Chapter 3
E mer raised her head for the first time since entering the keep and met his gaze as she walked into the room. Scanning the space, she noted the various personal items. This was not a room… it was his room. Unease surged through her as she searched for anything she might be able to use to defend herself.
Her eyes narrowed on a knife—similar to the one he taunted her with earlier—situated atop a stack of letters on the desk across the room. It called to her like a song, and she had to force her steps to slow as she made her way closer. The thought that its owner might use it to open up correspondences or men’s throats, depending on the day, caused her to flinch involuntarily. As she gripped the hilt, the door closed, and she spun around, the knife concealed beneath her cloak.
He grabbed a chair, placed it by the fire, and motioned for her to sit, but Emer didn’t move. She had no intention of closing the distance between them and knew that she could easily be overpowered in a seated position. The muscle in his jaw flexed because, as she suspected, not many people defied him when he gave an order.
Cracking his head from one side to the other, he growled and walked to a small chest. He proceeded to retrieve a light tunic and dark brown breeches before unceremoniously tossing them onto the bed at Emer’s left.
She eyed the garments suspiciously.
“I’ve decided not to divulge the details of how our paths crossed… yet. I imagine you know that if you attempt to leave this room, I will raise the alarm that an intruder has breached the perimeter. As you can imagine, we do not entertain guests, so you would be quickly spotted and treated as an intruder would be.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I can promise you that you wouldn’t find it pleasant.”
Emer might have been impressed by how bored he could sound while threatening someone, if it were not directed towards her.
He returned to the chest, this time, throwing his selection over one shoulder. The tunic he wore clung to his skin, sticky with blood concealed by the dark color of the fabric. Reaching for the hem, he raised it just enough to see the shallow wound that ran across the base of his ribs. He grunted as he studied the thin line of angry flesh, an imperfection on an otherwise blemish free torso.
Emer suspected the number of people who had managed to scar him were few and the number of people who did so and still breathed were far fewer.
Calder's fingers surveyed the damage, fresh blood wept from the wound and streaked passed thicker clots of crimson.
Grimacing, Emer tightened her grip around the knife. Perhaps if she stabbed him again while he was distracted, the combined wounds would grant her enough time to exit the keep before he sounded the alarm. She was confident she would need to vomit but had grown accustomed to multitasking. She lifted her heel to move forward when the knight unsheathed one of his swords.
“You know what I love about scars?” he asked. His tone held genuine curiosity.
She placed her heel silently back to the floor, momentarily disoriented by his question. Over by the fire, he leaned against the stone wall, leaving one hand stretched high above him. Although his back was to her, she learned earlier that the position made him no less aware or dangerous. Rather than answer his question, she continued to watch him warily from the other side of the room.
“Their stories. The best scars have the most interesting ones,” he explained.
With his back still to her, he pulled his tunic up once more and then positioned the heated blade to his side. It wasn’t until she heard the hiss of the hot metal against his cool blood and smelled the searing of his flesh that she realized what he was doing. She almost dropped the knife to cover her mouth in horror as she watched him cauterize his wound.
His head tipped back as a low, feral sound spilled from his chest. His other fist clenched so tightly that she swore she heard bones crack. Calder dropped his tunic, and his shoulders rose and fell with several deep breaths.
“I think this one will be very interesting,” he said with a rasp.
He straightened, testing the movements. Satisfied, he stepped away from the fire and turned to meet her shocked stare.
With a knowing smirk he added, “Don't forget to breathe, sweetheart.”
Rather than releasing the shaky breath she felt quivering within her, Emer let her lungs burn, closing herself off from her fear and the nauseating scent.
“It seems we are both in need of…” his words trailed off as his eyes washed over her. “Self-care,” he continued, making his way to the door.
Before he exited the room, he paused to turn around—an undeniable smirk painted across his face. His earlier annoyance was replaced by a searing satisfaction that resulted from the fact that he was winning, and she knew it.
“While you appear to be an intelligent little thing, I suspect you may also have a mischievous side. This door will be locked the moment I leave in case you were entertaining the idea of doing something spectacularly stupid.”
The instant the door closed, Emer stumbled back into the desk. She refused to allow him to witness her mask slip, but its weight had become too heavy. She felt like she was free-falling into an abyss. A gaping chasm of anger and grief that had her sight blurring with tears and her hands shaking with rage.
This is not how it was meant to be.
She had been good; she had done what was asked of her, and yet her father was sick. She had been brave and left her home to fix things, and yet she was now a captive.
Emer swallowed her scream but felt its impact rattle her bones. She could not fill her lungs with enough air to quell the tightness in her chest, consumed with the same overwhelming nausea she had when her father first became ill. When his waking hours grew non-existent and he became a silhouette of what he was—tangible and present but ever-fading. She recalled the collective desperation she felt when the healer had proven utterly useless. His efforts were like trying to stifle the flames of a burning meadow with a thimble. Despite his attempts, she and everyone she loved were still burning, and she could not feign any gratitude for his labors.
She thought she knew what it meant to be broken. She had been wrong because, at least then, there was hope. Hope that roared to life when Lachlan told her of the Well. When he spoke of the Guardian and the need to petition the being tasked with keeping the Well, Emer had not hesitated. She would beseech the Guardian, she would gain access to the Well, and she would save her father from whatever was ravaging his body. But just like the village healer before her, she failed him before the sun even rose to shine light on the promise she'd made.
Her father was going to die.
She was going to die.
Her mother and brother would be alone, and she didn’t even get to say goodbye. Those words ricocheted in her heart, leaving bruises with each collision.
The numbness that eventually swept over her was a small kindness. In that numbness and darkness, she stayed. Her hands trembled with a mixture of fear and fury. Her head throbbed and her teeth hummed from how hard she had gritted them.
Slowly, she felt the thick black thread of dread through her center begin to give. Each breath caused it to loosen a bit more. With sobering clarity, she realized that with every fear of hers having come to pass, there was nothing left to be afraid of. She had fallen to the bottom of the abyss, and here, not even the monsters could find her. It was there that she found the will to climb.
Emer hoisted herself off the floor, the knife still in her hand. She straightened her spine and turned to the garments on the bed. Whatever came next, she intended to face it wearing pants.
Unlacing her boots, she removed her leather pouch and slipped off her dress. After quickly dressing in the tunic and breeches, she slid the knife into her boot. Knowing he could return at any moment, she used the time alone to get to know her opponent as he suggested. Starting with the map above his desk.
Her eyes grew wide as they darted across the various landmarks and notations. It was vital that she determine where on Isle Basalt she had found herself, so she turned her attention to the letters. She was highly aware of the rustling that radiated from the thick parchment as she scanned letter after letter, taking breaks to occasionally peer over her shoulder. After the earlier demonstration of his ability to move in behind her without so much as a sound, she was convinced she could feel his breath against her neck sporadically as she snooped.
Some of the letters were of no consequence, providing very little insight into the man who currently kept her locked away. Other letters were quite tedious. Reports being sent to indicate the status of various keeps and their men. One to the east appeared to be running low on ale and was quite adept in expressing concern for the “ unfortunate situation they found themselves subjected to ”.
By the fourth letter, she was fairly certain she was being held in Obanes, something she confirmed after cross-referencing against the map. She was struck by the vastness of the Caillte Sea. It was a small miracle she ever made it to land. Cursed as it may be.
While she could not identify Calder’s rank or importance, it was quickly apparent that many sought his guidance. Some had requested a ruling over some manner of dispute. Others were simply seeking his favor and support regarding a particular decision.
It was also clear that he was well versed in war—both in the strategizing and in the killing.
Terrific.
The rustling of the papers grew still as she heard the faint creak of wood and carefully watched the door for Calder to appear. When it remained closed, she returned to the search with renewed vigor.
At present, his skills were being leveraged to train knights in hopes of replicating his “abilities” during an extended time of service. She could take some solace that he had not been leading the raids against her home.
One of the letters seemed more personal than the others. It was from someone named Lina and, although the words were practical, the tone was affectionate. The author was clearly fond of the brute. While it felt wrong to read such a sensitive correspondence, Emer knew any amount of information could save her, and lack thereof could seal her fate.
She prowled through the rest of the letter, but the vague text divulged very little. In addition to the letters was a small stack of books.
The Law of Armys.
Unsurprising
The Order of Tides .
Odious.
Tam Lin. The same story Emer’s father once gifted her.
Curious.
A heavy ache settled in her chest as she ran her fingers over the spine—a sensation as familiar as the contents of its pages. A ballad of adventure, magic, and love. She pulled the thin book free from its companions and studied the aged cover, worn with time and frayed from use. Turning the book over, she could see the page edges were wrinkled and bent—features she always felt were signs a book was well-loved.
As she opened it, a metal object connected with the desk below. Her eyes fell on the necklace lying on the desk beneath her. The iron had been manipulated into the shape of a butterfly. She rubbed her thumb over the rough edges of the metal as she placed it back into the book and in line with the others.
A piece of parchment concealed between the books caught her attention. Tugging at the corner, a letter slowly came into view. The thick black scrawl of the name Muireann stood out starkly against the parchment, yellowed from the time it spent waiting to be sent. Flipping over the letter, she froze, her eyes narrowing on the image embossed in the wax seal. A sun, a moon, and a raven in between. She dropped the letter as if it would somehow sprout fangs and bite her.
Death and darkness ride on the wings of the raven.
Ravens had long been considered an omen and messengers of the Otherworld as one of the few able to cross the Array while still living. Like the ravens, the clan associated with them were seers and senders of death.
An icy fear seeped into her at the realization that Calder was no ordinary knight. He belonged to the Morvran clan—a Sea Raven, born for bloodshed and battle. The people he hailed from were mercenaries, unstoppable on land and unbeatable on the sea. With a law of their own, those unfortunate enough to earn their attention lost their lives and she could still feel the weight of his storm-cloud eyes.