Page 59 of Luthias

“Your brother saved me and my lady,” Luthias said. “’Tis a debt I shallnae forget.”

He could draw his sword and collect on that debt this very moment, Struan thought, although he doubted the other man would even flinch. It was the sorrow in his pretty eyes that angered him.

“My thanks for bringing my brother home, MacRoss,” he said, offering him a deep bow of genuine respect. “Now get off our land.”

Watching Luthias walk away gave Struan time to compose himself for what would follow. Every member of the clan would enter the great hall to pay their last respects to Callum, and bow to him as the chosen successor. Yet in the hours that followed all Struan heard was the crackling of the flames in the hearth; fire that warmed the cold stone walls but could never touch him. The last of the warmth in his heart––his unwavering love for his older brother––had turned to ice, it seemed.

I’ve become the cold bastart you ever believed me to be, Callum.

At last only a handful of men lingered, as if uneasy to leave him alone with the body.

“Burned by fire, and returned by the prince of fire’s spawn,” Tavish said in a low, almost gloating tone. “’Twould seem the MacRoss declare war against us by murdering our lord.”

“Our watchers saw the laird just before that barn collapsed,” one of the patrollers said uneasily. “He pushed the MacRoss and that wench through the wall of the barn.”

“Or they fought, and the MacRoss backstabbed and left him behind to burn,” a guard countered.

“Get out,” Struan said, and the cripple and the other men left, leaving him alone in the great hall.

Struan unwrapped the tartan covering his dead brother, revealing his head and shoulders. Although all of his black hair and part of his face had been burned away, Callum’s mouth had somehow remained untouched, and now curved as he had never seen it. It looked to him like a smile of relief, not a grimace of pain.

“Did you relish the thought of me now, you stupit arse?” he murmured as he sat down on the dais beside his brother’s body. “’Twas my dearest wish that such a time never come, so I might torment you for all time with the fear I’d steal your place.”

A memory of them from nine centuries past came back to him. It had been just before their sire had ended himself, when the prince had locked himself in his chamber and refused to allow anyone inside.

If we dinnae break down the door, Callum had said, Father shall starve.

Struan dragged him back. He’s Fae, you eejit. He cannae die any more than we may.

Brother. Callum had taken hold of his hand, and his beautiful blue eyes had filled with tears. I dinnae wish to live forever. You’ve seen how Father endures. Every wife he takes grows old and dies when he cannae. ’Tis too lonely.

He would not grieve for Callum, whom his father had loved best. He had lived long and well, enjoying the wealth and power that came with being the Carack laird. He’d fought fiercely in hundreds of battles, and trained dozens of generations of men to do the same. At the end of his life he’d even found love, unworthy as Athdara Martin had been, and had followed that wretched woman into oblivion. Yet somehow while assuring himself over and again that he would not weep, Struan felt his face grow wet, and his throat become raw. The great hall echoed with howls that seemed to be coming from him.

When he could bring himself to do so, he covered Callum’s face and gently tucked the mourning tartan around him. “You’re right, Brother. ’Tis lonely.”

They sent Camdyn to fetch Emery from her chamber, and when she told him she wasn’t feeling well enough to go downstairs he came over and crouched down in front of her.

“’Twasnae your fault, wench,” he said, and took out a dirty rag, looked at it and then tucked it away. “Dinnae you keep a kerchief? What manner of female doesnae?”

“We use tissues in my time. They’re sanitary.” She knuckled away her tears and then winced as that made the bandages on her hands shift against her burns. “It’s only because I’m wounded, and it hurts. I’m not crying because Callum died saving our lives or anything.”

“The laird’s returned from Dun Deigh. You still love him, aye? And wish to see him and bat your pretty eyes at him?” He gave her a hopeful look. “Now come. ’Tis time for the sain to reward your courage with a wish.”

“I don’t want a wish. I don’t want anything. Don’t,” she said as he made as if to pick her up. “I’m not a toy, or a doll, or helpless. I’m fine. Just forget I’m here.”

Camdyn sighed. “Emery, I’ve listened to your blethering for weeks. I’ve answered your endless questions. I’ve even been burned trying to tear through the door of that barn to get you and my brother out.” He held up his bandaged hands. “Either come down now, like a good lass, or I toss you over my shoulder and carry you down.”

“Fine.” She sniffed and glared at him. “You can’t make me wish, you know.”

“I ken.” He offered her his arm, and walked with her into the hall, where every guard and vassal she knew––and some she didn’t––seemed to be lining the walls. They all appeared to be dressed in their nicest clothes, and the clansmen had their swords drawn and held high.

“Oh. Wow.” Momentarily distracted by all the gleaming steel, Emery stared. “This is for me?”

Camdyn chuckled. “’Tisnae for me.”

Emery walked what seemed like an endless gauntlet of smiling clansmen and vassals down to the great hall, where their laird stood in front of the dais. Luthias was holding the Fire Sword in his hands, and the firelight gleamed on the scrolled gold inlay and made the carved hilt shimmer like real flame. No, the hilt was doing that on its own; it was waiting for her to make her wish.

She hated the sight of it.