Chapter 21
"Stay close," Cailean warned Ferda, who crept along the corridors behind him while Maeve carried on a few steps ahead. "I had tae nearly fight Darren tae bring ye along with ye injured like that. Kier will never forgive me if ye dinnae come home."
"Worry about yerself," Ferda retorted. "I can fight better with a sling than ye can with both arms workin'."
"Keep yer voices down!" Maeve hissed back from the front of the group. They and the small group of warriors snuck through the abandoned dark corridors of the castle, the sounds of battle echoing through the walls all too close to them. "If we're caught—"
"Let them catch us!" one of the warriors snarled. "Me blade is thirsty."
Cailean heard a man's scream from somewhere close by, and his heart lurched.
He thought of Darren and Senan, leading the charge, and prayed to whatever god was listening that they would survive the battle.
His heart was stammering in his chest as they continued their infiltration, and his bickering with Ferda was serving a much greater purpose.
If he allowed himself to think, the fear for his friends and family would overwhelm him—not to mention the fact he was fighting off all kinds of emotion about being in this castle again.
It was too familiar. And too different from anything he could ever remember.
He must focus on Neala and only Neala. Everything else could wait. Everything else could—
"Incomin'!" Maeve yelled, and a split second later, a host of guards slammed around the corner, their swords already raised, roaring with fury.
Cailean instantly engaged in the fight, as the others around him battled fiercely. There was no chance to take prisoners here, no space for mercy. These guards were fighting to kill, and it was all the rebels could do to end their lives first if they wanted to survive.
Ferda cried out in panic as a sword sliced her good arm, and Cailean spun around from his own attacker to try to reach her. He was forced to duck, though, as another guard aimed a blow at him.
"Nay!" he shouted as Ferda's attacker rounded on her, but suddenly Maeve was there, her weapon whirling, and she cut down the attacker in an instant.
Then Ferda was at Cailean's side in a blink, her own little dagger piercing right through the eye of the man who was threatening Cailean.
The two women launched back into the fray, and Cailean joined them in an instant.
The battle ended with two of their own seriously wounded, but all ten of the False King's guards either down or dead.
"Get them back tae the camp," Maeve commanded Ferda with more authority in her voice than Cailean had ever heard there, indicating the two injured men. "An' stay there. We cannae risk any more of ye."
"But—" Ferda started.
"There's more fightin' tae come," Fergus told his cousin quietly. "Listen tae our queen."
The words sent a fierce pride surging through Cailean as he saw Ferda nod. Maeve was every inch a queen, not just because of their bond, but because of who she was. He loved her with every inch of his being, and he couldn't have picked anyone better to be by his side as they took back his home.
Ferda and the wounded soldiers headed back in the direction of the secret passages, and Maeve moved to Cailean's side.
"I love ye," he breathed.
"Hold ontae that," she replied. "Because there'll be more bloodshed before this is over."
Neala stumbled back, tripping and falling hard on her backside as Ansel advanced upon her. Pure rage contorted his features into something unrecognizable as he loomed over her, a bloodthirsty aura dripping from him.
"Ye've trapped us, ye—" he started, then cut himself off. "Are ye happy now? We'll die in here!"
"Better us in here than the rebels out there," Neala shot back, staring up defiantly from her position on the floor. "Murder me if ye want. Ye cannae stop it now."
"I should slice ye in half!" Ansel roared.
Part of Neala quailed, sure that he could make good on that threat, and reminded horribly of his father.
In her mind's eye, she saw the moment again when James O'Sullivan fell dead to the floor.
She remembered the blood she'd failed to clean, seeming to stain the floor forever.
Her knife was still held loosely in her hand, and she felt a shiver of shame at the thought of how Laura would react to learn she'd been killed by her own weapon.
Well, if she was going to die anyway, she would say her piece first.
"Ansel," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "Listen tae me. Just… listen. What do ye have tae lose?"
He still stood over her, but he did not attack as she got to her feet, even with the dark rage churning behind his eyes.
She stood in front of him, her heart racing. "Listen, please. I've heard what this country was like before yer father took over. I've heard how the Highlands used tae prosper, and now they've burned away. Our people, the Celtic blood of our ancestors—"
"Yer ancestors," Ansel snarled.
"Nay. Ours. I ken who yer mother was. Seonag McDonald was stolen away from a proud clan and forced tae marry yer father, even before he stole the throne. I ken her story. I ken her father was tryin' tae work with mine tae save her," Neala said.
Ansel's eyes fixed on her. "Dinnae talk about what ye dinnae understand. Dinnae ever mention me mother's name."
"But it's true," Neala told him steadily.
She stepped forward, her shaking hand raised to touch his.
This time, he didn't pull away. "It's true, is it nae?
He's always been a monster. That's why the English king supported him.
That's why he ruthlessly destroys the people he claims tae want tae rule.
It doesnae matter who they are. His loyal servants like James O'Sullivan.
His worst enemies. Innocent farmers, desperate brothel workers, and anyone in between.
He'll raze the world before his bloodlust is sated. "
Ansel clenched his free hand into a fist.
"Do ye ken the village of Broken Windmill? It had a name once, a true name," Neala told him. "They were good people. Strong people. The village was devastated by famine and blight when Edric Ashkirk took the throne." She shook her head. "But they persevered for two decades. They grew strong."
Ansel's eyes widened.
"Then, some time ago, word reached us Sparrows that Broken Windmill had once sheltered the rebels before they retook Bruce Castle, and for a while, they prospered thanks tae the rebels' help.
It was filled with good people. The elderly.
The impoverished. Bairns. People who gave everythin' tae help one another. "
He actually looked away. "Dinnae speak of this."
"So ye do ken," Neala said. "Ye ken that the English raided and found nothin', no evidence of the rebels ever bein' there, and Cailean's plan was successful.
Ye ken that they left the village alone.
But that wasnae good enough for yer father, was it?
Even though the village had been deemed innocent—"
"Ye've just admitted they did shelter the rebels," Ansel said, though the fire was not there as it had been a moment before, and he would not look at her. "Ye admitted their guilt yerself."
Neala ignored him. "Even though there was nae evidence of the rebels ever bein' there, what happened three months later, Ansel? What did yer father command tae be done tae those people after Clan Darach fell?"
"I told ye tae be silent."
"He didnae destroy the village fully, did he? He didnae make it a fight." Anger laced Neala's own tone now. "The False King commanded his soldiers tae wait til the dead of night. He didnae attack the men. What did he do, Ansel?"
The prince did not reply.
"Some escaped. But not all. An' what happened to those women?
What happened to those bairns?" Neala whispered.
"I'll tell ye—the same thing that's been happenin' tae women and bairns for more than twenty years.
The same thing that's happened tae the lassies who've been violated by yer father's soldiers, or the bairns whose parents have been slaughtered before their eyes, leavin' them no choice but tae be raised tae fight.
The same thing that's happened tae countless villages, countless clans.
The very soul of our country, drained away, horror after horror, death after death, all the while yer father sits on his throne of skulls with the flames burnin' around him. "
Ansel met her eyes again, but if anything he just seemed more furious, her example only fueling the dark wildness in his expression. She could barely recognize the man before her now as the one who had brought her here.
"I ken this isnae what ye want. I ken ye understand the hope the rebels have brought back tae this country, and I ken part of ye wants tae help end all of this. Choose a different path. Ye dinnae have tae follow him. Ye dinnae have tae—"
"Shut yer mouth!" Ansel bellowed, so loudly and forcefully, that Neala took a step back. He pushed past her, running to the door, and threw his shoulder hard against it. It didn't budge, and he slammed against it again, harder, painfully colliding over and over again. "Open, ye bastard. Open!"
Alarmed, Neala exclaimed, "Stop that! Ye're gonnae hurt yerself, and it willnae make any difference!
"Hurt meself!" Ansel cried out, laughing furiously. "Why would ye care? It would save yer accursed brother the task!"
An image flashed across Neala's mind. She saw James O'Sullivan's body again—except it was not O'Sullivan anymore. Instead, on the floor lay Ansel, cold and bloodless, eyes staring sightlessly and breath gone forever. A shadowy figure stood over him, blade glinting.
Her heart tightened with a deep ache at even the idea.
She did care, no matter how much she shouldn't.
She would never be able to kill him. She would never be able to stand by and watch him be killed.
All she wanted was to free him from his father, even if it meant her own life—but she would not risk the life of her brother, or of the rebellion, in the process.
Ansel did not wait for an answer, but returned to slamming against the door with more force, trying hard to batter against the sealed wood, until finally a loud splinter cracked through the air.
The wooden planks buckled under the pressure, and wood pierced Ansel's shoulder, drawing blood that he didn't even seem to notice.
He drew back, raising his foot to kick at the weakened point and create an opening to escape.
Neala dived forward, tackling him with her whole body, dragging them both to the floor.
He screamed in frustration, turning under her, but she pinned him in place.
He growled, their bodies pressed together, then twisted on the ground, forcing them into a roll until her back was on the floor, and he was now holding her in place.
His knees on either side of her hips, his hands so tight around her wrists that it hurt, the waves in his hair sweat-slicked so they hung over his face, he stared down at her from above. Neala blinked back up at him, her heart pumping so wildly she thought it might burst out of her chest.
Then they heard the footsteps.
In a blink, Ansel had scrambled to his feet, and Neala did the same behind him. They both faced the door, eyes wide, but it was too late to do anything about it. Someone was hurrying through the library directly toward the hidden spot.
And then the door flew open and a small group of people burst through.
At their lead were two people who seemed to command the attention of the very air as they stepped in to the room.
The first was a woman with tied-back chestnut hair and green eyes that shone with a righteous determination, stunningly beautiful even with dirt on her clothes and blood smeared on her cheek.
Normally, the sight of her would have captivated Neala, who had spent her whole life admiring the strength of the older women amongst the Sparrows.
But the second person drew all of her attention and sucked the very air from her lungs in a verbal gasp.
He was a tall muscular man, his light blond wavy hair dusted with blood and sweat, his firm jaw taut as he stared around the room.
The shape of his nose and facial features were stunningly familiar, reminding Neala forcefully of a faded portrait of a woman and her family that she'd stared at so many times.
The eyes were what got her, though; the shape and color of those eyes had long been burned into Neala's memory.
Her own eyes were dark, inherited from her father, but she'd obsessively studied every inch of her mother's face in the portrait that had been her most prized possession.
Each of the McNair children except for Neala herself had inherited those eyes from their mother, almond shaped and thick eyelashes, and an iris of deep silvery gray that seemed to hold the light of the moon itself within it.
Neala's body felt limp as she stared into those eyes, for the first time in real life, and saw them widening as they stared back at her.
Her mother's eyes.
Cailean's eyes.
Everything went still, and, as one, the two McNairs took a step toward each other.
But before any of them could speak or react, a sharp yank at her arm pulled Neala back.
She was pulled hard, her back pressed against Ansel's chest, his arm possessively snaking around her waist. And with his other arm, he raised her own knife, its point resting threateningly against her throat.
"Greetin's, Cailean McNair," Ansel hissed. "I've been waitin' for ye."