But Rory? Rory was a force of nature. The leader of their tribe of three. The one who got them into trouble and out of it again. Quick to anger and equally quick in thought, he drove through life like a bull, allowing naught to get in his way.
Such a man could not be dead.
Leith replied, “I am no’ sure I countenance that possibility.”
“Nor I. But all men die, do they no’? Even men such as he.”
Slowly Leith shook his head. Two years older than him, Rory had been there all his life. The lad grown into the man who would one day lead the clan. One tolerated his faults—that all-too-hasty temper, the stubborn, single-minded ambition, the refusal to acknowledge all but perfection in himself and others.
Because he was Rory MacLeod, a man who, like the chiefs of old, inspired men to greatness. Rory was a walking legend.
But aye, even such men fell.
“I regret,” Farlan said steadily and with sorrow, “I may no’ have a chance to make up my quarrel wi’ him. We were like brothers once.”
“And are still.” If Rory lived. “Brothers fall out. The bonds between them do no’ break.”
“I think those bonds sundered when he banished me, stripped me o’ both my birthright and my name o’ MacLeod.”
“He loves ye still. I saw the grief upon him after ye left. Grief.” Leith’s gaze met that of his friend. “And wounded pride. He did no’ believe ye would go through wi’ it and forsake him.”
“For a woman.” Farlan’s lips twisted.
“For a woman,” Leith concurred.
“He is all pride, is Rory. I sometimes think ’tis mostly his pride behind this campaign to take over the whole o’ the glen. He wants to be the man who achieves what his ancestors could not.”
“Aye, but Farlan, it has no’ been going well for him, this campaign. I tell ye, he thought wi’ both the old chiefs out o’ his way, he would roll right over Clan MacBeith. So far he’s done naught but throw himself against the stones o’ this keep and be driven awa’ again. It maun have him in a rage.”If he lived.“He will no’ give up.”
“He is too stubborn to give up. But Leith”—Farlan leaned forward and clapped Leith’s knee—“we ha’ a chance to salvage things. For the good o’ the clan. For all o’ us.”
Farlan got up from the bed to pace and swallowed hard before he went on. “If Rory be dead, ye are chief o’ Clan MacLeod.”
“Aye.” Leith did not want the place. Nor could he dispute it.
Farlan went on steadily, his voice soft. “Rory has no idea what lies here. There’s a kind o’ magic. I believe that’s what has kept him from succeeding in overthrowing this clan. That and the courage o’ the three sisters MacBeith.”
Leith eyed his friend doubtfully. A big, strapping man to be speaking of magic. And yet—there was healing in Rhian’s touch. And he’d heard the words in her mind. Could he say a kind of magic did not exist in this place?
Farlan went on just as if he did not discuss wonders. “Mistress Saerla, the youngest o’ them, has the Sight. She has gone up on the rise now, where the sacred stones lie ye ken, to try to See whether or no’ Rory remains alive. Her two sisters ha’ gone wi’ her to lend their support.”
Leith did not know what to say to this incredible pronouncement.
Farlan stumbled on. “If she returns wi’ an answer, if Rory be dead—no’ that I want him to be—’twill change everything.”
“Aye.” So it would.
“Wi’ me here at MacBeith and ye in charge at MacLeod, Leith, we could choose peace.”
Leith made a face. “But I am no’ at MacLeod. I am a prisoner here, and maimed.”
“No’ maimed. Put your faith in Mistress Rhian. I believe she too possesses a measure o’ magic. She can heal ye, man.”
Och, aye.Rhian could save him, if anyone could.
“Still and all, even if I do regain the use o’ my arm, for all ye ha’ said, I am no’ likely to be released and sent home.”
“If we can come to an agreement, I believe ye will.”
