Page 3

When would it ever end? How many deaths would it take until someone had the courage to cry, "Enough!"

Ian is dead, Gawyn thought, forcing himself to face the truth without flinching. Nothing they could do would bring him back. The only thing Gawyn could do for his son now was to give his death some meaning. Ian's name would not be just one more name on the long list of the slain. Ian's name would be the last.

When Gawyn opened his eyes, he found that though Malcolm was gone, his foster-son was still beside him. Alistair was slumped in his seat, bright head resting on his hand, dressed in the same bloodstained clothing in which he had brought Ian back again.

"Alistair," he said, his voice cracked and harsh.

"Aye, Laird." Alistair was instantly alert.

"Tell me—all of it."

Alistair obeyed, his voice as flat as though he was reporting a routine mission, not the death of his own foster brother, Gawyn's son and heir. Only at the end did he falter.

"He should have waited for me," Alistair said. "He said it himself—asked my pardon—"

"And ye gave it," Gawyn said.

"I did. But I'll never forgive him! Stupid, reckless—I'm sorry," he added quickly. "The fault was mine as much as his. Or more," he added bitterly.

"There was naught ye could have done," Gawyn said firmly, giving Alistair the comfort he could not find within himself.

"'Twas quick," Alistair said. "He did not suffer."

Gawyn nodded. Whether Alistair spoke the truth or not, Gawyn must believe him. He had no choice. To do otherwise would surely drive him mad, and madness was a luxury he could not afford.

"I want ye to do something for me," he said.

"I know," Alistair said. "Have no fear, laird, Darnley is a dead man."

"Nay. Not that. Not now. I want ye to send for Jemmy."

"Jemmy?"

Alistair repeated the name as if he'd never heard it before. But of course he had. Jemmy was the laird's son, after all, as much Alistair's foster brother as Ian had been.

"Jemmy?" he said again, and now his voice held the beginnings of anger. "Whatever for? Malcolm is Ian's heir. There's no need to be bringing Jemmy back here—if we can even find him!"

"A letter." The laird gestured toward his writing table.

Alistair retrieved the parchment and studied it. "Cadiz," he said. "So he's still in Spain... But why?" he demanded. "Why now, after all these years?"

"He is my son...his place is here. I want him with me."

Alistair looked at him sharply, surprise and disbelief etched across his face. He knows me well, Gawyn thought, a bit too well to swallow that lie whole.

"You don't want Jemmy," Alistair said. "Did ye no' say yourself that you've no use for him since he ran off? Now lie back and drink that draught Master Jenkin left ye."

"No—I want Jemmy, I tell ye—"

He broke off with a choked gasp that brought his foster son instantly to his side, face taut with concern. Gawyn regarded him through half-closed eyes, satisfied with what he saw.

"All right, laird," Alistair said comfortingly. "If ye want Jemmy, ye shall have him. Though God knows what good he will do," he added in a mutter.

Alistair will obey me, Gawyn thought. Though he doesn't understand yet what I mean to do, his loyalty is absolute. Even when he does know, he will obey, because there is more than the fealty of knight and laird between us. But will he ever forgive me for it?

When Alistair understood that Jemmy was to be the instrument of peace with Darnley, he would be furious, hurt, betrayed—but he would stand fast. He would, Gawyn thought. He must.

God would never be so cruel as to take both Alistair and Ian and leave him only Jemmy.