Chapter Seven The Cost of Unity #2
“No,” Liam said. “It was about identity.”
They moved toward the riverbank. Anya crouched, studying a hoofprint in the mud. “A single rider passed this morning,” she said. “Not ours. Smaller horse.”
“A scout,” Liam murmured.
“Eamon watches,” Anya said. “And Roderic watches through him.”
Liam scanned the far treeline, forcing his mind to stay in the present. “Then we give them little to see.”
They returned to the heart of camp, and it was there that Ronan struck like a storm.
He strode in from the MacFarlane tents, jaw set, eyes fixed on Anya. He acknowledged Liam with only the briefest nod, as if Liam were a barrier he intended to shove aside.
“Sister,” Ronan said.
“Ronan,” Anya replied.
“You were in council,” he stated.
“I was.”
“And you spoke,” he said, as if the act itself were a wound.
“I did.”
Ronan’s gaze swept the space between Anya and Liam, noting the lack of distance. “You speak more here than you ever did at home.”
Anya’s eyes flashed. “Because at home, men shout until the quiet ones disappear.”
Ronan’s face darkened. “Careful.”
Liam shifted slightly, ready to intercept if Ronan’s temper turned physical. He did not want a brawl in the camp. He did not want another public scene to feed Eamon.
Anya did not step back. “Say what you came to say.”
Ronan’s attention finally locked on Liam. “You influence her,” he said, voice hard.
Liam kept his tone even. “She is not a child.”
Ronan’s mouth tightened. “No. She is MacFarlane. And she forgets it too easily when she stands at your side.”
Anya’s breath caught, then steadied. “I forget nothing,” she said. “I stand where I must.”
Ronan leaned closer, voice low, meant to carry to nearby ears. He wanted witnesses. “You stand with men who would cut our throats if it benefited them.”
Anya’s reply came like a blade drawn clean. “And you stand ready to throw yourself at Eamon’s gate and die, just to prove you are brave.”
Ronan’s hand flexed. “I am not a coward.”
“I did not call you a coward,” Anya said. “I called you reckless.”
Ronan’s eyes burned. “You speak like a Kincaid,” he hissed. “Cold. Calculating.”
“I speak like someone who has watched our stores run thin while pride demanded we refuse help,” Anya snapped. “I speak like someone who knows Roderic will use our anger like a rope around our throats.”
Ronan’s voice dropped, raw. “You care more for their plan than our blood.”
Anya’s hand clenched at her side. “Their plan is ours. If the gate holds, we starve. If the road opens, we breathe. Do you want a clean conscience or living children?”
The question landed like a slap. Ronan flinched, and for the first time Liam saw the fear beneath his anger, naked and young.
Ronan recovered quickly, turning it into menace. “If you cross Father, he will not forgive you.”
Anya lifted her chin. “Then let him be angry.”
Ronan stared as if she had spoken nonsense. “You would risk being cast out?”
“I would risk everything to keep our people alive,” Anya said, and her voice did not waver.
For a heartbeat, the camp held still. Then Ronan turned sharply and stalked away, shoulders rigid as if he could not bear to be seen losing ground.
Anya stood motionless until he vanished among the tents. When she finally exhaled, it sounded like surrender and refusal at once.
After Ronan disappeared, Anya did not move at once. She kept her eyes on the space he had left, as if the air still held his voice.
“You did what you had to,” Liam said.
Anya’s gaze was bright with restrained emotion. “Do you know what it is to contradict your own blood in the open?” she asked. “Not with softened words, but where everyone will hear and remember.”
Liam answered carefully. “I know what it is to watch someone you care for walk toward a mistake, and to realize force will not save them.”
Anya swallowed. “Ronan thinks I have traded our clan for your shelter and your plan,” she whispered. “He does not see that I am trying to buy time.”
“He will act on what he believes,” Liam said.
“Yes,” Anya replied. “He will try to create a crisis big enough that only his courage can solve it.”
Liam turned his gaze to the ridge. Progress was the only thing that would close the space where Ronan’s anger could grow.
“You will not vanish,” Liam said quietly.
Anya’s mouth tightened. “If my father believes him, I will lose my place at home.”
“Then we make the truth louder than his version,” Liam said. “We move quickly, and we do not give Eamon a clean story.”
Liam spoke quietly. “He will not stop.”
“No,” Anya whispered. “He protects the version of me he understands.”
Liam understood that instinct too well. He had tried to protect his men by carrying every burden alone. In doing so, he had built walls that trapped him.
He wanted to offer Anya something steady. He could not offer comfort in a camp full of eyes. So he offered work, the only language that never embarrassed him.
“Come,” he said. “We check the sentries.”
They spent the afternoon tightening routines. Anya spoke to the watch posts with calm precision. Some men listened grudgingly. Others listened because results mattered more than pride. Liam watched the shift and stored it away. A camp could be bent, slowly, the same way a river bent stone.
Late in the day, a shout rose from the northern ridge.
Riders.
Liam moved fast, Anya at his side. Men surged toward the line, hands on weapons. For one breath, Liam feared it was Eamon striking at their camp while Cael was gone.
Then Cael’s familiar whistle cut through the haze, and relief hit Liam like a wave he refused to show.
Cael’s riders emerged from the mist, cloaks splattered with mud. They looked alive and pleased with themselves, the kind of pleased that could become careless if not checked.
Cael swung down and grinned. “We found them,” he said. “Two carts, guarded by six men. We took the oats and the coin chest, spilled the ale into the river. Left the guards alive to carry the tale.”
A cheer burst from a cluster of Kincaids. It was quick, sharp, more release than celebration. Liam let it happen for a moment. Men needed to feel progress, or they would manufacture it with blood.
“Well done,” Liam said, clapping Cael’s shoulder. “You kept the goal.”
Cael’s grin softened into respect as he looked at Anya. “Your eyes were right, lady.”
Anya inclined her head. “It was a shared thought.”
Liam saw Murdo nearby, watching. He also saw Alasdair, arms crossed, his expression a careful mix of approval and reluctance. Success did not erase suspicion. It only made it harder to justify.
Liam called a brief council at once. In the tent, he leaned over the map and spoke plainly. “Eamon will respond. He will either send more men to guard the supply route or pull men from the gate to hunt our riders. Either way, the gate weakens.”
Alasdair nodded. “And if he strikes MacFarlane lands to punish them?”
Anya’s expression tightened. “He does not need an excuse. He has been punishing us since the gate rose.”
Murdo spoke, quieter now. “He will blame you,” he said to Anya, not quite accusation, not quite warning. “He will claim you ordered the raid.”
“He will blame whoever suits him,” Anya replied. “That is his craft.”
Liam decided the next piece quickly. “We send word to Gavin with details and timing. We also send word to the MacFarlane laird. If he hears it from anyone else, Ronan will twist it.”
Anya’s brows rose. “My father will think you bind him.”
“I bind him to truth,” Liam said. “Or at least to the difficulty of denying it.”
Alasdair’s gaze sharpened. “You shield her.”
“I shield the alliance,” Liam replied. “If you want the road open, you want the clans standing together when Roderic pushes.”
The council ended. Liam sealed the letters himself, choosing words that did not hide Anya’s involvement yet did not gift her as a scapegoat. It was a narrow line, and he walked it with care.