Page 18 of Luthias

After washing and dressing he went down to the hall to listen to his captains, who had nothing unusual to report. Once he dismissed them Callum went to the master sage’s laboratorium, where he found Reothadh with Struan looking over a large map of the highlands near Dun Deigh.

“What do you here?” he asked his brother, who rolled up the parchment and handed it to the sage.

“I scheme to keep safe the clan, my lord.” The war master regarded him as he might a child having a tantrum. “As ever you command me.”

Callum eyed the sage, who ducked his head and murmured an apology before hurrying out of the chamber. “Dinnae speak to me thus in front of my vassals. I commanded you to find Athdara, and yet you bring me no word of where she’s gone, or who’s given her sanctuary.”

“I’ve sent men to question everyone along all of the roads. I’ve also assured no nags went missing since she vanished. ’Twould seem that she never left the highlands.” Struan smiled a little. “Reothadh made inquiries. She hasnae been seen at Dun Lasair.”

“Do you reckon Luthias a fool, to bed my…one of my vassals where anyone might see them?” He gazed at the bubbling pots of potions and elixirs around him, resisting an urge to sweep it all away with his arm. “He’s hidden Athdara away. Aye, and keeps her from his stronghold so he might now seduce this wench brought by the sword.”

“She’s named Emery Parker.” The war master produced a sketch of a small woman sitting beside a MacRoss on a grassy bank. “Young and fetching, ’twould seem. She speaks and garbs herself strangely, but seems harmless. My watchers saw Luthias snatch her up and ride back to the keepe with her after beating the warrior at her side.”

Callum studied the sketch. Unlike Athdara, Emery Parker appeared small and slender, with the innocent face of a young maiden. Before he’d been consumed by his lust for the jewel-setter he’d favored delicate women like Emery. To look upon her was to see his own ruin.

Yet another misery that hoor inflicted on me.

“The man beside the wench, ’tis their armorer, Camdyn,” the war master said. “Ever he’s been a black-tempered bawbag, but he spoke gently to the lass.”

He met his brother’s gaze. “Did he put hands on her?”

Struan shook his head. “They but sat and talked for a time. The watcher who drew them said the armorer played the mannerly swain and wrapped his cloak about her, but did naught else.” He glanced down at the sketch. “How may a bairn like her save the MacRoss?”

He almost crumpled the drawing, but then thought better of it and tucked it inside his coat.

“I’m leaving the keepe in your charge for the next week. Drill the garrison and have the servants send their youngest to kin outside our lands.” He regarded his brother, who looked startled. “If you dinnae wish to take charge, you’ve but to say.”

“I’m happy to serve, my lord.” Struan bowed mockingly. “Where do you mean to go now?”

“’Tis time for the wood cutters to come up from the lowlands. I’ll join them and scout the MacRoss lands for Athdara. She’s hidden herself there, I ken.” Callum picked up a split from the wood pile and tossed it to him. “I trust you’ll look after Dun Deigh as if ’twere yours.”

His brother’s smirk faded. “I dinnae wish to be laird. I want only to see you prove our sire wrong in naming you his successor.”

“You craved him name you the better man, then.” It had always been like this between them, so that came as no surprise. “’Twas but scheming that made me laird, no’ skill nor reason. Father never saw either of us as men, only his tools.” He waited a moment before he added, “And sending that hoor maid to me wearing a facking charm, ’twas stupit.”

“I reckoned you needed some relief. My mistake.” His brother walked up to him, and deliberately shoved his shoulder. “Should you get yourself ended earning your humble coin, I’ll bid the sages bring you back to life so I may kill you again. Slowly. Painfully.”

In that moment Struan looked like the brother he had known when they’d been lads, annoying and petulant, and yet always loyal to him.

“Shall you wait until I’m dead?” Callum shoved him back. “Take care with the men––and keep watch over Fyn.” As his brother looked puzzled, he added, “He’s been acting the scunner too oft of late.”

“As you say, my lord.” Struan hesitated, and then glanced at the floor. “With this wench come back to aid the MacRoss, and tensions growing between the clans, mayhap ’tis time we open the vault.”

“No, brother.” He turned away to hide the cold jolt of fear his brother’s suggestion shot through him. “That time, ’twill never come.”

Some days after Emery arrived at Dun Lasair, Luthias found himself becoming mired in an unwelcome daily quandary. Even the patience of the servants had limits.

“’Tisnae that Mistress Parker means to cause trouble so much, my lord,” his head groundskeeper said. “’Tis only the questioning and replanting and wishing to eat what we feed the horses. Half the day she spends blethering on about what she calls organic and sustainable and such words as I’ve never heard uttered.”

“Her people do speak differently,” Luthias assured him.

“She’s a bampot,” his cook said flatly. “The wench demands raw veg at every meal. Do the men of her land but graze like sheep and cattle? Complaining about the grit from the grain quern, and how I must scour the counters and kettles and crockery but a moment after they’ve been used.” She blew out a breath and then glared at the scullery cringing beside her. “Tell the laird what she ordered you do. Go on.”

The girl ducked her head. “Mistress Parker bid us wash our hands before we handle meat and again after we finish, my lord, and soap our hands and face every day after we rise and before we sleep. She called it be-ing san-i-tar-y.” She looked up for a moment and gave him a hopeful smile. “I dinnae mind. I like her. She’s kind and pretty.”

“Aye, so pretty she must bid us wash and scrub the veg before serving and cook the meat through and more I cannae tell you for her demands, they’re endless.” The cook folded her plump arms over her massive bosom. “Why, she even asked to cook for herself this morn, as if I’d already been wound in my shroud.”

“’Twould seem to me the customs of her people that offend you,” Luthias said. “No’ the lady herself.”