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I it repeat to myself over and over no matter how hollow the words feel. He is okay. He has to be because if not, what was the point?
ChapterThree
Stopping for a moment,I stretch my back and twist my hips to work out the soreness. We’ve walked for hours. The sun set long ago and as it did the mists rolled across the land, making travel harder. No one suggests stopping though, no matter their exhaustion. All I can do is empathize with those around me. They barely talk and when they do it’s in soft, short murmurs. Even the children are sullen and quiet.
The horrors they’ve seen, loved ones cut down, their homes burned, and themselves chased like animals is inconceivable. I know, from my college studies, all of this happened, but the reality of it is so much harsher than any book could ever convey. The smell of pain and destruction, I had no idea that there was such a scent, but it stings my nose, and its taste is heavy on my tongue. It’s smoke with a coppery tang and something more I don’t want to identify.
Several of the men who rescued us carry torches and keep pace alongside the group, guiding and herding as necessary. I’ve stayed to the back of the group helping to make sure that we don’t lose any stragglers.
I also notice that the men marching alongside of us change every so often. When I first realize it, I’m intrigued and then pay more attention. Every so often different men emerge from the fog and then they switch with the guides, taking the torches, and then the other men disappear into the mists. The ones returning have blood spattered on their clothes and their faces are even grimmer.
The Children of the Mists. They’re earning their name.
The MacGregor clan traces their lineage back to the first king of Scotland which is why they consider their blood to be royal, which is their Clan motto. They lost their claim to the throne long ago but the clan itself has never relinquished that they are of royal blood. In their hearts, culturally, they believe still they are born to rule. But during this time of trouble they’ll earn a new nickname. A name that will inspire terror in their enemies.
They become masters of guerilla warfare. Appearing and disappearing in the mists of the Highlands as if by magic. And now, I know, it may be magic. Are the Fae helping them? Lord Nicholas is darkness, which I assume makes him a Dark Fae, an Unseelie. Is the Seelie Court aiding the MacGregors in response?
If they are, why didn’t they tell me? The more I think about it, I don’t believe they are, but then I didn’t think any of the Dark Fae would aid the darkness. None of them are supposed to take an active role in any of this, unless that was a lie they’ve all told me. It doesn’t make sense, but what does when it comes to the Fae?
Wrong question, Quinn.I hear the Druid’s voice in my head. Wrong question. But what is the right question?
What is it the Fae want? That’s a better question. Magic. The Light Fae want magic, but Moira talked about the Dark Fae and, she at least, wanted order. Does that extend to all the Dark Fae? Is that the difference between the two Courts?
The climb lessens until we’re marching along a flat that must be close to the top of the mountains. The stars twinkle above in a clear night sky. The moon is but a sliver tonight, not bright enough to compete with the starlight. The air is thin and crisp but lacking the familiar scents of trampled grass and heather. The ground is mostly moss at this elevation and a stand of scraggly trees that cling desperately to the rock.
“Here,” Alaqhon calls. “Gather round, folks.”
I stay to the back of the crowd as they form a rough circle around their chief. He towers over the tallest of them. His presence is impressive, you can’t not know he’s there. It’s clear why he’s the head of the clan in its entirety. There’s no chance of missing him or not hearing what he’s about to say. The men with torches move to spots around us and form a ring of light. People murmur but no one speaks up, waiting to hear what he’ll say.
“This will be home for you,” Alaqhon says. “Until we can reclaim our rightful lands.”
“There’s nothing here.” an anonymous voice says.
“Aye, there is nae much here,” Alaqhon agrees. “We’ve been betrayed. Stolen from. Driven from our ancestral lands and our people murdered. I’ll nae lie to you. This is as grim as I’ve seen in my lifetime. Our grandfathers never even saw times such as this.”
“What are we going to do?” The voice is desperate and fearful and, though it is one person, the words echo the sentiments of all gathered.
“We are MacGregors!” Alaqhon bellows. His voice echoes off unseen stones and reverberates in my chest. “We will take back what is ours. Now, we survive. The Highlands are our home. The mountains welcome us and reject those naves who would come against us. This is our true place, where our ancestors’ bones rest.”
Hope grows in my heart and a bustle of agreement passes among the assembled. Then, as if on some unspoken cue, the men with torches move in a circle around us and they light other torches that are planted into the ground. The area lights up brighter and now I can see where we’ve been led.
In front of us is a sharp peak that rises towards the sky in which there is a dark crack that looks like someone drove a sword into the side of the mountain leaving a nasty gash. There are four stone longhouses in front of us, each big enough to hold ten or more people comfortably. A few people are already gathered there waiting in front of the long houses.
A couple of goats wander between the two groups and there is the lowing of some unseen cows. Some livestock is better than none and increases the odds of our survival. The red-orange light of the flames illuminates one more thing that makes my heart leap.
“Alesoun,” I say her name aloud and run around the crowd to where she stands.
Her eyes widen when she sees me, glistening with tears, and she has her arms open wide as I run straight into them. We almost fall as we tackle hug one another.
“Oh, lass,” she says. “I thought for sure I’d lost you.”
“And I you,” I say.
“Ach, takes more than a wee scrape to get the best of me.”
As I ease my grip, she shifts her hands to my shoulders and takes a step back, looking me over with an appraising eye. She tsks and shakes her head before pulling me towards the door of one of the longhouses.
“What are we doing?”
