Most these had been set up in the area between the keep and the outer wall, though the races would be held in the field outside the gate. Deathan did not doubt Da intended for Rohr to win all and show up in the very best light.
Rohr no doubt expected the same. When it came to such matters, his confidence knew no bounds.
He was, after all, the future chief of a clan that held a place of prominence on this coast. Cherished by his parents, admired by his people. Expected to be the best of the best.
Deathan, not two years his junior, had learned early not to eclipse him. It was fine for him to be fleet of foot—just not more fleet of foot than Rohr. Oh, his mam was full of praise for him, but Da did not approve. Rohr was meant to be first in everything.By the age of eight or so, Deathan, no fool, noticed that if he bested his brother, Da got a look on his face like a man who’d taken a mouthful of sour heather ale.
So Deathan had learned. Always finish second or worse. Never show all of what he could do. It sometimes caused a bitter feeling. More bitter than his father’s disapproval? Cursed if he could tell.
He told himself he would be content with his place. Second to his brother, the eventual war chief and defender of this place he loved so well. More, he sometimes thought, than Rohr loved it.
Content, aye.
But that had been before. Before he had laid eyes upon Princess Darlei.
He rarely wanted things for himself, especially the things his brother had. Aye, he’d trained himself better. But och, he wanted Darlei with a raw kind of longing utterly foreign to him. One that made him ache inside. That fair lit him up with desire.
Why should Rohr be gifted with such a treasure, rather than him? Beyond unfair, it was.
He lurked in the bailey lost among the members of the clan and watched while his father came out in company with King Caerdoc, the two conversing amiably. Two strong men, easy in their confidence—both subject to a higher law. The king’s edict had to gall.
Caerdoc’s party followed, and Deathan eyed them with speculation. Their guide—Urfet—might well prove a problem for Rohr. The man was impressive in every way. Deathan wondered what Rohr would make of him.
In truth, though, Deathan waited for but one person to appear—Princess Darlei.
He liked the way she’d been with his mother, soft and gentle, and would have lingered to watch, just for the pleasure of looking at her. The grace with which she’d leaned towardthe bed. The line of her profile, strong and beautiful. The heavy brown hair, all woven and braided, hanging down her back.
But that had been a time meant for Rohr and Darlei to bond. Had they? Would they? Did Rohr have too much else standing in his way?
Deathan looked around for Caragh but did not see her. Then Darlei exited the main door of the keep and he forgot everything else.
She was no longer with Rohr—he did not know where his brother was—but in the company of another young Caledonian woman, one with still-darker hair. They spoke together quietly, unsmiling.
Father had ordered a tent set up against the wall of the keep where the women were expected to sit and observe. Princess Darlei did not go there but walked up to Urfet and began a conversation.
And Deathan could tell, even from a distance and just from the way she spoke to him, that the princess felt an attraction for the man. Her admiration was in her every line and gesture. Not surprising. Deathan wondered if she entreated Urfet to win the competitions for the pride of Caledonia.
Aye so, if Father offered this for a pleasurable pastime, it might well turn into something else entirely.
Father stepped up to the Caledonians and very politely invited the women to take places beneath the shelter of the pavilion, gesturing to it. Princess Darlei shook her head.
Where was Rohr?
Sweeping his gaze across the crowd, Deathan caught sight of his brother standing over against the wall. Speaking with Caragh.
The lass looked unhappy and, in truth, half frantic. Rohr clearly attempted to calm or comfort her, but he appeared equally upset.
Androch, the clan’s current war chief, stepped up to Deathan. For an instant his gaze followed Deathan’s before he looked away.
Rohr needed to be far more discreet if he wanted to keep his secret.
“Master Deathan, are ye planning to compete?”
Deathan shrugged. “No’ sure.” There was not much point, was there, if Rohr needed to win?
“I think ye could win the footrace,” Androch said. “And possibly the pony race as well. And ye be a good eye wi’ tossing a knife.”
Deathan shrugged. “That man o’ the Caledonians’”—he nodded at Urfet—“just might tak’ it all.”
