Chapter Twelve #2
A breath caught beneath her ribs as the truth settled more firmly. The prisoner was no longer the danger; he was the tether holding the Mackenzies back from something worse.
She turned to Cameron. “What happens to the prisoner now?”
Cameron’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “We keep him.”
Her heart lurched, though she did not look away. “Even after this?”
“Especially after this,” he said quietly. “If we release him now, we invite vengeance without limit.” His gaze held hers, unflinching. “As long as their laird’s son draws breath within these walls, they hesitate. They measure their next step. Without him, there is nothing to restrain them.”
“And if they come again?” she asked.
“They will,” Cameron replied without illusion. “But they will come more cautiously. They will think before they strike. That pause may cost them pride, but it will spare my people their lives.”
The weight of it pressed down on her chest. She had wanted a solution that did not taste of iron and blood, but she could see now that none existed. Not yet. Not with men who answered mercy with war.
“Could releasing him ever bring peace?”
Cameron’s mouth hardened. “It would bring raids,” he said. “Ambushes. Burned fields and stolen cattle. They would circle us endlessly, daring us to answer.” His voice dropped. “I will not condemn my people to that kind of future.”
Silence settled between them, heavy but no longer confused. Destiny could not fault his reasoning. She could only mourn the simplicity she had hoped for, the belief that goodwill alone might blunt old hatreds.
Cameron scrubbed a hand over his face, weariness etched deep.
“There is no clean path through this,” he said.
“Only the least costly one.” He looked at her then, something gentler stirring beneath the strain.
“Give me time, Destiny. A few days. There may yet be a way to end this without drowning in it.”
She nodded, her throat tight. “A few days.”
Below them, the ordinary sounds of the courtyard resumed their place—the bucket thudding against the well stones, the creak of rope twisting under a boy’s hands, the squawk of startled chickens. Sounds of life moving forward. Sounds that pretended the world was not poised on the edge of bloodshed.
But Destiny knew better.
Even the peaceful sounds seemed to carry the truth that no peace, not even the smallest piece of it, was coming anytime soon.
*
The next morning, Cameron was no closer to a decision, so he called his council together to see if they could lend him any insight he might not have considered. As he waited for the last of the men to take their seats, the men turned towards him, waiting. Expecting.
Cameron braced his hands upon the scarred oak surface, wishing the strength of the wood could seep into his bones. He had fought battles before, but this one, this decision, cut deep into both his own fears of failing as a laird and of enforcing his name as the Butcher.
“We have repelled the Mackenzies twice,” he said, voice steady, though his jaw ached from holding it tight. “Each time they came harder, more desperate, to free the Mackenzie laird’s son we hold in the tower. They will not stop. That much we all know.”
A ripple of unease stirred around the table. Young Fergus leaned forward, eagerness lighting his gaze. “Then end it. Take the prisoner’s head and be done. Let the Mackenzies come if they dare.”
Cameron felt the urge to slam his fist against the table, to silence such reckless words. Instead, he kept his voice even. “And when they come with blood vengeance burning hotter than before? How many Munro lives should I spend for one Mackenzie’s death?”
Before Fergus could reply, Ian, another of his warriors, cut in, sharp and earnest. “Cameron is right. Killing the man will only stoke the fire. But holding him will not stop it either.”
“Have you considered ransoming the prisoner?” Gavan asked. “The Mackenzies might trade silver, or even a temporary truce, for the laird’s son. If they want him back badly enough, they may sit at the table before they take to the field again.”
Cameron’s expression darkened. “Ransom will not work. The Mackenzies have already proven they have no interest in bargaining. They want dominance, not peace. Paying a ransom would make them look weak, and they would sooner spill blood than show weakness.”
His Uncle Alastair grunted. “Then what? Every day that man breathes in our tower, his kin bloody themselves against our gates. That prisoner is a curse, Cameron. Best rid of him one way or another.”
Another elder barked, “Release him? Give the Mackenzies what they want? Show our people their new laird is soft?”
Voices exploded across the chamber, men leaning forward over the long table, fists pounding, tempers rising.
Arguments crashed into one another, angrier and louder than the training yard below.
Cameron’s stomach knotted. Every word hammered at him, every suggested path another blade pointed at his clan.
There was no right choice. Only ruin carved into different shapes.
Cameron raised his hand. Silence snapped through the room like a tightened bowstring. Their expectant eyes fixed on him, demanding a decision he did not have.
“Enough,” he said, the word rough in his throat. “We will not decide this in haste. Every choice costs us dearly. I have heard what you said, and I will consider it.”
He swept his gaze over each man in turn, daring any to challenge him. None did. They muttered, shifting in their seats, but no one spoke further.
As Cameron straightened, the mantle of lairdship weighed heavier than ever. He had bought himself time, nothing more. As the council slowly broke apart, he knew a truth he could not speak aloud—that he was no closer to finding a way out than he had been when he walked into the chamber.
Benches scraped. Low mutters faded into the echo of boots on stone as the men drifted out.
Cameron lingered behind, planting his hands against the scarred oak table.
He stared down at the darkened grain as though, buried beneath generations of decisions made by men braver, or more foolish, than he, the answers might be hidden there.
They were not.
“You are wearing grooves into that oak,” came a dry voice from behind.
Cameron looked up to see Alastair leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, firelight throwing gold across the lines of his weathered face. The old warrior had fought in the same battles of Cameron’s youth. His uncle’s presence steadied a room the way iron steadied a blade.
Cameron managed a thin smile. “Better the oak than my skull. I have hammered it enough today.”
Alastair moved to stand beside Cameron and then lowered himself heavily into a chair, the wood groaning beneath him. He studied Cameron, eyes narrowing. “You held them off well enough. But you’ve no answer for them, do you?”
“Nay,” Cameron admitted. The word came out harsh, scraped raw by frustration.
“Keep the man, kill the man, release the man. It is all the same. Blood. Oaths broken. War at our gates. And they all look to me to find the path that spares them.” His hands curled into fists on the table. “I see no such path.”
Alastair folded his arms. “Aye. Because there is no clear choice here. But you’re laird now, and they will follow you whether you are certain or not.”
Cameron stared into the fire, its shifting light painting long shadows along the walls. “And if I choose wrong?” he murmured. “If the path I take costs more lives than it saves?”