. “Will he find them?”

Rhys cast a glance at the window and shook his head. “Not unless they want to be found.”

“Guess that’ll have to be good enough. Think Adam will be back today?”

Rhys rubbed a thumb along the scar on his cheek. “I don’t know. But we need to be ready if he does. He wasn’t lying. He’ll take it out on Sean if we don’t have something for him. All the more reason to move tonight.”

“You have a plan for after we get out?”

“We won’t make it back up to the Clans’ territory. I think our best chance is to head east, cross the border into Sarksten’s lands.” He’d been weighing options since dinner the night before. And heading east already put him back on the path to the mountains, and away from the rumors of oncoming war.

Alan nodded his agreement. “Make for the Carraig. Even if Sarksten hasn’t entered into a treaty yet with MacTavish, we can still find some protection there. There’s no love lost between him and Adam.”

“It’ll be a hard ride. No matter how we get out of here, we’ll have someone on our trail.” Rhys didn’t have to be a Seer to know that.

“And Sean will have to be strong enough to make it.” Alan voiced Rhys’s other fear. Sean had been bled at least twice. That was enough to lay any man low. But Sean was stubborn, and would do anything for the promise of freedom and the chance to see his family again.

Rhys tipped his chin. “Aye. But first things first. We have to get out of here.”

Alan crossed his arms. “I know you’ve been looking around. How much of this place do you remember?”

“I remember how to get to the dungeons but not how many guards there will be.”

“Perfect. Makes it more fun.” Alan flashed a tight smile. He tapped his fingers against his arm.

Rhys jerked his head in a nod. Fun was one word for it. He had the rest of the day to plan.

“We’re getting Sean out, and we’re getting you both home.”

Chapter 15

Mist swirled around Sean, obscuring the edges of his sight. He slowly took a breath, preparing himself for the vision that would accompany it.

Hooves thundered about him. Manes whipped into tendrils as blurred shapes of riders plunged through the thick mist, solidifying for a moment into armor and cloaks and spears.

The riders passed him, and the mist swirled back to order as silence fell. Whispers cut through, and the mist stirred as if moved by a light breeze. He waited patiently, listening to the whispers as they spoke in tongues he didn’t quite understand. They cut off abruptly.

A man cried out in pain, the noise twisting in his gut. Rhys. The scream unleashed a cacophony of battle noise, drumming in his ears.

The mist parted to reveal the Dari Sea spreading out before him. He turned to face the towering white walls of the castle. Darkness loomed tall over it, sweeping down over him like a tidal wave. The mist retaliated, sweeping under his feet, giving him wings to fly up and over the darkness to look down into the castle.

A large dragon covered in dull green and grey scales and with familiar brown eyes coiled within the walls, sharp talons poised to strike. It looked him square in the eye and he awoke.

Chapter 16

Rhys stepped across a war-torn field, checkered cloaks smeared in blood, and banners lying beside twisted bodies. Even in his dreams, the remembered stench turned his stomach. He focused on the far point in the horizon and stumbled on toward a familiar figure.

Damon.

The young man turned. A curved dagger protruded from his chest.

“You failed.” The words whispered around Rhys but didn’t move Damon’s pale lips.

“I tried,” Rhys murmured.

The dream never listened, only blamed him for the failure.

Rhys turned away from Damon, the bulky figure of Kane appearing a few paces away.

“I’m coming,” he sneered, drawing a knife. “Told you there was no escape from me, didn’t I?”

Rhys cried out as sudden pain flared across his back. White sand blossomed beneath him as he hit his knees. He dug a fist into the sand, not feeling the coarseness he remembered from long ago. He never did.

Just a dream, he whispered over and over. Kane’s laugh cut off. Smoke wisped across his vision. His shoulders prickled with the sensation of being watched.

He whirled, unable to draw a weapon in his dreams. But nothing stirred the suddenly empty field. A keening call came from above him.

Slowly, he turned his gaze upward, wary of whatever new nightmare his mind had conjured.

A falcon hovered above him on the invisible breeze, a bit of mist streaking out behind it. It turned on the breeze, turning one bright blue eye down at him.

A wave of relief swept through him. It had been a long time since he’d seen that falcon in his dreams. This time, it didn’t seem content to hover above him as it usually did. Instead it screamed a warning and dove straight toward him. He stood locked in place, unable to move, or do anything other than watch.  ~

Rhys woke with a start and rubbed at his neck, cramped from sleeping in the chair. He shook the images from the dream out of his mind and rose stiffly.

The window glinted with the last light of the sun as it slipped beyond the world. The town below them lay in darkness, silent and still with no sign of movement.

Alan dozed on the bed, arms crossed over his chest. Two bowls of stew and a few pieces of golden-crusted bread rested on the table. The stew had cooled to a barely palatable temperature. He ate the bread as he stamped some of the stiffness from his limbs.

He glanced out the window and saw a new light burning steadily down in the town. They’re ready.

Alan didn’t stir as Rhys began to move around. Rhys frowned in irritation, and crossed over to the bed.

“Alan.” He slapped Alan’s boots. “Alan!” He shoved harder as Alan still didn’t move.

“Fine.” He picked up a pillow.

“You do anything with that, and I’ll break your hand,” Alan said, his eyes still closed.

Rhys slammed it into his stomach. “Then get up.”

Alan cracked one eye open and glared at him. But he sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

“You eat any of that stew?” he asked.

Rhys shook his head, returning to the window.

“Shame. I was hoping they poisoned yours.” Alan yawned.

Rhys rolled his eyes, ignoring the smirk from Alan. They waited another hour before silently arming themselves.

“Ready?” Rhys slung his pack over his shoulder. Alan nodded, doing the same. Rhys stood by the door as Alan pounded his fist against the heavy oak door and began shouting.

“We need to see Lord Adam now! The food changed my mind. And I can’t take being in here with the Baron anymore. He looks like he’s about to vomit rocks.”

Rhys tilted his head with a frown. Adam smirked and kept banging at the door.

Steps shuffled along with the rattle of keys.

“What’s going on in here?” the guard asked gruffly, lowering his spear as he opened the door. Rhys grabbed the spear and jerked the guard inside.

He ripped the spear from the man’s surprised grip, sending him stumbling forward another step. Rhys twisted the spear in his hand and smashed it down across the back of the guard’s head. He pitched forward without a sound, thudding to the ground.

“Hard head, that one.” Alan nodded to the broken spear shaft in Rhys’s hand.

He shrugged and tossed it down beside the man before gagging him and tying his hands with braided strips of blanket prepared an hour before. Alan watched the door as Rhys finished. They stepped out of the room together, and Rhys locked the door and left the keys on a narrow windowsill. He set off down the hallway, Alan on his heels. He’d spent much of the day refreshing his memories of the castle, planning the most effective route into and out of the dungeons.

Regardless of the mission at hand, ghosts and memories still roamed the hallways, but Rhys couldn’t take time to acknowledge them. Maybe later when he was back at the Dragon Keep, when Sean was safe at home with his family, he would let himself remember. But not now.

Rhys led the way down a dark servant’s passage and short staircase that bypassed the main hall. The passage intersected with a lit hallway on the main floor that they would take the dungeons.

Side passages and doors broke the monotony of the white stone like dark chasms stretching further into the depths of the castle. The faint scuff of their boots was the only noise to mar the quiet surrounding them. Until it was broken by a heavier tread and muted clank of armor.

Rhys didn’t pause. He grabbed Alan’s arm and shoved him down the nearest passageway. They pressed up against the wall, hiding in the darkest shadows that the lanterns from the hallway couldn’t reach.

The guard’s footsteps didn’t pause as he passed. Rhys didn’t move for another long minute after the night faded back into silence. Beside him, Alan released a slow breath. They stepped cautiously back out and continued on their way.

Alan took the lead at the stairwell into the dungeons, sliding a knife free as he disappeared down the steps. There was a grunt and the sound of a body being lowered to the floor. Alan whispered, and Rhys joined him. Alan held the keys and they trod softly among the cells. Rhys halted when the torchlight illuminated Sean’s dusky red hair.

“Sean!” he hissed.

Sean rolled over and limped to the door. “Took you long enough.” His slight grin lent an extra spark of life to his pale face.

Rhys slid the key into the lock.

“Baron,” Alan murmured a warning.

A guard stepped into view at the entrance of the dungeons, spear lowered in threat. Rhys began to pull a knife from his belt as Alan settled into a fighting stance. They stared at one another in silence until the guard surprised them by raising his spear.

“Get him out of here,” he said. “And hurry.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes at the guard, but he swung open the door so Sean could step out.

“Take the left hall once you’re out of the dungeons.” The guard moved aside. “Not many people walk that passage at night. It’ll put you out by the east gate.”

“Thank you, Gerard.” Sean gripped the guard’s arm.

Rhys nodded his thanks. It was the route he had planned to take. A figure moved with a quiet rustle in the opposite cell. Rhys stepped into the full glare of a torch and the figure let out a cry.

“Rhys?”

Rhys turned as pale as the ghost he looked at. Shock pummeled his chest, nearly stopping his heart. The ground shifted beneath his feet. He blinked and saw pooling blood. Felt a knife’s handle against his palm. A figure sprawled on the ground.

He dug his fingers into his palm, re-anchoring himself to the world.

“Damon?” His voice broke. “You’re dead!”

“Not as much as I should be,” Damon replied.

With the dungeon still spinning, Rhys slid the key home and jerked Damon’s cell door open. “Come on.”

“I can give you five minutes,” the guard said apologetically.

Alan stepped forward. “Sorry.” He punched the guard in the face. The first blow bloodied his nose, and the second left him semi-conscious on the floor. “You heard him, let’s go.”

Rhys led the way, stepping over the body of the first guard in the stairwell and turning left into a darkened corridor.

“Stairs,” he whispered to the others and they descended into another, better lit, hallway.

Alan caught at his sleeve, lowering his voice. “Are we going to be able to take an extra person?”

Rhys pushed on. “We make an exception for him. You heard his name?”

Alan’s eyes widened as comprehension began to set in.

Rhys pushed him on. “We have to get out of here first.”

They picked up their pace to a jog. Rhys held up a hand at the tramp of a single guard near another intersection of hallways. The soldier strode by, spear held loosely in his hand. Rhys grabbed the unsuspecting soldier from behind in a choking hold. He rested the unconscious body on the floor and waved them on, frowning in concern at the short gasps from Sean.

“Hurry. Our five minutes is almost up.” He pointed straight ahead and Alan took the lead. They ran with the sound of waves crashing against the wall masking their footsteps.

A creak of an opening door gave a poor warning as a druid stepped into the hall. He froze, mouth open in surprise. His green robe fit him poorly, and he didn’t sport the long beard of the other druids they’d encountered so far.

“What are you--” His gaze trailed to Sean. Eyes opening wider, he drew a breath to shout.

Rhys stormed forward, slapping a hand over the druid’s mouth and shoving him back into the wall with a thud.

“What’s going on?” Another voice asked from behind the door. The young druid clawed at Rhys’s arm, and he slammed the druid’s head back against the wall in response. He crumpled to the ground.

Rhys drew a knife as the door opened to reveal a bearded druid. He reversed the knife and slammed the pommel into the man’s throat. The druid clutched at his neck with a wheezing gasp that cut off as Rhys followed up with a strike to his head.

Rhys remained poised for action, waiting to see if any new threat came through the door. Nothing stirred. He beckoned to Alan as he nudged the door open further. Alan crossed the hallway to help him move the unconscious bodies inside.

The circular room reeked of incense, and a chair sat at its center.

“What in flames do they do in here?” Alan muttered as they placed the older druid on the floor.

“Not sure I want to know.” Rhys shut the door on the druids.

He turned back to the others. Sean leaned against the opposite wall, breath coming in shuddering gasps, an unseeing look of panic on his face as he faced the door. Damon stood beside him, frowning in concern as he rested a hand on Sean’s shoulder. Rhys crossed the hall and shook Sean’s arm.

“Sean!”

Sean’s gaze refocused on him, reassurance creeping through. He gave a short nod and pushed away from the wall.

If I’d been here, I could have protected him from this. The thought sparked new anger in Rhys, only increased by the fact that he didn’t have enough time to hunt down the rest of the druids and make them pay for whatever they’d done to Sean.

“Come on.” He nudged Sean down the hall, checking to make sure that Damon followed close behind.

As they crossed another intersection, shouts began to spread through the castle. Rhys sprinted to the right and up a short flight of steps to a door. He cracked it open and stepped up into the courtyard.

The panic hadn’t spread to that side of the castle yet. He crossed to the welcome shadows of the wall a few feet away. Damon came next, and then Sean. Rhys reached to steady the Seer as he slumped against the wall, breathing hard. Sean gave a short smile.

Once Alan joined them, Rhys cautiously stepped along the wall until it gave way under his hand and they stood in the gateway.

Alan and Rhys lifted the locking beam from its hooks and pushed the gate open with a heart-stopping creak.

Alan looked over the open expanse of salty grass that they had to cross. “They’re waiting, right?”

“They’d better be,” Rhys growled. He didn’t much relish getting shot at once the guards on the walls saw them.

“Straight ahead. Don’t stop for anything.” Rhys pointed at the tree line and stepped out. They broke into a run together. New cries went up from the walls, and bows twanged behind them. Rhys flinched aside as an arrow whizzed by his shoulder. Two more stabbed into the ground ahead of him in small sprays of grass.

Sean’s ragged breathing fell behind him. Rhys grabbed Sean’s shoulder and hurried him on. Damon seemed to be in slightly better condition than Sean, but he labored over the uneven ground.

Alan ducked with a muffled curse as another arrow flew dangerously close.

The trees loomed closer, but the moon gleefully illuminated the distance they still had to cover.

A whoop sounded ahead and Bryn led the charge from the tree line, leading the extra horses. Rorie reined in, hauling Alan’s horse to a halt with him. Draco half-reared in Bryn’s hold as Rhys shoved Sean towards the horse that Jes held. Alan pulled Damon up behind him. Rhys half-turned as a bell began to toll out the warning. Dark figures swarmed the battlements, some pointing toward them.

Rorie’s horse snorted in alarm as an arrow thudded at its hooves. New humming filled the air. Rhys lunged for Draco’s saddle horn, mounting as he sprang into motion, and they galloped off into the night.

They didn’t stop to catch their collective breath until they reached the Raven’s Tooth, horses milling about in eager motion.

“Baron?” Bryn cast a questioning look toward Damon.

Rhys returned the question with a tip of his head, wordlessly promising an explanation later.

“Everyone all right?” Rhys did a quick inspection and received affirmation in reply. Sean sat with a slight slump to his shoulders, but a new look of determination edged his face. He nodded once and adjusted his grip on the reins.

The sound of the warning bells still reached them. It wouldn’t be long before they had men after them. Rhys pulled Draco around and spurred on.

Two milestones later, Rhys jerked his thumb back the way they came. “Jes.”

The Gedrinian nodded and cantered back down the road to check for pursuit. Rhys pulled Draco down to a trot, and the others followed suit, their horses huffing in relief. They kept to a trot and sometimes a canter through the night.

The sky turned grey with the coming dawn when they stopped at a ford to rest and water the horses. The riders dismounted to stretch their legs and refill water skins.

Alan left Damon standing by the river and came towards where Rhys stood by Draco. He faced Rhys across Draco’s saddle.

“You said a name in the dungeon. Tell me that’s not who I think it is.” Alan jerked a thumb back at Damon.

Rhys couldn’t answer as he stared at Damon, the cold panic that had lurked in his heart since he’d unlocked the cell door clawing its way up to suffocate him.

“It can’t be!” Alan said.

Rhys jerked his gaze away and met Alan’s wide eyes. “It is. Prince Damon Seabright, last of his line.”

Chapter 17

But he’s dead!” Alan gripped Draco’s saddle and leaned closer to Rhys as if the action would make him believe the statement.

“Apparently not as much as he should be.” Rhys scrubbed a hand over his face, still reeling from the shock himself.

The last time he’d seen Damon, the prince had been covered in blood, half-conscious with a Karanti knife in his chest.

Except he’s not dead. Apparently he’s alive and well.

“What does this mean for you?” Alan asked.

“I don’t know.” Rhys lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “But this doesn’t change our plan. We need to get him to Sarksten.”

“How do we know Damon’s not loyal to Adam? What if it’s a trick? Adam could have put him there just to taunt you.”

“I don’t know, Alan.” Rhys growled. “Adam knows if I found Damon alive I’d do everything in my power to see him on the throne. I don’t think he wants Damon out of his sight, no matter what his plans.”

“But why?” Alan glanced over his shoulder to where Damon stood with his face turned upward toward the sun. “Why would Adam keep him alive all these years, especially if he knew what you’d do if you found out? None of this sits right with me.”

“Nor me. But that is Damon Seabright. And I’ve a responsibility to see him back to the throne where he belongs.”

“A responsibility?” Alan’s gaze burned like hot oil, slow and steady and excruciating. “And why is that your responsibility, Baron?”

“Because who else is going to do it?” Rhys snapped his hand in a wide gesture. “The council obviously missed the fact that he didn’t actually die.”

“I saw his corpse.” Alan shifted his arms across his chest.

Rhys gripped Draco’s saddle with both hands, drawing a steadying breath. No matter what had happened, they had more pressing concerns. “We get to Sarksten and then figure it all out.”

Alan jerked a tight nod. He made to turn away, but Rhys halted him.

“Alan. Keep this to yourself for now.”

Alan inclined his head again and moved away to where Sean knelt by the river, scooping some water to splash over his face. He crouched beside Sean, resting a light hand on his shoulder. Like a brother. A new pang struck through Rhys at their murmured conversation, and the relieved smile breaking over Sean’s face. Of course, Alan, who’d grown up with them and had no siblings of his own, would have stepped in to fill that void Rhys had left.

Because I asked him to when I knew I couldn’t go back. His grip tightened around the reins, tugging at the bit.

Draco pulled his nose from the river, shaking himself with a slap of leathers. He snorted before turning his head to regard Rhys out of one eye. Rhys patted his shoulder. Time to get moving again.

“Mount up. We need to keep as much distance as we can.”

Alan helped Sean to his feet. Sean looked to him for a moment before Rhys turned away, pretending to check Draco’s girth. They had a long, hard journey ahead of them to the Carraig where they’d leave Sean and Alan. Talking to Sean would only make things worse.

Alan took Damon up behind him again. The prince turned a glance to him, full of questions. Rhys shook his head.

Later. He’d talk to Damon later.

Rorie took the rear guard as they crossed the shallow ford and entered into the Ruthin Forest. It ate at Rhys to keep the pace to a walk when he’d rather race Sean and Damon to safety, but the horses couldn’t run forever.

Every dozen yards or so, Rhys checked behind him. Bryn had placed Sean between him and Rhys, and Alan came behind with Jes. They rode in hard-eyed alertness, shoulders tensed and hands close to weapons. All but Sean. He sat his horse with the determination of a man just trying to not collapse of exhaustion.

But every time he met Rhys’s glance, he tried to sit taller and his chin jutted in stubborn defiance. Rhys shook his head despite a small flicker of pride. Sean sometimes had a head harder than the boulders that cropped up in the Talam’s lower fields.

After a painful quarter hour of walking, Rhys gave two short whistles. Draco perked his ears up and broke into a trot. The staggered clip-clop of hooves behind him announced that the others followed suit. The road ran straight and true through the forest as the miles crept by. Rhys didn’t turn around until mid-morning at a spot where the path widened.

He reined Draco to the side of the trail. “We’ll rest here for a few minutes. Light rations only.”

Sean wasn’t the only one to look relieved at the halt. Bryn crossed over to Sean’s saddlebags and undid the buckles.

“We got some supplies for you.” He beckoned Damon closer. “There’s enough for you as well.”

Sean’s gaze lingered on Bryn’s gloved hands, then flicked up to his face. He had a look that Rhys remembered. The look that meant that he’d Seen more than what was in front of him.

“Thanks,” he finally said. “I’m Sean.” He offered a hand.

A slight smile touched Bryn’s mouth. “Bryn. That’s Rorie, and Jes.” He pointed to the men in turn. Rorie darted an openly curious glance between Rhys and Sean, comparing the similarities in their features.

Bryn flicked a look to Rhys, assessing as well, but only to gauge his reactions since he hadn’t said a word to Sean, or Damon, since they’d left the Raven’s Tooth. Rhys turned away, digging some waybread from his packs. Technically, Clan law forbad him from having any more contact with Sean. The same uncertainty lingered about Sean, as he had yet to make a move towards Rhys. But it wasn’t like Alan was going to enforce the law out there.

Damon sat across from Alan, gaze darting between Rhys and Sean, back to Alan and lingering on the rest of the men. Assessing, putting the pieces together. He’d always been smarter than he gave himself credit for.

But when he turned again to Rhys, he jerked to his feet and went over to the horses. He fed Draco parts of the waybread as he ran his hand slowly down the horse’s neck, attempting to let the rhythm calm him.

Bryn appeared at his elbow. Rhys turned to meet his level gaze. He’d been expecting it to happen at their last stop.

“Baron. Who is that, and what does Alan know?”

Rhys huffed a sigh. Bryn’s keen grey eyes never missed a thing. But he didn’t feel safe enough yet to shout Damon’s identity to the world. Not until they were safely out of Adam’s reach.

“He’s someone Adam shouldn’t have left alive.” A bit of anger chipped away at the swirling mess of emotions, anchoring him back to the world. “His freedom will cost Adam dearly.”

Bryn crossed his arms, turning to consider Damon. “Then we’ll be content with that for now.”

Sean rose and made his way over, determination in his eyes. Bryn stepped aside after a slight reassuring nod from Rhys.

The Seer waited until Bryn returned to his seat before speaking. “So, what do I need to call you then?”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“You know what. Alan and your men call you nothing but Baron, so how am I to correctly address my brother so I don’t ruin his reputation?” Sean’s voice held a hint of a smile.

“Sean, don’t—don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Then can I at least say thank you?”

Rhys’s men studiously looked away, and Alan turned his back to them. Rhys held out a hand. Sean clasped it, surprising Rhys by pulling him into an embrace.

Rhys slowly folded his arms around Sean, gripping his worn shirt tight, trying not to remember all the times as a small child that Sean had come running to him after bad dreams. Trying not to remember the last time that Sean had hugged him like that, begging him not to go to war.

“It’s good to see you again,” Rhys murmured.

Sean’s hold tightened for a moment. “Aye, you too.” His voice muffled against Rhys’s shoulder.

Rhys pulled away first. “You all right? What did those druids do to you?” He automatically checked Sean for hurts again. It seemed some habits were hard to kill. Sean rolled his eyes a little as if they were still brothers.

“I’m fine. A little weak, but I’ll survive.”

Rhys wanted to argue. The look on Sean’s face outside the druids’ room had been anything but fine.

“What are you doing down here anyway?”

“A MacLarrah showed up on my doorstep to tell me that you’d been taken. Did you want me to ignore him?” Something almost like a smile tugged at the corner of Rhys’s mouth.

Sean chuckled. “I didn’t think they’d send for you.”

“I’m not doing it for them, Sean.”

“I know, Rhys.”

“Don’t start. Don’t call me that. That part of me is dead.” Rhys warned. Seeing Sean again was cracking the walls he’d built over the years. He wouldn’t be staying after they made it to the Carraig. He couldn’t let either of them get attached to the other again.

“I wish there was something I could have done.” Sean sagged his shoulders, but Rhys stopped him with a shake of his head.

“It’s too far in the past, Sean. What’s done can’t be undone.”

“I don’t ever tell anyone this, but sometimes I can choose what to see. I’ve always tried to look back and see what happened at the end of the war. But I can’t.”

“I’m glad. I don’t want you to see that.” Rhys meant it with every fiber of his being.

Sean stepped closer, his blue eyes painfully earnest. “I never stopped praying for you.”

“Your god won’t help me,” Rhys said. “He never did before.”

“Rhys—” Sean touched his arm.

“It’s nothing but superstitions to me now, Sean. Nothing you say can change that.”

He hated the regret in Sean’s face, but Sean took the hint and changed the subject. “What’s the plan then?”

“We’re going to the Carraig. Sarksten can keep you safe until Laird Brogan gets there and takes you home.”

“What about you?”

“The rest of us will go back to the mountains.” Rhys nodded toward his men, who’d shifted to guard positions as they finished their meal. “I’ve no part in any of Brogan’s plans.” Rhys couldn’t keep the cast of hatred from his voice.

“I wish you could come back home.”

“I don’t have a home anymore, or didn’t Brogan tell you?” Rhys snapped.

“Rhys.” Sean’s voice softened in almost pleading.

“I’m sorry.” Rhys glanced down. It was unfair of him to force his anger at Brogan on Sean. “How are you feeling?”

“Grateful to be free of that hell-hole and those green-robed devilspawn.” Sean nudged Draco’s nose away as the horse nosed his side.

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “What did those druids want with you?”

“They wanted my power to serve their god,” Sean said. “I told them they could go meet their demon in person.”

A smile almost cracked Rhys’s face. Vehemence had always been a strange sound in Sean’s voice. “You’ve changed a bit.”

Sean’s smile had little in the way of mirth. “I had to when you went off to war.”

Rhys picked at the straps of his saddlebags, focusing on the tooled leather. “I meant to come back.” He hated the near-pleading in his voice.

“I know.”

He met Sean’s eyes again. They held no accusation, no anger, just trust that Rhys hadn’t committed murder, hadn’t deserved his punishment.

Rhys turned away. “We need to keep moving.”

At his command the others packed away the last remnants of food and checked girths. Rorie pulled out a coin from his pouch, turning to Jes to bet on who would take the rearguard again.

Bryn grabbed the coin out of midair. “Rorie, go.”

Rorie sulkily mounted his horse and cantered off down the path. Bryn pocketed the coin.  Jes chuckled as he strung his bow, the action cementing the anxiety in Rhys. They needed to make it to the border before any of them had to use their weapons.

Damon pulled Alan aside into a hurried conversation. Alan nodded once in agreement, and beckoned Sean over to his horse. Damon took the spare horse and pushed up beside Rhys once they turned back onto the road.

“What happened, Rhys?” He cut straight to the point.

Rhys glanced over at him. Damon had never taken no for an answer.

“I was accused of attacking you,” Rhys said. “The council of lords declared you dead of your wounds a few days later. Obviously, they were wrong.”

“And then?”

“Dishonorable discharge.”

Damon winced. His father had been the one to institute the practice. “Then what?”

“Branded a traitor and banished from Clan MacDuffy.”

“No!” A stricken look crossed Damon’s face. “I’m sorry.”

Rhys gave a slight nod. He and Damon had considered each other friends despite the difference in their stations. Damon was about Sean’s age, so it hadn’t taken much for Rhys to take him under his protection. Back then, he couldn’t fathom the thought of losing a brother like Damon had, and he’d tried anything to drive the look of near permanent grief from Damon’s eyes.

“How did you survive?” Rhys cast a sideways glance at him. Damon still kept the slight hunch to his shoulders as if trying to avoid being seen.

“I don’t really know.” Damon dragged a hand through his tousled dark hair. “I remember waking up in the physician’s room after the attack. Someone came in and gave me something to drink. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a room on a stone table about to be prepared for burial. I don’t know who was more surprised—me or the embalmer.”

“Poison?”

“Had to be.” Damon ducked under a low hanging branch and spurred forward to match Rhys’s pace again. “One of Adam’s lieutenants was there within seconds. He dragged me to the deepest dungeon in Castle Bright and left me there. Days later, Adam came to see me. He practically admitted to trying to kill me twice. I expected him to finish the job then and there, but he just said that I’d be useful later, and has left me alone ever since.”

“What do you remember about that night?” Rhys asked hesitantly.

“Someone attacking me.” He looked over to Rhys. “You coming in to help.”

Rhys’s shoulders bowed in a rush of relief. He knows it wasn’t me.

“Obviously they never found the assassin, or they wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Rhys shook his head. “I tried to tell them, but there were no witnesses, no evidence that anyone else had been in the room with us, and you—you were dead.”

“Almost dead. Poisoned and unconscious.”

“Aye, but the Clans didn’t know that. Adam called me a murderer, and the council and the Clans bought it. And Brogan didn’t lift a finger.”

“Baron.” Alan interrupted, urging his horse up alongside Rhys. “We can’t stay on these smaller roads forever. We’re going to start running into some towns or at least some checkpoints.”

Rhys acknowledged it with a short nod. “We can’t afford to run too many scouting trips in both directions. There’s still several miles to the Bear River according to the last sign post.”

“Then let me take a few runs. Fintan still has a little left in him.” Alan rubbed his stallion’s neck.

Draco hop-skipped over a fallen branch on the path. Rhys settled back into the saddle, adjusting once again to Draco’s ground-eating trot.

“All right. No more than a half a mile ahead at a time. Sean, with Damon.”

Sean changed horses without a word, accepting Damon’s help up behind the saddle.

Alan flicked two fingers in a salute and spurred away, Fintan lunging to a canter with a snort.

“Anything I can do?” Sean spoke up.

Rhys half-turned in the saddle. If Sean’s gift was still anything like he remembered, he could still sense trouble ahead like one of Clan MacDuffy’s prize warhounds.

“Just let me know if anything’s coming.”

Sean gave a grim smile and Rhys turned his attention back to the path and the rustling forest around them. Another half hour passed with reports of all clear ahead and behind. But their luck wasn’t to last much longer.

The frantic thunder of hooves brought anxious nickers from the horses. Rorie drove his shaggy mountain horse toward them, sweat and foam streaking its neck and withers.

“They’re coming!” Rorie shouted.

“Go!” Rhys ordered and brought up the rear with Rorie. “How far?”

“Not far enough!” the Highlander replied.

Rhys glanced back, but the path was still clear. He whistled and the mountain horses pricked their ears and picked up their pace. Damon’s horse shot forward, but signs of fatigue had also begun to streak its withers, and sweat marked darker stains under its bridle. Jes fell out and galloped back down the path to check their pursuit.

Alan waited for them around a curve in the road. “Checkpoint ahead. Five guards and a pole as a barricade across the path.”

Rhys pulled Draco to a halt and the stallion wheezed gratefully. “Can we jump it?”

“Shouldn’t be too much trouble at all. I smelled their lunch.” Alan grinned.

“All right. Keep riding and don’t stop,” Rhys ordered.

Rorie whooped and galloped off down the path as if Rhys had ordered him to steal the soldiers’ lunch instead. Alan followed behind him, then Bryn with Damon and Sean.

Draco shifted his hooves, snorting and whipping his tail, as Rhys waited for Jes re-emerge on the forest trail. Seconds crept by with no sign. Rhys waited, comforted only by the thought that Jes had never been brought down by any enemy. But there was a first time for everything, and if the Gedrinian didn’t show himself soon, Rhys would go after him. He didn’t leave his men behind.

He curled his fists tighter around the reins, dirt and sweat flaking off the leather into his palms as he prepared to ride after Jes. In a blur of movement, Jes bolted from the tree line, bow in one hand with an arrow already nocked.

Rhys slashed his hand through the air, then pointed straight ahead as he kicked Draco forward. Jes caught up in moments.

Shouts echoed ahead of them, and Rhys caught a glimpse of the barricade with the guardhouse and messenger stables through the trees. Two guards stood in the middle of the path, backs turned to Rhys as they shouted and gestured at something up the path.

Jes half-stood in his stirrups and drew back on the bowstring as his horse plowed ahead. He released and one of the guards fell with a cry, the arrow protruding from his leg. The remaining guard half-turned and dove out of Jes’s way.

Rhys followed as Jes’s horse neatly cleared the barricade. A third soldier slumped against the log with one of Bryn’s knives in his chest.

Draco gathered himself to jump. The world went silent for a blissful moment before his hooves re-connected with the ground, and they pounded after the others.

Two more miles passed under their feet and they slowed again. Damon’s horse gasped for breath like a suffocating old man, but the sturdy mountain horses still kept their rhythmic stride.

Rhys looped the reins over the saddle horn and pulled a map out of his saddlebags. Draco kept cantering obediently as Rhys scanned the paper.

“How long?” Bryn asked.

The Bear River wound through Alsaya from the northern mountains down to the sea. It marked the unofficial border between Adam’s lands and the territories that Sarksten controlled. The only crossing point in this region of the Ruthin Forest lay ahead, the Belling Bridge.

If we can make it across, we’ll be as safe as we can be.

“One mile,” Rhys estimated. He folded the map as best he could without regard for the neatly creased lines and shoved it back in the bags.

Rhys glanced at the spare horse. It labored with every step. Alan’s stallion had begun to foam around the bit, and sweat streaked the other horses' hides. He bit back a curse. They only needed to make it one more mile to a narrow bridge where their pursuers could be held. But they couldn’t push the horses any harder without breaking them. And they would need those horses later.

Every ear strained behind as they forced themselves to maintain the current pace. Tight smiles broke out as the stone bridge appeared ahead.

“Rhys!” Sean’s urgent cry startled Rhys into turning in the saddle. He saw what Sean had only seconds before. Six mounted soldiers spurred their mounts toward them.

Stormagh!

Rhys drew his sword and pulled Draco around. “Get behind me!”

Jes’s bow twanged and one soldier crumpled from the saddle. Bryn threw a knife as he whirled his horse, taking down another man.

Alan’s sword rang free, and he charged with Rhys. A soldier parried Rhys’s blade with a shuddering jolt. Rhys leaned into it, pressing Draco forward past the other horse and knocking the man off balance. Once his sword scraped free, he followed up with a backhanded strike, taking the soldier across the back, sending him pitching to the ground with a groan.

Draco pivoted on hind legs, ready to spring forward again. All but one soldier lay either dead or wounded, and the survivor had spurred his horse back down the path. Jes stood in his stirrups, drawing back on his bow. He paused for an agonizingly long moment before releasing. But the arrow flew just wide as the soldier ducked in time.

Jes’s tanned face twisted in disgust and he dropped a curse in Gedrinian. Bryn nursed a cut on his arm, wincing as Rorie leaned over from his horse to wrap a rough bandage around it. Alan waited near Damon and Sean, who slumped in his seat.

Their horse stood with forelegs braced wide, sucking in deep breaths. It wasn’t going much further at anything faster than a walk. Rhys nudged Draco forward to the bridge, shaking his head. Across it lay freedom, if they could make it far enough.

Nothing stirred the path behind them, yet. The river rushed beneath the stone bridge, shoving at the boulders in its path in futile rage.

There’s more coming. We won’t make it.

“What are you doing?” Alan asked as Rhys dismounted.

“The rest will be here any second. I’ll hold them off so you can get deep enough into Sarksten’s lands where they wouldn’t dare follow,” Rhys replied. “Sean, get on Draco.”

Sean slid from the horse and grabbed Rhys’s arm. “You can’t!”

“I’m the Baron. I can.” Rhys pulled away. “Those soldiers will have gotten fresh mounts at the outpost. They’ll catch up with us before we can get safely into Sarksten’s lands.”

Alan looked to the others who sat silently on their restless horses, faces set in grim acceptance. “This is madness!”

“Aye, but that’s the first rule of the mountains; the Baron makes the laws,” Rorie said.

Alan sheathed his sword with a snap. “Then what’s the second?”

“Obey the Baron.”

Alan rolled his eyes with a curse.

“Rorie, give me some of your spears,” Rhys ordered.

Rorie reached into a bundle on his saddle and pulled out five short throwing spears. He handed them over with a grim smile.

“Go to the Wolf’s Head.” Rhys took the spears from Rorie’s hand and focused his gaze on Bryn. “If I’m not there by midnight, warn Sean’s family and get them someplace safe. Adam will be after them too. Rorie, head back to the Keep. Garen has command. Muster a company and go to the Carraig. If I’m still alive, I expect to be rescued.” He tried to give a little lightness to the words, but they almost stuck in his throat.

Rorie smiled tightly. “Yes, Baron.”

“Jes, Alan, you get Sean and Damon to Sarksten.”

“I’ll stay.” Alan shoved his horse closer to Rhys.

Rhys shook his head, reaching up to grip Alan’s arm. “You have to get Sean out of here. War’s coming, and you need him.”

Alan’s face twisted in reluctant understanding. He shifted to grasp Rhys’s hand. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

Rhys gave a tight nod, before looking at both him and Jes. “You keep them both safe, you hear me?”

Keeping Sean and Damon safe was one thing he was going to see done, no matter what it cost him.

“Aye, Baron,” Jes replied somberly.

Heads turned up the path where shouts had begun to echo. Hooves clattered in riotous noise, disguising the true number of oncoming soldiers, but still announcing a number that was too many.

“Go!” Rhys shoved Sean toward Draco. Sean reluctantly stuck a foot in the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle.

“Wolf’s Head. Midnight.” Rhys looked back to Bryn.

Bryn tilted a sharp nod, not arguing although reluctance sharpened his features.

“You’ll be there?” Sean’s burning gaze focused on Rhys.

Rhys only nodded. Sean could interpret it however he wanted. An affirmative would most likely be a lie, and Rhys wouldn’t lie. Not to Sean.

Bryn led the way onto the bridge after a salute.

Damon pulled his horse around after a long moment. “Be careful.” He followed Bryn.

Alan nudged Sean forward as the Seer still hesitated, stubbornness tensing his jaw.

Jes was the last to go. “There are ten at least in the advance guard. There is a druid with them. He may be more dangerous than the soldiers. Watch yourself, Baron.”

Rhys reached up his hand, and Jes clasped it.

“Keep Sean and Alan safe,” Rhys said. “And tell Sean not to look back.”

He didn’t want Sean to see what would happen.

Jes guided his sturdy mountain horse across the stone bridge, the animal’s hooves clattering like stones into an empty well. He disappeared into the dust kicked up by the other riders.

Rhys breathed in the scent of the forest and the dust and the warmth of the sky overhead. He turned to face the road and waited.

Chapter 18

Rhys loosened the two-handed broadsword on his hip and set the spears against the bridge’s curved railing. The spears were no more than three feet long, including the bladed head. Rorie had a thrower that he used to obtain a longer range, but in close combat, Rhys could hurl them just as well by hand.

He weighed one in his hand. He had to get the light spears off fast if he wanted an advantage.

Ten riders slowed their approach. No green robe accompanied them.

Good. He didn’t feel like seeing just what they could do.

“Move aside!” One wearing the bars of a captain on his shoulder plate ordered in a curt tone.

“And if I don’t?” Rhys palmed one of the spears.

“We’ll kill you, but not before you tell us where your companions went.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you that for free.” Rhys leaned forward a little as if confiding in the captain. “Far away from your mewling, pathetic excuse of a lord.”

The captain stiffened in the saddle. “You will speak of Lord Barkley with more respect!”

“And if I don’t?” A smirk toyed at the corners of Rhys’s mouth.

“I’ll be forced to execute you here and now.”

Rhys shook his head sadly. “You need to work on your intimidation tactics. That wasn’t even adequate.”

The captain turned a deep shade of red as a muffled snort of laughter came from behind him.

“I’ll tell you something else for free.” Rhys readied the spear in his hand. “I’ll hold this bridge and then come for your master. He and I have long unfinished business.”

The captain curled his lip in a sneer, laying a hand on his sword hilt. “Then what is your name so that I may entertain Lord Barkley with your story after we kill you?”

Rhys let his cloak fall from his shoulders, revealing the dragon crest on his jerkin. “I’m the Mountain Baron.”

The soldiers’ faces went slack in shock and fear and the captain’s horse jerked back a pace under his hand as he cursed.

“Kill him!” The captain drew his sword.

Rhys snapped the spear across the clearing, and the bladed head buried in the captain’s chest. The rough wooden shaft of the spears chafed his palm as he hurled three more in rapid succession, each spear finding its target with brutal precision. The fourth spear only missed its target by a few inches, and it still grazed the soldier’s side deeply enough to send him sprawling in the dust with blood spilling between his fingers as he clutched his hands to the wound.

The loss of the captain and four of their number didn’t keep the remaining five soldiers from charging once they saw that Rhys was out of spears. They spurred their horses forward with a collective shout, and Rhys seized the leather-wrapped hilt of his broadsword. He swung low at the legs of the first advancing horse. It pitched its rider and fell thrashing to the ground, the soldier lying stunned beneath it.

The four other horses crowded toward him, nearly surrounding him. He twisted to block an overhead blow from another soldier, and thrust up into the man’s side with a dagger. The soldier grunted in pain, slumping sideways in the saddle. Rhys jerked the knife free and slashed the horse’s flank, sending it bolting away to clear a path. Pain sliced down his ribs as another soldier fielded a lucky strike down toward him.

Rhys stabbed into the nearest horse’s withers, sending it crow-hopping away and giving him some needed space. He backpedaled away from the milling horses, pressing his hand against the wound. Not too deep.

Three soldiers left.

They spread out warily. Rhys hated to lose the dagger, but he threw and another soldier crumpled to the ground. The action pulled at his ribs.

“Get the reinforcements!” One soldier shouted to his shocked partner.

The first set his spear and charged as his companion set back up the path at a gallop.

Rhys cursed. He didn’t have enough time or range to throw his second dagger with the oncoming spear aimed at his chest. He dropped low to his knees and held his sword with both hands, slashing at the horse’s legs.

The soldier, having gained some wisdom from the fall of his counterparts, abandoned his horse before a similar fate could befall him. He gained his feet as Rhys rose from the wreckage of the horse and they moved to combat.

The soldier gripped his sword in both hands, caution showing in each step he took. Rhys matched his stance. Every move he made, the soldier backtracked away from. Irritation flared in Rhys’s chest, compounded by the ache in his side.

I don’t have time to dance around.

He lunged forward, his sword slamming into the soldier’s blade with a harsh ring. The man struck back, matching Rhys blow for blow as they strove in the churning dust. Sweat stung Rhys’s eyes and approaching hoofbeats became audible over the pounding of blood in his ears.

This has to end. Even if he did have some admiration for the man’s skill. No one usually tried to fight for that long against him.

He brought his sword up across his body, taking the next blow across the flat of the blade. He threw his strength into levering the soldier’s weapon down and away from his body. The soldier audibly ground his teeth with effort.

Rhys let up, and the soldier stumbled a step, caught off balance, his guard too wide to stop Rhys as he drew a knife and slashed it across his unprotected inner arm. The soldier reflexively brought his arm to his chest and staggered back.

Rhys strode forward, striking the outside of the man’s knee with the flat of the blade, sending him crashing to the ground.

The man dropped his sword and lifted his hand in surrender.

Rhys kicked the blade away. “Stay down,” he growled. It still wasn’t in his nature to kill a man unable to fight any longer.

Rhys reached for the reins of a stray horse. He almost smiled as he prepared to mount. He could still catch up to the others. Rorie would be expounding on this for days.

He prepared to swing into the saddle when brilliant, searing pain blossomed in his chest. Like his lungs had caught fire. The pain threw him off balance, and he clung to the saddle horn. He looked down with a ragged gasp of pain and shock, expecting to see a spear between his ribs, but—nothing. No weapon. No wound other than the bleeding cut along his ribs.

The horse side-stepped with a nervous nicker, and he struggled to hold on, but the pain spread like fire down his arms, into his fingers, turning the muscle to liquid. Rhys tumbled to the dirt, and struggled to get his feet under him when a fiery spear pierced the back of his right knee. His leg buckled, and he pitched forward, the rough dirt scraping at his palms. The nervous horse edged away from him and he crumpled to the path. Rhys flung his hand back to dislodge the weapon from his knee, but he found nothing there.

What in flames is happening?

The muscles in his leg seized as though struck by a barbed Karanti shaft.

A strangled cry escaped his mouth as something blazing and sharp twisted deep inside his chest. The coppery taste of blood washed over his tongue, and in the agony of his insides being shredded by an invisible weapon, his vision began to blur.

He reached for his sword, fallen beside him, but he crumbled further into the dirt. His arms refused to support him as he tried to get up from his helpless position.

“Odd, isn’t it?”

Rhys struggled to focus through blurring eyesight. Green robes filled his vision.

“A man who denies divine power can still be defeated by its servants.”

The druid nudged him over onto his side, and Rhys gazed up into his bearded face, lips twisted into a cruel smirk. Rhys recognized the druid from the tavern.

“You.”

The druid clenched his hand, and crushing agony enveloped his shoulder, forcing a strangled gasp from him instead.

“If I had known these soldiers were utterly incompetent, I would have done this as soon as we arrived.”

He crouched lower, a limp cloth figure like a poor imitation of a child’s toy clutched in his hands. Thin silver needles protruded from the figure’s chest and knee. The druid pinched the bag, sharp fingertips twisting around the figure’s left shoulder.

In tandem, the muscles and bones in Rhys’s shoulder almost cracked under the pressure. His arm didn’t move, but it felt like someone had taken the joint and forced it to its breaking point. Spots swam before Rhys’s eyes as he waited for his shoulder to snap under the terrible pressure.

“Well, well!” A new voice broke in through his torment with unnerving cheerfulness.

The phantom pressure on his shoulder faded as the druid released him, and Rhys looked up through distorted vision at one of his nightmares.

Kane.

No.

“Looks like I’ll be able to finish the job I started seven years ago.”

“He is to be taken alive!” The druid stood to face the new arrival, contempt lacing his voice.

Rhys barely heard a sneering reply before an actual blow struck the back of his head with brutal force. Darkness swallowed him whole.

Chapter 19

Alan wrenched his tired gaze from Fintan’s bobbing neck to scan their empty surroundings. They’d slowed to a walk in the hours since they’d crossed the bridge, the horses stumbling in weariness. Sean’s shoulders slumped, looking as despondent as Draco for having left the Baron behind.

Fintan coughed, his head lowering in near defeat. Alan dismounted and loosened the girth to a sigh of relief from the stallion.

“I know. You did well, boy,” he murmured as he rubbed Fintan’s sweat-streaked neck. Bryn pulled to a halt beside him, turning keen grey eyes back across the trackless grassland that spread east of the Bear River.

Nothing broke the empty horizon line. No pursuit. No lone, victorious rider.

Alan bit back a sigh. At the bridge, with the light of battle in his eyes, it had been easy to believe that the Baron would meet them at midnight. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

Bryn didn’t say a word as he nudged his horse back up to a plod. Alan tugged Fintan’s reins, bringing him to reluctant walk. He’d never admit to it, but the first two days after the departure from the Clans had left him saddle-sore in a way he hadn’t been since the war. But his muscles had seized again over the hours of frantic riding. The bone-deep ache pounding through him almost a match for the regret at having left the Baron behind.

But until midnight came, Alan refused to accept the worst.

Eventually, Alan remounted and they rode on through the deserted countryside as the hours turned slowly towards evening. Open grassland rolled itself into hills topped by trees tangled in their own foliage. In the fading light, an angled bastion of white rock thrust up from the earth, its jagged point giving an eerie resemblance to a wolf pulling its lips back to howl.

A small stream chuckled around the base of the rock before wandering off into the foothills. The horses gratefully buried their noses in the water, slurping and splashing some of their fatigue away in its cool embrace.

A winding path twisted up the side of the bluff, and Bryn led them across the stream towards it. Half an hour later they stood on top of the Wolf’s Head. Trees grouped like sentinels atop the ridge, and they settled under their shelter.

Rorie kindled a small fire in a cleared space that bore the marks of previous camps. Alan pulled the saddle off Fintan, draping the sweaty blanket over a low hanging branch to dry, and tipping the saddle up on its pommel nearby. Fintan licked his lips as the bit slid free from his mouth and shook himself with a vigorous huff.

Alan took the time to dig out a lump of dried oats coated in honey to feed to Fintan while he rubbed him down.

Jes finished with his horse and settled down by the fire on one of the logs drawn around as seats. Bryn stopped by Sean and Draco only for a moment to dig out the feedbag and handful of grain from the Baron’s packs for the horse. Alan ground tied Fintan after fixing his own feedbag and crossed the few steps over to Sean. He slipped a few treats into Draco’s nosebag.

Sean pressed the back of his hand to his forehead for a moment before returning to rubbing Draco down.

“You all right?”

Sean nodded. “Just a headache.”

“Which I’m sure has nothing to do with riding near nonstop since last midnight, all while barely eating or drinking.” Alan scratched Draco’s withers.

A ghost of a smile crossed Sean’s face as he folded the cloth. “Nothing at all. Who is he?" Sean nodded to where Damon now sat slightly apart from the others.

“Someone the Baron knew in the wars,” Alan replied, some of the Baron’s panic at seeing the prince alive had spread to him.

“He know many noblemen?" Sean’s brow furrowed as he stared at Damon, searching for the answer.

“Rhy—The Baron was a good warrior even back then. We were both with Brogan often. We both brushed shoulders with different noblemen.”

Sean pursed his mouth, not quite believing Alan’s explanation. In truth, Alan was still having a hard time wrapping his own mind around it. But if he dwelt too long on it, his own buried anger would resurface, and that wouldn’t do any good at the moment.

He waited until Sean finished to accompany him over to the fire. The only sound for minutes was the grateful crunching of the horses in their feedbags.

Silence had always weighed like a thick blanket on a summer night to Alan, never sitting right with him. Odd, considering his past friendship with the Baron, who could pass a whole day in silence if he felt particularly stubborn.

“How do you know this place? It’s not in the mountains.” Alan fixed his eyes on Rorie as the outlaw poked the fledgling fire with a stick.

“Every outlaw knows the Wolf’s Head,” Rorie replied. “We’ve been here more than once.”

“What for?” Alan wanted to know.

“Outlaw business.” Bryn didn’t seem inclined to share more.

The sun dropped below the horizon, pinks and oranges clinging on as darker purples and blues pressed down on top of them. The haze of golden light faded from the hills below them, drawing out the deeper shadows of the clustering trees.

Jes drew from their packs, cobbling together a light meal over the fire. The savory scent of spiced meat warming over the fire as cheese melted inside bread toasting near the coals drew a rumble from Alan’s stomach.

Alan moved closer to Sean as he rubbed his shoulder, a frown puckering his face. Sean gave a tight nod as if to reassure Alan that he wasn’t going to fall over from exhaustion just yet.

“How long will it take—the Baron to meet us?” Sean stumbled a little over the title as if barely remembering it out of deference to the men with them. Or out of worry that the Baron would emerge from the darkness to snap at him for using the name he insisted he didn’t have anymore.

The three outlaws shared a glance.

Do they even know his name?

“We wait until midnight,” Bryn replied.

Alan tapped his right thumb and forefinger together in a restless beat. “And what happens if he doesn’t come at midnight?”

“You counting the Baron out already?” Rorie leaned forward. “Seems like you don’t know him anymore.”

Alan tilted his head, allowing a faint smirk to show through his worry. “I do know that he never turned down a fight. But just wondering what happens when he finally picks one too big for himself.”

Rorie chuckled. “That’ll be a day to see then.”

Firelight flickered over Jes’s somber face. “The Baron—he courts death like no other man I have seen. He seeks that embrace, and yet he lives.”

Damon shivered. “Why?”

“A past is a difficult thing to overcome, is it not?” Jes turned the meat in the small frying pan. Damon looked down at his hands.

“He’s not yet met an enemy he couldn’t overcome,” Rorie put in, rolling his eyes at Jes’s enigmatic remarks.

“Sure he doesn’t just irritate them to death?” Alan asked.

Bryn smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “You did know him well, then?”

The same interest sparked in Rorie and Jes’s eyes. It seemed without the Baron present, they were a little more willing to bring up the sensitive topic of his past.

Two can play at that game then.

“We grew up together. Still trying to do everything by himself, is he?”

Bryn raised a wry eyebrow and nodded. Jes placed food on the tin plates and passed them around, Sean’s portion largest. Sean glanced up as if preparing to argue, but met Jes’s glare across the fire.

Alan bit into his bread, melted cheese and grease from the meat dripping from the crust and over his fingers. It wasn’t the finest meal he’d ever eaten, but after the grueling day, he was hard pressed to remember anything better.

Sean finished first, washing down his meal with a long draft of water. A fresh alertness showed through the dark rings under his eyes, but he still didn’t move to turn in. Jes collected the plates when they were all done, splashing some water over them to rinse.

Bryn stood and retrieved his bedroll, tossing it down near his seat. He undid the Baron’s and placed it by Sean.

“We’ll stay here for the night, if he comes or not,” Bryn cut off Sean as his opened his mouth to argue.

“And if not?” Sean asked, a mulish expression so like the Baron’s on his face. “What if they captured him, or worse?”

“If he is taken, I think Lord Barkley will keep him alive. We have something he wants, and he’ll have something we want,” Bryn said.

“Are you sure he won’t just kill him?” Alan stared into the flames. Adam had already tried that once before.

“You know more of his past than we ever will,” Jes replied. “You tell us.”

All eyes turned to Alan, but he remained lost in the thoughts of seven years ago.

“No,” he finally spoke. “Lord Adam doesn’t yet know of the plans of the Clans and Sarksten. He’ll keep the Baron alive for now. My people would never trade for him, but you might. Who’s to prevent you three from taking us prisoner right now?”

“True.” Rorie looked a little too taken with the idea.

Bryn kicked the highlander’s leg. “We have our orders from the Baron. You are under our protection,” he reassured them.

Alan half-smiled. After travelling with the Baron he could understand the loyalty these men had to him. He wondered who the Baron might be if things had been different. Undoubtedly, he would have risen to high command in Brogan’s household, and Alan would have sworn his sword to his old friend without question.

I might swear to him still, even as an outcast. Alan fisted his fingers in his checkered cloak. But he would never allow me to.

The poor excuse tainted his mind, and he found himself praying for the Baron. His men believed him invincible and fearless, Alan knew all too well that no man truly was.

He dug a flask from his pack and took a long drink. Sean stared into the fire, his face twisted in worry. Bryn shifted to toss a fallen brand back into the flames, a rush of sparks leaping up into the darkness, dancing like fire sprites of ancient legend. Damon leaned forward on his knees, resting his chin against a fist as he tracked the path of the flying embers.

The silence of the camp was broken by the harsh, rasping scrape of steel against whetstone as Jes honed his slim dagger. Beside him, Rorie whittled away at a sizeable branch, the layers of wood curling away from his knife to flutter to the ground.

Nobody seemed in any hurry to turn to sleep. Restlessness jittered through Alan at the return to silence, and he reclaimed his seat.

“So, how’d you meet the Baron?” Alan extended the flask to Bryn.

Bryn half-smiled and took the flask, taking a sparing sip. He gestured around to Rorie and Jes with a finger. “You’re in for a long story or two.”

Alan shrugged. “I think we have the time.”

Bryn fingered the flask. “I was already living in the mountains as an outlaw,” he began. “I stole bread for my family. My little boy was starving and my wife was pregnant with our second. The whole county was starving and poor after the war.” He took another drink from the flask, letting it linger in his mouth before swallowing. “I knew the baker. He always looked the other way when I came to visit, but one day guards were watching.” He capped the flask and handed it back to Alan. “The sheriff sent me to the mountains for one loaf of bread.”

“Seems a bit much.”

Bryn shrugged. “It’s been almost six years ago now that I first met the Baron. He was alone and living as well as the rest of us in the mountains. The man in charge of the mountains then was known as the Butcher.”

“The Butcher?” Damon straightened. “I heard of him even in prison.”

Bryn cast him a look, as if calculating just how many years Damon would have been imprisoned. “The most notorious murderer Alsaya has seen in years. Got his start in the Sea Wars they say.”

Alan tapped his fingers together as he stared into the fire. “Not so hard to believe that the Sea Wars were a good place to learn murder.”

He ignored Sean’s quick glance up. There was a reason he never talked about the war, even seven years later.

“Aye. The Butcher demanded tribute from everyone else who lived in the mountains, and I refused. He took me prisoner. Fortunately for me, the Baron crossed his path at the same time.”

Rorie gave a dark chuckle and tossed a handful of wood shavings into the fire.

Bryn smiled. “The Baron wouldn’t give tribute either. He was a stubborn man even then. He picked his fight with the Butcher, and wouldn’t stay down. The Butcher kept his men in line with fear and threats, so they just stood and watched the fight.”

“What happened?” Alan asked.

“He tossed the Butcher off the side of a cliff.” Despite the calmness of Bryn’s words, they carried a savage pleasure. “Most joined him after that.”

“He killed the Butcher?” Sean whistled.

“Aye, but not before he gave the Baron his mark.” Bryn angled his face towards the fire.

Alan frowned at the faint scar that traced Bryn’s right cheek from under his eye across to his jaw, exactly like the Baron’s. Although from the looks of the Baron’s scar, the Butcher was good and flamed when he carved his face.

“And what of your family?” Sean trapped a bit of wood shaving from Rorie’s knife that a light breeze shoved towards him. He rubbed it between his fingers.

“Safe now. When I was banished, they were left at the mercy of the sheriff. When the Baron found out what had happened to me, we set off for them at once. The sheriff won’t be laying a hand on anyone ever again.” Bryn’s mouth set in a hard line.

Rorie threw his whittled masterpiece into the fire. “Aye, Bryn’s the most innocent among all of us. But he makes a pretty decent outlaw.” He grinned as he took the flask from Alan. “As for me, I was banished from the Highlands. A man accused me of trying to steal his lands and his wife.”

“And did you?” Alan couldn’t help but ask in a bit of amusement at Rorie’s flippant tone.

“His lands maybe, but believe me, no man would go near his wife!” Rorie chuckled with an exaggerated shudder. “They gave me the mark and sent me on my way. I wandered the mountains and found them more to my liking than the high hills.

“You prefer the mountains?” Sean sounded like he’d just heard that horses flew. “What kind of Highlander are you, then?” For the first time, a bit of humor crept into his eyes.

Rorie laughed, raising a hand in acknowledgement. “Wander the mountains, and you’ll see. Now, we Highlanders believe that magic still haunts this world, and the caves and narrow gorges of the Cardics are full of it. The bears that live there can grow to be three times the size of a good mountain horse and as savage as a legion of Karanti.” Rorie leaned forward, hands spread wide as he gestured.

“One day I stumbled into a she-bear’s territory, and let me tell you, she didn’t care for that. Our battle was not going to end well for me, a fact I had already made peace with, when in rides the Baron with a small hunting party. From the savagery with which they confronted each other, it appeared that this bear and the Baron were old enemies.”

Rorie looked at each of them in turn, nodding as he saw he had their attention. “Let me tell you, the fight they had moved the very mountain we stood on. Then, with one thrust, his spear took her through the heart. She sent him flying over the edge of a gorge with a final strike. I pulled him to safety and pledged myself in thanks.”

Alan shook his head in amazement.

“It’s rare that Highlanders need saving, but if you do save one of us, we go with you to the very cracks of doom, for Highlanders never forget.”

“Aye, Highlanders also love to tell a good story, too.” Bryn reclaimed the flask. “Last time he told it, he was saving the Baron from a mountain cougar.”

Rorie burst into a booming laugh that echoed back off the rocks. Bryn tossed the flask to Jes among the laughter. Jes took an appraising sip and raised an eyebrow in approval. He capped it again and began his tale.

“I came to the mountains from my country four years ago. An avaricious noble had laid claim to my sister in Gedrin, but she had promised her heart to another. I could not fight this man alone. I had tried and failed, miserably you might say. This man who seized my sister had taken everything we owned and had turned the law against me for crimes I did not commit.”

“No one would help you?” Alan guessed.

Jes nodded. “I came by sea, desperate to find someone with enough strength to help me. One day I came upon a young man fighting for his life on a path beyond the foothills. He was one against five. One man lay dead and another mortally wounded, but two of their remaining companions had pinned him against a tree while the third began to cut this warrior’s throat.”

Alan whispered a curse, and Sean’s eyes widened in horror. Damon rubbed his own throat with a wince.

“That was no way to die,” Jes said. “I did not know the young man, but I could not watch as he was murdered in a battle where he had no hope of victory. It was not honorable. And if I allowed such a thing, their dishonor would be mine.”

“You saved him.” Alan smiled.

Rorie mimicked shooting a bow and arrow with a dramatic whooshing sound.

“I helped the stranger to the nearest village where he eventually recovered.”  Jes ignored the Highlander’s poor imitation. “But as you have seen, he bears the scar to this day. At first he was angry with me for saving his life.”

“And then?” Sean asked.

“I told him ‘for a man who said he wanted to die, you seem very keen to avoid the afterlife.’” Jes offered a partial smile that brought a glimmer to his eyes.

“But the Baron let me tell my story. When we were able, I led him and his men across the mountains to Gedrin to liberate my sister.” A dangerous grin lit his features. “My sister and her husband are now living quite happily and wealthily too.”

Rorie reclaiming the flask with a laugh. “That was a journey I won’t be forgetting!” He raised his drink to the memory.

Jes’s smile flashed in the firelight. “Nor will the inhabitants of Calicrassa!”

“You’ll have to tell that story sometime.” Alan grinned.

“Even the Baron doesn’t mind that one getting told,” Bryn put in.

Sean shook his head slightly, staring down at the glowing coals instead of joining in. Alan’s smile faltered. He did just hear three stories in which his brother almost perished in gruesome ways. Good thing he doesn’t know half of what happened in the war.

A horse shifted and dislodged a stone. The sound cracked in the still night, and all attention instantly focused in that direction. The rest of the horses flung their heads up, but once they settled, silence returned to the Wolf’s Head.

Alan strained to listen for long moments after, hoping that the sound hadn’t come from their animals.

Bryn glanced at the place the moon had stopped to rest on its journey. “It’s midnight.”

Sean released a worried sigh, leaning forward to press his hand against his head again.

The quiet of the night covered them in a heavy blanket of suffocating silence. The Baron wasn’t coming.

Chapter 20

Rhys lay on his side on a cool stone floor, wrists chafing under the taut ropes that bound his hands in front of him. He barely remembered coming to the tower. He attempted to roll onto his back, stifling a groan as pain throbbed through his body.

“You’re awake.” A voice invaded the silence. “Good.”

Rhys’s heart stalled before rushing on in a frantic drumming. His mouth lost what little moisture it had left. How could he have forgotten?

A figure detached itself from the shadows of the wall and stepped toward him. Kane. Lord Adam’s hunter, torturer, and executioner. The man who had questioned Rhys for hours on end before Brogan found him. The man who had delivered the sentence. And the man whose face still haunted Rhys’s dreams.

“We didn’t quite make it back to Seabright.” The shadow of Kane’s presence loomed overhead. “We needed somewhere safe to store you until we have some more men. Always making quite the stir, aren’t you?”

Rhys willed his breath to come evenly as he stared up at Kane, who only smirked. Kane kicked him over and forced his chin up with a boot to reveal the scar on Rhys’s neck.

“It’s such a pity. The men I hired said they were the best.” Kane traced the length of the scar with a shining dagger that Rhys remembered all too well. “If I had known they’d only do half the job, I wouldn’t have paid them in full.”

Rhys moved his chin away with exaggerated slowness, still holding the torturer’s gaze. Kane only laughed again and left him with one last kick.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Baron. Your escort will be here within the hour.”

The door slammed, and Rhys pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall, fighting against the ache in his body. They’d forced him onto horseback, and the druids had been more than happy to use their needles and magic to keep him incapacitated during the journey.

His hands shook. Another reason he hated the stories about himself. The stories painted him as a man who knew no fear. If only that were true.

Light entered the small prison through a square window high in the wall, declaring the day more than a few hours old.

If they made it to the Wolf’s Head, they’ll be long gone by now.

His men would follow without question. It was the other two who might be a problem. Alan clung to some misguided sense of loyalty, and Sean might foolishly try to disregard Clan law.

And Damon? His hands trembled again. Damon was the proof needed to clear his name.

He forced himself to think. By now, Jes would have given them his “the Baron courts death” speech, and Rorie would have threatened to hold them hostage to avoid going back to the Keep and delivering the news. Bryn would secure Sean’s family, and Jes and Alan would be escorting Sean and Damon to Sarksten, where they’d be safe.

That’s all that really mattered.

Rhys had no illusions about his worth. It was the reason the Clans had sent him on this errand to begin with. As an exiled traitor to the blood of Alsaya, he had no value for exchange. His only hope lay with his men, so he would have to hold out long enough for them to come back for him.

Adam knew it. Undoubtedly, so did Kane.

~

True to Kane’s word, they left within the hour. Soldiers entered the cell and dragged him upright. The druid lurked in the doorway, a smirk playing about his bearded lips as he held the stuffed figure in threat. Rhys held his gaze with a frigid glare as they passed. The druid looked away for a brief second before stabbing the figure with a needle.

Rhys bit down on the inside of his cheek as the pain transferred to his leg. He forced himself to limp as well as he could down the short flight of stairs to the tower entrance, his hands clenched so hard against the pain it felt like they might break. Kane shoved away from the door and led the way outside into a paved courtyard.

Rhys blinked hard in the sudden glare of the sunlight. A troop of thirty soldiers spread out on horseback around the courtyard. The faint scent of salt lingered on the light breeze, and the sound of crashing waves echoed faintly from behind him.

“All this for me?” Rhys asked, forcing some amusement through his voice.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the druid sneered, stabbing the bag again, this time into the figure’s stomach.

Rhys nearly hit a knee from the sudden shock of agony. The soldiers holding his arms barely kept him upright. He drew a short breath and tried to straighten again. Now that he knew what to expect, he wasn’t giving the druid the satisfaction of his pain.

A faint bit of amusement played over Kane’s face as he slid closer to the perplexed druid. He took the needles out, and the pain immediately eased.

“I think you’ve made your point,” he said. “But I’d like him to be able to get on the horse. After that?” He shrugged.

The soldiers shoved Rhys toward the horse. One kept a hand on his belt as he grabbed the saddle horn with bound hands and mounted. The reins stayed in possession of another mounted guard.

Kane swung into the saddle. The druid clambered onto his horse with significantly less grace, a fact that seemed to amuse Kane and some of the soldiers. The guards closed in around Rhys as soon as they started forward, cutting off any hope of a dash for escape.

The sounds of the sea grew louder as they rode west, the low hills changing to flatter ground. Off in the distance, white gulls swooped low over an endless grey. Lush green turned to the thinner pale strands of the coastal grass. The dirt road shifted to cobblestones as the towers of Castle Bright came into view.

They took the back ways through the city up to the towering castle. Parading the secretive Mountain Baron through the streets might raise some uncomfortable questions for Lord Adam.

The company drew to a halt once inside the walls. Kane dragged Rhys from his horse and shoved him into the great hall.

Adam paced in front of the chair on the dais, a sight that irked Rhys even more knowing that Damon was still alive. Adam signaled with a flick of his fingers, and Kane brought Rhys down with a kick to his knees.

“I have to admit, you had a fairly good plan, didn’t you?” Adam spoke first. “Always bold and daring as I recall. That must have been why Damon liked you so much. Where is he, by the way?”

“Like I’d tell you?”

A blow to his face knocked Rhys off balance. His cheek stung as the coppery taste of blood moistened his tongue.

Adam smiled tightly. “Well, you will, one way or another. Kane’s been rather eager to see you again.”

Rhys righted himself and said nothing. He squeezed his fists against the fear that threatened from old memories.

“You know, of all the people to come, I really didn’t expect you.” Adam descended the stairs to stand directly in front of him. He crossed his arms as he looked down at Rhys. “How is Laird Brogan these days? Did he invite you into his hall, or did he meet you by a ditch somewhere?”

Rhys clenched his jaw, looking past Adam. It wasn’t a real question. Adam would just probe until he found the weakness.

“And your father?” Adam leaned close, exposing the hints of grey at his temples. “I’m sure he’s proud of the man you’ve become. An outlaw, a murderer, forced to deny your very existence.”

Anger propelled Rhys to his feet. The Talam had softened enough to welcome him as a guest in the house. That told Rhys that the Talam hadn’t completely disowned him yet.

The soldiers shoved Rhys back down to his knees, pinning him in place. Adam smiled, and Kane laughed as Rhys cursed to himself.

“Make him comfortable somewhere,” Adam ordered, his features nauseatingly smug. “I’ll give you some time to consider choosing the easier alternative. You don’t have anyone to rescue you this time around.”

Rhys kept his face neutral as he was led away to the dungeons, grateful to have some time to prepare himself for what was to come.

Chapter 21

Chanting druids surrounded Sean as Alan’s lifeless body lay nearby. Rhys’s men dangled from roadside gallows, and Kane advanced on Damon with bloody sword in hand. The sunlight shone excruciatingly bright. The prince looked at Rhys, betrayal in his eyes.

“You did this. You killed them all. You failed me again!”

“No.” Panic filled him. A hot wind stung at his exposed skin.

“Traitor!” The words came from Sean. “You betrayed us all!”

“No!”

Rhys jerked awake to find himself still in the torture room, bound to a chair with manacles. An ache stabbed through his ribs as he drew in a breath. With that, sensation came flooding back. His shirt chafed against burns and bruises on his chest. The sweat that soaked his clothes stung the multiple open cuts. Heat from a fire to his right seared his skin.

He tried to straighten himself, his muscles protested at any movement. Another breath caught in his chest. The last thing he remembered was losing consciousness during Kane’s latest round of questioning.

If I’m still here--

He craned his neck upright against stiff muscles to see Kane standing a few paces away, his back turned to Rhys. The fire cast the only light in the dank room, not enough to find the corners, but enough to see Kane’s tools spread out across a nearby bench.

He flinched despite himself as Kane turned around.

“You’re stronger than last time.” There was almost grudging respect in the man’s voice. “But we didn’t have the druids then.” He stepped aside to reveal Alisher with a smoking bowl in his hands.

“Enjoy your dream, Baron?” the druid asked conversationally.

The images from the dream still lurked in Rhys’s mind. It had been so real he was afraid he really had said something to give up his men’s location and plans, and that Adam’s men had found them.

“That was you?” he asked around drying blood in his mouth.

“A small taste of the power we hold. You can learn much from a man and his dreams.” He muttered a few words, and the room swam before Rhys’s eyes. He slumped forward into darkness.

✽✽✽

A frigid wind wrapped around him, tugging at his cloak. Ice-encrusted pine trees loomed over him, blocking out the sun’s pale light. He looked up, catching a glimpse of the grey stone walls of the Dragon Keep. Small white flakes drifted down towards his face.

He frowned. I don’t remember it being winter.

Footsteps disturbed the silence behind him. He turned as Bryn approached.

“What are you doing out here, Baron?” Bryn’s eyes narrowed.

“I--” What am I doing? It was like when he’d first come to the Keep. He’d spend hours wandering through the mountains, trying to outpace his demons.

“He’s been looking for you.” Bryn gestured over his shoulder. A shadow moved and solidified into Kane. Rhys’s heart nearly stopped.

“Why did you bring him here?” Rhys snapped, dragging his gaze away from Kane’s sneer and the way his knife nearly glowed in the faint light.

“He told us some things about you.” Bryn tilted his head, drawing a dagger. “Your past is full of failures. We can’t have that here. It seems that a change in leadership is needed.”

“What?” Rhys backed up a pace. What happened before was happening again. The person he had faith in to have his back, was turning on him.

This is wrong. Bryn would never betray me like this. But looking again at the coldness in Bryn’s eyes, maybe he was wrong.

Bryn strode forward. Rhys stepped back again, tripping over something. He instinctively looked down to see a faint bit of grey mist swirling at his feet. It tugged at his boot, and the sense of wrongness filled him again.

I’m not really here.

He swung his hand out, catching Bryn’s knife as it swept toward his heart.

“No. He’s lying.” He looked to Kane. The torturer vanished in a puff of smoke. Rhys blinked in shock, his hold releasing for a moment.

“I don’t care.” Bryn plunged his knife into Rhys’s chest.

He grabbed Bryn’s hands as the knife twisted deeper. He gasped for breath, but instead of slowing, his heart pounded faster. The pain that should have been there was only a prick compared to wounds he’d felt before.

“You’re not enough. You’ll never be enough. You can’t stop what’s coming.” Bryn leaned close, his face inches from Rhys’s. A strange scent swirled from Bryn.

Incense.

Druids.

Rhys tugged at the knife still embedded in his chest, trying to remove it like the fears that Bryn had just spoken.

“You’re not real,” he gritted.

Bryn yanked the knife free, then stabbed him again and again until he fell back into darkness.

Rhys stirred and opened his eyes as his heart rate gradually slowed. His mouth was devoid of any moisture. He attempted to unclench his hands.

He raised his head to meet Kane’s gaze and caught an odd, almost sympathetic look, in the man’s eyes. But it vanished in an instant, and Kane picked up a small square object.

“Two days, you’ve been here. Not many men have lasted that long.” Kane rolled a needle between his fingers. “You know my methods. Some of what the druids do, I don’t understand. Like playing with dreams. It makes no sense to practical men like you and me. But these?” He lifted the needle to the light. “These I find interesting.”

Kane stabbed the doll.

Rhys doubled over, gasping for breath as pain speared his stomach.

“I think I might have underestimated you this time.” Kane slid another needle into the cloth. “There’s more at stake for you this time. It’s not just your personal honor. You have men depending on you.”

A third needle lodged itself into the cloth, accompanied by a moan from Rhys as pain ricocheted down his left arm, ten times worse than when he’d broken it as a young boy.

“I can respect that. But why try and protect those who turned on you? Adam doesn’t want your brother. Just tell him where Damon is so he can bring him back under his protection.”

Rhys forced a laugh. “His protection? We all know how that worked out last time.”

“Perhaps, but one man against the freedom of your brother and men?”

Rhys groaned as pain like a curved Karanti sword wormed slowly up through his ribs toward his heart. “Maybe Adam doesn’t want Sean, but he’d take him anyway and turn him over to them!”

Kane followed his loathing gaze to where Alisher impassively watched. Kane took a chair and pulled it up in front of Rhys. He sat and leaned forward.

“Then tell us what the Clans are planning. Adam wishes to avoid a long war.”

“I’m sure he does.” Rhys huddled in the chair, crippled by phantom wounds.

It had been the same questions over and over. He wouldn’t answer any of them, and every time they hurt him. But at this point, he didn’t know if he preferred Kane’s knife or the druids’ needles.

“You could save hundreds of lives.” Kane accented his words by withdrawing one of the slender needles. “He might even arrange a pardon for you if you help.”

Rhys trembled, more from pain or anger he could not tell. He met Kane’s gaze again.

“I would never take that from him!”

“But tempting, isn’t it?” A new voice broke in as Adam entered the room. “You know Brogan would never consider it. But still I wonder if you’re worth anything to him, even for your family’s sake.” Adam took up a needle and casually inspected it.

“He can’t ransom me, and you know it,” Rhys ground out.

“I do. And your little friends in the pass can’t do anything for you either, because once they set foot outside the mountains, their lives are forfeit. Tell me, how does it feel to be helpless at my hands once again?”

“Go to the flames, misborn—”

Rhys screamed as the needle pierced his heart. Adam smiled as he twisted the needle in the cloth in Kane’s hand.

“You aren’t talking yet but consider this. There are those who are more valuable than you. Your brother’s wife and children for instance. I sent men to collect them yesterday, and we’ll see how strong you are when they arrive.” His exultant sneer faded as Rhys forced his own smile.

“So did I. My man left three days ago.”

Rage contorted Adam’s features, and he backhanded Rhys.

“You’ll be begging for death before I’m finished with you. If you’re lucky, I’ll keep you alive long enough to see your friends die.”

Blood dribbled from Rhys’s lips. “Then you better hope my men don’t find you first.”

“Lord Barkley?” The forgotten druid’s voice halted another blow from Adam.

“What?” Adam whirled around.

Alisher hovered in the shadows like an evil spirit.

“He showed some resistance to the dream spell, much like the Seer began to,” Alisher said. “This man shares blood with the Seer. Perhaps he has some of the same power. It might be enough to appease Deronis until we acquire the Seer again.”

Adam turned back to Rhys, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Very well. Just let me know if he reconsiders anything.”

Alisher inclined his head with a smile. He leaned close to Rhys, a bitter tang coating his breath. “I also hear that you insulted our god. I look forward to correcting that mistake.”

Rhys dug his nails into the palm of his hand. The pain reassuring him that wherever he was, it was real. Alisher’s predatory gaze assured him that the dream spell wasn’t the worst they could do.

Two days. Not nearly time enough for his men to come back. If they were still alive at all. He’d have to find a way to keep fighting.

Chapter 22

Sean cast a glance over his shoulder as their horses picked their way along the stony road. It had been two days since they left the Wolf’s Head and parted ways with Rorie and Bryn. There had been no sign of Rhys. Jes had made no mention of it, stoically keeping his eyes forward on the road. But Sean kept looking behind.

His gaze fell to the small blue flowers gathered in bunches along the road. They bobbed gently in the breeze, seven petals overlapping each other in perfect symmetry. The flowers grew everywhere through Alsaya. Rhisiart, and Máire would collect them in bunches to give to Sarah or braid into chains to drape over any animal they could find.

Each time he thought about them, longing to see them rushed in so hard it brought tears to his eyes. He tried to blame it on the weakness that still plagued him from the dungeons. But he’d give anything to point Draco to the north and run until he reached the thatched roof and small hugs and kisses and warm nights together that had been his world for the last five years.

But a new longing had woken in his heart. And that was to see Rhys back beside him. The need to see Rhys restored warred against his desire for his family, flooding him with guilt that he’d choose the exiled Mountain Baron over his wife and children.

The world is changing. He’d been Seeing glimpses of it in his dreams for months, and ever since he’d been taken, it had come more and more clear. Every step they took brought them closer to that future.

“The Carraig.” Alan reined in and pointed to the rocky pinnacle that thrust from the hills. They were still some distance from it, but Sean could make out small pennants flying from the castle perched atop the rock. He would be glad to reach its relative safety.

But the thought bore little comfort as he wondered again what had happened to Rhys. Is he a rotting corpse on the side of the road, or has he taken my place in the dungeons of Seabright?

“The Baron has survived worse odds.” Jes brought his horse even with Draco.

Sean raised an eyebrow in surprise. But after two days of travelling with the Gedrinian, he’d learned that the man had an uncanny sense of perception.

Jes smiled. “It has been on my mind as well. When Rorie returns, we will find him.”

Sean didn’t doubt the Gedrinian’s words. He nodded curt thanks and nudged Draco forward.

“Wait.” Damon brought them to a halt again. “Before we reach Sarksten, there’s something you all should know.” He paused, swallowing hard as he tried to continue.

Alan shifted as he watched Damon, his expression grim. Damon opened and closed his mouth, struggling for the words, so Alan spoke for him.

“Damon is the dead prince.”

Sean’s mouth dropped open. Jes’s eyebrows raised, and he murmured something in Gedrinian.

Damon offered an uncertain smile. “Just, not dead.”

“What?” Sean found his voice. “I thought the prince died.”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.” Sean spat.

“Sean,” Alan broke in. “The Baron told me.” He addressed Damon. “How?”

“Adam poisoned me, but I survived somehow. I’ve been locked in the dungeon ever since. I didn’t know what happened to Rhys until he told me.” Damon looked to Sean as if begging for forgiveness.

“Rhys didn’t try to kill you?”

“Of course not!” Damon jerked his head, offended Sean would even think such a thing.

“And what does this change?” Jes broke in.

“It means that my brother was banished for nothing!” Sean blurted, face flushing in anger.

“The Baron has no brother, no loyalties except those he commands at the Dragon Keep,” Jes calmly said. “You think his life,” he gestured to Damon, “will change anything? Those lords will not go back on their word. He is the Baron now. The past runs too deep. He is not the man you think he is, and you would do well to stop thinking of him as your brother.”

“He’s right, Sean,” Alan said, bitter sadness in his eyes.

Sean clenched the reins, prepared to argue until he saw something like guilt lingering in Damon’s eyes. It’s not his fault that Rhys was blamed for everything.

“I’m sorry, Damon—your highness,” he tried to correct it.

“Damon.” The prince offered a small smile. “Hard to make anyone use that title after sharing a dungeon with them.”

Sean huffed a laugh and nodded. Relief showed in Damon’s posture, hunching his shoulders a little more.

Jes spurred on without another word. Sean was the last to follow, unmoving until Draco trotted after the others, not wanting to be left behind.

I don’t care what they say. He’s still my brother, however distanced he might be. Sean’s gaze fell to Damon. There has to be a way to clear him now. Of course, none of that matters with him still missing.

The Carraig disappeared from view as the road turned and began to wind up into the hills. Pine trees grew in clusters around the road, gradually adding to their numbers the steeper the path became. Every time the road evened out, it would begin to climb again, bringing them higher and higher.

Lichen-spotted boulders of grey stone rested among the trees, castaways from the mountains that loomed tall through the trees to Sean’s left-hand side. After a quarter hour’s ride, the Carraig’s towers once again came into view through the trees. The road transitioned to smoothed stone that led up to a guarded bridge. Purple banners bearing the black lynx of Sarksten fluttered in the breeze.

Alan trotted ahead to the guard posts. Two guards stepped forward, swinging their spears down to block the road.

“State your name and business at the Carraig,” one said in a gruff voice.

“I’m Alan MacDuffy, nephew to Laird Brogan MacDuffy. I’m here on official business with the Clans.”

The guard swept a glance over the rest of them, lingering on the worn clothes and ragged appearance of both Sean and Damon, likely wondering what sort of official business involved them and a Gedrinian.

But he waved them through. Sean was the last to urge his horse on the bridge, swallowing a slight fear at the hundreds of feet of empty air that ended at the sharp rocks at the base of the Carraig. Draco didn’t seem to notice. He clopped steadily across, safe between the stone walls of the bridge.

Sean breathed a sigh of relief when they passed under the portcullis and into the courtyard. Jes cast one glance back at the sharp drop off and shook his head. Grooms came to take the horses, and Alan beckoned the small group close.

“Now remember, I claim you under my protection,” Alan told Jes in a low voice. “Damon, do you think Sarksten will recognize you?”

“He should,” Damon replied. “But, it’s been a few years. I’m sure the last time he saw me I was a corpse.”

“This should be interesting,” Alan muttered.  “Let’s go.”

The steward met them at the doors and escorted them to the main hall. Servants hurried to bring them cups of cool ale while the steward went to fetch Sarksten. Banners hung from dark wooden ceiling beams. Furs draped the benches shoved up against the walls. Low fires burned in the wide hearths on either side of the wide hall, driving away the chill that forever lurked in the stone this close to the mountains.

Jes curled his upper lip in disgust after one sip and set his cup down. Sean stifled a smirk as Alan grabbed the discarded mug and drained most of the contents. Though after the events of the last few days, he didn’t blame Alan.

Brisk footsteps announced Sarksten’s approach and he emerged from a side door. He carried an air of command with him that made Sean straighten in response.

“Alan MacDuffy.” The lord came forward to clasp his hand. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Lord Sarksten.” Alan inclined his head. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

Though Sarksten looked older than Brogan by at least a decade, he moved with an easy grace. His eyes glinted in interest as he studied them, revealing the intelligence that had crafted the famed battle strategies that won tremendous victories during the war. Sean no longer doubted any of the stories he’d heard of Sarksten or of the desperate stand taken by he and his battle-hardened soldiers to hold the Karanti back from taking Castle Bright.

Some even said he was the reason Rhys lived, though Sean had never heard why. Rhys had never much mentioned the lord on his rare leaves during the war.

“I heard from Brogan that you were going to find your Seer.” Sarksten turned his attention back to Alan.

“Aye and ran into a bit of trouble with Lord Adam’s guards. We’ve been on the run for a few days.”

That’s putting it a bit mildly.

Sarksten shrewd gaze settled on Sean. “You are the Seer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Welcome.” Sarksten clasped Sean’s hand in a firm grip. “I always thought highly of the Clans’ Seers during the war.” The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened slightly, and his sharp eyes studied Sean as if looking for something. As if wondering what Sean could do.

Irritation flashed through Sean. He’d wanted to think that Sarksten wouldn’t be another man just wanting to use the Gift for his own gain.

“You are one of the Baron’s men?” Sarksten shifted his attention to Jes, pausing for a moment over the Gedrinian’s weapons. Jes made no move to reach out in greeting to the lord.

“Yes, sir.” Alan stepped in. “He is under my protection.”

A thin smile crossed Sarksten’s face. “A wise decision.” He turned to where Damon stood partially behind Alan. He reached out in welcome, but his face went slack in surprise.

“You—”

“My lord, we need somewhere private to talk,” Alan hurriedly said.

“My—my chambers, at once,” Sarksten stammered, his face still white as his beard. He shook his head, jerking his gaze from Damon and waved them towards the doorway where he’d entered and leading them up a winding stair. Every few steps he’d turn for a moment to regard Damon before continuing on. He ushered them into his study, shutting the door with a startling quickness.

He strode to his desk, leaning on the polished wood as his mouth worked.

“How—? You—? We buried you.”

Damon lifted one hand in a half-hearted gesture and glanced to Alan for support in the silence of the room.

“I’ll explain what I can,” Alan began.

Sarksten jerked a nod. “Sit down.” He waved to the wide chairs scattered throughout the room, then collapsed into his seat behind the carved oaken desk.

Sean settled into the window seat, and Jes leaned against the wall a few steps away. Damon and Alan sat closest to the desk.

Alan spent almost an hour recounting the negotiations with Adam, and Sean and Damon’s escape. Damon slowly recounted his story of the assassination and his survival, glossing over the intervening years in rushed sentences. Sarksten’s attention never wavered, locking on to Damon over steepled fingers.

When they finished, Sarksten sat back in his chair. “This changes everything.”

“I have no illusions of reclaiming the throne,” Damon spoke. He’d barely moved throughout Alan’s report. He sat slightly hunched over, his hands clasped in his lap. “I’ve heard enough to know that Alsaya may be past needing a king, but something has to be done about—the Baron.”

“And what would that be?” Sarksten shifted forward to rest his elbows on the desk. The shock had been shuttered away, to be replaced with bluntness. “He lives outside our laws. Neither I nor Brogan can claim him. We can do nothing to help him.”

Sean shifted forward. But there has to be something he can do!

“No, but we can.” Jes broke his silence. He gave Sean an understanding nod. “There are men coming to join us right now. We only require safe passage through these lands.”

“And if I refuse and instead take you in like the outlaws you are?”

Jes maintained his relaxed stance against the wall, but his hand fell to his sword. He held Sarksten’s gaze—watching, challenging. Unease prickled along Sean’s arms. Alan shifted in tense alertness. Not from fear of Sarksten’s threat but fear of what Jes would do if he tried.

“You forget he is under my protection, Lord Sarksten.” Alan stood and stepped between Sarksten and Jes. “And he has not been declared guilty of breaking Alsaya’s laws.”

Sarksten narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps. In the meantime, we will prepare for Brogan’s arrival.”

“Laird Brogan is coming here?” Sean shifted forward.

“Yes. Chieftain MacTavish has begun the call. We’re going to war against Adam.”

A chill settled over Sean. War. His visions would come true.

Alan cast a sympathetic, but knowing, glance to him. A stark contrast to the sharp interest that lit Sarksten’s eyes. Neither of them acted surprised by the declaration of war, confirming his worst fear. This is because of me. Adam took me to provoke the Clans and bring on the war that he wanted.

“Brogan returned to Camlin to assist with mustering the Clans’ warriors,” Sarksten said. “My lords are preparing as well. Our main forces will meet outside the hills in a few weeks’ time.”

Sean crossed his arms tight across his chest as any hope for going home vanished before his eyes. War was coming. His place would be with the Clans, beside his laird and the chieftain.

Damon stared at his hands, equally subdued.

What will the Clans and lords would do when they find out he is still alive?

“You are all welcome to stay here until we leave to meet the Clans,” Sarksten’s voice broke through Sean’s thoughts. “I’ll have my steward show you to rooms, and find new clothes for both of you.” He tipped a nod to Damon and Sean.

Damon mustered his thanks, barely lifting his head. Alan gave a slight frown of thoughtful consideration. But Sean recognized the hesitation and uncertainty in the young prince’s posture.

He’s been in a prison for the last seven years. He’s scared of taking his old position back.

Sarksten called the steward in and gave him orders for their accommodations.

“The evening meal is in a few hours. Please, join me at my table.”

Alan bowed. “We’d be honored, my lord.”

Jes pushed away from the wall, arms still crossed as he passed the lord. Damon tentatively glanced at Alan as if waiting for him to lead the way. Sean strode forward, nudging Damon forward to follow Jes.

The steward led them through an endless series of stone staircases and halls that left him breathless and feeling less kindly towards the Carraig.

If we have to go up one more flight of stairs, I’m going to go sleep outside.

The steward finally halted at a suite of rooms in the northeast corner of the castle, and ushered them inside.

Warmed water already awaited them in one of the smaller rooms, and the steward returned shortly with clothes. Alan sent Damon first. The prince returned, looking barely recognizable with freshly shaved face and new clothes that revealed just how thin he was.

Sean went next, scrubbing away the grime of two months in the dungeon and the sweat and dirt from their journey. His borrowed clothes fit fairly well. The calluses on his palms caught on the smooth cloth. Even though he and his family enjoyed a higher social standing as the Talam’s blood, they still didn’t have cloth as fine as this. It made him feel uncomfortable.

He shaved and ran a towel over his damp hair again. It was longer than he liked, and Sarah would hate it. He folded the towel over the rack with a sigh. He wasn’t going to last long thinking about his family every few minutes.

He left the wash room and stepped out into the circular common room. Two other doors opened off into bedrooms. The room closest to him held two beds. Alan’s pack lay on one, and one he recognized as the Baron’s rested on the other.

Sean crossed over to it, resting a hand on the leather bundle. We’ll get him back.

“Jes,” he called as the Gedrinian crossed from the washroom into the other bedroom. Jes tilted his head inquisitively.

Sean nudged the pack towards him. “You should keep hold of this.”

Jes regarded him for a moment, then nodded. He took up the pack and disappeared.

Despite how inviting the bed looked, Sean couldn’t bring himself to rest. Too many thoughts ran like wild goats through his head. He went to stand next to the narrow window in the common room, staring out at the foreboding mountains.

War, the word echoed in his mind. Adam wants war. Are we playing right into his hand?

Sarksten and Brogan seemed to think there was no other option.

“You all right?” Alan came to stand by him.

Sean glanced up. The others sat in their own silence around the room.

“I will be once we figure a way to get him back,” he replied in a low voice.

“I know. I left him behind. Again.” Guilt colored Alan’s voice, and Sean felt some of the same stain.

He shifted to lean one shoulder against the wall. The grey stone felt warmer than Castle Bright’s had. “How’s Caitlín?” he asked instead.

“None too pleased that I volunteered myself for this little trip,” Alan replied. “It won’t be too much longer before the babe is here.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“Oh, aye, she’ll be waiting to murder me when I get back.” They both shared a quiet laugh.

“Sarah’s doing fine,” Alan answered his unasked question.

Longing again threatened to overwhelm Sean. He hadn’t asked Alan about them yet, as if that would keep the homesickness at bay.

“Is she?” He knocked his fist against the stone. “It’s been months.”

“She’s holding up. Your father has been taking care of them.”

“Rhisiart and Máire?”

“They miss their father.”

Sean swallowed back sudden tears. During the time in Adam’s dungeons, he tried not to think about his family. He’d had no idea what the druids could do and wasn’t about to give them anything else to torment him with. But now that he actually let himself, he realized how desperately he needed to see them again.

Alan rested a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. “We’ll get you home.”

Sean gave him a short, grateful look. “War is coming, Alan. How do we know there be a home to go back to?”

“What have you seen?” Alan’s fingers drummed against his arm as he leaned against the wall.

“Bits and pieces. Nothing solid.”

“So, no point in asking if you know who wins?” Alan attempted a smile.

“Not yet.” Sean smiled. “But events are beginning to align according to the future I saw. Perhaps it will show me more.”

Alan shook his head. “I’m just glad I don’t have the Gift.”

Sean smiled tiredly. “There are many days I forget that it is a gift.”

“Get some rest, Sean. The last few days have been hard on everyone.” Alan clapped him on the shoulder again.

Sean nodded but stayed at the window. He considered trying to see Rhys. He hadn’t been able to see his brother in years. All his visions had become clouded ever since Rhys was expelled from the clan, but the visions of Rhys had ceased.

He pressed the heel of his hand into his chest as if to push away the hollowness. He’d been missing a part of himself for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it had felt like to have a brother until Rhys had walked into his cell.

He blinked hard against a new wave of exhaustion. His body ached, but sleeping meant dreaming. And dreaming meant more visions of war.

He’d been spared the worst of the war visions during the Sea Wars. Now he was the only Seer the Clans could bring to battle. He wasn’t ready for that responsibility.

Rhys could have been here with us. He could have helped me like he used to. The hollow feeling in his chest widened a little more. If we don’t get him back, I’m going to be on my own again. I don’t know if I can do it.

Chapter 23

Moonlight leaked through the prison bars, attempting to reach Rhys sprawled on the cot. A soft grunt escaped him as he moved in an attempt to find a comfortable angle. He had to admire Kane’s effortless ability to inflict pain.

Time had blurred together over the long hours spent with Kane with the druids.

Two days, Kane said last time.

They’d left him alone all day, but he wasn’t anticipating the respite to last much longer.

So three, maybe four days?

Rhys swore softly as he swung his legs over the side to sit up against the wall. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but perhaps he could get some sleep this way.

A movement in the shadows by the cell door shocked him to alertness. Kane lurked against the bars, just outside the light cast by the guttering torches. Rhys swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat.

“What?” he growled. Only the sight of the bars between them helped steady his nerves.

Kane ran the edge of his knife under his nails. “The druid wants your blood,” he eventually spoke.

“Why?”

“He thinks you are like your brother.”

“No, why are you telling me this?” Rhys rubbed dried blood from his hand, pinching hard to make sure that the pain he felt was in the real world. There was no tangible pain in the druids’ controlled dreams.

Kane met his eyes for a moment. “What the druids do is not natural. A man should be warned.”

Rhys tried to disguise his shudder with another movement. “Hasn’t stopped you from using their methods.”

Kane glanced around the cell before settling back on him. “Not all of them. Some men don’t deserve to be used in their—practices.” Rhys thought the torturer shifted in discomfort for a moment.

“Didn’t think you would care.”

“Even damned men sometimes have a conscience,” Kane replied.

Rhys couldn’t form a retort. Is that what I am? A damned man with a conscience?

He turned his head away. He’d take the warning, but he didn’t have to acknowledge the messenger. Kane pushed away from the wall, sheathing his knife slowly. He paused another moment as if he wanted to say something else but then turned and walked away with barely a whisper of a footstep.

They think I’m like Sean? I’ve never had any sort of dreams like him. Rhys slumped back against the wall.

“The druid wants your blood.”

He looked at the scarlet flaking his skin. The druids had been bleeding Sean for some reason.

What do they want my blood for?

The silent prison gave him no answer and neither did the dread worming its way back into his mind. After the few hours spent under the druids’ control, he was beginning to understand Sean’s fear and hate for them.

He closed his eyes. Sitting up against the wall had eased some of the stiffness binding his ribs and chest. He’d need to save what little strength he had left if the druids were coming for him.

Sleep came in brief spurts through the remainder of the long night. Finally, dawn began to creep across the sky, shining timid light through the cell window, barely stirring him.

The rustle of robes on stone brushed into Rhys’s consciousness. Kane’s warning filtered back to him. Alisher wanted to see if he was like Sean. Rhys would give him the truth. I’m nothing like Sean. Not anymore.

He came awake fighting. He might have only been one man, but he had learned from thieves and assassins in the mountains.

A quick jab to the throat sent one soldier reeling back with a choking gasp. Another guard reached for him. Rhys grabbed the man’s arm and twisted, wrenching the elbow joint. The man swore and stumbled away as Rhys released him.

But Rhys swayed on his feet, giving another man an opportunity to pin one of his arms behind his back. The first soldier rose shakily to his feet, only to receive another kick from Rhys.

A shout from the corridor brought two more soldiers running. One jammed a spear butt into his stomach, sending him doubling over. They pinned his other arm behind him and shoved him forward a few stumbling steps.

This time they turned up the stairs out of the dungeons. Rhys deliberately stumbled, shoving one of the soldiers off balance and to the ground with a follow up kick to the knee. Another guard stepped in, delivering a blow to his face.

Dampness dribbled from his nose. The man leaned too close as he grabbed Rhys’s arm, earning himself a head butt.

The soldiers holding his arms twisted them further behind his back while a third delivered a few punishing blows to his already abused torso. He wheezed a curse as his knees buckled again. They hustled him down the same hall he’d taken a few days ago with Sean and Damon.

His breath came back when he recognized the door the druids had stepped out of, the one that inspired such fear in Sean. Another few blows before he could recover allowed the soldiers to drag him forward the last few feet into the room.

The soldiers pinned him in a chair and hastily bound him before retreating.

“I had heard of your Seers long before I ever came to this country.” Alisher stood a few paces away from him. “I have long desired the power to predict the future.”

“If you want something predicted, ask me how I’ll kill you,” Rhys snarled, jerking one hand against the straps that held him.

“I studied the legends with interest, as you can imagine.” Alisher began to pace in a wide circle around him. “Some speak of another person who could amplify the Seer’s power. Maybe even have some power himself.”

“And you think this legend has something to do with me?” Rhys glanced around the windowless room, taking in the hooded druids that stood against the wall in looming silence. Tension stiffened Rhys’s spine as he tried to brace for whatever would come.

“The stories say that the power would most often run in those that shared the same blood.” Alisher bent to scrutinize his face, as if trying to see something there.

Rhys glared at him. “Well you’ll be waiting a long time for a vision.”

“We were so close with your brother. Only a few more sessions and his power would have been given to Deronis.”

“Oh, your all-powerful demon god?” Rhys smirked.

“Have a care how you speak!” Alisher thundered. “He is more powerful than you could ever imagine. He would feed on you, but not even a soul as black as yours would sate his hunger.”

Rhys didn’t flinch. He had no illusions as to the state of his soul. “Why don’t you volunteer then?”

Alisher struck him. “You will meet him soon enough, and then you will beg for mercy.”

“I don’t beg from anyone.” Rhys’s cheek stung as he spat out fresh blood. “Certainly not from fairy tales. That’s all gods are.”

“I look forward to altering your view.” Alisher signaled to his fellow druids.

They stepped forward as one, beginning a chant in a language that clashed like a rockslide. Several swung incense burners, curls of smoke dissipating with every movement they made.

Rhys clenched his fists. His skin prickled as a faint current of something moved through the room behind the druids. It wasn’t strong, like it lurked on the fringes of his vision, but it was there, and it was not happy.

He flinched as Alisher slammed his hands down on the chair’s arms and leaned into his face.

“You see it, don’t you? Like he did!” He whispered triumphantly.

Rhys spat into his face. Whatever it was, its anger was directed more at the druids as it swished around them, stirring the incense.

Alisher wiped his cheek, giving a slow smile. He stepped back and took the bundle that another druid extended.

Stormagh. Rhys bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to stop his scream, but unable to control his grimace of pain as Alisher stabbed an invisible wound through his stomach.

It let up as Alisher waved his hand, bringing the chanting to a stop.

“Perhaps you need some encouragement, just as the Seer did in our first sessions,” Alisher said.

The younger druid that Rhys had knocked unconscious a few days prior came forward holding a cup. He scowled at Rhys before darting away. Alisher took it and signaled his followers again to hold Rhys’s head back as he forced some liquid down his throat.

Rhys gagged against the bitter taste that burned its way into his stomach. He sagged forward as the druids released him and returned to their circle. The chanting began again.

The room began to blur, and each word grated on his ears. Alisher stood several tempting paces away, watching with sharp eyes that somehow seemed even darker. The torches on the walls blazed too bright, driving away the flickering shadows in the corners.

Rhys squeezed his eyes closed, trying to clear his vision, but it didn’t help as the druids continued. Alisher’s voice joined in, his cadence rolling and powerful as if trying to command, then switching to a more cajoling tone. The presence darted faster on the edges of his periphery, but came no closer than it had before.

Rhys drew a slow breath, trying to stay calm as his vision danced and flickered.

It went on. And on. And on.

Rhys lost track of the time in the dizzying spin of pain and chanting, but the harder Alisher tried, the less he got.

When Alisher uttered a growl of frustration and began to pace the length of the room, Rhys slumped against the chair, exhausted, but grimly pleased that whatever they’d done to Sean hadn’t worked on him.

“Anything else you want to try?” he asked.

Alisher stood for a moment, hands clenching and unclenching. The blood drained from his face in anger. He extended his hand, and another druid placed a knife in his palm.

Rhys stiffened as Alisher leaned close again. He held the druid’s cold gaze as the knife slashed across his palm. Alisher turned Rhys’s hand over and squeezed dribbles of blood into a small bowl that the young druid held.

He finally flicked Rhys’s hand away and took the bowl from the novice. Rhys clenched his hand around the shallow wound, ignoring the sting that pulsed through his palm. Alisher tilted the bowl one way and the other, murmuring under his breath.

When he glanced back at Rhys, his black eyes held a discomforting triumph. “This will do for now. Take him.”

The guards re-entered and dragged Rhys back to his cell. He didn’t try fighting.

Once alone, Rhys allowed his hands to shake. Sean hadn’t lied when he said there was a power to be feared. And from Alisher’s reaction, he hadn’t imagined the dark presence in the room.

So what in flames did Sean see? And what were they trying to get from him?

Chapter 24

Bryn tugged his weary mount to a halt. He stood at the center of an empty crossroads, a faded sign pointing the way further into the domain of Clan MacDuffy. Despite the urgency that had filled him during the grueling four-day ride there, he looked around with interest.

This is the place the Baron came from. The beauty of the green around him smelled fresh and new. In another life, if the Baron and I had met at this crossroads, would we have been friends?

The brand under his gloves itched as if to remind him that the possibility was a remote one.

He clucked gently and his mount clopped down the western road. Possibilities didn’t matter. He had a task to finish so he could return to the Baron for either rescue or revenge. Rorie had promised the same when they parted ways two days ago, the highlander riding up into the mountains to gather the rest of the Cairns.

A milestone fell behind him and at the second, he turned north onto another worn path, now beginning to see signs of civilization. He kicked his mount into a shambling trot towards the impressive wooden structure that rose proudly in the distance. The Talam’s house, around where he should find Sean’s family.

A child’s shout brought him to a halt. He watched two youngsters stumble after a rambunctious herding dog, delighted shrieks echoing in the afternoon air. They finally noticed him when the dog paused to stare and give a warning growl. They looked enough like Sean for him to know he was in the right place.

“I’m looking for your mother,” Bryn said. “I have a message for her.”

They regarded him warily and backed up a pace.

“I won’t hurt you,” he reassured them. “I’ve a boy that’s not much older than you two.”

That seemed to soothe them a little, and they turned as one to run past the barn and into the open fields. Bryn dismounted and led his horse in a wide circle around the grumbling dog to the well where he hauled up a bucket of water.

“What do you want?” a gruff voice asked.

Two farm hands stood protectively in front of a woman. Bryn sized them up. They both held themselves like they knew how to fight. He had no doubt that the hoe and pitchfork in their hands could become weapons the moment they wanted.

“I’ve a message for Sarah,” he said.

The woman pushed through the men. “Who are you?” she demanded, her own stance still guarded.

“One of the Baron’s men.”

“The Baron?” She gasped. “What happened? Is Sean--?”

“Alive and safe.”

Her small cry interrupted him, and he half-stepped forward to support her, but one of the other men was there first.

“If Sean escaped, then why did—the Baron send you here?” The younger of the men asked.

“There were—complications. The Baron feared for your safety.” Bryn addressed Sarah.

Sarah stepped closer, concern sharpening the lines around her eyes. “What complications? What happened?”

“It’s none of your concern. But Lord Adam’s soldiers will most likely be after you and the little ones.”

“We should tell MacDuffy,” the second man growled.

Sarah nodded. “Yes, Tommy, go to the Laird and ask him to meet us at the Talam’s house. Finn, will you stable the plow horse and then join us?”

Both men grunted agreement and set off to their respective tasks. Sarah turned a steady gaze back at Bryn.

“My father-in-law will want the news. And so will the Laird.”

Bryn’s hands twitched as her gaze lingered on the gloves. No doubt she would know a good man had no reason to wear gloves this time of year. The Seer’s wife was no fool. She knew what he was.

“I knew—the Baron, a long time ago.” She wound her arms across her stomach, suspicion lingering in her eyes. “I trusted him then.”

Bryn dipped his head in a nod. “He gave me the task of warning and protecting you. I gave him my word.”

She bit her lip as her gaze again strayed to his hands. Bryn had forgotten the distrust of those outside the mountains. In the Dragon Keep, every man had a past, but they’d all taken a second chance with the Baron. He looked to the children, sheltered behind the protective bulk of the dog.

“What would you do if your children were starving?” he asked.

Some of the stiffness vanished from her shoulders, and she turned away.

Bryn half-smiled. He knew. That’s why he sent me instead of Rorie or Jes.

“Is Dada coming home now?” the boy asked.

“Soon, darling. This man has some news for us.” Sarah gathered her daughter up. “But we need to go see Grandfather.”

“Did our uncle find him?” The girl brushed wild red locks from her face.

“You don’t have an uncle,” Finn said as he returned from stabling the horse.

Bryn didn’t miss the scowl Sarah sent Finn’s way. The boy looked tempted to blurt a correction, but his mother’s touch restrained him. Something about it nearly brought a smile to Bryn’s face.

So the Baron does still have a family.

He kept a short distance from the clansmen as they trudged up the road to the Talam’s house, Finn glaring at him almost the entire way. The boy ran ahead to warn of their approach, bringing the Talam in from the fields.

Bryn blinked at the shape of the Talam’s face. Were it not for the age and the weathered expression, it might have been the Baron himself looking out at him from the Talam’s eyes.

The Talam wiped dirty hands on his trousers and appraised Bryn. “My grandson says you’re one of the Baron’s men.” The statement could not disguise the sorrow and longing that lingered over the nameless title.

“I am. I also have news of your son, Sean,” Bryn said, careful of the Clans’ tradition.

“The Baron is still my son,” the Talam said quietly.

Sarah’s chin tilted up in pride at the defiance, but Finn scowled again. Bryn began to think the man had no other expression.

“But what of Sean?”

“He escaped and is being escorted to the Carraig, most likely already arrived,” Bryn said.

“Ilan be praised!” The Talam glanced at the sky. “He did it.” The Talam turned to Sarah. “Does Brogan know?”

“I sent Tommy to deliver the news,” she reassured him.

“Good. Laird Brogan will want to speak with you as well. He’ll be on his way here. What’s your name, lad?” The Talam asked.

Bryn couldn’t remember the last time he’d been called lad.

“Bryn, sir.”

“Well, Bryn, now we’ve met, so you can call me Dermot. Tether your horse and come in for a drink while we wait.”

Bryn gratefully complied and soon nursed a mug of dark, frothy ale. They did not have long to wait before hoofbeats clattered in the yard, and the laird strode into the house. Bryn didn’t feel inclined to get up, so, from his seat at the table, he took his first look at the man who had cursed the Baron.

One or two of the soldiers who accompanied the laird looked like they might want to change his mind about not standing, but a good glance at his knives seemed to make them rethink with more caution.

The laird accepted his own beaker and sat down across from Bryn.

“He got Sean out?” he asked.

“He did,” Bryn affirmed after a slow sip.

“What happened?”

Bryn glanced around to see Sarah and an older woman hovering nearby as Dermot pulled a chair away from the table to join them. They might as well all hear directly from me.

He told the facts as he knew them up until he had departed from the Wolf’s Head four days ago. Dermot paled and his hands clenched in fists. Sarah wrapped a comforting arm around the woman who could only be the Talam’s wife.

“Sean and Alan are safe?” Brogan demanded.

“Yes. One of our men is traveling with them to the Carraig,” Bryn replied.

“And this other prisoner you mentioned?”

“A man the Baron knew from the Sea Wars. His name is Damon.”

Brogan reeled back as if struck. “What did you say?”

“Brogan?” Dermot half-reached toward him.

“Did the Baron say anything about this man?” Brogan demanded.

Bryn shook his head, a nagging suspicion beginning to form in the back of his mind. Especially after remembering the near-panic in the Baron’s eyes whenever he’d looked at Damon. And Alan knows something about him, too.

“What’s being done about the Baron?” Dermot turned back to what Bryn considered the most pressing matter.

“Rorie returned to the Keep to summon a troop of Cairns. We’ll take care of the Baron since no one else will.” Bryn didn’t try to keep the bite from his words. He wasn’t going to let the Baron be left behind ever again. He owed him too much.

An expression not quite like anger flashed across Brogan’s face, but Dermot smiled.

“We shouldn’t keep you then,” he said.

“I have to see them safe first.” Bryn nodded to Sarah and the children. “I gave my word.”

“Adam will be after them by now.” Brogan stirred. “Kean, I want four men to escort the Seer’s family to the northern lodge. Then send a messenger to the Chieftain—I’m taking as many of the Clan as I can muster overnight and riding to the Carraig. We’ll move with Sarksten from there to join the rest of the army.”

“Laird.” Kean bowed and left the room. Bryn took another sip of his ale.

“Will you ride with us?” Brogan asked him.

Bryn paused before answering. He’d see his charge safely off with their guard. He’d prefer to return to the Carraig alone, but if he rode with the Laird, he might have a chance to pick up some useful information. He nodded, and the Laird took his leave.

“The guest room will be prepared for you,” Dermot informed Bryn.

“Dinner won’t be much longer,” the Talam’s wife spoke for the first time.

Bryn glanced down at his gloved hands. He knew his sentence was too severe for his crime, but he’d done enough since then that he didn’t deserve the hospitality these people were providing.

They deserve to know before they shelter me like some honored guest.

He pulled off his gloves and pressed his hand flat on the table where Dermot could see the raised X brand. He swore the Talam’s look was the same as the Baron’s all those years ago when he first saw the brand. Cautious, weighing, then decisive.

Dermot and his wife exchanged a glance before he turned to Bryn. “He trusts you?”

“The Baron will never fully trust anyone again. But he sent me to finish this task.”

Dermot nodded. “You are welcome in my house for the night, Bryn.”

His wife gave a small smile of agreement.

This--this is where the Baron came from. He offered a nod to the Talam and his wife. In another life, aye, I do believe we would have been friends from the start.

Chapter 25

Early the next morning, Bryn escorted Sarah and the children back to their house where she began to prepare for their journey north. Bryn arranged the packs on the horse the laird had sent in the company of Kean.

They were ready by mid-morning when the escort arrived. Bryn watched warily, put slightly at ease when Sarah greeted most of the men by name.

She latched the door to the house and turned to him. “Thank you for bringing the news.”

He nodded. “You have everything you need?”

“Probably not.” She gave a wry chuckle as the children darted around the yard saying one last goodbye to their home. “What happened to your children?”

Bryn considered her carefully.

“When the Baron heard my story, we packed up and brought my wife and children back to the mountains,” he said. “They’re safe and sound inside the Dragon Keep.” He smiled just thinking of them.

“Safe?” Her voice held a note of disbelief. “In the midst of--”

“Criminals?” He finished for her. “Aye, even if I’m not there. The Baron’s laws are not crossed except by the foolish.”

“You don’t worry about your wife?”

“No man touches a woman without the Baron’s permission. There’s more than a few of us that will see that law enforced.” Bryn nodded. “Not all of us are lawless men without morals.”

A faint blush tinged her cheeks. “I didn’t mean you were.”

“I know.” He smiled. “Take care of them and yourself. The Baron promised your husband he’d see you again.”

Tears lent a sudden brightness to her eyes and one or two escaped. She must have been holding them in since the previous day.

She swiped them away and drew a steadying breath. “You’ll see Sean when you get to the Carraig?”

“I will.”

“Tell him that we miss him, and to come home to us.” She sniffed and another tear ran down her cheek. “And tell that idiot that I love him and to look out and see us. And, Bryn, I know that if you are going for the Baron that Sean will want to go with you. He and—the Baron, they were always so close. I swear sometimes they could reach each other’s mind.”

She pressed a hand to her eyes as another tear ran down her face. Bryn rested a quick hand against her arm. He’d seen the bond between the Baron and Sean, even in the brief amount of time they’d spent together.

Sarah drew a shuddering breath, regaining control of her renegade tears. “Tell Sean to be careful. And that as much as I want to see them both standing here together again, Sean is the one we need back.”

Bryn nodded. “You have my word.”

She wiped her eyes and called to the children. “Thank you.”

Bryn helped her mount and handed the girl up into her arms before swinging the boy up behind one of the warriors. They gave him a wave as the horses trotted off. He watched them disappear into the green hills before turning back to the Talam’s house to await Brogan.

Chapter 26

Sean waded through the thick mist, waiting for it to clear. He’d wandered through the silky grey tendrils for what seemed hours, looking for something, or someone, he didn’t quite know. Waiting for whatever visions were chosen for him to see when the mist parted.

Childish laughter floated through the veil and he recognized it—he and Rhys.

That’s who I’m looking for.

The mist thickened as if to tell him that he would be as unsuccessful as before. He slid his hand through a pulsating cloud, pushing it away to clear a path. The mist obeyed, parting and reforming behind him. This time he would not take no for an answer.

“Rhys,” he whispered.

Voices darted around him, shapes plunging through the mist—figures running wild through fertile farmlands. Two children, red-haired and black. He smiled at the sight and hazy memory but walked on. He didn’t want to see the past. He wanted the present.

“Rhys!” He envisioned the face of his brother as he had last seen it, so different from the face of years before. This time new voices joined the whispered cacophony.

“Jes, if I don’t make it, tell Sean not to look back,” one rasped.

Rhys.

“I’ve always tried to look back and see what happened then. But I can’t.”

“I’m glad. I don’t want you to see that.”

Sean closed his eyes. “Rhys, let me see you.”

“Don’t look, Sean. Don’t look for me.” A voice that lacked the rasp whispered back, full of pain, loneliness, and despair. It was Rhys from years ago, during the terrible events that had made him what he was.

“Brother, please.”

A dark figure appeared through the mist, back turned to Sean.

“No, Sean. Don’t look for me.” It strode away, fingers of mist lacing behind it.

“Rhys, wait!” Sean ran after him.

He stumbled and his vision cleared. He soared above Castle Bright again. Soldiers formed long lines and Lord Adam paced in his chambers. Darkness gathered in the center of the castle where the druids gathered in their stone room.

Sean circled the high turrets, straining to see more. A deep roar echoed, and he saw the dragon once more, this time assailed on all sides by hideous figures, its scales rent and bleeding. It looked up at him with desperate brown eyes.

“Rhys?” Sean pushed back his blanket and sat up.

The dark sky outside the slit window announced that dawn was still a few hours away. He rubbed the back of his neck, wishing for Sarah. She usually woke when he did, and he would often tell her what he had seen.

He wished he could have gone with Bryn, just to see them again, but he wouldn’t have been able to stay. Laird Brogan would have commanded him to return to the Carraig. The Clans were going to war and they needed a Seer to help guide them through the murky decisions of battle.

He shuddered, hating to think he was the reason for this war. Lord Adam had clearly been planning for some time, but the abduction had been the final catalyst.

Rhys never would have left the mountains but for him. He closed his eyes, thinking back to his dream.

Rhys is the dragon. Adam continues to gather troops. There were new banners from the last time I saw him. He’s getting stronger.

The dragon’s agonized roar echoed in his mind. He hated to think the druids might be practicing their dark craft on Rhys, but why? They had only wanted Sean for the power he had. Rhys had none of a Seer’s power.

Sean lowered his head into his hands, trying to form the words of a prayer. But now that he had finally seen Rhys again after seven long years, he didn’t know how to pray for him.

“You all right?” Alan’s drowsy voice startled him. He looked over at the bed opposite, eyes adjusted enough to the dark to see Alan.

“Fine,” he replied. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“You dream?”

Sean nodded, then realized that Alan probably couldn’t see him. “I always dream. But it was nothing.”

Alan grunted. “I don’t quite believe that. What did you see?”

Sean debated whether or not to tell him, but Alan could be persistent, especially if he thought something was wrong.

“I saw Rhys,” he half-whispered.

Alan bolted up in bed. “I thought you hadn’t been able to see him in years?”

“Well, I didn’t see him exactly. I saw Castle Bright and a dragon.”

“A dragon?” Doubt crept into Alan’s voice.

“It’s him.” Sean related his vision.

Alan punched a fist into his blankets. “We should have made him come with us. We all could have escaped.”

Sean wanted to agree, but as much as he hated to admit it, Rhys’s sacrifice had given them the time to get away. “You remember how stubborn he was.”

Alan chuckled dryly. “Still is apparently.”

“What happened to him, Alan?”

“You mean besides being accused of killing a friend, publicly whipped and branded a traitor, and then cast out of his clan, forbidden to see his family again?” Bitterness laced Alan’s voice.

Sean fought back his own anger, at Brogan, at himself for not going to his brother the second he had heard. Even a little at Rhys.

“The war happened, Sean.” Alan gave a heavy sigh. “It was—hell. The Karanti waged a war like no one had ever seen. They showed no mercy, they couldn’t be reasoned with. Seven years later, I still have nightmares about the things I saw, things I did, like I’m there again. I’m not surprised Rhys lost his faith. I just wish I had realized sooner, then maybe I could have done something. Just one more time I wasn’t there for him.”

“Alan, don’t blame yourself,” Sean began, but Alan cut him off.

“No. I know he hates Brogan for what he did, but he should hate me too. After everything, I was going to go find him. But my uncle was waiting for me. He had looked the other way for Neil, but he told me that anyone who gave their help to him would suffer the same fate.” Alan took a short breath. “So I didn’t. I was too scared that my uncle would follow through. I gave him up. I didn’t even try.”

“You’re not the only one,” Sean admitted after a moment. “They told me the same. I wanted to find him, to get the truth from him myself, but I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my family or Sarah, forever. What brother does that?”

Especially a brother that had relied on Rhys for everything—comfort from the darkest things he’d seen, or a quick word of encouragement when the burdens of the Gift overwhelmed him. Sean had felt like only half of himself since Rhys had been banished.

Alan drew his knees up and rested his arms atop them with another sigh. “The worst of it is that I know what he would have said if I had gone after him. He wouldn’t have wanted us to come. But we didn’t even give him the chance to tell us.”

Sean said nothing for several long minutes. Rhys had always been there for him. And he hadn’t gone the one time Rhys would have needed him.

“What do you think will happen now with Damon?” Sean asked.

“I don’t know. Sarksten would be the one to call a retrial of the original lords.”

“And what would Brogan say?”

The light beginning to grow outside the window silhouetted Alan’s shrug. “He’ll put it off until after the trouble with Adam is done with. But after—I don’t know if any man who’s been made outcast has ever been welcomed back into the Clans.”

They both lay back down, but neither slept until the bell tolled out the first morning hour.

A servant brought breakfast to their rooms. Either Sarksten usually provided his guests with enough food for a small army, or he’d decided Sean and Damon were on the brink of starvation.

Jes took only a slice of bread and some fruit, pacing around the room as he ate. Alan declined food altogether. Sean had never understood how Alan could do without the morning meal. He and Damon easily took care of the rest of the bread, boiled eggs, and fruit fresh enough to drive away the last memories of the meager meals he’d been living off of for the last few months.

When the servant returned to clear the tray, the steward came with him to call Alan to meet with Lord Sarksten and his council to discuss the preparations for the upcoming war.

Alan left with a look to Jes that sent a spark of irritation through Sean. Like we can’t be trusted to look after ourselves for a few hours?

But with nothing else to do, Sean and Damon wandered the halls of the Carraig, Jes their constant shadow. For the moment, Damon was considered just another guest until Sarksten saw fit to reveal who he was.

They paced the walls, Sean trying not to think about the dizzying drop on the other side.

“How much longer do you think?” Damon asked, speaking for almost the first time that morning.

Sean shrugged. It had been five days since they had left the Wolf’s Head. It would have taken Bryn several days to ride to the Clans, and then who knew how long it would take for the Clans to make the journey. He knew from his dreams that they were already gathering under the Chieftain’s war banner, but armies were not known for their speed.

The clash of weapons drew their attention down to the courtyard where Sarksten’s soldiers trained. Damon watched, his hand clasping air at his side as if he held a blade in his hands.

“You trained, right?” he asked.

Sean nodded. Clan law stated that every boy of fourteen years trained for two years in combat. He served his two years but never felt the call of war like Rhys did. Besides, Brogan would have refused to let him go. They needed their youngest Seer safe, not out on the battlefields.

“I wasn’t as good as Rhys,” he said. It was strange to say his name out loud, an odd act of defiance.

“Few were.” Damon smiled. “War is coming again. Would you pick up a blade this time?”

Sean glanced at him. He wasn’t sure if the young man asked as a friend or as a prince. But he decided to answer honestly. “If it will get Rhys back and see the right man on the throne, then yes.”

Damon gave a half-smile. “I’m not the right man for the job anymore. Don’t know if I ever was. But I know Adam isn’t. And I owe it to Rhys to let the truth be known.”

Sean returned the smile. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ll be a bit rusty with a blade.”

“Think Alan will be willing to help us embarrass ourselves?”

Sean laughed. “Oh, more than likely.”

“You’ve known Alan a long time then?” Damon asked.

“My whole life. He and—the Baron,” Sean switched back to the title after a quick glance at Jes, “have been raising the flames together since they were three years old after Alan’s mother left him with Brogan and ran off. It didn’t take much for my parents to open our home to him as well.”

“So the Baron comes by adopting people honestly, then?” A smirk played across Damon’s face.

Sean laughed. “You too?”

Damon nodded. “I’d just lost my entire family.” A bit of sadness leaked through his voice. “It didn’t take long for him to become the big brother I still needed. Looks like he didn’t make it out of the war either.”

Sean looked out towards the mountains, the place that Rhys had lived since the war. He nearly agreed with Damon after seeing the Baron. But something held back the words. He’d still seen some flashes of Rhys, and the stories that his men had told showed that he was still there, somewhere.

Sean snuck a glance back at where Jes walked a few paces behind, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Maybe he did.”

Amusement brightened Damon’s hazel eyes. “I’m sorry you aren’t able to go home yet.”

Sean swallowed hard and nodded. “It is what it is.” He nearly choked trying to keep the words light.

“That’s probably the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

Sean half-laughed. “Aye, well, guess I never thought I’d be this important to so many people.”

“I know the feeling.” Damon shook his head. “I was never supposed to be anything more than a second son.”

Sean felt a strange sort of kinship with the prince. With Rhys gone, his father had looked to Sean as the firstborn, putting unfamiliar weight on his shoulders along with the burdens of the Gift. If it wasn’t for Sarah, he would have fallen a long time ago.

“So what will you do?” Sean asked. “I know you said you’ll fight, but what then?”

Damon shrugged, glancing down at the training courts again, then up at the towers. “I don’t know. Right now I don’t have a home to go back to.”

“Sarksten seemed willing enough to take you in.”

“We’ll see what happens after he tells everyone I’m still alive. I don’t know that I’m important enough to make a difference in any of their plans.” The slump returned to Damon’s shoulders.

Sean remembered the albatross banner from his visions. “Now who’s lying to himself?”

Damon tilted his head to regard Sean.

“I just don’t think you should sell yourself short.”

Damon rubbed a hand through his hair and said nothing. But he stood a little straighter.

“Should we head down and wait for Alan?” Sean asked. Damon readily agreed.

By the time they found their way back down the courtyard, Alan had come to find them.

“How was the council?” Sean asked.

Alan tipped his head back to the sky with a groan. “Another reminder that I don’t want to inherit Uncle’s position.”

Sean chuckled. Alan had been complaining about the potential inheritance since the day he’d been told he could be chosen to succeed Brogan.

“What have you been doing?” Alan rubbed at his shoulder.

“Thinking about doing some sparring,” Damon said.

“Really?” Alan’s eyes brightened in uncomfortable interest.

I regret this already.

“There should be some practice swords over here.” He strode off towards the armory. “Should be some nice, light ones for you to use, Sean,” he called over his shoulder with a smirk.

Sean rolled his eyes. “And so it begins.”

Damon chuckled.

It took only a few minutes for Alan to find some practice blades and a small training court to use. And an even shorter amount of time to help them discover just how deconditioned they were. While Sean had only spent a short time in the dungeon compared to Damon, he still had not used a blade in years.

Jes watched from a bench nearby, reclining with a faint smirk tucked in the corner of his mouth.

“I almost regret this.” Damon rested hands on his knees and wheezed for breath after an extended training sequence.

Alan showed none of Sean’s sympathy. “Jes, care to go a round while these two catch their breath?” he asked.

The Gedrinian rose from the bench and stretched in several fluid movements. “I surely could do no worse, could I?”

“Very funny.” Sean rolled his eyes as Alan chuckled.

Sean took a grateful seat with Damon, setting aside his dull practice blade and watching the two warriors warm up with a few easy moves. Jes cracked his fingers and took up his curved blade again.

“You ready?” he asked. Alan replied with a salute and they began.

Sean leaned forward, watching the deadly grace of the opponents, their crisp movements refreshing the memories of lessons from long ago. Beside him, Damon’s foot or hand occasionally twitched, clearly doing the same as Sean and putting himself in their place, trying to tell his body to remember how it felt.

A soldier interrupted, and Alan and Jes called a draw.

“Sir,” he addressed Alan. “There’s a man calling for you at the bridge. Looks like a Highlander.”

Jes sheathed his sword instantly. “Rorie.”

Sean and Damon followed them to the gate.

“You two stay here,” Alan ordered.

Jes nodded his agreement and they had no choice but to stay. Alan and Jes walked the long bridge to the figure waiting at the end, the grey knit cap confirming it as Rorie. The Highlander gestured into the trees that masked the eastern side of the road up to the Carraig.

An impressively built figure emerged from the forest, a battle-axe strapped to his back. Alan took a half-step back, hesitated, then reached out to clasp his hand. The four spoke together for a few minutes, then Rorie and his companion disappeared into the trees and Jes and Alan made their way back across to the gate.

“When Bryn returns, we go for the Baron,” Jes spoke first.

“Rorie told them you’re a Seer, Sean. They want to know if you have any news of him.” Alan’s brow furrowed in mild concern.

“Nothing that would help,” Sean replied.

“Alan!” Sarksten’s voice broke from the keep. The lord descended the stairs and approached them, a frown lingering between his eyes. “What is this I hear? A Highlander at the bridge?”

“Yes, my lord.” Alan bowed. “One of the Baron’s men.”

“Am I to assume that he has more men with him?” Sarksten crossed his arms, one eyebrow arched.

“Yes. A company of twenty men is camped near Devil’s Gorge.”

Sarksten frowned, his features sharpening in irritation. “Outlaws have no place on my land. What do they want?”

“They are waiting for the Baron’s man to return from Clan MacDuffy. Then they ride to Castle Bright for the Baron,” Alan replied, a hint of steel in his voice.

“Don’t think to challenge my authority here.” Sarksten leaned close, his voice growling deeper in warning.

Jes fingered the hilt of his sword. “We do not want to cause trouble here. There is only one thing we want, and he is not here.”

“Your Baron is most likely dead.” Sarksten sniffed, no regret touching his eyes.

Jes glanced to Sean for confirmation.

“He’s still alive,” Sean said. Even without the dragon vision of the night before, the sense of always knowing Rhys’s location had started to return. It was still faint, but it was there for the first time in seven years.

“Very well.” Sarksten tipped his chin down, the flash of annoyance still obvious. “I’ll still not have these outlaws skulking about my gates. Tell your Highlander friend to come in and ask permission of the lord of these lands himself.”

“My lord—” Alan began.

Sarksten cut him off. “Before you recklessly try and put everyone under your protection, Alan, you have my word that they have no fear of visiting my dungeons. This will be a peaceful talk only.”

Alan inclined his head in a stiff bow. “Very well, my lord.”

The lord swept away, fur edged coat flaring behind him as he strode back up into the keep.

Jes stared after him with raised brow and thoughtful purse to his lips. “I think he will want something from us.”

“Why do you say that?” Alan asked.

“A man does not simply invite those with the reputation of the Dragon Keep into his house.”

“He’ll keep his word. He’s a fair man, but he always liked his pawns,” Damon said.

A short smile crossed Jes’s face. “I will tell Fulke.” He jogged back over the bridge and vanished into the woods.

Chapter 27

Alan waited alone by the gate for Jes to return with the intimidating Fulke. He’d forced Sean and Damon to wait inside the keep. Alan trusted the Baron, but without him there to control his men, he didn’t want them getting any ideas about Sean or the prince of Alsaya.

I don’t think Jes will tell them about Damon, but who knows what would happen if they’re desperate enough to get the Baron back?

He’d begun to fidget, tapping his thumb against his forefinger when Jes reappeared, the bulk of Fulke behind him. He wasn’t used to being shorter than anyone, but Fulke nearly put the mountains to shame. The soldiers at the end of the bridge visibly tensed, tracking the outlaws’ every move. The gate guards adjusted the grip on their spears as they passed through the gates. Even in the few minutes since Jes had been gone, word had spread that the Baron’s men were camped by the Carraig and that one was coming to talk to the lord.

Alan’s fingers tapped faster. This is turning out messier than I anticipated when I volunteered. But nothing ever went as planned with Rhys along. He shook his head.
He wasn’t built for negotiations and politics. He much preferred it when someone pointed out the enemy and said “charge.”

Jes and Fulke halted beside him, Jes smirking a little when the guards took a few steps closer. They wouldn’t have much success with Fulke. The man stood a few inches taller than all the soldiers, his shoulders as broad as a mountain oak. Alan once again found himself scrutinized by discomforting grey eyes peering out from under thick brows.

“This Sarksten, you trust him?” Fulke asked. The words were deep and gravelly, almost hard to understand. Rorie, it seemed, had put in a good word for Alan with the Baron’s men. Fulke seemed to regard him as a sort of liaison.

“I don’t know if I’d trust him,” Alan replied. “He’s always treated honestly with my laird.”

“Your laird does not hail from the Dragon Keep.”

Alan nodded in acknowledgement. “He said it would be a peaceful talk.”

“There is never such a thing.” Fulke ran a hand across the strap that bound his axe to his back. There was a look in his eyes, noticed earlier on the bridge, like a wildfire just barely controlled and waiting for a chance to burn anything in its path. Alan had seen it before in men struck with battle sickness, and he began to wonder if the man was truly sane.

“Fulke.” Jes nudged the man and he refocused on Alan.

“I also want to see the man who shares the Baron’s blood.”

Alan did not feel like arguing with the demand. Fulke likely wouldn’t be the one losing. He nodded again. “I’ll take you to Sarksten first.”

Fulke thankfully agreed. Alan led the way inside. Several uninvited guards tagged along.

Sarksten waited in the main hall, seated comfortably in a carved chair draped in dark ermine furs, flanked by extra armored guards, a clear attempt to intimidate the mountain outlaw.

Alan halted at the foot of the dais. Jes maintained a relaxed posture, as Fulke crossed his arms, unimpressed.

I didn’t think the Baron could be more dramatic than this, but obviously he is. I need to find some way to visit the Dragon Keep when he holds court to see exactly what he’s like these days.

Jes flicked his fingers for Alan to move away. He willingly stepped aside. He didn’t need to accidentally embroil the Clans in any feud that might result from this so-called peaceful talk.

“My lord.” Jes flourished his hand as he bowed. “May I present Fulke, lieutenant of the Dragon Keep, sworn protector of the Mountain Baron, bearer of the cursed axe Adrelan, and the slayer of the last greatwolf.”

Alan raised his eyebrows. Well, he’d clearly underestimated Jes’s own flair for the dramatic. Fulke stood unblinking and offered a slight, stiff but courteous bow.

Sarksten acknowledged him with a nod.

“Why have the men of the Dragon Keep come to the Carraig?”

Fulke shifted and crossed his arms. “You know why. We seek our Baron. And so I ask you, as a man who once thought himself a friend of the Baron’s, give us safe passage through your lands.”

Sarksten frowned at the inference. He leaned forward in his chair, twisting a silver ring about his finger.

“You plan to ride to Castle Bright?”

“Yes. As soon as our companion returns from the Clans.”

“Why wait?” Sarksten tilted his head.

“It’s the law of the mountains. We do not leave any man behind, especially in an unforgiving place.” Fulke did not shift his unblinking stare from the lord.

Alan winced. That’s exactly what I did to Rhys.
I’m not surprised it’s one of the Baron’s laws.

“And what will you do to Lord Adam for imprisoning your Baron?” Sarksten slowly looked to Fulke again, his hands clasping together.

There it is.
The price Jes knew would be asked.

The faint glimmer of madness shone in Fulke’s eyes. “Whatever the Baron commands.”

Sarksten pressed his lips together as if sampling each word before he spoke. “And if you are successful, would the Baron be willing to make an alliance with those who have similar interests?”

Fulke chuckled, a sound that chilled rather than invited further merriment. “I doubt the Baron will have anything to do with those from the old days.”

Sarksten’s eyes narrowed.

Does he think Rhys owes him something? Alan’s fingers drummed against his arm. Is that why he convinced the council to let him live? Because he might be useful later?

“You have my permission to maintain your camp at Devil’s Gorge.” Sarksten rose. “On the condition that I see the Baron when he returns.”

Fulke nodded. “I will tell the Baron of your wish.”

Alan half-smiled. Someone would have to forcibly drag the Baron back to the Carraig before he’d see Sarksten. Fulke ended the audience with the same curt bow.

Fulke turned to Alan. “I came here, MacDuffy. Now let me see him.”

“Outside.” Alan signaled to Sean, and they left the hall.

Sean met them in a more secluded area between the keep and the training courtyard. He stood a few paces away from Fulke, watching him with a wary curiosity. He held himself like the Baron used to when sizing up a new threat—gauging, assessing. Though Alan had always sworn that Sean could just know things about a man.

“You are of the Baron’s blood?” Fulke asked.

“Yes.”

Sean’s voice remained as steady as the set of his shoulders and stubborn tilt of his chin as he looked up to where the lieutenant leaned over him.

“Rorie says you have the Clans’ Gift.”

“Yes, but the Baron has not allowed himself to be seen for many years.” Sean tilted his head up, his words sure as if he’d known that was the next question Fulke would ask.

Fulke crossed his arms, rubbing his thumb along the bridge of his prominent nose. “You cannot see him even now?”

“I’ve had one glimpse but nothing that would help you.”

“And if we were to force you?”

I’d like to see you try. Alan instantly placed a hand on his sword, and Sean stiffened. He glared up at Fulke. “Adam Barkley thought he could make me his fortune teller. I will not serve those who seek to abuse the gift.” He softened a fraction. “But as you said, he is of my blood. You have only to ask.”

Fulke smiled, and Jes nodded his head in approval.

“I see why the Baron decided to ride when he received the message,” Fulke said. “You two are tied by more than just blood.”

“Once we were called brothers,” Sean said. “If I should see him, you will be the first to know.”

Fulke gave Sean a deeper nod than he had given Sarksten, and then he and Jes were gone.

“And if you still aren’t able to see him?” Alan asked, still uneasy with the casualness of Fulke’s threat.

He was responsible for Sean not only because he was the Clan’s Seer, but also because of the promise he’d made to Rhys a long time ago—to look after Sean if Rhys didn’t make it back.

“They can take it up with that stubborn rock sheep they call their Baron,” Sean muttered, drawing a laugh from Alan.

“Now I’m really hoping they get him out so I can tell him you said that.”

“Whatever it takes to knock some sense into that man,” Sean replied with a smile.

“But until then, we still have plenty of daylight left. Might as well get a few more hours of training in.”

That was something immediate he could focus on. He could work out some of the tension that had plagued him since leaving the Wolf’s Head and make sure that Sean would be able to keep looking after himself in the conflict that was coming. It didn’t seem there was any way to avoid it.

Chapter 28

Rhys slumped in the corner of the cot, the cold of the walls seeping through his shirt and pressing against his wounds. He tensed every time footsteps came close to the door. As much as he hated to admit it, they were beginning to wear him down. The anger he’d held when first dragged before Adam had begun to fade after the days with Kane, and now with the druids. Fear wormed into his mind, bringing back every nightmare both real and dreamed.

He’d woken in the night with the same uncanny feeling of being watched by a falcon. Sean was looking for him. He’d always known when Sean tried to see him, or even pray for him. It was like the lightest touch on his shoulder. He didn’t deserve the prayers, and he certainly didn’t want Sean to see what he’d become. His men might think they knew him, but they couldn’t see deep inside—not like Sean.

He scratched the smooth streak of his scar, interrupting the rough stubble of his beard. Anything to distract himself. Bryn and Fulke had been there when he’d received the scar. It was then those two idiots began their crusade to keep him from killing himself. Their unwavering support had been the last thing he expected to find in the mountains.

I’ve only stayed standing because of them. They’ll come for me.

Jes and Rorie would be right at their side—Rorie just as protective and Jes just as idealistic. Their only problem would be making sure the entire Dragon Keep didn’t come with them.

They were his only hope in this place.

But he still hated how much they cared and looked up to him. They wouldn’t if they knew how he kept the shards of himself hidden beneath the anger and coldness of the Baron.

Keys jangled in the lock and two soldiers entered, spears leveled at his chest.

“Lord Barkley wants to talk,” Kane said behind them.

Rhys had half a mind to throw himself on the spears and just be done with it. He didn’t. Only because he didn’t want to give Adam or Kane the satisfaction.

He slowly gained his feet, ducking his head to hide the grimace as the movement jarred the countless bruises and cuts scattered over his body. A soldier clamped shackles about his wrists and escorted him out of the cell to a room by the dungeon entrance.

They forced him to take the seat at a plain wooden table, the two soldiers standing behind him just out of reach. Kane and another guard took their place by the door. Rhys didn’t have long to wait until Adam joined them, sweeping into the room and taking the seat across from him.

Few people could hold Rhys’s direct cold gaze, and he decided to make the most of that fact while waiting for Adam to speak. The lord smiled but turned his gaze away first, if only for a second.

“You’ve lasted much longer than I thought you would have based on previous experience,” Adam said, his tone considering, and almost admiring. “Six impressive days.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “Get to your point.”

Adam clearly wanted something, and if he was interested in a conversation without knives or druids, Rhys might even consider having it.

Adam pushed back and rose from his chair, pacing on the opposite side of the table.

He pivoted suddenly, hands clasped behind his back. “Why did Sarksten want you alive all those years ago?”

“I don’t know,” Rhys replied. “I think you and I could both agree it would have been better if I had died.”

Adam half-laughed. “Perhaps. But Sarksten is known for his strategy and political maneuvering. Why did he want you alive?”

“Why ask now?”

“You arrive, the Clans and Sarksten ally themselves, and then there’s the small problem of Damon.” Adam resumed his pacing.

“You shouldn’t have left him where I could find him.” Rhys slid a finger under one of the manacles, easing the pressure against his skin.

“I should have just killed him.” Adam shook his head.

“Third time is a charm.”

“He is surprisingly resilient.” Adam nodded. “But why did they send you? Surely you must have wondered?” He raised a mocking eyebrow.

“Think I don’t know that they’re using me?” Rhys rested his hands on the table.

“Then why did you come?” Adam tilted his head, open curiosity in his glance. “I know the memories this place holds for you. Why would you do anything for Brogan?”

“I didn’t do it for Brogan.”

“For family?” Adam’s voice turned mocking. “You don’t have a family anymore.”

Rhys tensed his jaw. Hearing Adam say it was even more insulting. “I might have been cast out, but there are some ties that can’t be forgotten.”

“I heard he didn’t even try and find you. Neither did any of your other so-called friends.”

“Some people respect the law and those that are their lawful superiors.”

Adam scoffed. “The old king was weak. Why do you think the Karanti attacked us to begin with? We should have defeated them long before the Darvani alliance. He and his sons had no more place on the throne.”

“And you think you are the best substitute?” Rhys raised an eyebrow.

“How many wars have been waged on Alsaya in the last seven years?” Adam gripped the back of his chair. “How do we know the Karanti won’t eventually come back? The lands under me have prospered since I’ve taken Castle Bright. I do love this country and what she could stand for. Why shouldn’t Alsaya be united once again?”

“And you intend to unite her by waging war on her people?” Rhys gave a mocking smile.

Adam sat down and leaned forward across the table. “A carefully planned war, but yes. Taking out the leaders and any heavy resistance leaves me free to rebuild. We’ve been asking for information on the Seer and anything you might know about the Clans’ alliances. Give that to me, and you’ll receive a full pardon and a place in my army. I could easily find a place for a man of your rumored talents.”

The chair creaked as Rhys shifted forward. “You said you know the memories this place holds. Then you should know that as much as I hate Brogan for what he did, I hate you even more.”

“I suppose I can’t blame you for that.” Adam shrugged and sat back.

“Then what am I still doing here?”

“Call it a courtesy if you want. I can respect you for what you’ve done in the mountains. It’s no more than what I did here, building order out of chaos.”

Adam looked at Rhys’s palm where the cut had crusted over, and Rhys reflexively curled his hand closed.

“Alisher took some of your blood a few days ago.” Adam scraped at a splinter with his thumb. “The druids have found what they were looking for, and they want more. If you reject my offer, you are only useful as a means for reaching Sean. I’ll turn you over to the druids, and I will have no power to interfere.”

Adam tipped a look back up at him, features set in something like warning.

Completely under their control.

Rhys pressed his thumb against the manacle until the nail turned white. Adam and Brogan’s actions had stripped him of family ties, but he’d always looked out for Sean. He didn’t fault Sean for not coming to find him. He wouldn’t wish his punishment on anyone.

“No.” He met Adam’s gaze without blinking. Never thought I’d ever pronounce my own death sentence.
But maybe I’ll finally get what I want.

Adam’s features sharpened in frustration. He scraped his hands across the table and shoved his chair back. “Very well.” He signaled to Kane.

The door swung open and Alisher stepped in, flanked by two guards. Rhys kept the druid’s stare, forcing down a rare combination of fear and ire at the mere sight of the man. The soldiers grabbed his arms and yanked him up to standing.

“He’s yours, Alisher.” Adam’s mouth turned down at the corners, and he shook his head slightly as he gave Rhys one last look.

“Take him to the room,” Alisher ordered.

Rhys caught Kane’s glance. Something like sympathy and regret flashed in the man’s eyes. The torturer looked down. Rhys’s muscles locked at the unnerving threat of the unknown.

I won’t go quietly.

The soldiers struggled to keep him restrained as they dragged him to the druids’ circular room. The closer they got, the more Rhys sensed that they were as reluctant as he was to enter the room.

He almost broke free when the dreaded pain pierced the back of his knees. His legs buckled, and he cursed.

The soldiers redoubled their efforts and forced him into the room, shoving him onto a table that now took up the center of the chamber. Burning spears stabbed his stomach and shoulders, leaving him incapacitated on the wooden surface. Druids flocked around, pinning him with eager hands. One unlocked the manacles. Alisher stood at his feet, smiling as he held the cloth pricked with needles.

A druid approached Rhys holding a knife. Another set a bowl on the table and grabbed his left arm, yanking his sleeve up.

“What are you doing?” Rhys demanded, voice straining around the agony of the invisible wounds.

“Surely Adam told you.” Alisher slid toward him like a snake. “We need your blood to forge our own connection with Sean. Deronis demands his power for his own. We were able to augment our own abilities with Sean’s blood, but we don’t have his gift. With yours, we’ll be able to control him.”

“In the flames you will,” Rhys spat.

Alisher stabbed another needle into the cloth, and Rhys choked as it punctured a lung.

“Cut him,” Alisher ordered.

The druids tightened their hold on Rhys to keep him still as the knife sliced into his forearm. The warmth of blood dribbled from the wound, shocking Rhys with its realness. Alisher’s words echoed in his mind. He couldn’t claim Sean as a brother anymore, but he would still protect him.

He was tired of the fear, the anger, and most of all the pain. He took in the leering face of Alisher, the eager faces of the other druids, and the knife carelessly left within his grasp. A slight smile crossed his face.

He’d make sure Deronis wasn’t the only name the green robed misborns whispered in fear.

He stopped struggling for a moment, long enough for the druid’s hold on his left arm relax a fraction. Rhys’s fingers closed around the knife’s handle, stabbing down into the hand of the man who had cut him. The druid clutched his wounded hand, eyes and mouth wide in shock as he reeled away.

The other man at his shoulder reflexively went to help him, freeing Rhys. Rhys slashed across his body, killing the druid on his right and stabbing into another at his right shoulder.

The surprised druids finally began to move in jerky panic and lurched to restrain him again. Alisher frantically stabbed more needles into the cloth, but Rhys didn’t care. He barely felt them. He only had eyes for Alisher.

A man lunged for the knife, but took Rhys’s knee in his gut and a slash to his arm. Another fell with a fatal stomach wound. Rhys knew he’d never get upright enough to stab Alisher. He flipped the knife in his hand, throwing with all the power he could muster with his weaker hand.

Alisher screamed as the knife appeared in his shoulder and dropped the cloth. Rhys had less than seconds to enjoy his triumph before fists slammed into him, attempting to beat him back down. One caught the side of his head, sending him crashing onto the table and into unconsciousness.

Chapter 29

The creak of the door wormed its way into Rhys’s consciousness. He struggled to find the strength to open his eyes as footsteps approached. They paused, and then his legs and chest were relieved of their phantom injuries. A low groan escaped as the last needle was withdrawn and normal feeling began to return.

The steps came closer and he forced his eyes open, glancing around the room in an attempt to focus his blurred vision. His gaze finally settled on a soldier. The man reached toward him, and Rhys attempted to lift an arm to stop him, but his limbs refused to work.

The soldier surprised him by lifting his bleeding arm from where it dangled over the edge of the table and placing it across his chest before disappearing. Rhys pressed the cut against his shirt, the deep crimson staining his skin the explanation for his sluggish movement. He hadn’t lost this much blood since—he preferred not to think.

The soldier took his arm again, raising it to tie a rough bandage around his forearm. The attention surprised Rhys. He’d expected not to have woken after the havoc he’d wreaked upon the druids and their leader. Unless--

“Why?” He managed to get the word out through a parched mouth.

The man stared at his face, not quite meeting his eyes.

My scar.

“Is that from the Butcher?” the man finally asked.

“Yes.” Rhys wondered why it would make a difference. As his vision began to sharpen, Rhys remembered the soldier as one who had brought him to the room.

“He gave my brother the same cut right before he killed him. They say the Butcher went to the mountains.” The soldier hadn’t relinquished his grip on Rhys’s arm.

For once, Rhys was grateful for one of the stories about himself. “He did. I killed him myself.”

“How?”

“Quicker than he deserved.”

The man nodded and grabbed Rhys’s other arm to help him sit up. Rhys cradled his injured arm to his chest as the soldier pulled Rhys’s right arm across his shoulders and brought him to his feet—a substantially more difficult task.

The man’s hold tightened, preventing him from crashing to the floor. A bowl rested on the floor, containing blood. His blood. He didn’t know if what the druids had said was true, but he wouldn’t take any chances.

He reached out with the toe of his boot and turned it over, sending the blood to spill and mingle with the other spatters on the stones.

They made slow progress through the door and down the hall back to the dungeons. There were a few soldiers who looked the other way, shaking their heads at his helper’s foolishness. Brisk footsteps halted them, and the soldier stiffened in alarm as Kane rounded the corner.

The torturer paused and simply stared for a long moment. Rhys wasn’t sure which of the three of them was more surprised when Kane took Rhys’s left arm in a secure hold and indicated that they should continue. Rhys moved faster with the extra assistance, and it wasn’t long before he lay on his cell cot. The soldier helped him drink as much water as he could.

Noise stirred in the dungeon corridor. Word must have already spread of what he had done.

“Why?” Kane asked, a frown creasing between his eyes.

Rhys turned his head with some effort. “They threatened the wrong person.”

Kane gave a brief nod of understanding. “The druid will want retribution. You’re a damned man.”

“I already am.”

Kane stared for a moment before turning to the soldier. “You were never here.”

The man nodded, a look of barely controlled fear on his face before he darted away.

Kane hesitated a brief second more before following the retreating soldier. Rhys didn’t have the strength to question the torturer’s strange behavior. He drew his injured arm to his chest again in some attempt at comfort before his eyes slid closed.

✽✽✽

“Rhys!”

Someone called him in a voice he knew. He opened his eyes to see his prison cell cast in a strange grey tint. A shadow solidified across the room. Red hair shone through the grey.

“Sean?” he croaked.

“You can see me?” Sean asked in surprise.

The same shock jolted Rhys. “Are you dreaming?”

Sean glanced around the cell as if to find answers there. “I think so.”

“But I’ve never—maybe they were right—” Rhys trailed off, still staring at the strange apparition across from him. His arm twinged, and he looked down to see splotches of crimson on the bandage, bright spots in the grey.

Terror gripped him as he remembered Alisher’s words. If this is their doing, there’s one way to disrupt it.

“Who do you serve?” he demanded.

“What?” Sean frowned.

“You know what. Who do you serve?” Rhys tried to push himself up, but his aching body refused to cooperate.

“Ilan,” Sean replied, still puzzled.

Nothing happened. Rhys relaxed a fraction. The druids wanted to play at gods, but perhaps Sean’s would protect him.

“Rhys?”

“I told you not to look for me,” Rhys said, anger staining his voice.

He thought Sean smiled. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Sean stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he clenched his fists. “The druids bled you?”

“They think using my blood will help them find you.” Rhys struggled to explain. “They think we share some sort of connection, that I can somehow amplify your Gift.”

“My dreams have been stronger since you came. But that doesn’t explain this.” Sean gestured between them.

“Sean, you have to wake up. I don’t know if they’re doing anything to me. They’ve made me see things before.” He willed Sean to leave, and the shadowed figure of the Seer began to fade.

But Sean pushed back. “Rhys, your men are here. They’re going to come for you.”

Relief seeped through his wounded body. “Good. Don’t look for me again.”

“No.” Sean obstinately shook his head. “You’ve shut me out for too long. If something happens, I can find you.”

Exhaustion began to force him to relent. “Fine. Tell them to hurry.” He didn’t mean to add the last part, but it slipped out in desperation.

“We’re coming,” Sean promised.

“Wake up, Sean!”

✽✽✽

Rhys cracked his eyes open slowly, noticing a parched mouth and aching headfirst.

Still alive. Why can’t I just die?

He tried to rub his face, but his limbs refused to cooperate. A strange exhaustion smothered his body, strangling away the thought that something strange had just happened.

He shifted with an effort and his glance fell on the wall opposite him, the stoic sight bringing back the memory of his dream.

Sean saw me.

He cursed the moment of weakness that had allowed Sean through. But relief stirred deep in his heart. Sean was alive and safe, and his men were coming for him.

We spoke to each other.

Rhys couldn’t remember any stories about that happening with a Seer.

“Finally awake?” The words startled his attention to the man standing guard. “Hungry?”

Rhys simply stared for a moment before nodding. He didn’t really know what to expect anymore. The man glanced down the hallway. “Food’s on its way.”

Rhys decided to focus some of his little energy into sitting up, barely managing it. He stared at the guard. There was something almost familiar about him.

“I know you?” Rhys winced as his voice rasped deeper than usual.

The man stole another look along the corridor. “I’ve still got a bruise from where your friend punched me.”

Memory rushed back to Rhys—the guard that had stood aside as they rescued Sean and Damon. “Sean called you Gerard,” Rhys said. “You helped me once, why do it again?”

“Be called to aid the sick, the weak, the weary, and the oppressed.”

Rhys scoffed at the quote from the Brothers’ books. “Don’t tell me you’re doing this just because of some dusty old book.”

The man glanced back through the bars at him. “Would also saying that I’d do anything to thwart what those druids do make any difference then?”

The corner of Rhys’s mouth twitched. That seemed a more believable reason. “Perhaps. I haven’t heard one good thing about them, so why did Adam bring them in?”

The soldier lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Lord Barkley has power, the druids have power of an unholy sort. They think to use one another to achieve more.”

“That sounds like a dangerous opinion.”

The man shrugged again. “Common knowledge.”

Rhys involuntarily clutched his wounded arm close as footsteps rapped against the stone hallway. He relaxed at the soldier’s apparent unconcern. Another uniformed man joined him holding a steaming mug in one hand and a pitcher in the other.

“Told you food was on the way.” His guard unlocked the cell and took the mug from his companion.

Rhys reached for the cup, but his hand trembled in the air and fell back to his chest. The guard shook his head and held a spoonful to Rhys’s lips. Rhys internally cursed his weakness and the helplessness that swooped in as the man kept feeding him the stew of higher quality than he’d become used to in the cell. The pitcher held glorious amounts of cold, clear water. No matter how much he drank, he couldn’t drink enough. When he finished, the soldier helped him lie back down.

“You should rest, Baron.”

Reassurance fortified his mind at the title, and he thought back to Sean’s words. Well, his words if that conversation had been real and not some desperate trick of his mind.

“How long do I have?” he asked.

“It won’t be long before Alisher recovers.” The guard glanced away.

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. No one’s been able to lay a hand on them yet.”

Even with the lingering satisfaction of having harmed not one, but several druids, the soldier’s words settled heavy over him. Alisher was a man that savored revenge, and Rhys had already felt his methods. He closed his eyes. Best save his strength for whatever was going to come next.

Chapter 30

Wake up, Sean!”

Sean’s eyes flew open to see Alan standing over him. He sat in a chair in their rooms, but the last thing he remembered was descending the stairs with Alan to return to the training court.

“What happened?” Sean asked, wincing at the ache that spread across his body. He hoped Alan hadn’t let him fall down the stairs. It had been a long time since a vision had come on so suddenly.

“I’m not sure. You just stopped. You let me get you back here though,” Alan said, his brow furrowed in worry.

“How?”

“Remember years ago when the three of us were headed to the fair, and you just stopped in the middle of the road? Rhys knew what was going on. He took your arm and made you sit down on the side of the road until you woke up,” Alan rubbed his chin. “I figured I might as well try the same thing. And I know I’m not supposed to wake you up, but I panicked a little when your nose started bleeding.”

Sean lifted a hand to his face, touching the damp stickiness of blood under his nose. The motion jarred his aching body. He pressed fingers against his throbbing forearm where the druids’ knife had cut him. The wound had healed to a fading scab without any pain, so he wondered at the sensation.

“What happened? What do you remember?” Alan handed him a damp cloth. “Please tell me this doesn’t happen very often.”

“Never.” Sean used it to wipe the blood away.

“Good.” Alan drew up his own chair. “Was it a vision?”

Sean rubbed his forehead. “Possibly, but the Gift hasn’t been this strong since—” Since Rhys left.

That realization brought back the dream. He sat upright in the chair and Alan shifted in concern.

“Sean?”

“I saw Rhys,” Sean murmured. “I—talked to him.”

“What? That’s—”

“I’ve never heard of that happening before,” Sean said.

“Are you sure it was real?” Alan frowned, rightfully skeptic. “You said the druids had some sort of power.”

“He asked me who I served,” Sean interrupted. “I said Ilan’s name, and nothing happened. If it was the druids then something would have changed. It’s like His name causes them pain.”

Alan leaned back in the chair, the fingers of his right hand tapping together.

“How was he?” he finally asked, biting at his bottom lip.

“Not good, Alan. It looked like the druids had bled him.”

Alan’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“He said the druids thought his blood would help them find me.” Sean struggled to remember. “That we share some sort of connection, and he makes my Gift stronger.” He glanced down at his scarred arm.

“What’s wrong?” Alan rested a hand on his shoulder in concern.

“It hurts,” Sean said, half to himself. “They cut him in the same place.”

“So you think—?” Alan cocked his head, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Maybe. Remember the tale of Léan the Seer?”

Alan nodded. “She was the most powerful Seer the Clans ever had.”

“Aye, but her visions were never the same after her brother was killed in battle with the Highlanders.”

“What does the legend call them? ‘A brother and sister knit together by the strands of their souls,’” Alan said. “You and the Baron were close.”

“Aye, before he shut me out.”

Alan’s fingers tapped faster. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sean, but why would he be letting you in now? He doesn’t want you knowing anything about him.”

“You didn’t see him, Alan. It’s bad. I don’t think he was strong enough to keep me out.” Sean’s gut twisted at the memory of Rhys laying sprawled on the cot.

Alan softly cursed. “What do we do then?”

“I told him his men would come for him. That we would come.”

“We should tell them.”

“Bryn isn’t back. They won’t leave yet.” Frustration welled in Sean at the unyielding obedience to the Baron’s rules.

“This might change things. It shouldn’t be long before he’s back anyway. When he comes, Brogan and the rest of the Clans won’t be far behind. That means we could be at war next week.”

“Your point?” Sean snapped.

“I know you want to go find him, Sean, but Brogan will keep you here. He can’t risk you now.”

“He’s my brother!”

“But in the Clans’ eyes, he’s not, and Brogan won’t let either of us go to find an outcast.”

Sean leaned forward. “So you want to leave him again, just like seven years ago?”

Alan shot to his feet. “You know I don’t!”

Sean let his head fall into a hand, taking a breath to calm down. Alan began to pace in short, choppy strides, dragging a hand through his dark hair as he muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Sean said.

Alan halted mid-stride. “His men will have the best chance of getting him out. And—and you have to think of your family, Sean. MacTavish is the Chieftain now. He won’t be as forgiving as my uncle could be. If you go after the Baron, you’ll suffer the same fate.” He stretched out a pleading hand. “You can’t do that to them. I can’t do that to Caitlín and the babe. I can’t.”

A haunted look shone in Alan’s eyes and Sean knew he felt the weight of the old excuses the same way Sean did.

“Maybe I’m just a coward,” Alan finally murmured.

“No, you’re right.” Sean rubbed a hand across his mouth as if to wipe away the bitterness of the words. “I told Fulke he’d be the first to know if I saw the Baron. They’ll find him, and then we make sure everything gets put right.”

A faint smile appeared on Alan’s face. “I’ll find Jes.”

Sean stood, ignoring the ache that still lingered in his joints. “I’ll go with you.”

Alan nodded once and led the way from the room. A servant directed them towards the training courts. Jes leaned against a wall in the shade, watching as Damon sparred. The prince had been relentless in his training since the first day they’d begun, spending as much time as he could outside or in the stables.

As soon as Jes caught sight of them, he came over, interest brightening his stoic face.

“We need to speak to Fulke,” Alan kept his voice low.

Jes glanced sharply to Sean. “You have seen the Baron then?”

Sean nodded, forcing away the image of Rhys’s bruised and bloody face. Jes flicked one look back at Damon, then nodded to himself.

“I will take you there now.”

But their arrival had not gone unnoticed by Damon. “What’s going on?” He jogged over, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Sean saw something. We’re going to meet with Fulke,” Alan said.

“The Baron? I’m going—”

“Absolutely not,” Alan interrupted. “We’re going to their camp and that’s the last place you need to be. I shouldn’t even be taking Sean.”

Except I had the vision. Sean shifted in mild irritation.

Damon snapped his mouth shut with a glare, still regal enough to show that he had rarely been so abruptly refused. But he stayed behind as Jes pushed through them and headed towards the main gates. Sean cast a quick glance behind to let him know that they’d talk later. Damon still deserved to know.

Sean followed Alan and Jes across the bridge with some trepidation. It was one thing to speak with Fulke in the castle, and yet another to walk into a camp of outlaws and criminals willing to do anything to get their Baron back. By the way Alan clutched the hilt of his sword, he clearly had the same misgivings.

Jes led them down the road until a slight bend obscured the vision of the Carraig’s wall guards. They cut off into the rustling pines, a thick coat of fallen needles and stray leaves softening their footsteps. Sean glanced back through the weathered trunks, noting that no matter the winding trail they took, they never lost sight of the impressive Carraig.

Jes stepped over a fallen trunk and motioned for them to stop as he let out a whistle that lilted over three notes. A shadow emerged from ground, and a slender man glanced at them with cold green eyes.

“Jes.” His voice came flat and hard. “We weren’t expecting you this early. Or with guests.” He crossed his arms.

Jes’s nose twitched slightly at the challenging tone in the man’s voice, the only mark of Jes’s irritation that Sean had ever seen.

“They have business with Fulke.”

“We’re letting outsiders just wander in now, are we?” The man fingered the two daggers sheathed in his cross belts that seemed to be his only weapons. Alan tightened the grip on his sword in response.

“They have information about the Baron,” Jes said.

The man shifted his gaze back to them and settled on Sean with a sneer. “You the one that caused all this trouble then?”

“Remember the last time you questioned the Baron’s decisions, Rake?” Jes asked.

Rake scowled again, jerking his head to motion them past.

“Charming,” Alan muttered under his breath as soon as they were several safe yards away.

Jes smiled. “The mountains host a different people than you are used to. Until you know how to walk among us, tread carefully,” he warned.

“Perfect.” Alan glanced over at Sean with a wry look.

Sean swallowed against a sudden dryness. Jes, Bryn, and Rorie hadn’t been so bad, but suddenly some of the tales of the Cairns resurfaced. They had a reputation for a reason.

Too late to turn back.

They rounded a rocky outcropping and clambered through a narrow opening down into the camp.

They came out below the ledge. It pushed itself out at an angle, allowing shelter under its bulk. A smaller, but no less impressive, set of ridged rocks grew opposite it creating a protective alley between them, funneling towards the sheer drop of Devil’s Gorge. The thunder of the river sunk deep into the spiny gorge gave a constant rumble interspersed with the occasional crack of a stone smashing against the granite walls as the water carelessly threw it downriver.

Sean glanced at the men that lounged around other fires, an assorted variety of weaponry among them—knives, swords, bows, and at least one hand-axe. Curiosity and some unfriendliness shone back in their gaze.

“Alan! Sean!” Rorie’s voice boomed over the river’s noise and the Highlander rose from a smokeless fire to come greet them with a wide smile. “Should I hope you have good news?”

“Where is Fulke?” Jes asked.

“Down the way a bit.” Rorie nodded towards the narrow space between the rocks.

“Stick close,” Jes told him and set off through camp.

Sean and Alan followed him after a second’s hesitation. Sean wisely did not stare at the Cairns, instead focusing on the broad figure of Fulke appearing out of the rocky passageway. The outlaws didn’t move from their relaxed positions, but new interest sharpened their gazes as they tracked Fulke’s path.

“You saw him?” Fulke stopped a scant pace away from Sean. It took all Sean’s self-control not to step back.

He nodded, and relayed some of what he had seen. “He’s in the dungeons at Castle Bright. They’ve been torturing him.” The words burned in his chest, remembering how bad Rhys had looked.

“How is he?” Fulke drew out each word.

Sean swallowed. “Weak. The druids have been bleeding him.”

A wild look crossed Fulke’s face.

“Fulke,” Jes cut in. The look passed and a calmness came back to the man. “The Baron is running out of time. Do we go now or wait?”

The lieutenant rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning past them. Sean half-turned to see that most of the men had risen and ranged behind them, standing with hands close to weapons. Alan stiffened beside him.

“Fulke,” one of the men spoke. “What do they say about the Baron?”

“It seems Barkley and the druids have laid their hands on him,” Fulke said.

Murmurs of anger rippled through the men.

“Do we wait for Bryn or ride?” the same man asked.

“We never leave a man behind,” another said.

“It’s the Baron,” the first speaker argued back. “Bryn wouldn’t want us to wait.”

“We’ve waited too long already,” another complained.

“Enough,” Fulke growled and a hush fell. Sean shifted restlessly, praying the man would order them to ride for Castle Bright that second. “If Bryn does not return by the next sunset, we ride.”

Discontented agreement grumbled from the men, but no one openly argued.

Fulke turned his attention back to Sean and Alan.

“Thank you for bringing the message yourself,” he said. “Jes and Rorie will escort you back.”

The Cairns shifted back meager paces to allow them a path out. A few glares were thrown Sean’s way. Did they blame him for Rhys’s capture like Rake did?

They turned back to the rocky entrance, Jes in front and Rorie in the back, walking slowly through the unfriendly crowd of mountain bandits.

“You’ve got some nerve bringing that Clan cloak up here.” A man leaned in close to Alan. “You just waiting to turn on the Baron again?”

Alan pivoted, drawing a knife in the same motion. He grabbed the man’s stained jerkin and pressed steel against skin.

“I’ve known the Baron longer than you.” Alan growled. “I was there at the beginning.”

Sean tensed at the sight of the reckless anger in Alan’s face. His eyes held a dangerous tint that prompted a deeper unease in Sean. It was easy to forget that the normally cheerful Alan held a deep wrath and anger that would manifest in battle.

Or apparently whenever someone manages to really flame him off in an already-bad week.

A thin smile crossed the man’s face. “You want to know how he curses you then?”

“What he does is his business. And he’s never liked anyone interfering in it.” Alan pressed harder on the knife. “Keep out of ours, and you won’t get hurt.”

For the first time in his life, Sean wished he carried a blade. The Cairns around him hadn’t moved, just watching in alert interest, but their hands remained on their weapons.

A scowl darkened the man’s face as the blade nipped skin. “Think you threaten me? I’ve killed your kind before.”

“Keep talking and I’ll be the last one you ever see,” Alan replied in a cold voice.

“Back off, Luca,” Fulke growled.

Luca raised his hands in angry surrender, and Alan shoved him away.

“Isn’t he the fortune teller?” another man piped up, turning the attention to Sean. “We could find a use for him ‘round here.” The speaker garnered some uncomfortable murmurs of interest at his words.

“Hands off.” Jes broke in. “Baron’s orders.”

“We’d keep him safe.” The man snickered.

Sean narrowed his eyes. I’m tired of men trying to take advantage of the Gift. He grabbed a knife from Rorie’s belt and threw.

The blade bit into the dirt between the enterprising outlaw’s boots with a satisfying thud. The man took a full step back and the camp erupted in laughter. The tension rushed away like the river. Even Luca allowed a grudging smile.

“You forget he’s of the Baron’s blood.” Rorie clapped Sean’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.

Sean caught Alan’s surprised look and smirked. There was one thing from his training he had kept up with, somewhat to Sarah’s chagrin.

“Anyone else?” Fulke asked, a rumble of amusement in his voice.

“I think they’ve proved why the Baron would ride with them,” a man with X’s burned into both hands said. Sean recognized him as the man who had advocated for riding immediately. The way opened up, and they continued without further incident, catching a few approving glances.

Once safely away from the camp, Alan nudged Sean’s arm. “Nice throw.”

“Thanks,” Sean replied.

“This isn’t the part where you tell me you were aiming for his head, is it?”

“No, I meant to put it there.”

“Oh, can’t keep up with the sword practice, but you keep the knife throwing?” Alan rolled his eyes and Sean chuckled.

“It was the one thing I could beat him at.”

Alan laughed. “He used to hate that, too.”

Sean smiled, wishing the memories wouldn’t surface. The man Rhys was now had little left of the boy he used to be—the one who would tackle his little brother with a laugh whenever he lost again. Sean just hoped he’d have a chance to reach that person again.

Chapter 31

Bryn checked his horse briefly as the tower of the Carraig appeared through the trees in the early dusk. The long files of horsemen beside him, led by Brogan, kept moving. He’d kept close to the Laird and his retinue, gathering what information he could. No one paid much attention to him, probably thinking he was just a messenger from the Carraig.

He’d considered just giving up multiple times over the last three days and riding ahead to rejoin the rest of the Cairns who should have already arrived.

The journey from the Wolf’s Head had taken four days, but he’d skirted the tumbling hills and rode across the flatlands, pushing as fast as he dared. But hundreds of horsemen did not travel as fast as a lone rider, and the most direct path from the Clans’ lands to the Carraig required them to wind through the wild foothills.

A low trill drove his gaze upward. In the fading light he caught the red chest of a Cardic Falcon perched in a pine tree a few paces ahead. It ruffled brown feathers with its short beak before taking flight, darting away from the path, tresses dangling from curved talons.

Bryn smiled. Only one person tamed the small falcons. He glanced up and down the line of horsemen, but they were focused only on the path ahead.

Good thing the lookout was only for me and not to ambush them.
They’d never see it coming. He nudged his horse off the path and disappeared into the pines.

The falcon flashed by, causing him to duck.

“Milo, what have we told you about that!” Bryn hissed in annoyance.

Milo stepped out from behind a lichen-spotted rock. He shrugged and the falcon latched onto his protected arm. A massive black mastiff padded forward to join Milo, the leanness of a mountain timber wolf in its chest and long legs.

“Where is everyone?” Bryn asked as he dismounted.

Milo pointed east, further into the trees. He never spoke, so how he trained the falcons or controlled the mastiff in the Baron’s absence was a mystery.

“Jes make it here?”

A nod.

“Any word on the Baron?”

Milo frowned. The mastiff perked up at the sound of the title but huffed when his master didn’t appear.

“Not good then.” Bryn bit back a curse. I should never have left him.

They didn’t have far to go before Luca stepped out of the falling darkness to lead him into the camp. Milo silently took his horse. Bryn clambered down the rocky stairway and strode past the glowing fires to the far end of camp where Fulke waited.

They clasped hands and Fulke’s clap to his shoulder threatened to bruise. They sat down at the fire for Bryn to make his report.

“Rorie says the Baron charged you to protect the Seer’s family,” Fulke said.

“Aye, Lord MacDuffy sent them north with a four-man guard. I saw them off myself.”

“Good. What else?”

“Lord MacDuffy is arriving at the Carraig. He brought three hundred horsemen. The rest of the Clans and Highlanders will march to meet them outside the hills. What do we know of the Baron?”

The fire reflected a dangerous light in Fulke’s eyes as he relayed what Sean had seen the day before.

“You knew that? Why did you wait for me then, Fulke?” Bryn hissed, barely noticing Rorie ghosting in to join them.

“We follow his laws, Bryn,” Fulke replied.

“I would have caught up with you. We need to get him out. His laws will be meaningless if he’s dead.” Bryn flicked a knife on his crossbelt in and out of its sheath with his thumb.

“I made the decision, Bryn,” Fulke said. “I’ll answer to the Baron for it.”

Bryn cursed. “I should never have left him.”

“You followed a direct order.”

“And that’s supposed to comfort me?”

“Jes and I made the same decision,” Rorie broke in.

“How fresh is your horse?” Fulke asked.

“Give him a few hours to rest, and then we ride.” The troop’s pace hadn’t been grueling all day, but the next days would be. He wouldn’t push his horse into that without a brief reward first.

Fulke rubbed his nose and nodded. “Three hours.”

Bryn threw a stray leaf into the fire, watching the edges glow and curl in the flames before he stood. “I have a message for the Seer. I’ll be back later.”

Rorie also stood. “I’ll go with you.”

Bryn nodded and they left the camp.

When they reached the road, the cacophony of hundreds of men setting camp on the far side greeted them. Fires had sprung up between the trees, and dark shapes of men and horses flitted between them.

“We’ll have to remind Fulke to give the order not to touch them.” Bryn jerked a thumb at the army. Ripe pickings, the lot of them.

“Not even a little?” Rorie asked.

“Don’t even think about it, Highlander. The Clans already hate the Baron. Let’s not give them another reason.”

Rorie snorted. “Give me some credit, lowlander.”

They trudged up the path towards the bridge, Rorie catching him up on everything else that had happened while he’d been gone. Rorie got them past the bridge guards by flashing Alan’s name, impressing Bryn. The clansman had more influence that he’d originally thought.

Chaos filled the courtyard as the men of Brogan’s personal household milled about, trying to find places to stay. Bryn and Rorie made their way up to the keep and slipped inside.

Chapter 32

Alan hurriedly changed to his cleanest clothes, setting his checkered cloak in perfect folds around his shoulders. His uncle would expect him to look his best. If only he could remember not to confront Brogan about the Baron immediately instead of giving his report like a dutiful soldier and nephew.

He descended the stairs just in time to see Brogan enter the hall and be greeted by Sarksten. Alan stilled the nervous tapping of his fingers and went to join them.

“Alan!” Brogan pulled him into an embrace so tight Alan wondered if his uncle thought the Baron would have left him for dead on the side of the road. “Sean’s here?”

“Aye, we got him out. And another prisoner.” Alan leaned close and lowered his voice. “We need to talk, Uncle.”

Brogan jerked his head in a nod. “Yes. The Baron’s man said a name. Sarksten?” He turned to the lord.

“This way.” Sarksten led them to a private chamber. They waited only a few moments before the door opened again and Damon stepped through. At the sight of the prince, Brogan dropped into a nearby chair, his hand pressed hard into his chest.

“Hello, Laird Brogan,” Damon said, a stiffness to his posture that Alan had noted anytime he and Sarksten were in the same room.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Brogan murmured. “You--”

“I’m alive,” Damon stated the obvious in a clipped tone. “You both punished the wrong man.”

“Now, Damon,” Sarksten said in a placating tone, but Damon glared at him.

“I’m not a child, Sarksten. I think I know who tried to kill me twice and in who’s dungeon I’ve spent the last seven years. Now I understand you are marching to war against Lord Adam. What are your plans?”

That shocked both of the older men, but Alan felt like cheering. After a moment Brogan tipped his head in a nod.

“Allow me a few minutes to assemble the captains and we’ll give you a full report, my lord,” he addressed Damon.

“Laird Brogan, you should know I’ve made no formal claim as to my old title and position. But Adam Barkley has no business in that seat,” Damon said. “I intend to see him removed and several old wrongs righted.”

“Very well.” Brogan bowed and left the room. Alan did the same and followed Brogan.

His uncle halted in the narrow stairway just outside the chamber door. “Alan.”

“Sean and I aren’t letting this go either, Uncle,” Alan warned.

“I know. How long has—the Baron been missing?”

“Six days. Now you pretend to care?” Alan spat, all his old anger at his uncle, tucked away years ago, unravelling again.

“I always did,” Brogan shot back.

“It didn’t seem like it.” Alan tried to brush past him but Brogan grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back.

“I did what I deemed was necessary all those years ago. He was already marked as the prince’s murderer. If we took him back in, the Clans could have been accused of orchestrating the whole thing. This country would have been ripped apart.”

“Like Adam hasn’t already done that?”

“Alan!”

“Then why didn’t you tell him? He deserved to know what was coming.” Alan shook Brogan off. “I deserved to know.”

His uncle’s expression turned weary and old, his shoulders slumping. “I know. But I thought it would make it easier—for me.”

“That’s it? After all these years, that’s all you can tell me?” Alan’s voice rose again in outrage, and he clenched Brogan’s cloak in a white-knuckled grip. “You don’t know what he’s been through. What he’s going through now! Sean’s seen him. They’re torturing him. They know we can’t send anyone for him. And I left him again.” His voice came dangerously close to breaking.

“Alan--”

Alan regained control and released Brogan, taking a step away. “I will join you later, my lord.”

Alan turned away from him and left him in the passageway. He stumbled down the last of the steps and back out into the main hall. Bryn stood in an out of the way corner with Sean. No doubt giving Sean news of his family judging from the look on his face.

Alan wished again that they could have just taken Sean home. That he could go home. He needed to see Caitlín again, hear her voice. Know she was all right and the babe wasn’t giving her any trouble. He’d been gone for three weeks. He could have a child by now. But who knew when he’d be able to see them? If it wasn’t for war—the one thing he’d hoped never to face again.

“Alan!” The voice jerked him from his reverie.

“Conall.” Alan clasped the hand of one of his oldest friends.

“Caitlín chewed my ear off for you and then told me to give you this.” Conall handed Alan a folded piece of parchment.

“How is she?” Alan pressed the letter in his hand as if he could touch her.

“Trying not to show how much she misses you. And she’s blaming you for the fact the baby hasn’t come yet.” Conall smiled broadly. “Says it’s waiting for you to get back.”

Alan chuckled. That sounded like his Caitlín. He slid the letter into his jerkin.

“Everyone have quarters? What do you need?” he asked.

Conall rolled his eyes. “We can take care of ourselves, Alan. Go read your letter.” He pushed Alan away.

Alan shoved him back, but he had one more person to talk to before he did. Bryn greeted him with a nod.

“What now?” Alan asked.

“We’ll ride in a few hours,” Bryn replied. “They should have left as soon as they got here.”

“Just get him out, Bryn.”

The outlaw gave a hard smile. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I suppose this might be farewell then.”

Bryn nodded. “For the time being. Good luck to you, Alan.”

“And you, Bryn.”

They clasped hands, and Alan did the same for Rorie. He couldn’t help but like the small band he’d shared the road with.

“We’ll make sure he comes by to talk before we go back home,” Bryn said.

Alan nodded his thanks. None of them dared voice the fear that the Baron might not even be alive by the time the Cairns reached Castle Bright.

Chapter 33

Kane halted in front of the ocean pine door that marked Lord Adam’s study. He flicked a hand to still the over-eager druid pressing close to him.

The stench of their incense clings to everything. I hate it. And their ridiculous beards.

“Enter!” Adam’s muffled voice called.

Kane pushed in, shutting the door in the druid’s face.

Adam looked up from shuffling the papers on his desk. He wore a pleased smile, and Kane eased a fraction. Most were reports coming in on the army and supplies, many of which he’d had a hand in gathering. Adam dashed off a signature on a few more documents, gently blowing on the paper to dry the ink before stamping with his seal.

“What is it?” Adam asked.

“One of the druids wants to talk.”

“Which one?” Adam jabbed his quill back into the ink bottle in light irritation.

The corner of Kane’s mouth twitched in mild amusement. The druids had spent every spare minute complaining to Adam about how the Baron had gotten the best of them. They clearly weren’t used to someone fighting back.

“Eral.” The amusement died as he said the name. Of all the druids, he disliked Eral most. Possibly more than Alisher, and he deeply despised Alisher.

Adam sighed, but signaled Kane to let the druid in.

Eral looked down an aquiline nose at Kane as he passed, close enough for Kane to catch a whiff of perfume. Kane kept his arms crossed and away from his knives. One stab to the lower back was all it would take.

Adam crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. Where Alisher scorned many creature comforts, Eral clearly was not one to deny himself anything. Kane got the feeling that Eral served Deronis for many of the promised rewards and would take whatever he desired.

The only thing that marred his face was an eyepatch covering his right eye. If the stories were to be believed, he received the wound from a woman who had refused his unwelcome advances.

The druid treated Adam to the same look that he had given Kane, clearly expecting Adam to grovel. The corners of Adam’s eyes creased deeper in irritation. He’d verbalized his discontent to Kane the day before about the druids, of whose promises he’d seen little fulfillment.

“How does Alisher fare?” A hint of amusement laced Adam’s voice.

“He will recover.” Eral’s remaining brown eye narrowed. “That’s why I have come. The Baron must be punished.”

“And you want me to send some real men to see the task done?” Adam asked. “How many of your druids did he kill before he was restrained?”

Kane smirked at Eral’s back again, another bit of faint admiration stirring for the Baron who’d shown himself surprisingly resilient.

“Enough!” Eral gripped the edge of the desk and leaned closer to Adam. “He attacked the sacred priests of Deronis. The god demands retribution.”

Kane noticed he said ‘the’ instead of ‘our’ as Alisher did. Interesting.

“And? I did turn him over to Alisher. What do you want from me?” Adam raised an eyebrow.

Eral straightened. “He must die. Alisher sent me to obtain your approval.” An expression of extreme distaste crossed his features. Clearly they weren’t used to asking permission for anything.

Adam ran a hand over the smooth grain of the chair’s arm, another faint smirk toying at his mouth. He tilted his head, and Kane knew the calculating look in his eyes—considering denying their request just to see what expression would contort Eral’s features next.

But he met the druid’s gaze. “He is of no further use to me. Do with him as you will.”

Eral’s lips parted in a feral smile. “I will tell Alisher.”

“When will the execution be?”

Unease shivered down Kane’s spine at the thought of the Baron’s execution at the hands of the druids. He’d be sorry to see the Baron carted off to the druids’ dark circle for their ceremony.

“When Alisher recovers, he will perform the sacrifice himself.” Eral swept his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe. “Until then, we will make sure he pays for the sins he has committed against Deronis. We only ask that some guards accompany us.”

Adam raised his brow. “I doubt he’ll be much trouble. You saw the amount of blood they mopped up off the floors. He’s not going anywhere fast. In fact, it’s amazing he’s still alive.”

“Indeed. He was left to bleed. It was one of your men who cared for him,” Eral accused.

“Kane has questioned the guards on duty yesterday. It seems that no one saw anything.” Adam didn’t look at him, but there was a bit of displeasure in his voice.

He knows I didn’t tell him everything.

Kane resisted the urge to shift again. He didn’t quite know himself why he’d helped the Baron. Some remnant of decency left from a time long gone? Or maybe because, deep down, he feared what the druids did and what they worshipped a hundred times more than whatever the Brothers preached in the light of the churches.

Eral glared. “We request guards to accompany us when we bring Deronis’s retribution upon the Baron.” His mouth twisted as though saying the words pained him. Adam allowed a smirk to play across his features before flicking his fingers in a gesture of assent.

“I’ll give the order. The prison guards will be at your disposal.”

“Very well.” Eral swept from the room without so much as a bow or a word of thanks.

Adam glanced to Kane. “Maybe it was sheer annoyance with their arrogance that drove the Baron to stab three of them.”

Kane huffed a short laugh. “He only did what I’ve been considering with that one.” He jerked his head towards the door.

“We still need him for the time being.” Adam’s voice dripped in displeasure. “For now, we’ll keep them happy. See to it.”

“Yes, my lord.” Kane bowed and turned dragging feet towards the door.

“What’s he to you, Kane?” Adam leaned his elbows forward on the table to watch Kane.

“Nothing,” Kane replied, but he still did not turn.

Adam studied him for a brief moment. “You’ve never seen your victims afterward have you?”

Kane mutely shook his head. No. It’s not that exactly.

“What is it? I know you know who helped the Baron yesterday, yet you told me different. That’s not like you.”

Kane still said nothing and left the room. The implication in Adam’s words clear. Adam thought he was going soft. And that was something neither of them could afford.

Eral followed him like an aggressive seagull—head thrust forward, wide sleeves flapping like wings in his eager haste, until finally Kane halted and glared him back a few paces.

He gathered a group of guards and led them down to the Baron’s cell, the heavy tramp of their feet disrupting the oppressive silence of the dungeons. Kane ignored Eral and his pleased smile. Alisher at least got his hands dirty and Kane could respect that. Eral was one who let others do the work for him.

The guard at the cell door snapped to attention and smartly stepped aside. The Baron slumped in the corner, the walls appearing to hold him up. He turned exhausted brown eyes on them.

Maybe it’s like Adam said. I never see my victims again after I’m through breaking them.

But that still wasn’t it. Under the bruises and prison grime, the Baron was a man who hated his past and feared his future just as much Kane did.

Eral pushed forward through the guards, but Kane noted he stayed out of the Baron’s reach.

Coward.

“Come back for more?” the Baron rasped.

Eral pushed himself to an even greater height. “For your crimes against the blessed of Deronis, you have been sentenced to death. You will be taken to Deronis’ Gateway where you will have the privilege of meeting the great god himself before you are offered in his name.”

“Really?” the Baron sneered. “I haven’t seen too much of him around.”

“Not here, fool. As soon as Alisher recovers, we will journey to the place Deronis chose for his gateway into this country. He will come for you, never fear.”

A fanatic light touched Eral’s remaining eye, and Kane shuddered. The prisoners taken there by the druids never came back. The guards that accompanied them returned white-faced and silent.

Eral whirled to Kane. “Take him!”

Kane paused just long enough to let the druid know he wasn’t in control before giving the order. The Baron made no resistance as two soldiers hauled him up from the cot. They were forced to take most of his weight as he tried to get his feet under him. Even with all the care secretly given to the Baron, one day was not enough to recover from the blood that had covered the stones of the druids’ room.

Eral accepted a bowl from another druid. He tilted it forward so the Baron could see the blood-stained bits of cloth inside.

“Your attempt to thwart us was admirable, if not pathetic. Let this be a lesson to you that no one can stop the will of Deronis.”

Another druid stepped forward and struck flint and steel. A small flame erupted in the bowl and the Baron collapsed, almost dragging the guards to the floor with him. A scream of agony clawed its way from him. The guards released his arms at Kane’s signal, and backed away, their eyes wide in horror.

Kane began to hate the druid’s magic even more. Blood and dreams and chanting—it didn’t sit right with him.

There should be no place for—this—in the real world.

It didn’t take long for the flame to dwindle and leave glowing embers, but it was long enough. The Baron shuddered, trying to draw in a breath.

But Eral wasn’t done. He stepped forward and drove his booted foot into the Baron’s stomach.

“We’ll do the same to the Seer.”  He crouched down to better peer into the Baron’s pain-twisted face. “We have enough of your blood to bring him back to us.”

“Then you better hope the Cairns leave enough of your body to bury.” Blood dribbled from the Baron’s mouth. “He’s under my protection.”

A ripple of unease sped through the soldiers. The Baron’s men almost had more of a reputation than their leader.

Eral kicked him again. The Baron sucked in a wheezing gasp. The frustrating almost-sympathy urged Kane forward to crouch beside him.

“You could stop this if you rethink Lord Barkley’s offer,” he murmured.

“I’d never bow to him,” the Baron snarled. “Tell him to watch his back. It won’t be long before the Cairns build his grave.”

Eral laughed. “Deronis will protect Lord Barkley. He protects all those who give their allegiance to him.”

Amusement flickered across the Baron’s face. “Really? It seems you bleed just like the rest of us.”

Eral drove a fist into the Baron’s face and fresh blood beaded his lips.

The Baron spat.

“Careful you don’t hurt yourself.”

Eral’s quick temper flared again and he punished the Baron for the words Kane had thought himself.

“Enough.” Kane ordered when the druid had calmed somewhat.

“You have sympathy for him?” Suspicion ran rampant across Eral’s features.

Kane stared back at him in barely disguised contempt. “No, but you want him to survive until you kill him don’t you?”

Eral sniffed but was forced to agree. He snapped his fingers and led his fellow druids from the cell, followed by the soldiers. Kane lingered a moment more, staring down to where the Baron hunched against the floor, trying to decide if it was pity or admiration that had made him step in.

The Baron growled a curse in Karanti at him, and Kane left him where he lay.

Chapter 34

Rhys pressed his forehead against the cold stone floor, trying to draw a breath past his battered ribs. He managed to get an arm underneath him to brace his aching chest. But even the small movement sapped his strength. He licked blood from his lips and tried to push himself upright but was forced to abandon the movement as his arms trembled with the effort of lifting himself even an inch off the floor.

So this was how he would die. Weak and alone. He’d wanted it for so long, he hadn’t even cared how it happened. But he didn’t want this. The desire to survive reared its head. He cursed himself and Jes. He hated it when the Gedrinian was right.

A warm touch brushed his shoulder. In the absence of anyone in the cell, it only meant one thing. Sean.

His brother had always been an idealist.

You don’t have a brother, a mocking voice reminded him.

“Leave it, Sean,” he muttered, trying to ignore the touch of his brother’s soul. He didn’t want Sean’s prayers. There was no point in them. There had been even less evidence of a merciful god in the last few days.

The touch came again, more persistent this time.

“Dialan.”

He tried to block Sean out like he had the last seven years. But seeing him again had destroyed many of the barriers he’d thrown up. If the druids were right, he and Sean shared a bond, and it was getting harder to sever. But it had to be cut. For Sean’s sake if nothing else, because that idiot brother of his would try and do something stupid.

He placed his palms against the rough stone and shoved himself upright, groaning through clenched teeth as he managed to slump against the wall. He shut his eyes, trying to still the spinning of the room as his body protested the sudden movement.

The nausea faded and he took his time opening his eyes again. The cot stood like an insurmountable mountain, so he let the wall take his weight as he tried to recover enough strength to make the attempt.

He raised a trembling arm to swipe at the blood that dribbled from his mouth. As his hand fell away he saw the deep scarlet still staining the cracks of his skin. The druid had said that they had recovered enough of his blood. He didn’t know if they could truly use it to hurt Sean, but he hadn’t been lying when he said Sean was under his protection.

The flame flared brighter.

If anything could keep him alive, it would be protecting Sean. He didn’t see himself walking out of the cell, except to whatever death the druids had planned, but perhaps there was a way to warn Sean. It would mean opening himself up to Sean’s sight again. He cringed at the thought. Who knew what Sean had seen last time, if his dream had been anything more than that?

Rhys had blocked himself from Sean’s Sight for years, denied their connection, built walls around his past. Now, to warn Sean, he must undo it all.

He reached for the invisible tether in a small corner of his soul—the thing that had always told him where Sean was, what he was feeling, what he needed. The connection he’d cut away to almost nothing over the past seven years.

A painful breath hitched in his chest. The memory of Sean hugging him on the road shoved into his mind. The last of the walls came crumbling down. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter what Sean saw, what Sean would think of him after—he just had to be warned.

His eyes fell closed almost of their own accord.

“Sean!”

Chapter 35

Sean soared over jagged hills scattered with rocks, pulled irresistibly north. Faster and faster, he flew over roads and rivers until the land lurched into gentle slopes of vibrant green. His eyes distinguished patterns woven into the grass and the rich dirt—blues, yellows, purples, reds, deeper green, and black—the colors checkered together to mark the boundaries of the seven Clans.

He picked out a road, its dark surface worn by the passing of countless feet and hooves. It pulled him north still. A cool wind pressed against him, slowing his speed as mist buoyed under his wings. He hovered above a small group taking their rest along the grassy sward overlooking the road. Soldiers in blue and yellow checkered cloaks ranged around as two small children laughed and ran, tumbling through the grass. His heart twisted as he recognized them.

He turned to the woman sitting alone atop a hillock a few feet from where the children played. Sarah. Her face was drawn and weary. She’d always hated travelling. But they would be safe. He sensed only warmth and protection along their northern route.

How he wished he could reach out and touch her, kiss away her worry. But he could see them. It would have to be enough. He would have lingered in the vision forever, flying away from the mist that lurked behind him.

But a hand clamped down on his shoulder, whirling him around to face the thick mist.

“Sean!” The Baron’s rasp shook the heavy air.

“Rhys?” He searched the mist. The cloud wall thickened, and Sean tried to turn away from it, knowing his brother wouldn’t let him in. But he couldn’t move. The mist melted away, plunging him into a new vision.

Rhys slumped against a stone wall. His fear smelled like the druids’ incense. His hate raged like wildfire.

Sean clutched his head, overwhelmed by the sensations that roared over him like a mountain storm. The mist jerked him forward towards Rhys. He instinctively braced, but he passed through the vision of Rhys and tumbled to the ground. He pushed to his feet, the edges of his vision distorted in new shades of grey.

“You will be taken to Deronis’ Gateway where you will have the privilege of meeting the great god himself before you are offered in his name,” a voice whispered.

“Don’t look for me, Sean.”

Pain. Dripping blood. Weakness.

The dragon thrashed before his eyes, maw parted wide in a keening roar.

“He will be sacrificed to Deronis for his crimes.” Alisher’s voice, marred by pain.

“Treason—dishonorable discharge—” A stern voice Sean didn’t recognize.

“Traitor!”

“Baron—”

“Rhys, don’t go—”

“—little brother—”

“I didn’t do it!”

The voices came in too fast to put names to. Pain stabbed his eyes and he cracked them open as heat flared against his skin.

The brilliance of the sun against white sand. Spatters of blood. The crack of a whip.

“Outcast.”

A burning brand touched to a trembling forearm.

“The Baron courts death.”

Rhys sprawled on a forest path, choking and pressing his hands against his bleeding throat.

Sean cried out, clutching at his head. Rhys, stop! The past barely paused long enough for him to draw a steadying breath before it assaulted him again.

A curved dagger dripping blood. A younger Damon lying half-conscious on the floor.

Sean braced a hand against the ground, sobbing for breath as pain, regret, hatred pounded at him.

Rhys standing on a battlefield, hardly recognizable under the blood and gore and look of death on his face.

“Rhys!” Sean shouted.

The past faded and the rustle of dark pines filled his ears. Pillars of stone erupted from the earth in a barren clearing. Murmured chanting echoed off the stones. Evenly spaced torches flickered around the circle.

The sense of death grew the closer the vision dragged him to the stones.

I have to get out of here!

But his feet were pinned to the ground by unseen hands. Howls filled the darkness. The torches winked out one by one.

“He will come for you. Never fear.” A druid’s voice.

“No!”

Hands drove a knife into Rhys’s chest and his blood spattered across a green robe.

“No!”

Sean wrenched upright, panicking as his eyes met only the darkness. For a moment he thought he had been trapped in the vision. But his hands clutched a blanket, and sweat soaked his shirt.

The door pushed open and light flooded in along with Alan and Damon. They brought another candle with them, and he stared at the brightness before meeting their startled gazes.

“Sean?” Alan questioned. “What did you see?”

“They’re going to kill him.” Sean jerked in a breath, the image of blood gushing from Rhys’s chest too vivid. It was in the future, he knew that much. The colors became less vibrant around future events. But he didn’t know how much time they had.

“Who?” Damon stepped closer.

“The Baron. I heard something about a sacrifice.” Sean jerked his head up to meet their gaze.

“When?” Alan’s hand darted forward as if to grab him but stopped at the last second.

“I don’t know,” Sean said.

“Sean, what did you see?” Alan repeated, his voice falling to a whisper.

Sean rubbed a hand across his eyes. He had no wish to voice the part of the future he had seen. “Too much. Not enough. Have his men left yet?”

“I’ll go check,” Alan said. He pressed the candle into Damon’s hand as he passed. Sean sucked in a breath.

There had been something else in the dream, something not spoken, but it rippled like a current in the fabric of the mist. A warning for him.

But against what?

✽✽✽

Fulke and the rest of the Cairns arrived at the gates in the darkness before midnight, throwing the Carraig into confusion. The Cairns ranged in a protective square in the courtyard, daring the soldiers to break their wary distance as Fulke spoke with Sean and Alan.

“You say they’ll kill the Baron, but you don’t know when or where?” Fulke demanded.

Sean resisted the urge to rub at his eyes. I might be a Seer, but I don’t know everything.

“No. I only see when it is appointed for me to see,” he said. “And I only saw this much because the Baron finally let me see him again.” Stubborn idiot. If he ever saw Rhys again, he’d get a punch in the face. I will see him again. “He’s still at Castle Bright, that much I do know.”

“We’d already planned to ride there,” Fulke said. “We’ll make it in time.” The certainty in his words still didn’t chase away the memory of the blood.

“If you find him, will you come back?” Alan asked.

The half-mad outlaw shifted his gaze away from Sean. “I told Sarksten I would tell the Baron of his request to see him, but that decision is the Baron’s.”

From the sound of it, Sean could only hope Rhys would at least come say goodbye before he returned to the mountains. Fulke led the men from the courtyard. Draco trailed behind one of the Cairns, the Baron’s packs safely attached to his empty saddle.

Jes, Rorie, and Bryn were the last to leave, tipping nods of farewell before swinging onto their horses.

The tense air that had hung over the Carraig dissipated when the last of the Cairns crossed the far side of the bridge. Even Alan’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.

“What now?” Sean asked him. Alan stared through the open gates, watching the last rider disappear beyond the faint light of the gate torches.

“Brogan and Sarksten will want to know what happened. And prepare for war,” he finally said.

Sean wished he could pretend his shiver had been brought on by the cool night air. War would be upon them in a matter of days. He knew that with a cold certainty.

He flexed his wrist, the muscles sore from the prior days of training. Lifting a sword was different from lifting a plow. The ache wasn’t the only reason he’d given up any dream of being a warrior. He’d never been to battle, but he’d seen enough in his dreams to know it was the last place he ever wanted to be.

Chapter 36

The hardy mountain horses could run for twice as long as any other breed, but even they had limits. Fulke pushed the Cairns as fast as they could go without ruining the horses. Bryn dismounted on the third night and almost hit the ground. It took a moment to force his saddle sore legs to work.

He’d been on too many races against time recently. He’d be glad to return to the relative peace and quiet of the Dragon Keep.

Bryn loosened the girth, pulling the saddle off to thud to the ground. He dug out a rag to wipe his horse’s sweaty hide. All around the sheltered camp, his fellow outlaws were doing the same. He wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of three days’ forced ride. Only Fulke appeared unaffected.

Bryn picked out a place to sleep beside the red sandstone outcroppings that inundated the particular patch of forest they had chosen. He sat with a grunt, pulling light rations from his pack to choke down through a dusty mouth that even gulps of water couldn’t seem to rinse free.

Fulke picked out sentries as soon as their food had been packed away again. Luca disappeared into the tress with a grumble. Natan, a slender thief who had earned two X brands on his hands, strolled out of camp in the opposite direction to take his patrol.

Milo knelt by a fallen tree, feeding his two falcons strips of dried meat. Ajax sprawled beside him, already asleep. The mastiff had kept up with them over the course of the three days without complaint, seeming to know that they were on their way to rescue his master.

Jes came to sit beside Bryn, tossing down his own bedroll after scraping together a pile of pine needles for some extra cushion.

“You still blaming yourself?” Jes asked, leaning against the rock with a wince.

Bryn scoffed as he loosened his boot laces. “Even Luca could figure that out.”

“Fulke did what he thought was right.”

Bryn shook his head again. “He shouldn’t have waited for me. Now we’re days behind, and who knows what’s happening to the Baron.”

“You are not the only one who is worried,” Jes reminded him.

“I know. But you heard what Sean said about his condition.” Bryn laid his knife belt beside him, wishing his worry could be as easily put aside. “The Baron wants to die. He won’t wield the knife himself, but he won’t save himself either. Even if we can get inside to get him—I’m just worried about what we’ll find.”

“You pray, do you not?” Jes asked.

“Aye, though no man could accuse me of being very devout.” Bryn placed his sword beside the knives. He observed the holy days and prayed to Ilan when he remembered to. He even prayed for the Baron sometimes, though he knew the Baron wouldn’t like it.

“Well then, I have offered my incense to Gedrin’s protectors. Pray to yours and maybe we will have some luck.”

Bryn shot a glance to Jes through the dim light. The Gedrinian usually didn’t espouse luck. Jes was worried. Bryn wasn’t the only one hating himself for leaving the Baron behind.

They turned in to sleep, and even though exhaustion dogged his muscles, he only caught spurts of rest. Dawn came faster than Bryn appreciated. Mumbled complaints drifted around the camp as they mounted up for another ride.

Luca patted his horse’s neck with a mournful look. “How much further?”

“You’re not the only one feeling it, little man,” Rorie scoffed from where he sat stiffly in the saddle.

Bryn cleared his throat, and Rorie subsided. The last thing they needed was to be at each other’s throats. Not when they were this close.

Bryn bit the inside of his cheek as he tightened his girth and mounted.

“Aye, we rode longer than this on the way to Calicrassa.” Natan smirked at Luca. “Don’t think you can handle it again?”

The wiry man scowled back.

“I seem to remember you falling off your horse a time or two on that trip.” Jes raised an eyebrow at Natan. Luca smirked in quick revenge, but the thief shrugged it off.

“Hasn’t been anything worth getting off this horse for this trip.”

A few nods passed around. Bryn allowed a faint smile. They weren’t stopping until they got the Baron.

Milo already sat mounted, waiting patiently for everyone else in his perpetual silence. He held Draco’s reins loosely in one hand. Jes swung into the saddle, molding back to the leather without complaint. Those of his people who didn’t live in the cities, lived on horseback from the day they were born.

“A few more hours.” Bryn gathered up his reins. He’d recognized the last mile marker, shrouded in ivy and pale-yellow blooms from the last time he’d ridden the road. An age ago, it seemed.

He pushed over to Fulke. “We need to get off the main roads. There’s more cover on the western side of the castle. We can sweep around from here.”

Fulke rubbed his nose, then nodded. “See to it.”

With that Bryn had command for the day. While he and Fulke shared the same rank within the Dragon Keep, they had long ago agreed on an alternating command when the Baron wasn’t present. And while there was no telling what might set Fulke off, he still stayed sane enough to honor the agreement and understand when Bryn needed to take the lead.

The Cairns fell into place at Bryn’s quick whistle. He picked out two men to scout ahead, and four to flank as the rest rode out in a double line.

The forest provided enough cover as they struck further into its depths and away from the main road. The horses picked their sure-footed way through the trees and down faint game trails as they worked steadily west.

The sun lingered before its midpoint when the forest began to thin, exposing the green tips of Castle Bright’s towers. The Raven’s Tooth emerged through the trees, and beyond it the main road. The Cairns hung back in the protective embrace of the forest as the scouts moved forward.

The low hooting call signaling all clear, floated back to them, and Bryn gave the nod to begin crossing. They angled north and west again, moving further from the paths that sprang from the crossroads. The horses slowed in response to whispered signals, picking their way carefully through the pine forest.

Rorie and Jes rode in front, guiding the way to the place they’d camped while waiting for the Baron the first time. A scout whistled a warning of a patrol, and as one the horses stopped, standing still without so much as a flick of a tail. The Cairns waited patiently, as motionless as their mounts.

Bryn cast a searching gaze in the direction of the whistle, but the forest screened them from the road. Only the sound of marching feet and gruff conversation from the soldiers announced their presence.

Five minutes later, another low hooting signal sounded. All clear here too. Bryn waved his hand forward and the horses stirred to motion again.

Not ten minutes later, another patrol passed without even knowing that their forest had been invaded by the Cairns.

Jes fell back beside Bryn.

“There are more soldiers out than last time.” A faint crease of worry deepened around Jes’s eyes.

Bryn nodded. “War is certain now. As soon as we camp, scouts will go back out.”

As much as it galled him to keep waiting, they needed to know the lay of the land before they could try to go for the Baron.

Jes moved away, the same tense understanding in his face. The crash of waves against the unyielding cliffs began to sound over the steady clip-clop of hooves. A breath of tangy salt air brushed by on the breeze. They were close.

Rorie trotted forward, returning moments later to wave them on. The Cairns followed him into a dell tucked in among the trees. Outgrowths of rock protected one flank, and the thick trees the rest.

Bryn saw to his horse before making the mile trek that would bring him to the edge of the forest that faced the castle walls.

He halted in its shadows, staring out over the salt-crusted grass to the looming castle. The ocean boomed against the cliffs, erupting in sprays of foam, echoing like laughter at the impossibility of their task.

“How do we get in?” Natan appeared beside him.

“You’re the thief.” Bryn fingered one of his knives strapped to his chest. “You tell me.”

Natan gave a short laugh. “We don’t.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine.”

“Aye, well, it’s a castle for one thing, and they aren’t as easy to break into as people would like you to think.” Natan leaned against a tree in a relaxed position, but his eyes scanned the walls and turrets. “There might be a way in, but Barkley is preparing for war. There’s soldiers crawling all over the place. We get in, but getting out with the Baron?”

Bryn caught the hilt of the knife with his thumb, sliding it in and out of its sheath. “Figure out a way then. Or have you just been lying about how good you are?” He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Natan’s smirk faded almost as quickly as it appeared. “Aye, but I got caught. How do you think I got my brands?”

“Sure it wasn’t from being pessimistic?”

“Big word for a petty thief.”

“I’ve been around Jes too long.” Bryn sheathed his knife for the last time as Natan chuckled. “Find a way in.”

Natan flicked a lazy salute. “Yes, sir.”

✽✽✽

It took a shorter time than Bryn expected for Natan to find something. Those Cairns not on scouting or guard duty were preparing for another cold meal when Milo came into camp helping an injured Rake. The Cairns stood as one, expecting some sort of trouble, but Milo waved them off. Rake sat down, nursing a swelling wrist.

“What happened?” Bryn demanded.

Milo gave a little smirk and gestured to Rake, who scowled back.

“Well?” Bryn was already losing patience.

“I was scouting about a quarter mile south, when I fell through rotted wood into a pit.” Rake’s glare dared anyone to laugh.

“What did you hurt besides your pride?” Rowen, the Cairns’s healer, pushed up with an expensive leather satchel confiscated and repurposed for his uses.

“I sprained my wrist and bruised my knee.” Rake glanced up at Bryn. “Natan wanted you over there. Turns out it’s an entrance to some sort of tunnel. He thinks it might lead into the castle.”

Bryn almost throttled him for waiting to disclose this information.

“Milo, where’s this tunnel?” he asked instead.

Milo jerked his head, indicating him to follow and headed back into the forest. The woods grew thicker and the ground gave a noticeable swell into low mounds. Milo whistled a signal and another answered him seconds later.

Bryn rounded the wide girth of an oak tree where tangled growth cleared aside to reveal shattered slats of wood framing a dark hole at the base of the tree. Red flashed among the foliage and a Cairn stepped out, returning his red-fletched arrow to the quiver.

“Alec. Where’s Natan?” Bryn asked.

“Been down there a while.” Alec nodded at the hole.

Milo signed something to Alec too fast for Bryn to try and puzzle through. He’d never been able to figure out Milo’s language, unlike the Baron who’d started learning it almost as soon as he’d met Milo and Alec.

The archer brushed invisible dirt from his scarlet shirt sleeves and shook his head. “Nah. He won’t get lost. Thieves need a good sense of direction.”

“First smart thing I’ve heard you say,” a disembodied voice echoed from the ground.

The three outlaws turned their gaze down. Natan’s face found the light and he held a hand up. Alec hauled him from the hole.

Natan took a drink from Milo’s water flask before sitting down on the oak’s proffered root. He held up a hand to forestall any questions and dug out a carefully wrapped piece of charcoal and parchment. He went to work, mapping out an array of lines, murmuring to himself, closing his eyes from time to time to get the turn correct.

Bryn found his patience being tested for the second time that day. Milo squatted down and watched in fascination as the results of Natan’s exploration came to light. Alec nibbled at his thumbnail and waited with his frustrating patience. Finally, Natan took another drink, tilted his head from side to side until his neck cracked, and then stood.

“It’s a way in,” he said. “Tunnel goes straight to the castle where it splits three ways. I only had time to look at two, but I found the cellars to the left, and main tunnel goes up into the walls. I didn’t follow it all the way.”

“Can we use them?” Bryn demanded.

“Aye. But it’s a maze in there. Give me some time to map it out and I think I might be able to get us out by the dungeons.”

“How long?”

“By tonight.”

“Need help?”

“Send Cam. Alec and Milo can keep watch. But from the looks of things, the passages haven’t been used in a long time. I doubt anyone knows about them.”

“Still, be careful,” Bryn said. “I’ll tell Fulke.”

Natan saluted and dropped back into the tunnel. Bryn hurried back to the camp. Finally they had a way in. Now it was time to get the Baron out.

Chapter 37

Rhys had no strength left. The tiny flame that had been his will to live had all but died, the embers kept alight only by the falcon that appeared in his dreams every time he closed his eyes. It would hover above him, trailed by mist while Sean’s voice whispered again and again that his men were coming.

But light came and faded through the cell window three times and nothing happened, except Eral coming to torment him as punishment for harming Deronis’s faithful. They didn’t even care to try and pry information or more blood from him, just pain.

He tried to move, but his body barely cooperated, shifting sluggishly and sending a wave of lightheadedness through him. A soft cry escaped against his will.

He couldn’t last much longer.

But the rawness of the re-opened bond between him and Sean assured him that Sean was still free, still safe. The druids hadn’t carried through on their threats yet. That was all that mattered.

The cell door rattled, and Alisher stepped through in the company of guards and another druid. New dread tickled at Rhys’s mind. In the days since Eral’s first visit, it had only been the druid that had come to torment him. Alisher didn’t look to be in a kinder mood.

Alisher looked down on him in contempt. “Still alive?”

“Go to the flames,” Rhys croaked, turning his face away.

Alisher clamped his good hand over Rhys’s jaw and wrenched him back around. “I won’t, but you will. Deronis has a special place reserved for you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will.” Alisher’s eyes were almost black in the dim light as he leaned closer. “I’ll send you to him myself.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Rhys challenged.

Alisher released him and straightened, his hand hovering above the sling that bound his injured shoulder.

“The new moon tonight. When we drain your body of the remainder of your blood, we need the darkness to purify it. Then you will die, and we will have more than enough blood to conquer the Seer’s dreams.”

Alisher’s calm threats of blood sacrifice and magic held a deeper weight than Eral’s screams. Rhys almost believed they could use him to get to Sean.

Alisher took a needle and raised that nightmarish doll again. Rhys ran his tongue around his mouth to clear it of dried blood.

“But until then--” Malice twisted Alisher’s face into a sneer.

Pain encased his shoulder as Alisher stabbed the needle into the doll and twisted. Another scream tore at Rhys’s raw throat. Moisture dribbled from the corner of an eye as the invisible blade punched through his back.

“Beg!” Alisher screamed at him, twisting harder.

Darkness threatened his vision, and his arm died.

He couldn’t take any more. Pleading words were on the tip of his tongue when warmth nudged his other shoulder.

“They’re coming for you!”

“Sean?” he gasped.

The touch came again, this time harder and frantic, pushing him to pay attention to it instead of the pain.

“What did you say?” Alisher hauled him up by his face.

Relief swept through Rhys at Sean’s faint connection. He didn’t even mind knowing that Sean was praying for him at the moment. Stubborn idiot.

“Give me the Seer!” Spittle flew from Alisher’s mouth. “I know you’re connected to him! I need his power!”

Rhys summoned his last bit of strength and looked Alisher square in the eye.

“No.”

Alisher threw him back down. Sparks leapt from flint, igniting a flame in the small bowl that the other druid now held. Fire and agony consumed him, driving to his core, searching for the thread connecting him to Sean.

But Sean’s voice had reawakened a small kernel of hope in him. Rhys clung to that hope with his last ounce of strength, pushing back against the stabbing force that would have stolen his life with renewed strength.

His vision blurred, mercifully obstructing the leering faces of the druids. As his eyes slid closed he heard the wild shriek of a falcon and the echo of Sean’s voice.

“They’re coming.”

Chapter 38

An hour before midnight, Bryn dropped to the tunnel’s earthen floor, followed by Natan and Luca. Musty darkness stretched out in front of him, barely broken by the faint light from the tunnel entrance. Natan took the lead, one gloved hand holding a small lantern pilfered from the town earlier that day. They left behind a forest full of anxious and restless outlaws.

Eventually the tunnel divided three ways. Natan continued straight, digging a paper from his tunic and holding it up to the bobbing light as they reached another split. Earth shifted to stone beneath their boots. The thief muttered under his breath to himself as he navigated them through the maze of tunnels towards the exit that Cam had found earlier. Bryn flicked Natan’s shoulder to make him stop mumbling, the noise grated on his nerves. He’d lost all sense of direction in the darkness.

Bryn kept his feet as silent as possible. Stone surrounded them, but even dusty forgotten stone echoed. He didn’t know if Ilan would consider the prayer of someone like him, but he prayed anyway.

Please let this work.
The Baron’s been here for too long.

“This is it,” Natan’s whisper reached him. He held the lantern higher, running a hand over the stone until he found the latch, no more than a nick in the rock. They stepped through into a room full of rich mahogany furniture lined with gold-etched tomes coated in a layer of dust. A faint mustiness and chill lingered in the room.

No fire. Good. It meant no one used this room.

“Book room, indeed,” Natan snorted at Cam’s description. “This is a dialan library.”

“Think any of them are valuable?” Luca asked.

Natan held the lantern closer to a shelf. “Probably. That’s real gold in the spines. But we’re not here for books. Dungeon shouldn’t be too far,” he said to Bryn.

Bryn crept to the door and inched it open. The hallway was deserted. For now.

“Luca, guard the door. And don’t touch those books or they’ll know we were here,” he added as an afterthought.

Luca frowned but nodded his intended obedience. Bryn wished he’d brought either Rorie or Jes along, but a Highlander and a Gedrinian would stand out too much in the castle if they were stopped. Luca was dependable with a knife. As long as he didn’t try to think too much for himself.

He slid into the empty hallway with Natan on his heels. A green and gold tapestry hung opposite the door, depicting a young woman reading a book with fawns at her feet. Bryn committed it to memory before moving on.

A curtained alcove sheltered them from the first patrol, but five minutes later they weren’t so lucky. Two soldiers came around the corner behind them. The hallway stretched out with nowhere to hide.

“Halt!” a soldier cried.

Natan reached for his knife, but Bryn stayed his hand as he turned.

“Sirs.” He nodded.

“Who are you, and what are you doing down here?” the man asked suspiciously.

“We’re with Lord Ainsley’s men. One of our mates had a bit too much to drink and fought the wrong castle guard. He’s down in the dungeons. We were sent to fetch him.” Bryn kept his hands away from his knives.

“It’s almost midnight.” The guard frowned.

“Aye, that’s what he said.” Bryn jerked a thumb over his shoulder to Natan. “But orders is orders. I can’t explain everything that goes on in an officer’s head.”

The soldier’s nod bespoke a hearty agreement. “Lord Ainsley you said?”

“Aye, just got here yesterday.” Bryn passed along information picked up by their scouts.

That seemed to do it for the man. “All right. Serves your mate right for fighting one of us though.”

Bryn forced a laugh. “Aye, well he’s an idiot on his good days.”

The man laughed and shouldered his spear. “Well you’re going the wrong direction. Head back down the hall and take a left. Should take you right down.”

Bryn tipped two fingers to his forehead in a salute. “Thanks, mate.”

Natan let out a relieved exhale as the guards passed around the next corner. Bryn ran a hand over his chin to quiet the nervous energy that churned inside him.

“Let’s go.”

Bryn and Natan picked up their pace in the opposite direction, their boots rebuking their fast pace against the stone floor. The surf boomed from somewhere on the other side of the walls. Natan pointed ahead where the hall branched left.

Torches flickering in sconces were the only signs of life in the corridor, until another sound cut across the rhythmic pulse of the waves.

Bryn caught Natan’s arm and hauled him to a stop moments before more guards came around the corner. They stared in surprise at Bryn and Natan, but Bryn only had eyes for the Baron supported between two of the soldiers. His head hung forward, and he barely kept his feet. Patches of dried blood coated his torn clothes, and a faint wheeze accompanied every labored breath.

“Who are you?” the lead soldier’s gruff voice jerked Bryn’s attention away from the Baron. Anger flared through Bryn, drowning out any response.

“We’re with Lord Ainsley’s men,” Natan butted in, keeping a casual tone that brought Bryn back to the task at hand. “One of our captains sent us to find some more ale. But we got a little turned around.” He shrugged.

Bryn raised a hand to hit Natan’s shoulder. “Aye, I told you we needed to turn right back there.” He looked back to the soldier and jerked a thumb at Natan. “Can’t trust him to find his way through a door this one.”

The Baron raised his head slightly.

The soldier relaxed a fraction.

Bryn held up a hand to forestall the man’s next comment. “And yes, I know it’s midnight. What did I say, mate?” He turned to Natan, tipping his chin up in a slight nod.

“You can’t explain what goes on in an officer’s head. ‘Specially a drunk one,” Natan supplied, facing the soldiers with a grin. “Sod’s likely to have already collapsed by the time we get back.”

The soldiers holding the Baron cursed as his legs buckled, dragging them to the ground. Bryn pulled a knife free and leapt toward the first soldier. He left his knife in the man’s chest and drew another. He sprang over the body at one of the soldiers that held the Baron, smashing the hilt into the man’s head as he tried to rise. Natan wiped his knife and stood from the body of the third, and final, soldier.

Bryn shoved the bodies away and pulled the Baron free. His eyes were closed, and pain creased his bruised face.

“Stormagh.” Natan had nothing else to say. Bryn flicked a hand down the hall, signaling him to keep watch.

“Baron!” Bryn gently shook his shoulder.

The Baron’s eyes flickered open and it took a few moments before full recognition brightened.

“Bryn?” His voice was hoarser than usual. “You’re here?”

“You did ask for a rescue.” Bryn reminded him lightly, biting back the curses that raged at his condition.

“You’re real?”

“Last I checked.” Bryn pushed his arm beneath the Baron’s shoulders and brought him to a sitting position. The Baron slumped against him. Dialan. “Natan, get over here.”

Natan glanced up and down the hall, a frown puckering his mouth. “It’s midnight. Where were they taking him?”

Bryn ignored the question in favor of a more pressing need. “Help me get him up.” He turned to the Baron. “You’re going to have to help us walk for now.”

The Baron nodded and let Natan take his other arm as they pulled him to his feet. The Baron smothered a soft cry, and Bryn took most of his weight as he tried to get his feet back under him.

Bryn cursed under his breath as they took a few steps forward. The way the Baron’s feet were already dragging, they weren’t going anywhere fast.

Chanting echoed down the hall, bouncing off the walls towards them. Bryn thought he imagined the torchlight jittering faster in response.

“Druids.” A gasp broke from the Baron and he shook.

“Dialan! We’ve got to get out of here,” Natan said.

Bryn jerked his chin forward. “Start retracing our steps. You get front.”

Natan pulled his long knife again. Bryn readjusted his grip on the Baron as Natan stepped away and moved up the hall.

The chanting came closer and the Baron’s shaking intensified as his breath rasped faster. Bryn swore vengeance on whoever had touched the Baron. He’d seen the Baron at his worst many times, but this?

“Just keep moving, Baron.”

The Baron dragged another foot forward. Natan ran back towards them, shaking his head and gesturing frantically. Too many people coming. They couldn’t use Lord Ainsley as an excuse a third time, not with Bryn holding the Baron up.

“There’s a side passage a few yards ahead,” he whispered. Bryn nodded. They had no other choice.

Natan grabbed the Baron’s arm and slung it over his shoulders. They hustled him forward, and pushed down the smaller side corridor—likely a servant’s hall. It bent to the left ten feet in.

The chanting came closer.

Bryn pushed them on and they turned the corner just as a startled shout disrupted the chanting behind them. The bodies of the Baron’s escort had been discovered.

He exchanged a grim look with Natan over the Baron’s bowed head. “Keep going.”

They stumbled up a set of three stairs that fed into a wider passage. No guards in sight. But the shouting still echoed through the hall behind them.

“Which way?” Natan asked, glancing to the right and left.

“You tell me!” Bryn snapped. “You’re supposed to have a good sense of direction!”

The Baron shifted his weight, lifting his head. “Where are we going?” he rasped.

“Is this really the time—?” Natan began.

He used to serve here. Maybe he knows where we should go. Bryn latched onto the idea with hope. “Small library on the southwest side of the castle.”

Two agonizing breaths wheezed from the Baron before he tried to move. “Left.”

Natan glanced at Bryn in bewilderment.

“Move.” Bryn ordered, and they turned left.

Both he and Natan breathed hard by the time they made it twenty paces down the hall. The Baron seemed to have gained some burst of strength as his feet dragged less. Until Bryn’s next step sent agony racing down his leg from what felt like a knife plunged into his thigh.

He cursed as his leg buckled, and he half-dragged the Baron and Natan down on top of him.

“Bryn!” Natan cried, regaining his feet.

Bryn looked down, clutching his leg, but nothing had broken skin. No weapon in sight. The Baron tried to push himself up on weak arms.

“You cannot take him.” A druid crept up behind them on silent feet. He held a small figure like a doll in his hand, a slender needle poised above it.

Natan drew his blade. “Watch us.” He blurred forward in smooth motion, and the druid fell under his attack. The phantom pain receded from Bryn’s leg.

Movement stirred the hallway in front of him, and another druid strode forward.

“He belongs to Deronis.”

“I don’t think so.” Bryn snarled as he pulled a knife free. He pushed to his feet.

The druid took a step back from the rage in his expression.

“He belongs to the Keep.” Natan’s voice growled behind Bryn.

The druid backed away again before turning to run. Bryn adjusted his grip on his knife. Sean had said that the druids had bled and tortured the Baron. As far as he was concerned, they lost their right to an honorable death. He threw his knife, burying it hilt deep in the green-robed man’s back, and the druid fell without a sound.

He stalked forward and yanked his knife free from the man’s back. When he returned, Natan had the Baron sitting up against the wall.

“Baron?” Bryn jostled his shoulder gently, bringing the Baron’s gaze up to him. “Can you keep going?”

The stubborn determination that had kept the Baron on his feet so many times before sparked again in his brown eyes. He nodded, and Bryn and Natan pulled him to his feet and they stumbled on.

At the next branch of the hallway, Bryn had to shake the Baron back to awareness. It took him a long moment to remember which way to go, but they set off to the right, only to backtrack a few paces and take shelter in a small linen closet as a troop of five guards hurried by.

“Well I’m glad this is going to plan,” Natan muttered.

“Shut it, Natan. Just pray that Luca is still there.”

Natan whispered a curse as they stepped back out into the hall.

The next five minutes passed in a haze of tension as they stepped into another corridor without being caught.

“I think I recognize this,” Natan said.

“You’d better be right.” Bryn readjusted the Baron’s weight, raising his free shoulder to wipe sweat from his temple.

“It’s close,” the Baron agreed, exhaustion drenching his skin and leaving clean tracks down his face.

Four soldiers rounded the corner, forcing Bryn to unceremoniously dump the Baron on the ground as he and Natan sprang to battle again. The soldiers’ spears were of no use in the already close quarters, giving Bryn and Natan seconds of precious advantage as the men dropped the weapons to draw swords.

Bryn stabbed, leaving one man with a wounded side. Natan caught his opponent’s arm as he swung, redirecting the blow into a third man. The thief followed their fall to the ground, his knife flashing in quick succession.

That left only the fourth soldier, a young man barely older than a boy. Bryn shifted his grip on his bloody knife. This was different than the druids. The boy stared at them, fear in his eyes at the quick fall of his comrades. He held his sword loosely, not even remotely ready to use it.

“Go!” The boy’s comrade waved a bloody hand from where he curled on the ground.

Bryn held out a hand to forestall Natan. He focused on the youth.

“This is the Baron.” He nodded behind himself. “Know what that makes us?”

The soldier gulped. “C-cairns?”

“We’re building graves tonight, boy. You want us to add yours to the list?”

The boy shook his head. His sword clattered to the ground.

“Take care of him.” Bryn pointed to the wounded soldier. “And don’t get any ideas about following us.”

“We should just kill him.” Natan muttered. The youth’s eyes widened again. But Bryn shook his head and returned to the Baron.

The soldier shrank back against the wall to give them room to pass with the Baron.

“Let anyone you see know that this’ll be their fate.” Bryn nodded down to the dead soldiers.

“This way.” Natan’s voice rose in excitement.

Bryn recognized the ornate green and gold tapestry framed between two slitted windows. The Baron’s breath came in wheezing gasps and he could barely hold his head up.

“Hold on, Baron. We’re almost there.” Bryn tightened his grip but there was no response.

Natan left the Baron in Bryn’s hold as he hurried to open the door.

“Stormagh.” Bryn stared at the bloody scuffs that Natan had left behind. Natan followed his gaze down to the stone, tracking them all the way back to full footprints leaving a clear trail from their last fight.

Chapter 39

What do we do?” Natan asked.

Bryn swallowed hard. He wasn’t leaving anyone behind to distract from the trail. He couldn’t, and the Baron wouldn’t do it either. “Hope they think we can really vanish into thin air. Get inside.” He shoved forward with the Baron. They stepped inside, and Natan shut the door.

Luca jumped to his feet and pushed the tunnel entrance wider to allow them to stumble through. Bryn helped the Baron sit while Natan and Luca closed the secret door.

“Where are we?” the Baron mumbled.

“Rake found a tunnel that leads all around this place,” Bryn answered.

“Tunnels?” The Baron’s forehead creased like the word should mean more to him.

“Ready?” Natan crouched by them in the circle cast by the lantern. Luca stood just outside the light, staring down at the Baron in silence.

“Luca, you have water?” Bryn asked. “Luca?”

Luca started, and handed over his canteen. Bryn helped the Baron drink. He wasn’t able to manage much, but it seemed to revive him a little. Bryn’s gut twisted as he saw more and more of the Baron’s injuries.

Adam and the druids are going to pay more than they already have tonight.

“Sean?” the Baron asked.

“Safe at the Carraig,” Bryn reassured him.

“He’s not—not safe.” He shook his head.

Bryn exchanged a helpless look with the others before sliding an arm behind the Baron again.

“We need to go, Baron.”

The Baron nodded, his boots scraping the floor as he tried to get his feet under him. Natan handed the lantern to Luca and went to the Baron’s other side. They helped him up and as soon as he steadied, they set off again.

Natan called soft directions to Luca to lead them back out of the tunnels. Stops were frequent as fatigue wore on both Bryn and Natan. The Baron staggered along between them, each step an effort.

The stone eventually gave way to earth and they passed the tunnel’s first split.

“Straight shot from here.” Natan’s voice rose in triumph.

“Luca, go on ahead and let them know we’re coming,” Bryn ordered.

Luca handed the lantern back to Natan and jogged off into the darkness, keeping one hand on the wall.

“Almost there,” Bryn tightened his grip on the Baron’s arm.

He barely nodded in response, his breath hitching a little faster.

They paused for a moment, and in the sudden stillness something scraped behind them. Bryn tensed too late as his knee was kicked out from under him. He fell for the second time, bringing the Baron with him.

Natan yelled in surprise, the lantern clattering to the ground to roll wildly before flickering out.

“Stay down, Baron!” Bryn yelled, pulling a knife as he covered the Baron with his body. He caught the ring of steel and Natan’s angry cry. Something tripped over his foot, and a heavy weight descended on him.

“There’s two!” Natan’s breathless gasp came from a few feet away.

Bryn pushed at whatever was on top of him. A stray punch caught him in the face and sparks danced across his eyes. He swiped out with his knife and was rewarded by a sharp cry.

Bryn came into a crouch, keeping the Baron at his back. The whoosh of a strike filled the air. He dodged aside, but not fast enough as pain struck a sharp line across his left side. He bit down on a cry. He shifted his knife horizontally in front of him and waited, ignoring the heat that pulsed from his side.

He scraped his feet backward, mimicking a retreat. A scuff announced his opponent had fallen for it. He stepped forward, ramming his knife forward into something solid that fell into him with a soft gasp.

The unexpected weight bore him to the ground as silence settled over the tunnel. Sudden panic struck him at the thought that perhaps it had been Natan, or somehow the Baron.

“Bryn?” Natan’s cautious voice whispered through the darkness.

He barked a laugh in relief. “I’m here. Baron?”

Movement scraped a few feet away. “Here,” the Baron’s pain-filled voice replied.

“Find that lantern, Natan.” Bryn pushed at the weight atop him. Natan knocked against the lantern with a clatter. Flint scraped together, sparking the light again.

Its wavering light exposed the bodies of two men in nondescript clothing, weapons aplenty, and features hard even in death.

“Who are they?” Natan asked.

Bryn winced as he moved, pulling at his side. No insignia was visible on the men’s tunics.

“Spies or assassins. Whoever they are, it means that Adam or someone knows about these tunnels.” Bryn pressed a hand to his side, angling himself away so that Natan wouldn’t see as he turned.

“But how? These haven’t been used in years.” Natan crossed over to the Baron.

“You didn’t explore all of them. Besides,” Bryn leaned against the wall for a moment. “If the right person saw our trail, they could probably figure out we used the tunnels.”

“And here I thought that we had some luck on our side.” Natan took the Baron’s shaking arm and pulled him up.

Bryn moved slowly forward to support the Baron again, gritting his teeth as they pushed forward, pain pulsing with every step.

Just keep going. Get him out first.

What seemed an eternity later, another light flickered ahead. Luca lifted his head and called up through the hole.

“We made it.” Bryn staggered a step to the side.

They made it within a few feet of Luca before the Baron collapsed. Bryn strained to keep him from hitting the ground. Natan swore, taking most of his weight as they dragged him forward.

Rorie slid into the tunnel with a thud. He and Luca took the Baron, supporting him as hands reached down and pulled him up. Bryn leaned against the wall, relief washing over him.

We made it.

He waved Natan forward, and Rorie boosted the thief up through the hole. Bryn pushed forward, fresh warmth oozing down his side with every step. He got his foot into Rorie’s cupped hands and took Fulke’s extended hand. They nearly catapulted him from the tunnel and he sank to his knees at the Baron’s side.

Rowen already knelt beside the Baron.

“How is he?” Fulke demanded.

Rowen glanced up, a frown sharpening his features. “Not good. They bled him.” He pulled the Baron’s sleeve up to expose a bloodied bandage. “I can’t treat him here.” He gestured around them.

“Fulke, we were attacked in the tunnels.” Bryn pressed his hand against his side again. “We have to get out of here.”

Fulke jerked his attention back to Bryn as the deep boom of the alarm bell rang out over the stillness of the night. Faint shouts became audible from the direction of the castle.

The Cairns looked to Fulke and Bryn, ready for action. They’d prepared a series of campsites hidden deep in the forest and hills, knowing they wouldn’t be able to run far with the Baron. Bryn stirred, trying to force his sluggish limbs to stand. He couldn’t remember where they were headed next.

I have to keep going. We have to get him safe.

He sank back to his knees.

“Scatter,” Fulke growled. “Twos and threes. Head for the next campsite. Jes, Rorie, Milo, Rowen, you stay with me and the Baron. Bryn--”

Fulke’s voice faded to a dull rumble as the night closed in around him. The grass felt cool against his face.

Chapter 40

Kane strode down the hall toward the druids’ room. The extra soldiers patrolling the corridors snapped out of his way. Chanting echoed down the halls, and incense disguised the stench of death.

He glanced at the covered bodies lying on the floor for only a second before slipping into the chamber. Lord Adam stood against the wall, arms crossed against his chest. A wall of druids stood between him and an altar where Alisher, assisted by two other druids, led the chanting.

“Report?” Adam murmured to Kane without taking his eyes off the ceremony.

Bloody cloths piled around a bowl on the altar—whatever the druids had been able to save of the Baron’s blood.

“They got in and out through the tunnels.” Kane matched Adam’s stance, arms crossed in such a way to still hold on to a knife.

“How did they even find the tunnels?” Adam gritted out.

Kane shrugged. “Abandoned entrance we didn’t know about. They got past the men I sent into the tunnels and scattered.”

Alisher’s voice rose in frantic eagerness, his good arm waved above the altar as the incense puffed in noxious clouds. His assistants cast some substance over the cloths and bowl.

“Tell me that’s not all you had to say,” Adam said.

Kane shifted uneasily as another jar with a thick red liquid was brought forward to Alisher. The Seer’s blood if he had to guess. Alisher dipped his bare hand into the jar, sprinkling it over the altar.

“No.” Kane stifled a shudder and looked away from the blood-spattered altar. “We have the dogs and my best trackers out. Someone was wounded in the tunnels and left some blood behind, and there was enough of the Baron’s scent left in his cell. We should be able to raise a trail.”

He didn’t add that his trackers had barely found a trace of a trail outside the tunnel exit to begin with. The Cairns were good, but Kane never failed to bring in his prey.

The druids joined hands, swaying in time with the chant as they tilted their head back to howl a string of words before falling silent. Alisher pressed his head against the altar as he bowed deeply.

He spoke again in the druid’s tongue, but Kane still heard “Deronis.” Whatever he said excited the rest of the druids, and they replied with a shout of affirmation.

The attending druids carefully gathered up the cloths and bowls as Alisher turned away. His people parted as he strode towards Adam.

Kane tensed under the scrutiny of Alisher’s cold eyes, but he didn’t look away.

“You were successful then?” Adam spoke first.

“Yes.” Alisher’s voice filled with weary triumph. “The Baron’s blood has been purified. Deronis’s servant has been able to taste the connection between him and the Seer. He will be able to hunt when we are ready to call him forth. He will use the bond to take the Seer. But we cannot do it here. We need a sacred place—somewhere powerful enough to help him bridge the gap in the worlds.”

Kane clenched his fist tighter around the knife handle. He was far from being even a decent man, but the last few minutes in the room had sent unease tossing through him like a ship in a storm.

“You have a place in mind?” Adam asked.

Alisher nodded. “It only needs to be purified.”

“Good. You might need to wait for a few days until we find and kill the Cairns,” Adam said. “Kane assures me that they will retrieve the Baron for you.”

A bit of fear flickered in Alisher’s eyes. “No, just kill him. We have enough of his blood to move on the Seer. But while the Baron is still alive, the Seer still has some protection. The Baron must die.”

Adam turned to Kane, and jerked his hand toward the door.

“With pleasure.” Kane tilted his head, but he didn’t quite mean the words.

“When will you take the Seer?”

“Soon. Very soon.” The fear faded from Alisher’s eyes to be replaced by glittering anticipation. “We have all that we need.”

Coming Soon

BLOOD

OF THE SEER

The Dragon Keep Chronicles
Book Two

Glossary

The Seven Northern Clans

The Clans reside in the northeast corner of Alsaya where the Cardic Mountains curve to the west. The Clans have long been their own independent ruling body, but they have sworn allegiance to the Seabright Kings for generations. A Chieftain is elected every five years from among the clan lairds in order to have a higher authority over the lairds.

Each Clan has their own land and territory but are known to intermingle among other Clans. If intermarriage happens between members of different Clans, the wife typically takes the Clan name of her husband as in the case of Sarah MacDuffy.

Clan MacDuffy

MacDuffys look after their own.

Plaid: Blue and yellow

Typically known for producing the best warriors among the Clans along with Clan MacMorna.

-          Brogan MacDuffy - current laird of the clan, and chieftain of the clans during the Sea Wars.

-          Dermot (DUR-MUHT) MacDuffy - one of Brogan’s Talam’s (stewards) and father to Sean and Rhys

-          Sean MacDuffy - Seer of Clan MacDuffy and brother to Rhys MacDuffy

-          Rhys (REES) MacDuffy - older brother to Sean MacDuffy. Now known as the Mountain Baron.

-          Alan MacDuffy - nephew of Laird Brogan

MacTavish

MacTavishes weather any storm.

Plaid: Red and blue

Typically known for producing the best politicians of the Clans.

-          Cormac MacTavish - current Chieftain of the clans

MacLarrah

MacLarrahs ride the winds

Plaid: Purple and yellow

Predominantly raise horses and serve as the message riders for the Clans.

MacGaffrey

MacGaffrey’s bonds weave strong.

Plaid: Green and red

Predominantly textile based, and provide the cloth for the clan tartans

-          Sarah MacGaffrey - wife of Sean MacDuffy

MacMarran

MacMarran’s roots are unshaken.

Plaid: Black and purple

Predominantly an agriculturally based clan.

MacCullough

MacCulloughs remember their friends

Plaid: Black and green

Secretive even among the Clans. MacCullough territory is up in the Cardic Mountains where they raise herd animals and contribute some of the finest metal working in Alsaya from iron mined from the Cardics.

-          Neil MacCullough - the man who helped Rhys MacDuffy after his banishment

MacMorna

MacMornas are stronger than steel.

Plaid: Black and red

Known for producing the best warriors among the Clans, along with Clan MacDuffy.

People, Terms, & Locations

The Talam - steward to a laird. There are up to three Talams in a Clan that individually oversee farming, the warriors, and the affairs of the Laird’s house.

The Highlanders - Residing in the northwest corner of Alsaya in the elevated hills and formations of the Cardic Mountains before they spill into the Durne Strait, the Highlanders broke from the Clans hundreds of years ago and have lived as their own independent population since. They are ruled by a Ladair but have also sworn allegiance to the Seabright Kings. The men shave their heads and tattoo blue spiral designs across their scalp. The women are known to shave part of their hair above their ear and do the same or tattoo the designs on their forearms. Governed by a Ladair who chooses his or her heir from two or three candidates. Not necessarily an inherited position.

Ladair (LAD-AIR) Lachlann – current Ladair of the Highlanders. Allied with the Clans and Lord Sarksten against Lord Adam Barkley.

Carraig - castle of Lord Sarksten.

Lord Sarksten - controls the eastern half of Alsaya from the Bear River to the Cardic Mountains. Allied with the Clans and Highlanders against Lord Barkley.

Seabright - family name of the ruling family of Alsaya

Castle Bright - former ruling place of the Seabright kings

Lord Adam Barkley - current steward of Castle Bright. Instigating civil war by kidnapping Sean MacDuffy and attacking the Highlanders and Sarksten’s lands alike.

Dragon Keep - once a border checkpoint between Alsaya and Gedrin. Now the headquarters for the Mountain Baron.

Cairn (KERN) - nickname for the Mountain Baron’s men. Given to them by travelers and other bandits who claim they will either “guide the way or build a grave.”

-          Bryn Athey - Dragon Keep lieutenant

-          Fulke Gohan - Dragon Keep lieutenant

-          Rorie O’Hagan - exiled Highlander

-          Jessimalan “Jes” Brovinisti - Gedrinian who has pledged loyalty to the Baron

-          Natan Aldin

-          Luca Evermann

-          Milo Sorenson

-          Alec Fitzsimon

-          Rowen Master – Dragon Keep healer

-          Rake Caniff

-          Cam Hanlon

Deronis - the demon that the Druids from Cressa worship. Seeks Sean MacDuffy’s power for himself.

Ilan - the god that the inhabitants of Alsaya worship. Multiple saints attributed to this religion.

Karanti - seafaring warrior race that have built up their own empire in the southern oceans. Their attempt to expand to Alsaya resulted in the Sea Wars, known as the bloodiest war in Alsayan history.

Darvani - The illegitimate offspring of the Karanti and their conquered nations. Typically have light blonde hair inherited from their Karanti sire. Have no great love for the Karanti. Those who hate the Karanti the most make their way to the Darvani territory, a fortified archipelago from which they launch their own ships to interfere with any Karanti conquests. The Darvani came to the aid of the Alsayans during the Sea Wars and helped turn the tide against the Karanti.

Acknowledgements

This book has been so long in the making, I’m almost not sure where to start. Maybe with the moody weather that gave me the inspiration for the opening scene of this book five years ago.

It also wouldn’t quite be here without my younger sisters who latched onto the idea for this wild mess of a story and even grew to like Sean eventually.

Definite thanks goes to my entire family, who’s always been so supportive of me and my writing. And for putting up with me trying to write this book and survive physical therapy school at the same time.

I’m so grateful for my sister Catherine, who started reading this book quite late in the first draft process but gave me some invaluable feedback and the idea for one of my favorite lines in the entire series. (You don’t get to find out which until book two.)

To my dear friends who have had my back from day one.

Huge thanks to Deborah, Hazel, and Sarah for agreeing to beta read in the shortest amount of time possible when I was prepping to submit this series. You guys are absolute champs and thanks so much for believing in me and in this story. All the Reece’s Pieces for you, Deborah, for making me laugh in our multiple discussions about the smol floof of anger management issues that is Rhys.

To the wonderful team at Crosshair Press who decided to take a chance on this wild story and successfully dealt with my multiple existential crises during the entire process.

And to my Heavenly Father, for giving me the passion and drive to write and find Your truth in fiction. And for giving me the grace to find some of my own healing within these pages.

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About the Author

C.M. Banschbach is a native Texan and would make an excellent Hobbit if she weren’t so tall. She’s a pizza addict, a multi-faceted fangirl, and a firm believer in being authentic—even if it means acting like a dork sometimes! When not writing fantasy stories packed full of adventure and snark, she works as a pediatric physical therapist where she happily embraces the fact that she never actually has to grow up.

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