Page 31 of Luthias

The second man, who had remote, refined features and fiery golden hair, wore a simple flame-shaped pin on his tartan made from amber, garnet and onyx. He moved in complete silence, and carried himself like a king. Callum had only ever seen him at a distance, but the proud stance betrayed him. For a moment it was as if he had stepped out of the old portrait of the two princes fighting Callum had once seen before his sire had burned it in a fit of rage.

Luthias MacRoss, in the flesh.

“I cannae say,” the laird told his war master. “We ken so little of them since the truce after the last skirmish.”

“’Tis the sort of cowardly facking thing the Carack would do,” Taveon said.

The spiteful insult made Callum reach for his dagger, imagining for a moment jumping onto the laird’s back and cutting his throat before his war master had a chance to call the Carack anything more. Yet he knew only too well the fighting skills of the MacRoss laird, who moved like water flowed in battle, and the war master, who it was rumored had killed more men on the battlefield than any other in their clan. Surprise might give him a momentary advantage against Luthias, but Taveon would assure Callum died before he saw the laird’s blood soak the ground.

Even after the pair descended and disappeared from view Callum waited, and felt rewarded when a team of patrollers came down from the upper slopes, their hands and garments blackened with soil. He glanced at the horizon, where the sun had begun to sink, and then came out of the gap and quickly made the climb. Following the boot marks the MacRoss men had left, he saw signs of a new rockslide around an old cave, and checked the ledges above before making his way to the edge.

As Callum saw what lay inside the shelter space he felt his gut clench. With his night-blindness he couldn’t enter the cave, but with the illumination of the sunset he could easily see what had been built inside.

’Tis the bone cobbler.

In his boyhood Callum remembered the one time his sire had found butchered hares and voles, and smaller, ghastly assemblages of their remains in the woods near Dun Deigh. He and Struan had always accompanied the old laird when he went to the mines, but that day they had never reached them.

“’Tis the work of the Fae, Sire?” Struan had asked, cowering next to Callum.

“You reckon the fair folk capable of such filth, you eejit?” The laird had backhanded him, and then crushed the strange constructs under his boots. He’d told their guards to burn the carcasses before turning around and striding back to the castle.

Callum had thought that the end of it, but not an hour passed before his sire summoned him and his brother to the great hall. The laird had ordered them bound and held in front of the rest of the clan, calling for the one who had dared fashion such obscene objects to make themselves known and confess to the perversion.

No one had spoken up or blinked, even when the order to whip the boys had been given. Callum and his brother had spent the next week on their bellies in bed, having their wounds bathed and bandaged by their sobbing màthair.

Who should do such a thing? Struan had whispered in the darkness. ’Tis unnatural to hack apart animals and sport with their bones.

Now Callum saw why no one had confessed: it had been the work of a MacRoss; the same one who had used this cave.

Chapter Nine

Struan Carack sat in his brother’s chair on the dais in the great hall and listened as the two journeymen sages bickered over who should take charge of the newly-mined dreamstone.

“’Tisnae only that my elixirs prove superior to those blended by Sage Fuachd, my lord,” Geamhradh said, stretching his stout body by lifting his heels, as if to show off his imposing height. Close to being elevated in rank, he’d polished his sapphire robe pin until it glittered. “I’ve improved the sleeping draught’s blend so ’twill work faster.”

“Aye, and kill half who but sip his poison,” the thinner, shorter Fuachd said as he tucked his hands behind his back, giving his companion a smug look. Known as the most learned journeyman among the younger sages, he wore a wide belt under which he’d tucked the many scrolls he’d been writing. “My elixir shall be odorless and tasteless, my lord, and no’ end anyone. I vow to you.”

“Nor shall yours put anyone to sleep,” Geamhradh said, and muttered, “’Twill be mine alone, you eejit.”

“I shall feed you your own swill,” Fuachd murmured back.

“Fair morning, my lord,” Reothadh said as he carried in a tray with Struan’s morning brew. As both sages jumped he ignored them. “Shall I order these fools flogged for wasting your time, or do you desire some exercise for your whip arm?”

“We but desired to use some of the dreamstone, Master,” Fuachd said, while at the same time Geamhradh said, “’Tis so much, and we’ve elixirs we wish to–”

“Get out,” Reothadh said in his most pleasant tone.

The two sages quickly bowed and hurried from the chamber.

“My apologies, my lord.” The master sage brought his brew to him, and then went to add wood to the hearth. “If those two brothers dinnae poison each other, I reckon I shall.”

“They’re blood-kin?” Struan frowned. “They look naught alike.”

“Nor do you and Lord Callum,” Reothadh said. “Fuachd favors their sire, Geamhradh their màthair.”

After the sage left Struan’s gaze strayed to the portraits of his older brother and their sire, which had been hung on either side of the largest hearth and draped with the clan’s blue, white and green tartan. Both lairds glared sternly back at him, as if silently condemning him for daring to take their place in the hall.

The sensation proved a familiar one, for Struan had always felt like a changeling next to his older brother. Callum favored their black-haired, blue-eyed màthair, who had run away from her clan to wed their sire. All the Carack knew the stories of how the old laird’s first wife had been seduced and pregnant with Callum before she even came to Dun Deigh, which was how she had forced the marriage on him. His sire had no love for anyone, but he had admired the lady’s courage for stalking into his hall and demanding he make an honest woman out of her before she summoned her father’s garrison and had the place burned to the ground. Sometimes Struan wondered if that was why the old laird had chosen Callum as his successor instead of his more capable younger brother, but in his heart he knew the truth.