Page 49 of Marin’s Promise

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Regardless of what had triggered his need to speak, Bran found the memories rising inside him and bared them before Marin for her mercy.

He welcomed the angry, frustrated rage firing through him. It was an easier emotion to handle that the ugliness of his hurt. He couldn't fall prey to such pain. Not again.

“I know Leila is not Ena,” he said.

Marin nodded.

“Ena was the same age, with the same long dark hair…” Brown eyes surfaced in his mind, doe-like and dark, fringed with long lashes. “She doesna have blue eyes like Leila. The hit to my head knocked my wits about.” He put his hand to the back of his skull in demonstration and found his scalp still sensitive.

Marin leaned forward to rest both elbows on her knees, as if she needed to be as close as he yearned for her to be. “Who is Ena?”

“My sister.” His voice was gravelly with disuse, from the ragged pain of his loss.

“And Gregor?”

The pain of that name tore a fresh rawness in Bran’s heart. “My brother.”

“Will you tell me what happened?” Marin's request was equally as kind and calm as her expression–an invitation, but not in any way a demand.

“I was still a lad, the youngest of the three of us.” He drew in a deep breath, but it did not ease the band of tension squeezing at his chest. “We lived on the border as ye do now, but we didna have yer wealth. We didna have yer stone castle and yer guards. We were villagers, with homes that barely kept out the wind, let alone reivers, and with walls thin enough for us to hear them coming.”

A scream rang out in the dusk and immediately cut off. Mum edged toward the door and brought down the latch over the frame, a meager means of protection. “Hide.”

Another scream rent the air, this one longer, tinged with anguish. And far closer. Bran didn't move. He stared, watching the door, uncertain where to go. What to do.

“Now,” Mum hissed.

Gregor, the eldest of the three of them, grabbed the sword their da had used before he died. “I’ll protect us, Mum.”

“Nay.” She reached for the sword. “They’ll kill ye.”

Bran looked to Ena, the way he always did in times of crisis. She always knew what to do. Her arms closed around Bran, enveloping him in safety.

She gave him a reassuring smile and pulled at him. “The cupboards are safest.”

She tucked him into the darkness within, but he reached out to her.

“There's only room for one, sweet Bran.” She stroked his hair and kissed his brow. “All will be well.”

A thump sounded at the door and her eyes went wide.

Mum hid on the opposite side of the cupboard, buried in the shadows. Near him. He knew she'd done that for him, to make him feel safe. Gregor was at her side, sword in hand. Brave Gregor, who was ready to defend them all.

Ena ran to the center of the room and stood for one panicked moment. Time crawled to stillness then, in the hissing pop of the fire and the distant cries of loss and pain. Ena dove under the table just as the door flew open in an explosion of splintered wood.

“Ena hid me, then went under the table,” he said around the rawness–of his throat, of his memories, of his heart. “My mum and older brother had hidden near me to ensure I'd be safe.” Bran balled his fists. The action echoed in a light sting on his shoulder where the arrow had nicked him days before. He reveled in the physical pain, even wished it was more, anything to distract from the blaze in his chest. “Four of them came in, broke through the door as though it were nothing. They threw the furniture about in their search for food, coin, whatever they could take. Then they flipped the table and saw Ena.”

Marin pulled in a hard breath.

Bran dragged his gaze from her, unable to bear her sympathy. “Ena tried to run, but they grabbed her by her hair and yanked her back. They pulled out their swords, ready to run her through. My mum came from her hiding place, screaming, and Gregor was there too, running toward them with that damn sword.”

His mother's voice cut through his mind, filled with terror.

No’ my bairn.

No’ my bairn.