17. The Road of Silent Footfalls
The Road of Silent Footfalls
Finn Hours after the Attack
W e travel in silence with the cloud of death hanging over us. The steady clop of hooves on the dirt road and Casey’s muffled cries are the only sound in the cold, empty night. The weight of grief hangs heavy in the air.
Callan rides ahead, his jaw tight and his hand gripping the reins as though they are the only thing keeping him anchored.
Bran is the first to break the silence, his voice unusually subdued. “This doesn’t feel real,” he mutters. “None of it does.”
Casey, riding with him, keeps his gaze down. His voice trembles as he speaks. “I think…” He hesitates, then swallows hard. “I think they saw their end comin’.”
I snap my head toward him, brows knitting together. “What are you talkin’ about, Casey?”
“What Ma said,” Casey states, his voice firmer now. “‘ Nineteen moons shall orbit bright, ‘round the sun’s commanding light. Death will come within a day, the sacrifice will cause dismay .’ Triona turned nineteen yesterday… and now…”
A bitter taste rises in the back of my throat.
“Ma… the way she hugged me before we left. The things Da said. As if they were sayin’ goodbye, and they’d made peace with it.” Casey says.
“They knew, and they didnae say a bloody word. Why?” I ask.
Callan pulls his horse to a halt and turns to glare at us, his eyes cold and fierce, as if he can will us all into silence. “Enough.” His voice is sharp, a blade slicing through the tension. “They kent, aye. So what? Does it change what’s done?”
“It changes everything, ” Casey snaps back. His reins shake in his hands. “Why not warn us? Why not tell us what was comin’?”
“They have to have had good reason,” Bran says quietly, his voice carrying a weight I’m not used to hearing from him. “They didn’t want you going into this carrying their burden. They carried it alone.”
Casey scoffs, wiping angrily at his face.
“And now they’re dead, and we’re homeless, clueless, and just aimlessly followin’ the vague directions given in the heat of the moment.
On a road we can barely see with orders so rushed they might as well have been spoken by the wind.
Fat lot of good that did in the end. How does not havin’ a clue what to do help honour their memory? How can their deaths mean something?”
I tighten my grip on the reins, the leather biting into my palms. He isn’t wrong. We are lost in every sense of the word, floundering in the dark with nothing but fragments of warnings and riddles to guide us.
“They trusted us,” I say, my voice low, steady. I meet Casey’s glare, refusing to look away. “Whatever reason they had, whatever they knew, they trusted us to figure it out. To protect her. To stop this madness.”
“And we will,” Brans says, his voice rough, the fire in his tone as sharp as steel. “But this,”—he gestures to the lot of us—“this blaming and doubt… it ends here. So much has been lost already. We have a purpose, and we see that through with the information we do have. ”
Casey sobers a bit, his shoulders sagging as he exhales slowly. He gives a small, wary nod, his gaze fixed on the ground.
Bran shifts in the saddle they share, leaning closer to Casey.
He places a steady hand on Casey’s shoulder, giving it a compassionate squeeze.
“I know I’ve not known your family long like I have Finn, but I’ve got you.
We’ve got each other,” he says smoothly, his usual smirk replaced by a rare earnestness. “No one is alone in this.”
The road stretches out ahead of us, dark and uncertain, but there is no turning back, and it’s best we all face that.
“We keep ridin’,” I say. “And maybe now, we can truly empathise and feel the despair James and Ellen did when they were told a child of theirs would one day have to face such hardship. We’ll do what they did, and bear it… and choose to fight for her, anyway.”
Triona Saturday, 3 May 1823 Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands
The first thing I notice is the warmth. Soft sunlight filters through the canvas above me, casting golden streaks across the pale fabric.
The air smells of fresh grass and earth, mingled with something faintly medicinal.
My eyelids feel impossibly heavy, but I force them open, squinting against the dappled light.
A tent. I’m in a tent.
Confusion swirls in my chest as my eyes adjust. The sunlight glints off something metallic nearby—a basin, perhaps.
Slowly, I turn my head, wincing as pain lances through my skull, spreading like ripples in water.
My body feels heavy, pinned down by an invisible weight.
I groan, the sound faint and unrecognisable in my own ears .
“Triona?”
A voice cuts through the haze. Familiar. Grounding. It tugs at me, pulling me back from the abyss. I blink against the light, my lashes damp with tears I don’t remember crying. Slowly, the blurry edges of a face comes into focus.
“Casey?” My voice cracks, dry and raw. I blink again, harder this time, forcing the world to sharpen. His face hovers above mine, his usually mischievous features drawn tight with worry. His lips press into a thin line, and his eyes—hazel like our mother’s—are red-rimmed and glistening.
“Thank the gods,” he breathes, his hand gripping mine so tightly it almost hurts. “I thought—” He stops, shaking his head, his throat bobbing as he swallows whatever words he can’t say.
My head throbs, memories swimming just out of reach. “What... happened?” My voice feels foreign, weak. “Where... where are we?”
I try to push myself up, but the sudden rush of dizziness and a searing pain in my back knocks me down. I let out a string of pained moans and curses.
Casey’s hand flies to my shoulder, steadying me.
“Dinnae move yet,” he says quickly, his tone gentle but firm. “Ye’re hurt, Triona. You need to rest.”
Rest?
The word feels wrong. Foreign. Like it doesn’t belong. Shadows flit through my mind—screams, fire, chaos. My heart begins to race, pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribcage.
“Casey,” I whisper, my voice trembling now. “What happened to me?”
“Colina… she whipped ye.” He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as if unsure how much to reveal. “Ye’ve been in and out of sleep for some time.”
“Is it bad?”
“I dinnae ken. After Finn cleaned it—”
“Where is he?”
“Him, Callan, and Bran went to wash up in the creek.”
“Why are we in the woods?”
Casey’s discomfort grows. His fingers twitch against mine.
Before he can answer, a sound outside draws my attention. The tent’s canvas rustles, and Bran’s head appears. His eyes widen when he sees me .
He whistles, the noise sending a fresh wave of pain lancing through my head.
I flinch further at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching the tent.
Casey’s grip on my hand tightens as Bran steps aside to let them in.
Finn’s tall frame ducks through the opening first, his face set in a hard line.
Callan follows, his eyes raking over me with a concern so intense I can hardly breathe.
“Triona,” Callan says softly, his voice carrying the weight of concern. He crouches beside me, his broad shoulders blocking some of the light streaming through the canvas. “How are ye feelin’?”
I blink at him, my lips parting to respond, but I don’t know what to say. How am I feeling? Pain ripples through me with every breath, but that’s not what he’s asking. There’s something else in his gaze—something deeper. A growing sense of unease gnaws at the edges of my mind.
“I’m dizzy,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m confused. You’re all scaring me.”
Finn and Callan exchange a glance, their silence only amplifying the tension. Casey shifts uncomfortably beside me.
Callan clears his throat—his usual gruff demeanour softens. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Ye’ve been through a lot, lass. Like Casey said, ye need to rest.”
Rest.
That word again.
I shake my head, and pain pulses sharp behind my eyes. “I need to know what’s going on. Why are we in the woods? Where is everyone else?”
The question hangs in the air, with a suffocating presence. No one answers.
Finn looks away, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle feather. Callan sits tight-lipped. Casey lowers his gaze, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket draped over me.
“Someone answer me,” I demand, my voice cracking under the weight of my rising panic. “What happened? Why are we here?”
Bran, still lingering near the tent’s entrance, shifts his weight, his usual humour absent. “It’s... it’s not something easy to explain, Triona,” he says cautiously.
“Try,” I snap, the sharpness of my tone surprising even myself. “Because I can’t remember anything after—after Colina… ”
My voice falters, my mind catching on the fractured memory. The whip. The blinding pain. Then… nothing.
Callan reaches for my hand, his touch gentle but firm. “Triona,” he begins, his voice low and steady. “Ye need to stay calm.”
“Calm?” I repeat incredulously. “How am I supposed to stay calm when none of you will tell me what’s happening?”
“Right now, ye need to listen to us, and ye need to focus on healin’.” Callan says bluntly, his deep voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
The finality in his tone sends a chill through me. My head aches as a thousand possibilities flood my mind, each more terrible than the last.
“Stop,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I need to know. Please.”
Casey leans in, his voice low and tight. “There was a fire,” he says. “The house… it’s gone, Triona.”
“What caused the fire? Are we outside because—”
Casey places a hand on my shoulder, halting my racing thoughts.
He stiffens as I reach up to grab his hand, a move I regret immediately as it causes the muscles in my back to move in a way that has pain radiating in all directions.
I scream out in pain, and Casey jumps back.
In an instant, Finn and Bran are both at my side.