Prologue
As the nine-year-old son of Laird Fredric—and his eldest son, at that—it was fair to say that Gareth McDaugh had far more responsibilities than most lads his age.
The average boy had certain duties to perform, no doubt.
A farmer’s child would be expected to help with plowing the field or bringing the harvested crops to the village to sell.
The offspring of a healer or midwife would be charged with assisting in ministrations to those in need, while the child of a blacksmith would doubtless make himself useful fetching tools and wrapping the handles of axes and blades.
Even so, though, these children would, upon completion of the daily tasks expected of them, be free to pursue their own innocent interests; skipping stones across ponds, perhaps, or trudging off into the moors in search of interesting frogs or bugs, or venturing into the woods to pick apples and flowers.
They would make friends with others their own age, play games, and chase each other through the misty valleys until dusk fell and their parents’ voices called for them.
Theirs were normal childhoods, their days filled with frolic and adventure.
Alas, Gareth was not numbered among them in those regards.
His own rather elevated station in life compelled him to spend hours at his lessons, learning to read and write and cipher so that he might one day be able to intelligently converse with his own advisors and administrators.
When he wasn’t with his tutors, he was generally forced to remain by his father’s side so he could learn all there was to know about how to effectively, wisely, and peacefully rule over an entire clan.
He was tested endlessly on the history of the McDaughs, and their alliances and enmities with every clan surrounding them.
He was drilled copiously on martial endeavors such as weapons and their proper use, battle tactics and strategies, and the most efficient use of soldiers and resources in any given conflict.
He was taught to ride and fight since, in the event of war, he might someday be called upon to lead men into bloodshed.
He had no doubt that many boys would gladly have traded places with him, finding his daily endeavors far more rewarding and exciting than their own—and relishing the prospect of noble birth and all the trappings and luxuries which accompanied it.
For his part, Gareth would have eagerly made such a bargain with any of them if such a thing were possible.
He’d have traded his feather bed for a straw one and his fine clothes for rough and homespun garments in a heartbeat if it afforded him chances to indulge in games and nonsense with other children.
He’d have been delighted to shed all of the stern and sober responsibility that he knew he would be forced to shoulder someday when the time came for him to lead the clan himself.
The duty he loathed most of all, though, the one that never ceased to bore and irritate him, was his responsibility to constantly look after his younger brother Alex.
Oh, Gareth supposed he loved Alex well enough, in the often combative and exasperated way that brothers loved each other.
He certainly didn’t wish the boy any harm—not consciously, at any rate.
It was simply that he quickly became embarrassed and belligerent in Alex’s company since the lad tended to act so silly and simple and obnoxious.
Their father frequently reminded Gareth that such behavior was common in boys that age—that, indeed, Gareth himself had behaved similarly himself only a few years before and that as such, he was expected to show his younger sibling the utmost love and tolerance no matter what.
Likewise, Gareth was entrusted with running around after Alex and keeping him out of trouble.
Gareth hated that. Why, he felt, should he have to play nursemaid to his foolish little hobgoblin of a brother when he already had so many responsibilities to concern himself with?
Weren’t there more than enough servants in the castle to handle such matters?
Wasn’t this merely his father’s attempt to rip away the final scraps of Gareth’s free time so that the poor boy wouldn’t know a moment’s peace or happiness from the time he awoke until the time he was sent to bed?
Whenever he voiced such complaints, though, Laird Fredric would simply say, with a twinkle in his eyes, “It is important fer ye tae take responsibility fer yer brother from the start, Gareth. It will form a stronger bond between the two of ye, one which may serve ye both well when ye are older, and ye will count on his support in rulin’ over this clan.
Nae only that, but havin’ someone tae look after will help ye build character, my son.
It will be a lesson in carin’ for those who are weaker than ye are.
Those who may depend upon yer strength and wisdom tae guide them.
These things shall all become clearer tae ye in the fullness of time, and ye will thank me fer them, I promise ye. ”
Well, Gareth wasn’t particularly inclined to thank his father at the moment. Not when he was currently scouring the castle, looking high and low for his missing brother and silently cursing him during every moment of it.
Gareth hadn’t said anything to anyone about the fact that Alex was missing, although it had been almost two hours since he’d noticed it.
He didn’t want to raise the alarm or, more accurately, he didn’t want to be unnecessarily blamed for losing track of the lad, given how many times this sort of thing had happened before.
Alex had a tendency to wander off and go exploring on his own, no matter how many times Gareth had sternly chided him for it.
Their father said it was because Alex “has a curious and adventurous nature.”
Gareth was convinced that Alex only did it to infuriate him and make him come chasing after Alex, thus ruining whatever meager plans Gareth might have made for himself that afternoon; a few stolen minutes of reading, perhaps, or looking out the window and daydreaming.
He resolved that when he got his hands on Alex, there would be no lectures or admonishments this time, rather, he’d properly box the boy’s ears for making such trouble for no reason.
And if Alex went running to their father to tell on Gareth, well, maybe Laird Fredric would assign a proper nurse to look after Alex from that point forward, Gareth reasoned.
He inspected all of Alex’s favorite hiding places in the castle, doing so as nonchalantly as possible so no one would suspect he’d lost sight of Alex and ask him about it further.
As far as Gareth was concerned, if he could simply handle this on his own without calling anyone else’s attention to it, so much the better.
For the moment, though, there seemed to be no sign of the boy.
Gareth cursed and muttered darkly under his breath. Supper was just a couple of hours away, and he knew he’d better find his brother before then or else it would cause a fuss and he’d be blamed and punished for his negligence.
The stables were the next logical place to search, but there was no sign of Alex there either, and Gareth didn’t dare ask the stablehands whether they had seen him recently for fear they might report back to his father.
This left one last place for Gareth to go looking, and he went off in that direction, though he did not relish the prospect of it.
There was a small abandoned churchyard near the edge of the McDaugh lands.
Its steeple was crumbling and its gravestones were ruined with ivy and age, which made it the perfect sort of morbid place for a child like Alex.
He often enjoyed running across the fields until he’d made his way there, at which point he would sit among the gaping maws of the crypts and tombs, playing with the worms and pretending the dead there could come alive and tell their tales to him.
Gareth groaned inwardly at the idea of going all that way to fetch the boy, but he had no doubt he’d be successful in finding him there. He supposed the longer he tarried, the later he’d return with his brother in tow, and the more questions people would be inclined to ask him about it.
So he hurried toward the churchyard, noting how low the sun was in the sky.
It was never a wise decision to be out and about after dark, he knew, when one was lingering at the borderlands.
There had been recent hostilities between their clan and two others—the Wallaces and the Sinclairs.
Laird Fredric had done all he could to keep the peace since no one relished the idea of fighting a war on one front, let alone two simultaneously.
As things stood now, it seemed somewhat unlikely that either of those clans would choose to suddenly provoke the McDaughs into combat, and if they did, surely they would not do so by harming some innocent child.
Even so, a feeling of profound unease began to squirm in Gareth’s belly, and he hurried along all the more until he reached the lonely and ancient place.
“Alex?” he called out impatiently, still trying to quell his own steadily-increasing anxiety. He swore to himself that he’d smack Alex for making him worry so. “Alex, come out now! It’s gettin’ late, and ye’re not meant tae be out here on yer own!”
There was no reply.
“Alex, do not make me come lookin’ fer ye!” Gareth shouted, his voice trembling slightly. “Or I promise ye will bitterly regret it!”
Still no response.
Gareth began to search the rows of burial plots one by one, inventing increasingly elaborate forms of punishment he would visit upon his brother for making him so scared and angry for no reason.
Then, suddenly, he saw something that his gut told him should not have been there.
“Alex?”
But the bundle did not stir. The longer Gareth’s eyes were fixed upon it, the more certain he was that it was not moving, not even to breathe.
Gareth went to the bundle and crouched down next to it, shaking it gently.
Gareth did not know what to do. His brain seized and shut down utterly, and he remained by Alex’s side, fearing that if he did not and went running for help, animals might carry the body away to gnaw upon it.
In his head, that image was monstrous, and he could not bear it.
He was frozen and stayed in that position for countless hours until night had fallen, and his joints and bones were terribly sore and strained.
He knew that being out there might expose him to the same wretched fate that had befallen Alex, but he still could not bring himself to move.
Indeed, there was some small part of him that almost hoped he might be killed as well so that he would be spared the shame of having allowed such a thing to happen to Alex.
How could he possibly face his father when he’d been told to look out for his brother, and this tragedy had transpired?
Surely he would be disowned at the very least and probably even banished altogether by the grieving and furious laird.
So he stayed that way all night and well into the next day until, at last, he was discovered by the search party his father had dispatched. By then, he was malnourished, dehydrated, and nearly mad from sheer sadness and horror.
Time passed. His father comforted him and forgave him, though things were never quite the same between them again after that.
And in the twelve years that followed—as this gruesome discovery gave way to recriminations with the other clans and hostilities became fully-armed confrontations—Gareth bitterly wished that someday, children like his brother might venture as far from home as they liked without the fear of being run through by cowards, fiends, and monsters.