Chapter 11 #2
Reminding her she would never be enough, even though she was mightier than all of them.
They continued through the corridors, up a twisting staircase and through a set of doors, then down another set of stairs, until at last they came to a set of ornately carved doors.
They were decorated with scenes of grand battles, each cut into the wood so lovingly that Cailean could only imagine how much of the clan's wealth had been directed into this ostentatious decoration.
He was not against all finery, but this made him angry—it was clearly new, and clearly unearned.
This was not a record of battles fought, but rather an imaginary celebration of victories that Laird O'Sullivan had never actually achieved.
The doors opened and Cailean was pushed through.
The great hall of O'Sullivan Castle was decorated even more grandly than the hallways, covered in banners and tapestries proudly bearing the tartans and sigils of the clan, obviously declaring the greatness of O'Sullivan at every glance.
At the far end of the room was a raised dais, and on that dais was a grand carved chair in the same style as the entrance doors.
Sitting atop that chair, there he was—green-eyed and pepper-sprinkled chestnut haired and more handsome than any man so evil had any right to be.
Cailean would have recognized him anywhere.
His features were echoed in the hundreds of portraits that Cailean had passed to get here, but those green eyes would have been unmistakable anyway.
Both Breana and Maeve had those eyes, though neither of those women could have ever looked so cold had they tried.
There were two other seats on the dais. The one on the left was empty, placed as a queen's would be.
It must have been Maeve's mother's seat, back when she was alive.
She had died while Maeve was imprisoned as Malcolm Darach's wife, and Breana had told them that her father had sworn never to remarry, though he had many mistresses.
The other seat, on O'Sullivan's right and a little further back, was half-hidden in the shadows. A woman sat there, or maybe a girl, no older than her late teens. He could see that her eyes were dark, her hair a dusty blonde like Breana's, but he couldn't make out much else.
"Nessa," he said out loud, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
The girl started in her seat, looking up in alarm, then turned to her father, obviously looking for guidance.
"It's all right, pet," O'Sullivan said, though to Cailean he sounded more like he was talking to an animal than soothing his daughter.
Indeed, he didn't even look toward the girl, instead staring directly at Cailean.
His mouth turned up into a cruel smirk. "So the rumors are true, then.
Me useless daughter is dallyin' with the would-be king.
That fool McKenzie didnae even recognize her by yer side until it was too late. "
Cailean did not answer the taunt, though fury surged through him at O'Sullivan's words.
"That's right," O'Sullivan went on, laughing coldly. "I ken that she was the one who was with ye when ye stormed Darach Castle and stole it for yer pathetic wee rebellion. Did ye take the other with ye as well? Are ye keepin' them both as a wee harem?"
"Ye're disgustin'," Cailean said quietly. "Tae talk of yer own daughters in such a way."
"I have one daughter," O'Sullivan replied, "And two whores who couldnae stay loyal tae their husbands.
Of course, I'll expect them back. Women like them have one value, and it's me right as their father tae claim them and sell them off tae the next husband who'll take them, sullied as they are.
But dinnae worry yerself about returnin' them tae me.
I'll claim them meself once I've crushed yer pathetic rebellion intae the ground. "
Cailean shook his head and snorted, deliberately making himself sound as derisive as he could to drive it home to O'Sullivan that his threats did not cause any fear.
"Me men and women will slay ye where ye stand before ye could even try," he said.
"Ye're nothin' tae their heart. Their spirits.
This is our country, and we'll take it back. "
O'Sullivan laughed again, longer and with more callous mirth than before. "Yer country! And who are ye, Cailean McNair? What are ye, but the last remnant of a broken bloodline?"
"My bloodline isnae broken. It still courses through me veins," Cailean told him, standing tall.
"And when I spill that royal blood of yers in an execution in the name of our king, what will it be then, lad?" O'Sullivan leaned forward. "McKenzie told me men how ye've named that Bruce child yer heir. Heir tae what? I'll tell ye—heir tae ash. Heir tae dust."
Images flashed in Cailean's mind—that same dream. The burning castle. His lost home. His lost family. Ash and dust.
"So it's tae be an execution, then," he said. He didn't phrase it as a question; there was no question here.
"Dinnae look so glum," O'Sullivan told him gleefully. "I willnae chop off yer head with me own sword here and now. Nay, I have somethin' much more grand than that planned for yer royal self."
"A public execution?" Cailean asked, making himself sound ironically bored, though his heart rate picked up and a new kind of fear flooded him at the thought.
He was not so scared of his own death, but to leave the country behind before he'd had a chance to save it—to leave Maeve behind without being able to tell her that he loved her one more time…
"A message must be sent, ye see," O'Sullivan told him in an almost conversational tone.
"A true message that will quash these whispers about ye and yer so-called uprisin' once and for all.
There will be nae lost prince tae follow once numerous clan chiefs and the king's own advisor have seen the last McNair whelp lose his inflated head. "
"Ah. Ye plan tae make a spectacle." Cailean shook his head. "Ye plan tae try tae crush any sort of rebellion. Ye dinnae understand the spirit that drives us, do ye? Ye dinnae understand that our love for our country is a fire, and now that it's lit, it willnae be doused, nae by the likes of ye."
He tried to look at Nessa again, but the girl looked away, hiding her face and expression entirely. When he looked back at O'Sullivan, there was a hint of anger poking through the laird's smug smirking exterior.
O'Sullivan leaned forward. "I will crush yer rebellion.
I will take me daughters back, and I will sell them tae the highest bidder.
And it doesnae matter what ye say about spirit, or about fire.
Because ye'll be too dead tae see it." He snorted.
"It's only a shame that Maeve willnae be here tae see it.
But dinnae worry. When I have her back, I'll be sure she kens how ye suffered. Every last bit of it."
Cailean clenched his fist, rage flooding his blood at the sound of Maeve's name on this horrible man's lips.
What this creature had done to Maeve, to Breana, and Cailean suspected, to this other girl here in the throne room—even if in a different way—fuelled Cailean's hatred, but he would not allow himself to break.
Instead, he met O'Sullivan's eyes and coolly said, "We'll see. "
He might die here. He probably would. Cailean had no desire to die, but he accepted there was perhaps no way out this time. But if that was to be the case, then he would make sure that his death meant something.
Until he breathed his last breath, he would use every moment to show what the McNair name—what the entire rebellion—truly stood for.