Chapter 21
Hannah watched in silence as he unbuttoned his tunic, button by button. There was something slow, almost heavy, about his movements.
Shrugging off the garment, he stood bare-chested in front of her. She let her gaze drop briefly to the plane of his muscled chest, but there was no pulse of desire this time. Whatever he was going to show her was too serious for that.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he turned his back to her.
Hannah bit back a gasp of horror. His back was covered in raised, red-white scars, crisscrossing the skin from his shoulders to the small of his back.
“Are they burn scars?” she whispered.
He nodded tightly. “Brands.”
She slipped unsteadily off the bed and moved toward him, hand outstretched. She stopped herself at the last moment, curling her fingers into a fist and glancing anxiously at him.
“I’m sorry. I… Are they painful?”
“Nae much. Nae anymore. The skin tightens now and then. Scar tissue does that. I’m just used to it. It aches in the cold and stings in the heat. They’re healed, though.”
Upon closer inspection, Hannah could see that the scars were indeed individual brands. There were circles, lines, even a spiral—the sort of brands a person might use to mark cattle. They overlapped, with no particular pattern to them.
“Were these all done at once?” she croaked.
He nodded tersely. “Aye. They were.”
“And… And how many are there?”
He breathed out slowly. “Over fifty.”
She shivered, eyes closing briefly.
“I’ve burned meself before,” she heard herself say.
“A piece of bacon fat shot out of a pan at me. It caught me on the forearm. There’s a scar there about the size of a fingertip.
It’s nothing in comparison to what ye have, but even so, I can remember the pain.
Oh, how it burned. And the healing process wasnae easy either. How did ye recover from this?”
He shrugged. “I made poultices in the forest for meself. I’d spread them out on sheets or rags, as if I were spreading butter on bread. Then I’d lie down on them, pressing me back against them.”
“Didnae that hurt?”
He gave a short laugh. “Of course, it hurt. It hurt so much at times that I bit holes in me own tongue trying nae to scream. But I preferred that pain over the slow agony of dying of gangrene.”
Hannah shuddered. She let her hand drop.
“How did this come to happen? Who did this to ye?”
Aiden didn’t turn to face her. Instead, he let his head drop a little. She had a feeling that if she looked at his face now, she’d find his eyes glazed and distant.
“I think it would be easier to tell ye the whole story,” he murmured. “Exactly as it happened.”
Thirteen Years Ago
His own voice echoed in his head.
“This is wrong, Magnus! Ye cannae do this! This is our faither!”
Aiden closed his eyes, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.
The cell was cold and damp, with a mysterious, bilgewater puddle lapping in the center. He didn’t want to think about where the water was coming from or why it wasn’t draining away.
A soft, slimy sort of fungus coated the walls. He didn’t dare lean back against it, in case the wetness soaked through his clothes. Somebody had torn off his cloak before he was thrown in here, leaving him to shiver in a thin tunic and kilt.
A rat squeaked from somewhere in the darkness, splashing through the puddle on its busy way.
It encountered Aiden’s tray of food, left just out of reach beyond the bars of the cell.
Aiden watched miserably as the rat nibbled on a hunk of stiff, stale black bread.
There was a jug of water too, and his dry throat clenched reflexively.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Maybe the jailors had forgotten to hand him his food, or perhaps this was just a cruel, unusual torture they’d devised for him.
Nay, Magnus would never do that to me. But then, Magnus has done a great many things over the past few weeks that I never could have imagined he would do.
Closing his eyes, Aiden rested his forehead on his knees and concentrated on controlling his shivering and ignoring his growling stomach. He was so focused on the task that he had not heard the approaching footsteps until they were almost right outside.
His head snapped up, gaze swiveling to the cell door. A young man stood there, eyes narrowed, hand on his sword. In the darkness, his red hair seemed almost dark.
“Theodore,” Aiden managed. “Did Magnus send ye?”
Theodore gave a tight nod. “Aye. He wants to speak with ye. Ye will be shackled. Daenae resist, and daenae complain. Ye arenae to cry out as ye are taken through the halls either.”
“Why nae? Ye think that anybody would come to me aid? Magnus’s army has an iron grip on the clan,” Aiden answered sourly. “There’s none of Faither’s supporters left to help.”
Theodore pursed his lips, playing with the rusted, heavy key that would unlock the cell.
“The people arenae happy,” he said at last. “Magnus doesnae want any more disturbance. We need peace, now. He needs to settle down, and so does the clan.”
Aiden’s shoulders sagged. “So he’s going to kill me, then. He’ll kill me to remain Laird, just like he killed Faither.”
“Enough!” Theodore hissed. “If ye daenae behave, we can always leave ye here for another week.” He paused, glancing pointedly down at the food tray, now abandoned by the rat. “Hungry? If ye come along quietly, I’ll get ye some food.”
Aiden closed his eyes. It was tempting to choose his pride and refuse to give in, but what good would that do?
Another few days with no food, and he’d be even weaker than he was now.
Whatever Magnus had planned for him would wait.
He’d have to deal with it a week from now, hungrier, weaker, and more despondent.
Best to get it over with now.
“I willnae cry out,” he said.
Theodore nodded in relief and moved to unlock the door.
The Great Hall was empty. That was the first surprise. Before, councilmen would have flooded the space around the Laird’s seat, ready to step forward and give advice. Villagers would come in to plead their cases and make requests, milling around at the other end of the hall.
Today, Aiden and Theodore crossed a bare, empty hall, with echoes following them the entire way.
A handful of men shuffled around the Laird’s seat, muttering between themselves.
A pair of grim-faced soldiers hovered by the roaring fireplace, occasionally adjusting one of several pokers sticking out of the flames.
With his ankles shackled together, Aiden could only limp or shuffle forward, taking small, slow steps. It was humiliating, and that was doubtless the intention.
A young man lounged on the Laird’s seat. About six years older than Aiden, the two men looked so alike as to be twins. Already, Aiden was as tall and broad as his older brother, and would likely grow taller still.
Perhaps that’s why he hates me.
“Good day to ye, Braither,” Aiden called, keen not to let Magnus speak first. His voice didn’t waver, which was a relief. “I must say, yer hospitality is somewhat lacking. The food in the dungeons is terrible.”
One of the councilmen laughed, before hastily turning it into a cough. Magnus shot him a glare.
“Very funny, Aiden,” he commented, leaning back and draping one leg over the armrest. “Ye are very stubborn. I cannae have people thinking that me seventeen-year-old braither has a stronger will than me.”
Aiden clenched his jaw.
Survive. This is yer goal. If ye die, then he wins.
“I have nay interest in politics, Magnus,” he said, voice brittle. “Ye ken me. I daenae—”
“Laird MacBain!” Magnus thundered, bringing down his closed fist onto the armrest. “I am Laird MacBain, and ye will speak to me with the respect I deserve.”
Fury flared within Aiden. “The respect ye deserve, Laird MacBain, is none. Ye murdered our faither for his position.”
“He was a terrible laird.”
“And ye will be worse! Why did ye nae wait? Ye are the oldest! It was always going to be ye! And now ye have plunged our clan into war. Ye have alienated the other clans. Ye have murdered yer own faither, and as for me, well, let’s nae pretend otherwise.
Ye are going to kill me. Ye will never trust me again. And nor should ye.”
Anger faded from Magnus’s face and was replaced by his usual, smooth expression, which gave away nothing. He sat back in his seat.
“Insightful as always, Braither,” he murmured. There was a hint of sadness in his voice, a sort of resigned finality that made Aiden swallow thickly.
Oh, nay.
“I daenae trust ye,” Magnus continued, waving toward the soldiers by the fireplace.
They bent over the fire, and Aiden heard the scrape of iron against iron.
“But the thing is, I cannae kill ye. The people didnae… That is to say, they didnae understand. They didnae react the way I hoped. They are angry that I did what I did to become Laird. Fools,” he added under his breath.
“Nobody deserves to be Laird if he willnae give up everything he has for it. If I kill me braither, if I kill ye, nae yet eighteen, I risk them rising up against me.”
Aiden’s heart began to beat faster.
What does this mean for me?
“So,” Magnus said, rising slowly to his feet. “Ye are going to leave this clan, Aiden. Ye willnae return. Ye willnae tell people who ye are. If ye do, I’ll hunt ye down and kill ye. Ye are exiled, Braither.” He released a long, ragged breath.
“Exile,” Aiden muttered, half to himself.
I can live in exile. I can always return. And Magnus may nae be able to find me. Surely…
Abruptly, his arms were seized, and he was forced onto his hands and knees. The chains binding his wrists together in front of him were pulled forward and fastened to an iron hoop set deep into the stone, forcing him to remain in a kneeling position.
He stared down at the iron hoop, heart hammering.
Has this always been here?
Somebody seized the back of his collar and tugged, tearing his tunic. He gasped, lurching forward. The thin fabric was pulled away entirely, leaving his back exposed.
“I have to leave ye something to remember me by, Braither,” Magnus’s voice came from somewhere above him.
Iron clinked, and the fire made a low hiss. With a sickening jolt, Aiden realized that the pokers he’d seen sticking out of the fire weren’t pokers at all. They were brands.
“Magnus,” he began, swallowing. “Ye daenae have to do this.”
“Aye, I do,” Magnus whispered, so quietly that Aiden wondered briefly if anybody else had heard it.
He felt the searing heat of the brand seconds before it pressed against his back. His skin prickled, and he drew in a deep, shuddering breath to steel himself.
It did nothing for the pain.
Whoever held the brand moved quickly. The brand pressed against his skin, square on his shoulder blades. A sickening hissing sound filled the air, and the scent of burning flesh drifted to his nose.
Aiden screamed. He could barely hear his own cry over the thrumming of blood in his ears, the rush of pain blurring his vision.
The brand remained in place for no more than one second before it was pulled away.
The heat ebbed, but the pain remained. He gasped for breath as if he’d been swimming underwater.
“Again,” Magnus ordered, his voice shaking just a little.
Closing his eyes, Aiden listened to the noises behind him. The hiss of flames, the shuffle of boot soles on the floor, the clank of a branding iron. Then the heat, then the pain, this time on a different part of his back, just over his spine. This brand felt bigger, perhaps a different shape.
“Again,” Magnus grunted, even before the brand had been removed.
Aiden forced himself to open his eyes, fixing them once more on the iron hoop in the ground.
“Me Laird,” somebody spoke up hesitantly, maybe Theodore. “Isnae this…”
Aiden glanced up in time to see Magnus fix him with a furious stare. Theodore closed his jaw with a clack and fixed his gaze somewhere in the middle distance.
Nay help is coming, Aiden realized dully. Nay more screaming, then.
For the next two or three brands, he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Then he forced himself to loosen his jaw, in fear of biting off the tip of his tongue altogether.
Again and again the brands came, until the agony no longer confined itself to his back, but spread through every inch of his body.
He breathed in and out, in and out, steadily and evenly.
He inspected every inch of the iron hoop.
There were flecks of rust on the underside, so it must have been there for a while.
“Wait,” Magnus ordered.
Silence echoed.
A few of the councilmen were gagging, and it occurred to Aiden that they must be choking on the smell of his burned flesh. He lifted his head slowly and found his brother’s gaze fixed on him.
“What are ye looking at?” Magnus demanded.
Aiden tightened his jaw. “I’m looking at the iron hoop in the floor. This one, set into the flags. I was wondering how old it was. I see rust, so it must have been here when Faither was Laird.”
Magnus blinked, bewildered. “Have ye gone mad? What are ye talking about?”
A slow smile spread across Aiden’s face.
The pain pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
“I was only thinking that one can spend one’s whole life in a place and still nae really understand it.
Nae really see. How often did we walk through these halls?
And yet we never noticed this hoop. Or at least, I didnae. Strange, eh?”
Magnus stared at him, brow furrowed.
“Again,” he ordered bluntly, but this time he turned away before the brand came, sitting back down in his seat.
The last brand dug into Aiden’s skin.
Fifty-seven, he counted in his head. Fifty-seven brands.
Magnus did not order another. He sniffed, picking at the cuffs of his tunic.
“Unshackle him and throw him outside. Drag him if he cannae walk,” he instructed, not looking at Aiden. “Ye are exiled, Braither. Daenae come back.”
A soldier came forward and unlocked Aiden’s shackles. He reached for his arm, but Aiden shoved him away.
“I can stand,” he snapped, with no idea of whether it was true or not.
The soldier mutely stood back.
Slowly, painfully, Aiden forced himself upright. Blood ran down his back and pooled around his waist, trapped in the waistband of his kilt. Some droplets slipped underneath, snaking down his thighs. He met Magnus’s eyes with a slow, brittle smile. The pain made his vision blur.
“Goodbye, Braither,” he said.
Magnus bared his teeth. “It’s Laird MacBain.”
Aiden tilted his head and smiled pityingly. “Nay, Magnus,” he murmured. “It’s nae.”