“She made her choice.”
“Do ye think we will ever see her again? Her, or her bairn?” For Rhian carried Leith MacLeod’s child, one of the reasons she’d gone after him to live among her enemies.
“If we can wrangle a peace—”
Moira stopped speaking abruptly and stared out into the dark glen. She stiffened in every limb. “Attackers,” she half breathed. And then she hollered it. “Attack! Attack!”
Saerla came to attention also, flooded with alarm. Staring out over the stonework, she could see nothing, so she closed her eyes, hands resting on the top of the parapet, and sought to See instead.
Sure enough, the images came flooding upon her. A horde of men, dark figures moving like mere shadows through the deeper darkness. At the waters of the loch. A cluster of boats ready to launch.
Boats. Water. Men.Rory MacLeod.
Horror and dread suffused her so she could not move. He would destroy her.
When she opened her eyes, beating back the images, Moira had gone, running off like other members of the guard. Preparing to fight.
Och, might all the gods and all the powers protect them from what was to come.
She must go don her armor. Find her weapons. She stood here on the wall as a woman. A Seer. She could be neither now. She had to transform herself into the small whirlwind she became on the field, one rarely touched by any weapon. A being with no past and no future.
By all that was holy, she did not want the future that had been foretold. It terrified her more than any battle.
She ran down the stairs from the wall. Confusion raged around her—men running and shouting, gathering arms. She did not know where Moira had gone, but she caught a glimpse of Ewan, the senior member of the council that had opposed Moira at every turn, already clad for war. Differences did not matter at a time like this. There was just the loyalty of the blood.
She hurried to her chamber and changed her clothing, struggling with ties and buckles, her fingers gone clumsy. Hastily, hastily she braided her cap of wild red-gold hair in order to fit it under the leather helmet. When finished, she resembled a slim youth. One bound to fight.
Not till she reached the forecourt where the warriors mustered did she mark the absence of Alasdair. It was he who usually organized them, called them to order and calmed their fears. Alasdair must still be back in his bed—pray God so. If this came to his ears,whenthis came to his ears, he would try to rise. She doubted any power on earth could keep him abed then.
But marching out, taking up a sword, could cost him his life.
It struck her then—Rory MacLeod must know this. He must have seen Alasdair wounded during that last battle. It was why he moved now. She knew it as well as she knew the thoughts in her own mind.
How would they ever survive this battle without Alasdair?
Like an answer to the question, Moira strode out into the forecourt with her sword in her hand and Farlan at her side. Not for the first time, Saerla wondered how this must be for Farlan, marching out to face his friends, his relations, his own men. What if he was called upon to battle his former chief and best friend, Rory?
What ifshewas? Would killing Rory negate what she’d Seen? Aye, surely so. Because a Vision gave a glimpse of but one among what might be several destinies.
All Saerla had to do was take the field and slay Rory MacLeod in order to save herself.
That thought gave her courage. She listened as Moira began to speak.
“We will march out from the stronghold and meet this threat. Some o’ the attackers may circle round and seek to cross the burn at one o’ the fording places higher up. That will tak’ time.The others will ha’ to disembark from their boats and make it ashore. We will be waiting to slaughter them then.”
This, Saerla knew, had been tried before without success. They seemed to fare best when they defended their walls. But this was Moira speaking, her sister, who was a born defender. If she said to march out—
An interruption came then in the form of a large man hobbling out into the forecourt. He wore a rough blanket around his shoulders and leaned for support on an ash plant. His face writhed in a scowl, betraying his agony.
Moira ran to him, even as the warriors stared. Saerla followed. They intercepted Alasdair just outside the door.
“Alasdair!” Moira exclaimed. “Get ye back to your bed.”
“I will no’! D’ye mean, lass, to march out wi’out me?” Alasdair, always careful in how he addressed Moira, never called her “lass.” It spoke to his state of mind that he did so now.
“I go at the head of the men,” Moira told him, steel in her voice, “wi’ Farlan at my side.”
Alasdair only stared. Judging by his pallor and the crease between his brows, Saerla could not say how he had walked all the way from the healers’ hut.
