Page 9 of Steel & Surrender

The MacDonalds had plagued them increasingly over the last couple of years. Relations between the two clans had soured. Arguments over trade had escalated into something far more serious, but there was no going back from this.

They’d killed one of Loch Maclean’s sons, and they’d pay for it.

Greig’s gut clenched then. He’d shouted and raised his cup with everyone, and in that moment, he’d wanted to act just as strongly as Davy did. But in the aftermath, the truth of it settled deep into his bones.

Davy would take his revenge, as would his father. Both were able-bodied, able to fight, able to swing a claidheamh-mòr.

But Greig wasn’t.

He could barely walk.

He’d have to watch from the sidelines as the rest of his family avenged his brother.

A bystander.

Greig limped his way up the stairs, each step burning as usual, his stick digging heavily into the wood. The dregy continued behind him. His parents had already retired, leaving the drinking, singing, and storytelling to continue in the Great Hall.

Davy had just collapsed, sprawled across the table, snoring loudly. Greig had left him there to sleep it off.

All he wanted was his bed.

Nonetheless, he’d also drunk far too much, and it made climbing the stairs even harder. He hobbled his way up two flights of stairs, breathing hard as he made it onto the landing. His chamber was down a narrow stone passageway, just past his parents’ and Davy’s, and opposite Alistair’s.

Limping down the passage, he halted between their doorways.

And then, instead of pushing his way into his own chamber, he took a burning lantern off its hook on the pitted stone wall, turned, and opened the door to Alistair’s instead.

He hadn’t been in here since Alistair’s body had been brought back to Duart. A dirk had punched his brother in the chest, but that hadn’t been what killed him. Someone had held his head underwater until his lungs filled with water. It was an awful death, and whenever Greig thought about his brother’s last moments, his gut twisted.

Mairi had gone into this chamber, had wept in here alone, surrounded by her son’s possessions. But the rest of them hadn’t joined her. And there was a part of Greig that didn’t want to be here now.

A canopied bed dominated the small bedchamber, similar to Greig’s own. A wooden chest lay against one wall, and near the window stood a desk. There was a small stack of leather-bound books upon it, for Alistair had liked to read, as well as a pile of parchment and a quill and ink pot. He’d enjoyed writing too.

He was far more of a scholar than either of his brothers.

The bed was made, as if waiting for Alistair to return. The air still smelled of leather and oak—faint, but unmistakably his scent.

For a few moments, Greig merely stood there, just inside the doorway, his gaze taking in the space. Alistair’s presence still lingered here, despite that he was now buried under six feet of earth.

Greig’s throat tightened.

He hadn’t wept since receiving the news.

He couldn’t. He was too angry, too enraged with everything and everyone. God. The MacDonalds. Fate. The world. All of them were to blame. He wanted to rip something apart with his bare hands, not snivel like a bairn.

And yet, right now, standing here, shadowed by his brother’s memory, his eyes started to burn.

Closing them, he squeezed his eyelids shut, willing the weakness to pass. When he opened them, he moved across, his stick thumping on the wooden floorboards, to the desk.

And there, in a pot next to the one containing the quill, he saw a rolled parchment.

Setting the lantern down, he reached out and took the scroll, untying the thin leather thong that kept it closed. The lantern glowed brightly, giving him enough light to read by.

Maybe it was a letter, for Alistair often corresponded with Nat Mackinnon at Dùn Ara.

But it wasn’t. As Greig’s gaze slid over his brother’s familiar slanted handwriting, his breathing grew shallow.

God’s blood.