Oath of the Outcast

by C M Banschbach

  “I’ll be laughing when that day comes, because it won’t be anytime soon.”

  “What really happened?” She reached for his hand. “Did you really--”

  Rhys pulled away. “Try to kill the prince? They say I did, so I did.”

  “They never proved it.”

  “But they needed someone to blame.”

  “So why are you still alive?” Her hand rested on the table as if ready to reach out to him again. “If you killed the prince, they should have killed you.”

  “One laird thought he was doing me a great mercy by convincing them to spare my life.” Unlike the laird he’d trusted, who had done nothing.

  “I’m grateful he did.”

  Rhys curled his lip in a sneer. “You’d be the only one then.”

  “Rather dead than dishonored?” She shook her head, her fingertips pressing against the table’s smooth grain.

  “My name is a curse in the south.” Rhys fisted his hand on the tabletop. “I’m a glorified executioner for the men who are cutting this country apart. My own father only sent for me—” He jerked his hand away, cursing his lapse. Not my father. “I was only summoned here to do the work the clans are too afraid to do. It’s perfectly clear how they think of me.”

  “Don’t take Dermot’s words to heart. He spoke against bringing you here only because he knew how hard it would be to see you again after—” She glanced at her hands, twining her fingers together before meeting his gaze. “We’ve all missed you. I’m glad you came, son.”

  “Your son is a captive.” Rhys shoved back from the table and stood. “I’ll save him, only because I remember our bond. And I look after my own.”

  Ciara grasped the cuff of his sleeve, her fingers twisted into the rough fabric. “Lord Adam is a dangerous man. Be careful.” Her gentle blue eyes pleaded with him. “But please bring my son back.”

  The pull of her hand shook the stone around his heart. His voice rasped deeper as he forced the words out. “You know I will.”

  A small smile eased some of the lines around her eyes. “Come back to us when you’re done. I’ll keep praying for you as I have since the day you left.”

  “Pray?” He scoffed and pulled out of her hands. “To who? Your just and merciful god? He’s just a pretty story. He wasn’t on the battlefields, and he wasn’t around when I needed him the most. You can’t trust a god to do anything for you.”

  She stood, new sadness deepening the lines around her eyes. “One day you’ll find yourself calling out to Him again.”

  “Then I’ll be laughing on that day, too.” He turned and left her in the dim light behind him.

  The common room had emptied of guests, likely sent away after his unexpected arrival. Rhys walked past Dermot toward the door. Sarah glared at the Talam. He stirred, setting his mug down on the table.

  “Baron, wait!” he said.

  Rhys stopped, his back to the table, and cast a glance over his shoulder to the Talam of Clan MacDuffy.

  “I’ve sent for Brogan,” Dermot said. “He’ll be here in the morning to talk to you.”

  New anger twisted in Rhys at the mention of the laird. He shifted toward the door again.

  “So you might as well sit down and eat. I don’t want all this food to go to waste.”

  Rhys paused, turning to regard him for a moment, remembering Ciara’s words. Dermot could never welcome Rhys as a son, no matter how much Rhys wanted it. Sitting down with him would only make it worse.

  Dermot rested his hands against the table, and he watched Rhys with cautious hope. Sarah tilted her head, her expression pleading. Some of the tension released from Rhys’s shoulders. He shouldn’t.

  I’m already here. Might as well. He wordlessly took a seat by Dermot, and Sarah filled a plate and beaker for him.

  The two children stared at him across the table with wide and curious eyes.

  “I didn’t know I had an uncle,” the boy piped up.

  “You don’t,” Rhys growled. “But I suppose we’re even. I didn’t know Sean had children.”

  “Why not?” The boy’s innocent question sent his hand back into a fist.

  Dermot’s ale mug rattled against the table.

  Rhys searched for an answer that wouldn’t bring his anger crashing over the boy. “I haven’t lived here for a long time, so your parents couldn’t tell me.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got Sean’s talent for questions, doesn’t he?” Rhys turned to Sarah.

  She smiled for a second then leaned toward her son. “Rhisiart, leave him alone. I’ll explain later.”

  Rhisiart? The boy’s full name was Rhisiart?

  Rhys shook his head. It was no accident the boy’s name mimicked his own so closely. That was Sean, indirectly naming his son after him.

  “I just want to know how he got that scar,” Rhisiart whispered back, pointing to his own cheek.

  “I’m willing to bet it was a shaving accident.” The corners of Dermot’s eye crinkled in faint amusement.

  Rhys repressed a small smile as he drank. It was a long-running joke among Clan MacDuffy dating back a hundred years when one of their lairds had been attacked during his morning shave. The assassin had not survived. The laird did but came away with a fearsome scar on his face.

  Dermot finished his ale and stood.

  “I had the guest room prepared for you,” he told Rhys.

  Rhys crumbled a bit of bread between his fingers. A guest. It was more than he had hoped for, but it still stung.

  Dermot kissed his grandchildren and bid goodnight to his daughter-in-law, then left the room without another word.

  “Your horse has been taken care of.” Sarah toyed with her napkin.

  “Thank you,” Rhys replied.

  A serving girl came in and began to clear the table. She seemed to be the bravest of the three who helped Ciara, surreptitiously watching Rhys out of the corner of her eye.

  Sarah waited until the girl went back to the kitchen. “You’ve got a bit of a legend, don’t you?”

  “It’s what every man dreams of, isn’t it?” Rhys pushed his plate away.

  “Sean misses you, you know. We all do.”

  “It wasn’t my choice to leave.” His voice rasped deeper and his hand threatened to break his beaker.

  “He didn’t believe any of the news when it came.” She leaned forward as if desperate to reassure Rhys.

  “A man can believe what he wants.”

  “Did you really—do what they said you did?” Sarah asked, hesitation stumbling through her words. She hushed Rhisiart who looked too eager to try and ask another question of Rhys.

  “There seemed enough proof that I did.”

  She shook her head in frustration. “That’s not an answer.”

  “My side of the story never mattered.” He crossed his arms on the table.

  “Maybe it’s time you told your side.”

  “It’s seven years too late for that.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “The clans already decided for me.”

  “Why are you always so stubborn?” She slammed a fist against the table. “You should care enough to try and clear your name.”

  “Enough, Sarah.” Rhys’s voice came harsh, and Sarah flinched. “You only heard it. I lived it. And I don’t want to live it again.”

  He shoved away from the table and went to the room prepared for him.

  Chapter 2

  Rhys woke before dawn.

  He dressed and went to the barn as the rest of the household began to stir. A light mist hung over the tops of the growing wheat stalks. A breeze brought the earthy smell of the fields toward him with a soft whisper. Somewhere over the hills, a cow lowed, waiting for breakfast. A rangy hound trotted around the corner of the barn and paused to regard him with curious eyes before loping off to beg for scraps from the kitchen door.

  Seven years had changed nothing—and everything.

  His sword slapped against his leg as he walked. He’d never been called to work t
he land; he’d answered the call of war eleven years earlier, and Rhys MacDuffy, eldest son of Dermot MacDuffy, had never really returned. Not in any way that mattered. The Sea Wars had seen to that.

  His shaggy black horse stood next to the plough horses, happily crunching through a measure of oats. Draco raised his head and greeted his master with a nicker before going back to the bucket.

  “Baron.”

  Rhys turned to see Lomán, the Talam’s brother, in the door of the stables, hesitation marking the set of his shoulders. Like the night before, his face remained clear of any anger or disdain. That was something, at least.

  “Here.” Lomán tossed Rhys some fresh bread and cheese. “I thought you might be avoiding breakfast.”

  Rhys nodded his thanks. “That easy to tell?”

  Lomán had always been the peacemaker in the family and the one most likely to ask about the last seven years without bringing up his banishment.

  Lomán chuckled and leaned against the wall. “Life has seemed to treat you well as a Mountain Baron.”

  “No better or worse than it always has,” Rhys lied. No need to reveal anything about life in the Dragon Keep. Besides, he had a feeling that whatever he said would be reported back to the Talam and his wife. “How’s your family?”

  “Well enough. Peadar hasn’t let the loss of his hand stop him.”

  “Good.”

  Peadar hadn’t shared Rhys’s eagerness for war. He’d been conscripted because the clans needed men to fight. And Rhys had promised to look after him.

  It was a bad habit.

  Rhys nudged some straw from his boot. “If you’d be willing, tell him an old war comrade asked after him.”

  “I will, lad.” Lomán crossed his arms, pushing away one of the barn cats that had come to curl around his boots. “And I don’t know if we ever told you how grateful we were to you for bringing him back alive from that war.”

  “I promised him I’d get him home.”

  Lomán sighed. “If only someone had done the same for you.”

  Someone did, and then he turned on me. Rhys swallowed hard. “I was never very good at farming.”

  Lomán’s weathered features slowly creased into a smile as if he hadn’t noticed the abruptness of Rhys’s words. “Well, from all accounts, you’re doing quite well up in the Cardics. Do travelers really offer you half their possessions if you rescue them from other bandits?”

  “It would be rude to refuse.”

  “Can’t quite take away the MacDuffy, can they?” Lomán chuckled.

  Yes, they can. Rhys gripped the top of the stall door, not having the heart to correct Lomán.

  Hoofbeats pounded into the yard, and an authoritative voice called out, “Dermot, we’re not too early are we?”

  A flood of memories rose at the sound, suffocating and heavy, and Rhys clenched his fists. Broken promises made with earnest eyes, and a curse that destroyed his world. Rhys shook the dark mood away with a short breath as tension sank talons deep into his body.

  With a nod to Lomán, Rhys turned toward the voices in the yard and walked outside to where Laird Brogan greeted his Talam.

  Brogan sat his saddle with a confident assurance as eight mounted warriors milled about the yard. A bit of grey streaked his hair but no sign of regret. No remorse shown to the Talam for the promises he’d broken to Rhys.

  “He decided to come then? He’s here?” Brogan leaned toward Dermot, his deep voice impatient.

  “I’m here.” Rhys stopped Dermot from answering. He didn’t even try and control the hatred that bubbled back up at the sight of the laird. He fixed a glare on Brogan, his body tensing for a fight. Brogan shifted in discomfort.

  Rhys flicked a look at the warriors. He had fought beside many of them in the wars. Their bright clothes and blue-and-yellow checkered cloaks contrasted to Rhys’s dark blue shirt and black tunic. Not many of them would meet his eyes.

  “So you are.” The laird stared back evenly. “I suppose Dermot has told you what we need you to do?”

  “If you mean, did he tell me that not one of you would go to that lord and demand he return Sean, then, yes, he did.” Rhys directed a scathing glare up at Brogan.

  Brogan’s shoulders stiffened. “You don’t understand.” He dismounted and handed his horse off to one of the farmhands. “Lord Adam is seizing power wherever he can. He’s got half the country in his pocket and is looking for more. Chieftain MacTavish and I are seeing to the clans’ alliances, so we need you to go to Lord Adam as a neutral party. We want retribution for Sean’s kidnapping, but we’re not so foolish as to start a civil war without trying diplomacy first.”

  “And you don’t think this Lord Adam will just kill me and march on you anyway?” Rhys sneered.

  “You’ve a bit of a reputation that we hoped to use to our advantage, seeing as you know him.”

  Rhys blinked.

  Surly they didn’t mean Adam Barkley? Adam Barkley who’d been a general at the end of the Sea Wars. Adam Barkley who’d cried loudest for Rhys’s execution in the wake of the prince’s murder.

  Adam Barkley was the lord who’d taken Sean?

  Rhys set his jaw. “Lord Adam Barkley.”

  “Aye.”

  “And you think sending me to treat with him is a good idea?” Rhys snorted. “I’d be more inclined to kill him than talk to him.”

  “I’m counting on him realizing that.” A bit of smugness tinted Brogan’s voice.

  Rhys twitched the corner of his mouth into a faint smile. Maybe there was one positive from the entire situation. “Then I’ll be on my way before you think up any more ways to use me in your grand plans.”

  Dermot pursed his lips, dangerously close to a laugh.

  “Wait,” Brogan said. “I’m sending someone with you to represent me and to remind Lord Adam that the clans will not forget this insult.”

  A young warrior urged his horse forward from where he’d been half-hidden behind Brogan, and Rhys tilted his head, arguments bristling on his tongue. Alan MacDuffy, Laird Brogan’s nephew, had been his constant companion as a child. They’d been as close as brothers. They’d fought together in the hell that had been the Sea Wars. Until the exile, when Alan had watched his banishing and done nothing since.

  The only thing worse than seeing Sean again would be taking Alan along for the ride.

  “Alan is the official representative of Clan MacDuffy in this matter. You will follow his lead,” Brogan spoke sternly.

  Alan sat on his horse, saddlebags bulging with provisions for the journey. He met Rhys’s stare, his jaw set in well-remembered resolve. Alan was coming whether Rhys wanted him to or not.

  Rhys narrowed his eyes. As if he can still give me orders and expect to be obeyed. “Understood,” he said instead.

  The corner of Alan’s mouth curled slightly at Rhys’s response. At least Alan remembered that Rhys had never truly excelled at following orders.

  As Ciara brought out cups of ale for the laird and his men, Rhys returned to the barn to saddle Draco. He finished in minutes, and Sarah met him at the doors of the stables.

  “I just wanted to wish you luck.” She twisted her skirt in her hands, pressing her lips together as a brightness welled in her eyes. “Please bring him back.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Rhys promised. He paused for a long moment. He wouldn’t be coming back there, and he didn’t want to leave things so bitter between him and the Talam’s family. “And tell Ciara I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

  Sarah nodded and stepped aside for him to join the others. A black-robed priest had ridden with the lord and waited patiently, the gentle wind tossing his robes around his legs.

  “Brother Shamus will give you a blessing before you go,” Brogan said.

  Rhys pulled his horse around to the path. “Don’t waste your breath on me, Brother.” He kneed Draco and left the priest and Brogan behind in a cloud of dust.

  Alan could catch up.

  Chapter 3

  Two
months and three days.

  The grey stone of the prison pressed cold against his back as he shifted on the hard wooden cot. Two months and three days since he’d been taken from his family. He pushed away the thought of them, not willing to give his tormentors anything else to use against him.

  He fought the relentless drooping of his eyelids. He’d not slept at all that night, for fear that he might dream. Dreams were the doorway to his sight, and the druids lay in wait for the moment when they could seize control of his mind.

  They tried so hard to get him to reveal his gift, but it was not something he could call upon. The visions were sent to him when the time was right. Sometimes they came while he was with the druids. Then they would scream in triumph and do all in their power to hold him in that trance, hoping to give the darkness time to take control of his vision.

  He idly watched through the barred door as the guards paced back and forth on their rounds, their heavy tramp punctuated by the interminable drip of water from deeper in the dungeon.

  Sean wished away the intrepid sunbeams that crept through the slitted window of the cell opposite him. As if cued by the light, footsteps muffled by long robes shuffled toward his cell. A guard unlocked the door, and a druid strode into the cell. Graceful and ageless, the druid’s gaze burned with fanatic fire, relentless and fierce. His long trailing beard revealed no trace of grey.

  Alisher.

  Dread tightened his gut.

  The druid spoke first. “You look tired.”

  “I’ve been waiting in breathless anticipation for your next visit.”

  Alisher folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his green robe. “You know there’s an easier way.”

  “There always is.”

  “Come now, Sean.” Alisher tutted almost kindly. “You’re going to help us eventually whether you want to or not.”

  Sean set his jaw, shaking his head slightly. I’ll die first.

  “Why not serve Lord Adam? He only wants the best for his people.”

  “Maybe because he’s a demon-worshipping murderer?” Sean adjusted himself more comfortably on the cot.

  Alisher’s eyes flashed in anger. “Have a care how you speak. The great god Deronis is more powerful than you could possibly imagine. I serve at his pleasure.”