Chapter 3 #3
As laird of the MacAlen Clan he carried endless responsibilities, none of which he could shirk.
He ruled over hundreds of clansmen, vassals and tenants who in return brought him all their grievances for him to judge.
Local merchants and traders came to him to secure deals, not only for their own goods but those produced by the clan.
Then there was his most crucial task, assigned to him by the king, to watch over this region of the highlands and those who might take advantage of the villagers and crofters who dwelled here.
Most days his obligations numbered more than he could count; lately they’d grown onerous and weighty as well.
Sometimes he imagined abandoning this life, and leaving the clan in the hands of his second so he might return to the small seaside village where he had been born.
No one there would expect him to rule over them.
He could build a cottage and go back to work in the brine pits making salt.
He might even meet someone he could love with all his true heart, as he had once in his boyhood.
Only I cannae as long as those iniquitous bastarts remain in the highlands.
He opened his eyes to look out at the dark smear of the island in the center of Loch Caillte.
Ever since the MacRune Clan had come to the highlands and built their castle, he and his clan had been watching them.
Their king had commanded the MacAlen remain vigilant, for no one knew these dark, angry men, or what they might do to the surrounding villagers and crofters.
Thus far they had been unfriendly and aloof but evidently peaceful, seeming to wish only to be left alone.
They had never once given the king cause to order the MacAlen to go to war with them.
Fifer wished rather than knew that fragile, unsteady peace would continue.
Everything that he’d believed had changed when the dark Fae queen had paid a visit to Tair MacRune.
The watchers and witnesses to the event had claimed they had engaged in some manner of parlay, although none had been close enough to overhear what the immortal monarch had wanted of the MacRune.
Now it seemed the renegade clan might leave their island at any moment to carry out some mission, perhaps on behalf of the monstrous monarch, with the MacAlen the only force that might stop them.
“My lord.” Ivor, the clan’s war master, came to stand beside him, his unbound black hair blowing about his long, narrow face. Restless and ever alert to any kind of worry, he barely slept these days. “Any sign of trouble?”
“No’ yet.” He always had to choose his words carefully, else he alarm the rest of the clan. “The MacRune, they’ve no’ left their stronghold for a full moon now. I reckon we should recall our watchers from the loch blinds.”
“Leave them at their posts a little longer, my lord,” Ivor suggested. “From the reports last night, ’twould seem another rift formed briefly and dropped another female from the sky to the waters near the island.”
“A second woman?” When his war master nodded Fifer dragged a hand through his hair. “Did someone recover her body?”
“She didnae drown but swam to shore, my lord.” Ivor’s upper lip curled.
“The fishermen that saw think her a witch, but our watchers spotted that grim bastart Dorchad MacRune helping her from the water. They report she wore strange garments, much like the other female who came before her. I’ll wager the dark Fae had much to do with the wench. ”
He nodded. “Make inquiries and see what you may learn about her. Dinnae alarm your spies.”
After Ivor bowed and left him, Fifer’s thoughts drifted back to the days when he hadn’t been obliged to rule over the MacAlen.
In that far simpler time he had only to safeguard the two people he most loved.
He’d grown up in a small village near the sea among fishermen, sailors and salt makers.
Hard work had provided plain but plentiful food for Ishbel, his widowed lady màthair, who in turn cared greatly for him.
Gael, the only son of an older salt maker, had been his constant companion in boyhood, and later had worked with him at the brine pits.
Over the years he had become like a second son to Ishbel, who loved the lad as much as Fifer.
Did she ever ken the truth about us? He sometimes suspected she had.
Remembering those days of happiness always brought with it the pain from how his life as a widow’s son had ended.
The darkest days of his life did not begin when he had left his village with the kinsmen who had come to find him so they might become a clan.
After many months of traveling the length and breadth of Scotland, Fifer’s terror came when he’d returned home to disaster.
He closed his eyes as the memory of finding the village half-empty, thanks to the pestilence, which had killed off every other person he knew.
Then he’d learned the dread sickness had also taken Ishbel and Gael.
Finding their bodies in the charnel house had nearly driven him mad.
He’d dragged them both out into the sunlight and tried to shake them awake.
Then he’d torn at himself, wailing in despair.
How can you take all I love from me? he’d shouted over and again at the heavens.
Although the headman attempted to insist on burning them along with all the other victims, Fifer had wrapped and carried their bodies to the dunes, where he dug their unmarked graves deep in the white sands.
That was the old way, the better way. He could not bear to think of them reduced to ash and charred bone.
In time the tide would reclaim their remains, taking what remained of them out to sea.
From whence we came, Ishbel had told him when she spoke of burying her own parents, so we must return.
Fifer’s fledgling clan had silently helped as he buried his first and last loves.
Not one man asked about Gael, or why the lad mattered so much to him.
Their unwavering and unquestioning loyalty to Fifer, someone they barely knew, had given him new purpose.
Instead of joining those he had lost, he forged ahead and created a new life with the kin who had found him.
In time they gathered more of those wishing new lives to build Dun Maor, a stronghold to protect them and the vassals that so loyally served them.
In time they had chosen Fifer as their laird, and that trust made him place their needs forever before his own.
“My lord.”
The sound of the soft, weary voice made Fifer banish thoughts of his lady màthair and Gael before he turned to smile at the young lad he’d rescued from slavers. “Fair morning, Kiamh. How do you fare today?”
“Much better, thanks to your healer’s harp music.” Short, too thin and graced with a beauteous face, the young druid had big, soft eyes and a delightful head of light brown curls. “My feet no longer pain me at all, and I sleep so well here.”
“I’m glad.” Fifer wanted to hug the adorable boy, but settled for a gentle pat on his shoulder. “Soon I shall take you to visit the nearest tribe of your kind. They should ken how we might locate your people, or at least send word of you to others who might recognize you.”
Kiamh’s shoulders drooped. “I’d rather stay here, my lord. I can work, of course, mayhap as a scullery, or gardener...” He ducked his head, and made a choking sound. “I didnae tell you the truth, for ’tis shameful. I cannae return to my tribe, for ’twas they who cast me into slavery.”
“Why should they do such to you, lad?” Fifer asked, appalled.
“My parents dabbled in dark magic. When the tribe found them out, they ended their lives, but I...I couldnae.” He forced himself to meet his gaze, his gentle eyes filled with pain now.
“’Twas cowardly of me, I ken, but I had done naught wrong, and I wished to live.
As I’m a man grown, and responsible for my kin, the elders declared me an outcast. To punish me they sold me to those slavers. ”
Those sobbed words made Fifer reach for the druid lad and fold him gently into his arms. “’Tis over now, Ki. None shall ever harm you again. I swear to you.”
It took some time for the boy to stop weeping, but he didn’t mind holding and comforting him. The slightness of his body and long, thin limbs made him all the more determined to protect him from the brutes of the world. Gael had died, but Kiamh could live. He had to live.
At last the druid boy quieted, and wiped at his face, his expression weary again. “Apologies, my lord. I’m easily overcome by sad memories.”
Fifer bent over to kiss his smooth brow for reassurance, but Kiamh lifted his face at the same moment, and their lips met.
It had been so long since Fifer had kissed anyone that, at first, disbelief held him frozen.
The lad’s mouth clung to his, sweet and giving, and he moved closer, clutching at his tunic.