Page 69 of Luthias

Forgive me for fleeing. What I’ve done for my lord shames me, yet my love needs me now. I must go to him.

That scroll was the only proof he had of Athdara Martin’s betrayal, but she had not named her secret lover. Until he confirmed his suspicions, he could not move against the bastart who had seduced and ruined her. Yet Callum knew of only one other man who had something other than wealth and power to tempt the jewel-setter.

You shall never look as handsome as Luthias MacRoss, my laird, Athdara had once said to him as she trailed her fingers over his features. Nor shall he ever grow quite as rich as you.

“What desire you that the sages do with the dreamstone, my lord?” Reothadh asked, dragging him free of the ugly snarl of his thoughts.

“Have it mined and collected for the enclave, but dinnae make the elixir just yet,” he told the sage. “Now take me out of here.”

Reothadh kept silent as he guided him back through the tunnels and up the ladder to the surface, where Callum could finally see and take a deep breath. He hated feeling the chilly sweat trickling down his spine, and the rapid pounding of his heart pulsing in his throat and temples. He was no callow lad to fear the mines, but his complete inability to see in darkness always filled him with dread. One day he feared he would wake and open his eyes only to discover his blindness complete and permanent.

“What more can be done to find that runaway wench?” he asked as the master sage accompanied him along the mountain path to Dun Deigh, the Carack stronghold.

“I reckon we must look beyond the highlands, my lord.” Reothadh hesitated before he added, “I’ve questioned every vassal who worked with her, and sent searchers to every croft, town and village within ten leagues. She’s no’ been seen by anyone.”

Callum stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Beyond our lands, to where would she flee?”

“If Mistress Martin borrowed or stole a mount, ’tis likely she rode south to Perth or Scone. ’Twould be an arduous journey, but friends or distant kin along the way could provide respite for her.” Reothadh’s gaze dropped to the sapphire brooch pinned to Callum’s blue, white and green tartan, which Athdara had fashioned for his Naming Day celebration. “Her skill with gem-setting, ’tis well-known among the noble families. Once at court she could easily find work among the king’s goldsmiths and jewelers.”

“Bid our allies in the south to look for her. Assure they ken she’s to be well-treated and brought to me at once. Offer a sizeable reward to encourage them––a purse of gold and two of silver should do.” Callum stopped outside the gatehouse and glanced to the west. “You’ve brethren at Dun Lasair?”

The master sage sighed. “Never shall I call them brothers, but their master sage owes me a bartering debt. Do you reckon Mistress Martin’s put herself at the mercy of the MacRoss?”

“She proved desperate enough to steal a chest of my coin before she fled the keepe.” He made an impatient gesture. “Learn if she’s used the gold to purchase refuge among those scabby eejits.”

Inside Dun Deigh the clan’s war master met him as soon as he entered the great hall. As pale as the laird was dark, Struan Carack seemed carved wholly from ice, and wore his hip-length silver-blond hair in a heavy braid bound with silver chain. Although they regularly clashed, over time Callum had learned to respect his younger brother’s uncanny ability to plot and carry out the schemes of greatest benefit to their clan.

The fact that Struan had always begrudged Callum being chosen as laird after their sire died ever simmered between them, a kettle of deep resentment that never boiled over or went cold.

“I’m told you went down into the shafts, my lord,” Struan said in a voice so melodic it had drawn countless household females to his bed. His eyes, of a blue so dark they sometimes looked black, glittered with annoyance. “We’ve others to attend to the miners and the yield, you ken.”

“Aye.” That the war master used the truth to prod him over his one weakness reminded Callum that even in his own stronghold he could never lower his guard. “If I desire your counsel, you cold bastart, I’ll ask.”

“Mayhap you’ll wish to hear what I’ve to report, then,” a sly voice said.

Struan made a disgusted sound and departed, while Callum regarded the smiling face of the clan’s finest hunter, Fyn Carack. The slender man held up a brace of large brown hares as if wishing praise.

“Begone with you,” Callum said. “I’ve no belly for your eejit blethering now.”

“I shallnae sport with you this day, my lord.” The hunter turned and bellowed for a scullery lad, and handed off his game to the one who came running from the kitchens. “While tracking my prey I happened to stray near MacRoss land. As soon as I saw the patrols’ tartans I hid myself in a spruce, and listened to them speak as they broke their fast. They’ve a new lass arrived this morn at their stronghold.”

“A lass?” Taking hold of Fyn’s tunic, Callum dragged him close. “Did they name her? ’Tis Athdara Martin?”

The hunter shook his head. “She’s called Emery Parker, the men said. As told, ’twould seem the Fire Sword brought her to the MacRoss. Aye, and delivered the wench to their armory.”

“Be wary, Hunter.” Reothadh took a step closer, his chilly eyes filled with dread. “Such matters, they’re too grievous for the Carack to serve as jest.”

Fyn spread his hands. “I but echo what spewed from their trembling lips. They say their laird, he’s quite taken with the wee pretty thing. He even carried her to his own bed, and joined her under his linens to hold and soothe her.”

“Indeed.” Callum felt skeptical. “Why should a laird play nursemaid?”

“Aye, ’twas my reckoning as well, my lord.” Fyn chuckled. “Mayhap she’s but a fetching harlot to tempt him wet his tadger. ’Tis said he’s as chaste as a maiden. Only to see the MacRoss patrollers quake and mutter thus, I reckon she’s more likely a traveler brought through time, as the old legend claimed. Wouldnae you agree?”

Reothadh closed his eyes briefly. “My lord, if Hunter Fyn speaks the truth...”

“You dare question my word, you pompous potion swiller?” The hunter’s smile broadened as he drew a dagger and spun it through his fingers. “Shall I relieve you of that boot-washing tongue so you dinnae make such a mistake again?”

Callum snatched the blade from him and held it to the hunter’s throat.