Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Caerith
Home of the King
They crested a rise just before dusk, time enough for Elara to see clearly what lay ahead.
Caerith.
The king’s stronghold.
The heart of Scotara.
The place where fate waited with open jaws.
She drew in a breath and held it, stunned.
The land before them unfurled in sweeping ridges and deep, rolling valleys, the forests thinning into a vast emerald expanse. Mist curled along the ground like drifting spirits, caught in the hollows where lochs glimmered faintly beneath the cloudy sky.
And rising from the lush spread of land, woven into the very bones of the Highlands, stood Caerith.
It was nothing like the stories told in Birkfell, nor the grim fortress she had pictured.
The castle rose from the land rather than dominating it, its stone walls grown moss-soft and ancient.
Tall towers pierced the sky, their dark silhouettes softened by climbing ivy and the pale green touch of early autumn.
It was beautiful.
Beautiful… and terrible.
Because power lived there, old, sharp, and unyielding. Power that could shape the future of every healer in Leighfeld and power that now waited for her.
The Hunters slowed as they descended the hill, their formation tightening with practiced discipline. Elara felt the shift in Dar’s body behind her, the subtle stiffening of muscle, the deepening of breath, like a man bracing for a storm he had long known was coming.
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She didn’t want him to see her fear. She kept her gaze fixed on the castle, her heart pounding with dread and something colder… something like destiny pressing its hand against her back.
As they drew closer, the air itself seemed to change. It grew heavier, charged, as though the land recognized their approach. As though it whispered warnings through the rustle of the nearby pines.
She heard Feena, seated in the cart behind them, murmur a prayer under her breath. And she could almost see how Adira clung to the older woman, eyes wide, face drained of all color.
Elara swallowed hard. “We have arrived.”
Dar’s voice came from behind her, quiet but firm. “Aye, wife. We have.”
That he continued to call her wife somehow continued to make her feel safe, as foolish a thought that it was. Especially since ahead stood the gates of Caerith and beyond them waited King Dravic… waiting for her.
Elara shivered when they reached the great gates of Caerith, massive wooden doors banded with dark iron, each hinge thick enough to withstand a siege. Two guards stood before them, donned in deep green and black, the king’s colors. Their spears crossed as the Hunters approached, barring the way.
Dar did not slow.
At the last instant, one guard snapped his spear upright, eyes widening.
“Commander Dar,” he said, bowing his head.
The others followed suit, a ripple of recognition passing through the men atop the walls that flanked the gates.
A chill settled over Elara. Dar’s presence was met not with suspicion but with awe and a touch of fear. He was far more known, which meant he was a man of importance, another surprising revelation about him.
The guards’ eyes slid past him to her, to her silver hair she no longer hid beneath her hood, to her violet eyes she could not hide if she wanted to and she found herself instinctively pressing against Dar and was relieved when she felt the strength of his arm tighten around her.
A murmur started low on the wall walk.
“Is that her?”
“The healer the king searches for?”
“May the gods help her.”
Fear gripped Elara’s stomach. She kept her gaze ahead, though her hands trembled and when she looked down at them, she saw that she no longer clutched the saddle blanket but Dar’s arm.
When she had done that, she didn’t know, but she kept the grip on his arm, feeling as if it anchored her, kept her strong, kept her safe.
The gates opened inward with a groaning scrape, revealing the village nestled within Caerith’s outer walls.
Life was settling for the evening. Merchants selling the last of their wares, breads that once were fresh from ovens, hides from the northern hunts, cloth from foreign lands.
Children darted between legs, chasing each other through the square.
Women gathered at the well, drawing buckets with practiced ease, gathering water to prepare supper.
But the moment the villagers saw the black-clad Hunters riding in formation, the hum of activity shifted.
Curiosity.
Fear.
Silence swallowing sound.
And then more whispers.
“That must be her…”
“Look at her hair…”
“Silver as a frost moon…”
“Saints preserve her…”
“Or curse her, depending on what she is.”
Elara’s heart thudded painfully.
Dar’s hand gave her waist a subtle squeeze and at that moment she was relieved that he had ordered her to ride with him.
His voice brushed her ear, low enough for only her to hear. “Keep your head high. Do not let them see fear.”
She did as he said and lifted her chin. She would let no one see her fear, though it was a chore to do so, feeling her fate was already sealed.
Children stopped mid-play to stare. Women at the well paused with buckets half-raised. Men lowered their voices and stepped aside, making a clear path through the center of the village.
Dar rode with steady, controlled power, his shoulders squared, his expression carved from stone. Nothing in him wavered, and the people saw it and felt it.
“By the gods,” someone muttered, “he brings her himself.”
“Commander Dar has no fear.”
“Nay, he’s Hunter-born.”
“Aye, his chieftain father’s blood runs strong in him.”
Elara swallowed hard.
Chieftain father.
Dar’s father was the chieftain of the Hunters clan, meaning one day he would lead the Hunters. That was why he was so feared, so awed and respected.
Her breath hitched before she could stop it.
Dar felt it. She knew he did, his hand, once again, giving her waist a light squeeze.
They continued toward the castle. Feena and Adira’s cart rattled behind them, the older woman clutching the fearful lass’s hand tightly as the villagers stared and whispered.
As they approached the broad stairway that rose to the castle entrance, the noise of the village faded.
A lone figure stood at the top of the steps, waiting with the unhurried confidence of a man used to command.
His long auburn hair stirred gently in the breeze, and the dark green leather garments he wore marked him unmistakably as someone of importance.
“Tavish,” Dar said low as if introducing him. “King Dravic’s trusted advisor.”
Elara watched as the man’s gaze swept over all of them with a practiced eye, sharp yet controlled, and when his sight settled on her, something sparked—curiosity, perhaps, or question—but no warmth. Only assessment.
Dar dismounted first, his movements fluid and precise, then he reached up to lift Elara down from the saddle.
His hands did not leave her waist when her feet touched the ground, they lingered as if reluctant to let her go.
Then his hands suddenly fell off her but just as quickly one hand captured hers and locked around it firmly.
Elara saw that Tavish took note of it and she stepped closer to Dar, thinking it would not hurt him to see that a Hunter protected her.
Tavish’s attention then turned to Feena and Adira as they climbed down from the cart. Feena held Adira’s hand in a firm, comforting grip, though her aging eyes betrayed worry and fear. Tavish observed them both in silence, lingering only a heartbeat longer on Adira.
At last, he descended the stairs to meet them.
“Dar,” he said with a measured nod, the tone suggesting respect tempered with expectation. “The king was informed of your return. He wishes to see you all at once.”
Dar returned the nod, though his jaw tightened, whether in anticipation or restraint, Elara could not tell.
Tavish’s gaze once again slid to her, more slowly this time, as if he were weighing her presence.
“You must be Elara from the village of Cramond,” he said, though the words held neither welcome nor distrust, merely acknowledgment of what had already reached the king’s ears.
A breeze brushed the strands of her silver hair as she kept her head high. “I am Elara.”
A faint shadow of thought passed across Tavish’s features, quickly hidden. “Come. The king does not like to be kept waiting. He is not a patient man.”
He turned and climbed the stairs to the towering doors, tall enough to swallow three men standing on each other’s shoulders and carved with ancient patterns and symbols worn smooth by years of hands and weather.
The weight of what lay beyond pressed against Elara’s chest as she got closer, but she held her chin steady.
The doors opened as if by a magic hand, though it was two servants who had drawn them open and bowed their heads as Tavish led them inside.
The Great Hall opened before them like the heart of another world.
Elara had expected grandeur, any hall belonging to the king of Scotara would hold such, but nothing prepared her for the sheer immensity of the chamber.
Stone columns rose like carved giants to the high arched ceiling, their surfaces etched with old symbols, some she recognized from healer lore, others older still—remnants of Scotara before the schism, before the land had been torn apart and divided.
Braziers lined the walls, their flames casting warm light across banners of deep green and black, the crests woven in gold thread glinting with the flicker of fire.
The air carried the faint scents of pine resin, iron, and the strong scent of crushed herbs, rosemary and thyme, unexpected, but familiar and comforting.
Feena paused beside her, her breath catching softly. “I have never seen anything like it.”
Adira clutched Feena’s sleeve, her eyes wide, darting from the towering columns to the long tables lining the walls, to the great dais at the far end where the king’s seat awaited.
Her fear was palpable, the way her small hand trembled, the way her chest heaved with heavy breaths.
She pressed closer to Feena, her gaze jumping like a bird startled from branch to branch.
Tavish motioned for them to stand near the center of the hall, then he summoned a young servant lad. “Take word to the king they have arrived.”
The lad bowed quickly and hurried off toward the inner chambers. His footsteps echoed, swallowed by the vastness of the room.
Muir wasted not a heartbeat once they were told to wait. He strode toward a long side table where pitchers of wine and ale stood ready, along with trenchers of fruit, bread, and cold meats. He reached for a tankard as if he’d been born doing so and tore into a hunk of bread with equal enthusiasm.
Elara could not bear the thought of food, her stomach knotting and her hand remaining firm in Dar’s.
Her pulse thrummed in her ears. The hall felt too large, too open, too exposed.
Whatever power ruled Caerith seemed etched into its very stones.
Oh, how she wished she was far from here, in the forest where she felt the most welcome, the most at home.
And she feared she might never see it again.
She cast a quick glance at Dar. He stood stoic beside her, his posture straight, the black leather of his Hunter’s garb intimidating. He looked as though he belonged in this hall, carved from the same strength and history, war and battle. He kept his gaze forward, unblinking.
Tavish turned toward the far archway as the sound of deliberate, measured steps began to approach, the kind of sound made by a man who expected the world to move aside for him.
A chill swept across the room.
Feena stiffened behind Elara, her hand tightening around Adira’s. The girl shrank against her, eyes fixed on the archway, where everyone focused, with fear so raw Elara felt it vibrate in her bones.
The steps grew louder, echoing, controlled, each one a statement, then… King Dravic entered.