Page 15

“An oubliette, lass,” Dugald had said. “The only way out is death.”

She had heard of oubliettes. An invention of Normans, it was a place cut out deep in the rock. A place where prisoners were put and forgotten. The French word “oublier” meant “forget.”

No one came out of there alive.

As they pushed her towards the small hole, she kept fighting, futile of course. Then, holding on to the chain, she’d been lowered into a tomb that smelled like decay and madness.

Since then, she’d seen light only a handful of times. High above her, a circle of orange and gold appeared, hurting her eyes, and bread and water were lowered down to her in a bucket. The screeching of the chain was like a song of freedom. The only connection to the world of the living.

At first, she held on to her pride. She was the daughter of a king, after all. A MacDonald, her ancestors were Scottish and Viking warriors. She drew strength from them, invisible and yet always present in her blood. She wouldn’t beg. She wouldn’t scream and she wouldn’t show her enemies a crack of weakness.

Looking for a way out, she felt the walls around her over and over, spinning in endless circles. Holding on to a drop of hope, she scratched them; her fingernails broke and she sucked on her salty blood. Her world was endless, and yet it was only a pocket made of stone.

There was no blanket, no bed, and no chair. Shivering, she lay on the hard, cold, wet rock, praying. Praying for her father and her clan to come for her.

Then praying to keep her pride and to not scream.

Then praying for death.

Dark madness seeped inside her drop by drop, breath by breath. She fought it with all she had left. Her memories. All the light she could get was in her mind.

What could she hold on to? What were the best moments of her life? Swimming in the sea—before she’d almost drowned and couldn’t even think about putting a foot into it. Meeting her father. The freedom of running around with the children of Islay, feeling the wind in her hair and the rare Scottish sun kissing her cheeks. Inhaling the air full of the scents of the sea, and heather, and moss. Clan gatherings in the great hall of Finlaggan Castle, where everyone knew each other. Private jokes. Old Celtic songs. Her uncle Aulay telling stories. MacDonald traders talking of faraway lands—of Galicia and the caliphate and Norway, of Flanders and the Baltics and France. Minstrels, singing stories of King Arthur and Lancelot, of Tristan and Isolde.

But through that, always, she’d been waiting. Waiting for her father to ask her to come. Waiting for her life to begin.

Had she lived at all?

Her life may be over before it truly began. She’d been a lady, saved herself for marriage. She’d given up things that brought her joy. She’d left her family behind to marry a man she’d never met to make her father proud.

And for what? To end up a prisoner, to die in an endless stone jail that smelled of her own excrement and felt like a grave?

Why hadn’t she allowed herself to be free? There was that lad on Islay who had fancied her and tried to kiss her once. She should have let him. She’d die a virgin and would never know a man’s lips on hers. She’d never love like those heroines of great legends loved. She’d never know the joy of growing a life inside her and holding her bairn in her arms.

A sudden light made her eyes hurt, but she kept them open, struggling to see. They came from some symbols on the floor, glowing blue and brown. Strangely, the air filled with the scent of lavender and grass, freshly cut.

No doubt she had gone insane. But she still had to see what was going on.

The glow shed light on a woman in a green cloak with long red hair.

That was it. Madness must have swallowed Anna’s mind.

The woman’s face was barely visible in the dim glow. She smiled. “Dinna be afraid, lass. Hold on to yer hope. Someone is coming for ye. David, a man from another time. He’ll be yer protector. And ye will need to protect him also.”

Anna was losing her mind, but even the presence of her hallucination was a comfort. She wasn’t alone. She could talk to someone.

“Who are ye?” Anna asked. “Are ye a saint?”

The woman giggled. “I’m nae saint, lass. My name is Sìneag, and I open a tunnel through the river of time and let people pass.”

The river of time? Let people pass? Anna had never heard of such a thing. She was definitely going mad.

Sìneag continued. “I wish I could let ye pass through the stone and escape yer prison, but yer one true love is already coming for ye. He’s coming.”

Then she was gone. The glow faded, leaving the symbols of a wave and a circle with a straight line through it burned in Anna’s mind like scars. She was shaking, looking around.

“Sìneag!” she called. “Sìneag! Please, don’t go! Please…”

Then there was a sound. The screech of the door and voices and the circle of light appeared high above her. A torch and someone’s head, dark against the light.