There could be other paths. But she had not Seen those. She had Seen this. Alasdair lost. And Moira—
Moira did not deserve to be cut down that way. She deserved a life with the man she loved, Farlan of the staunch heart and unfailing strength. And he deserved that time with her.
Just as Rhian, who gave so unstintingly of herself to everyone around her, deserved the peace of receiving that love back again. From Leith. From the child they had created together.
And what did she, Saerla, deserve?
Nothing. The answer came softly and tugged at her heart. She was, and had always been, an instrument of the gods. What had just befallen her proved it.
Perhaps, as such, she had no claim on a future of her own. To be sure, she’d never reached for one. She’d never dreamed of a love or a family. There was the magic for her, in her, and naught more.
A sudden image of Rory MacLeod appeared in her mind, blotting out the other images, the horror and the blood. Green eyes blazing. Not with vengeance or with anger, but desire.
Would he have killed her out there on the green sward? Would he, after having held her in his arms? After being inside her?
But mayhap she had destroyed any soft feeling he might have harbored for her. With her blade, she had. She could not possibly still want him—that man among all others. Just as shecould scarcely believe she had offered herself to him so eagerly, joined with him so avidly. Flown with him.
Two souls together, rather than one. One alone, as, despite all the presence of the gods and despite her sisters’ love, she had always been.
He stood alone, did Rory MacLeod.
That thought startled her, because it was true. He had lost many who had been dear to him and had cast off his closest friend. Put conquest ahead of human decency and love.
Was Rory capable of love?
And why should that matter to her? She’d lain with him, aye. She’d seduced him so she might put her blade to his throat. He knew that. He hated her for it.
She had been unable to press that blade home. When it came to it, with the blood pumping through his veins and hers, she’d had an instant before he reacted, when she might have killed him. She had failed.
She closed her eyes for a moment, lying there beside her sister, acknowledging it. How could she kill a man who had kissed her so sweetly? Who had touched her so gently?
He was a monster.
He was not.
He would never forgive what she had done. And if, out of vengeance, he took her life, then would the terrible Vision unfold. She would lose Alasdair and Moira. And the light.
Rhian stirred beside her, awakened and brushed Saerla’s cheek with careful hands.
“Sister, do no’ weep.”
Saerla said nothing.
Rhian shifted and half sat up. But one taper burned in the chamber and night had fallen outside the narrow window. Saerla could barely see the expression in Rhian’s eyes.
Love. And concern.
“Saerla, d’ye want to tell me wha’ ye Saw?”
“Nay.”Nay.
“Sometimes if ye recount it, that helps ye recover. So it has been in the past.”
“Aye.” But she could not speak the words. That might make it real. “No’ this time.”
“But, my love—”
“Nay, Rhian. Do no’ ask me.”
