Page 92 of Luthias

“’Tis the work of the Fae, Sire?” Struan had asked, cowering next to Callum.

“You reckon the fair folk capable of such filth, you eejit?” The laird had backhanded him, and then crushed the strange constructs under his boots. He’d told their guards to burn the carcasses before turning around and striding back to the castle.

Callum had thought that the end of it, but not an hour passed before his sire summoned him and his brother to the great hall. The laird had ordered them bound and held in front of the rest of the clan, calling for the one who had dared fashion such obscene objects to make themselves known and confess to the perversion.

No one had spoken up or blinked, even when the order to whip the boys had been given. Callum and his brother had spent the next week on their bellies in bed, having their wounds bathed and bandaged by their sobbing màthair.

Who should do such a thing? Struan had whispered in the darkness. ’Tis unnatural to hack apart animals and sport with their bones.

Now Callum saw why no one had confessed: it had been the work of a MacRoss; the same one who had used this cave.

Chapter Nine

Struan Carack sat in his brother’s chair on the dais in the great hall and listened as the two journeymen sages bickered over who should take charge of the newly-mined dreamstone.

“’Tisnae only that my elixirs prove superior to those blended by Sage Fuachd, my lord,” Geamhradh said, stretching his stout body by lifting his heels, as if to show off his imposing height. Close to being elevated in rank, he’d polished his sapphire robe pin until it glittered. “I’ve improved the sleeping draught’s blend so ’twill work faster.”

“Aye, and kill half who but sip his poison,” the thinner, shorter Fuachd said as he tucked his hands behind his back, giving his companion a smug look. Known as the most learned journeyman among the younger sages, he wore a wide belt under which he’d tucked the many scrolls he’d been writing. “My elixir shall be odorless and tasteless, my lord, and no’ end anyone. I vow to you.”

“Nor shall yours put anyone to sleep,” Geamhradh said, and muttered, “’Twill be mine alone, you eejit.”

“I shall feed you your own swill,” Fuachd murmured back.

“Fair morning, my lord,” Reothadh said as he carried in a tray with Struan’s morning brew. As both sages jumped he ignored them. “Shall I order these fools flogged for wasting your time, or do you desire some exercise for your whip arm?”

“We but desired to use some of the dreamstone, Master,” Fuachd said, while at the same time Geamhradh said, “’Tis so much, and we’ve elixirs we wish to–”

“Get out,” Reothadh said in his most pleasant tone.

The two sages quickly bowed and hurried from the chamber.

“My apologies, my lord.” The master sage brought his brew to him, and then went to add wood to the hearth. “If those two brothers dinnae poison each other, I reckon I shall.”

“They’re blood-kin?” Struan frowned. “They look naught alike.”

“Nor do you and Lord Callum,” Reothadh said. “Fuachd favors their sire, Geamhradh their màthair.”

After the sage left Struan’s gaze strayed to the portraits of his older brother and their sire, which had been hung on either side of the largest hearth and draped with the clan’s blue, white and green tartan. Both lairds glared sternly back at him, as if silently condemning him for daring to take their place in the hall.

The sensation proved a familiar one, for Struan had always felt like a changeling next to his older brother. Callum favored their black-haired, blue-eyed màthair, who had run away from her clan to wed their sire. All the Carack knew the stories of how the old laird’s first wife had been seduced and pregnant with Callum before she even came to Dun Deigh, which was how she had forced the marriage on him. His sire had no love for anyone, but he had admired the lady’s courage for stalking into his hall and demanding he make an honest woman out of her before she summoned her father’s garrison and had the place burned to the ground. Sometimes Struan wondered if that was why the old laird had chosen Callum as his successor instead of his more capable younger brother, but in his heart he knew the truth.

He hated the sight of me.

Being his sire’s mirror image had given Struan hope at first. He had been born with the same pale hair, which had always been more silver than gold, but that was not the only strangeness that had made the other lads in the clan wary of him. No matter how long he remained in the sun his frost-white skin, like the old laird’s, never tanned. He had the same tall, slim build, the regally remote features, and even the same subtle peaks on the curves of his ears. His only weakness, which often daily tormented him, should have endeared him to his sire, who suffered the exact same odd affliction.

Instead, nothing about his younger son had pleased the old laird.

As Struan grew older he noticed his sire would gaze fondly at Callum while at best sparing him only a glance. Even when the brothers had returned to Dun Deigh from winning an important battle, the old laird cared to hear the details only from his eldest son. Time had never healed those wounds, but since his sire’s death they had ceased festering. The old laird would never again look upon him with that faint disgust in his eyes.

Despite Callum’s suspicions Struan no longer wished to be laird. Power, he had discovered, could be had by other means.

His morning continued with listening to his patrol captains, who came to report on the previous day’s sightings.

“We’ve seen more MacRoss patrols in the slopes, my lord, but none ride near our boundaries,” one sentinel was saying, catching his interest. “They’ve also posted watchers over a recent slide above their westernmost loch.”

Struan knew that area; due to the unstable ground and steepness it had not been used by the clan’s shepherds for many years. “What interests them there?”

“I cannot tell you, my lord,” the sentinel admitted. “Our closest watchers cannae see the place plainly due to the tree lines in the slopes. That and you ordered we no’ cross the boundary.”