Page 10 of Darach

They blamed him, not for Callum’s death, but for refusing to attack the MacRoss, their ancient rivals. This despite knowing his brother had given his life to rescue Luthias MacRoss and Emery Parker, the woman from the future who had saved them all from a needless clan war.

Struan spread out the scrolls and studied the figures inked on the parchment. Two listed the amount of gold and silver ore that had been brought up from the mines over the last month, and the third listed the gems and crystals found in the old shafts he had reopened for digging. Using silver jettons to mark the amounts on the scored lines of the table, he figured how much the jewels and precious metals would fetch once worked into baubles, and then combined the totals. They would add even more wealth to the Carack’s burgeoning coffers, and assure they could keep their position as the wealthiest clan in the highlands.

If the MacRoss dinnae go back on their promise of peace and attack us. If I can control my brothers and somehow quench their thirst for vengeance. If we may expose the bastart behind all these schemes, and learn why he wants war between the clans.

“For one who wished no’ be named laird, you spend much time tending to our wealth, my lord,” a slurred voice said from the shadows. “’Tis well you cannae keep a wench in your bed, else she be tempted to filch the coin you’re ever counting.”

Struan smelled the sourness of sweat mixed with whiskey, and now understood why Callum so often avoided the hall after the evening meal. Thanks to his own weakness he would spend every day of the next two months below ground. Until the end of summer he would have to deal with the occasional fool intruding on his work.

“I’ve no time for wenches or you, Fyn.” He rolled up the parchments and collected the jettons. “Why skulk you about the keepe when you should be skinning those boars delivered today? They shallnae peel off their own hides and trot into the kitchens.”

“The boars shallnae run anywhere now, Brother,” the hunter said as he stepped into the light of the lantern. One of the shortest men in the clan, his narrow face, close-set eyes and protruding front teeth made him resemble a water vole. “I’m curious, my lord. Why choose you remain war master? Ever you’ve wished from boyhood to be laird. Callum even named you his successor, although only the Gods ken why you’ve no’ named yours.”

Being reminded of the old rift between him and his dead brother didn’t annoy Struan as much as the manner in which Fyn avidly watched his face. Fortunately he had long experience at keeping his countenance.

“I shall choose a new war master before I take my place on the dais as laird,” he told the hunter. “Until that day, I shall serve as I’ve done since our sire died.”

“The clan needs a clever warrior unafraid of death and killing,” Fyn countered, drinking from a jug as he staggered over to the table. “One who shall keep the facking MacRoss from crossing our boundaries to slit our throats as we sleep.” He leaned close, bathing Struan in the sour fumes of his breath. “Dinnae you see one truly worthy to do such?”

“I ken several of our brothers who should serve us well in time of war or peace,” Struan said, and took a moment to look directly into the hunter’s beady dark eyes. “Only rest assured, Fyn. Never shall I name you the next war master.”

Something like hurt flickered over the hunter’s face. “Aye, only soon shall you regret that vow.”

Fyn stalked away, his hand colliding with the lantern and knocking it over onto the floor. The oil it spilled on the stone ignited, and the flames flaring under the table forced Struan to rise and move away.

“Permit me, my lord.” Master Sage Reothadh appeared, his robes fluttering around his tall, gaunt form as he seized a bucket of sand near the hearth and used it to extinguish the small fire. “Such accidents become frequent of late.”

“An accident.” He glanced at the arch through which Fyn had departed. “I wonder.”

“I reckon the hunter yearns to work out of doors again.” The sage picked up the lantern and placed it in the sand bucket. “Mayhap ’tis time to permit the clan to return to their duties.”

Struan thought of Callum’s burned body being lowered into the grave he’d dug with his own hands. “’Tis proper we mourn the laird as we did my sire, for a full month. I cannae make the moon wane nor wax faster.”

“Forgive me, my lord. I dinnae question your right to grieve proper.” The sage retrieved a small spade and broom and began sweeping up the blackened sand. “I hadnae a chance to speak with you this morn about the dreamstone you bid me inspect. ’Tis naught missing from the enclave’s storerooms.”

Before he had died Callum had specifically asked him about the crystal, which he had intended to give to the sages to create a sleeping elixir. His brother had never explained any of his reasons for wanting the potion, or why he had thought any of the dreamstone would go missing.

“The two young sages who came to me squabbling over that crystal,” Struan said, “did they speak with Callum before he left to play woodcutter on MacRoss land?”

“I cannae tell you,” Reothadh admitted. “’Tis unlikely those brothers would both set on creating the same elixir unless asked by the former laird.”

From what the two young sages had said, Callum had meant to put a great many to slumber, perhaps by adding such an elixir to a well or cistern.

“Find out what they ken of my brother’s plans.” He glanced down as the sage held out a glass orb illuminated from within by the blue light of a Fae charm. “Why give me such?”

“You carry a torch when you roam the woods after dark.” The lines around his eyes deepened. “Coldfire, ’twillnae blister your hands.”

He hated being reminded of his weakness, but the sage meant the offering as a kindness. “My thanks.”

Struan instructed his personal guards to remain at the gate before he walked into the forest surrounding his stronghold. Even with summer upon the highlands the nights remained cool, and gave him some relief. During the day he spent much of his time in the dungeons, where he had set up a chamber for himself to work while avoiding the hot rays of the sun. Like his father he could never tolerate any heat without his flesh blistering and then burning. All his life Struan had been forced to eat tepid food, bathe in the chilliest loch, and avoid hearths and bonfires. His mind kept going back to the accident with the lantern––if that was what it had truly been.

Did Fyn wish only to frighten me, or truly burn me alive?

Ever since being ordered to remain at the keep for the official month of mourning, the hunter had behaved like a caged wild animal, pacing for hours, drinking too much and taking pleasure in tormenting the servants. More than once Struan had wondered if Fyn might be going mad at last, for since boyhood he had been strange, and at times seemed to teeter on the very edge of sanity. Only Callum had been able to keep the hunter under control, for the hunter had both feared and worshipped him. Seeing Luthias MacRoss bringing the Carack laird’s burned body back to Dun Deigh had likely been too much for Fyn’s simple mind to grasp.

A small shadow flitted across the trail, and Struan held up the orb as he peered into the darkness. Unlike Callum he could see in the dark, but only as well as most men. “Who walks there?”

A short, thin figure stepped out from behind a broad oak. “’Tis but Revna, Maister.”