Isabail wrinkled her nose and studied the markings on the burial chest. Quite likely, whoever had worn the crown lay within this stone box. Unfortunately, there were no symbols or words on the stone chest that Isabail could read.
She stepped back.
An unexpected treasure, but no help to her. It was neither the necklace she sought, nor the answer to her escape. There were no other exits, no other tunnels leading into the mountain.
Her only hope for a rescue lay with the MacCurran. Had he not just marched off to do some sort of battle, that hope would have more weight. Back by morning, he’d said. But how much longer after that would it take him to realize she was missing?
She might well starve to death before anyone came.
Isabail licked her lips. For some reason, most probably because water was beyond reach, she had a sudden thirst. Lifting the torch high again, she explored the entirety of the small room. There was no miraculous second exit. The only way out was the way she had come in.
Swallowing a cold lump of fear, she made her way back to the huge granite slab that held her prisoner. Surely there must be some way to open the door from this side. She tried stepping on the tile that had sealed her in, tried several other tiles, and even tiles in combination. The door and the smaller rock on the ledge above her that held it shut remained exactly where they stood.
Isabail slid slowly to the floor and sat with her back to the tunnel wall. She remained surprisingly calm as she ran through her options and once again came up dry.
Her calm held, despite her desperate situation.
Until the torch began to flicker.
Chapter 9
Aiden hit the ground and rolled. He heard the heavy rumble of the iron portcullis dropping in its frame and prayed he’d rolled far enough. When it hit the ground an instant later and he still lived to note it, he grinned.
But he had no time to rest on his laurels. More archers had flocked to the walls, and although Cormac was doing his best to keep them at bay, if Aiden didn’t move quickly, one of them would find him, even in the dark.
He scrambled to his feet and darted for the bushes. He rolled behind a tree trunk just as an arrow drove into the heel of his boot.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, snapping the shaft of the arrow at the base of the arrowhead.
“Are you wounded?” asked Cormac.
“Nay,” said Aiden. “But my finest pair of boots are ruined.”
Cormac laughed. “Well, that ought to have been enough fuss to get Niallintothe dungeon, but how in bloody hell are we going to get them out?”
“We’re going to start a fire.”
From his spot behind a dead elm tree, Cormac tossed him a scandalized stare. “You’re going to set Dunstoras ablaze?”
It was a shame, to be sure. “Any damage to the keep can be repaired in time. Kin can never be replaced.”
Cormac’s shoulders sagged. “Aye, you’ve the right of it. Tell me what you need me to do.” He spied an archer between two parapets and lobbed an arrow neatly between the stones. The man fell.
“Nothing more than you’re already doing,” Aiden said. “Shoot a well-placed arrow.”
“Over the wall and into the haystack, perchance?”
“Aye,” said Aiden. “I emptied the farrier’s oil lamp onto the hay, so one arrow or two ought to do the trick.”
“Well played,” acknowledged Cormac with a nod of his head. “But we need a flame to lob over the castle wall, and all the wood in sight is as wet as a sow’s teat.”
Aiden dug into the pouch at his belt and pulled out his flint and a little tangle of sheep’s wool. “Keep the vultures on the wall off my back, and I’ll make you a fire.”
“Done.”
Working quickly and behind the protection of a broad-trunked maple tree, Aiden struck his flint with the blade of his dirk repeatedly, causing spark after spark to fly into the loose knot of wool in his hands. When the wool began to smoke, he lightly blew on it. The glowing threads burst into flames. Placing the burning bundle in a divot between two roots of the tree, he carefully added the straw he’d stuffed in his lèine to the flames, fueling them to greater strength. He yanked several strips of cloth from the hem of his lèine, wrapped them around the arrowhead from one of Cormac’s arrows, then set the linen alight.
“Don’t miss,” Aiden warned Cormac. “I’ve enough for three arrows. Four at most.”
