Chapter One
Western Scotland, the eleventh century AD
As he didevery morning, Quarrie MacMurtray climbed the foot-worn stone steps to the walls that defended the keep, and gazed out to sea.
Last night had been a rough one here on the western Scottish coast, a storm not external like they had so often, but within the keep itself. Quarrie had managed to snatch very little sleep, and he felt now as if he emerged from some dark cave of suffering into the light. For the sun rose behind him, the salt-laden air smelled sweet, and the world held a soft calm.
Deceptive, that calm. As he knew very well, danger lay everywhere. That knowledge had brought him up here at first light, moving like an old man rather than one just past a score and five years, to search and search the horizon. For whatever other troubles beset the clan he loved so well, his first duty must be defense.
Summer fast approached. They would be coming.
This keep where he lived was strong, wedded to the rock. It had been here a long time perched above the stony shingle, enlarged by successive generations. It overlooked both the sea and the passing of time, one coming and going like the other in an endless circle. On a morning such as this, it all looked so peaceful. But a man could not be careful enough, for out among the sleeping green islands, death might wait.
Death, so his ma always told him, just started another cycle. She was a bit fey, was Ma, and believed in the old ways, the ones of which folk rarely spoke anymore. She it was who had taught him that those who went from them were not truly gone. They could expect to meet again—not in this life, perhaps, but in the next.
Preparing him for Da’s death, she might have been. Or remembering all the partings they’d had. Da had been dying a long time. Other partings had been far more sudden, like his best friend—
Someone stepped up next to him with a rattle of light armor. “How fares the chief?”
Borald, the head of the guard and also a good friend to Quarrie, took the place beside him at the wall. Borald had five or more years on Quarrie, a good, steady man and one for whom Quarrie was daily grateful.
Choosing not to answer the query—for it would be far too painful—Quarrie said instead, “Wha’ are ye doing here? I thought ye’d be longin’ for yer bed.”
“Aye.” Borald’s steady, dark eyes gazed out to sea just as Quarrie’s had, and he gave a funny shake to his broad shoulders. “I lingered for the light. I wanted to see—Och, I had this feeling.”
“As do I,” Quarrie agreed unhappily. It could not be good that the both of them felt it. “See anything?”
“Nay. Though in among the isles…”
Quarrie narrowed his weary, gritty eyes and looked again. The ocean shone silver, as might a sheet of beaten metal. Surely it would be easy to see a dark sail, often the first harbinger of danger.
“How is the chief?” Borald asked again. “I would no’ push, but—well, we could all hear him last night. Raving.”
To be sure, they would have. Even though Quarrie and Ma both had done all they could to quiet the man, from beseeching to physical restraint.
Attemptedphysical restraint. Da was still a strong man, and one driven by the impetus of pain both of the body and the spirit.
Quarrie sighed. “’Twas no’ an easy night.”
“I could hear that.”
“The chief is—” Quarrie possessed no words for it.
“Ill?” Borald suggested.
“Aye.” The word came out like a groan. Quarrie dropped his head, removing his gaze from the sea for just a moment. He could not give in to despair. If he did, his ma might, though she had more faith than anyone he’d ever known. If she lost faith, the clansfolk would also.
Then they’d all be lost.
Borald’s hand settled heavy on Quarrie’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He said nothing.
“I believe he will grow well,” Quarrie said doggedly, to Borald or himself. “I still believe so.”
“His wound—”
“’Tis no’ healed completely, nay.” After the better part of a year. Da had taken the slash, a deep cut to the thigh, while fighting late last summer. It had poisoned and refused to close over. Old Drachan, who looked after them all, had recommended removing the leg.
Da had refused. “Wha’ sort o’ chief would that mak’ o’ me, eh?” he had demanded. “How would I go about my duties then?”
