by Mariah Stone
“What happened to ye?” Craig said while they walked through the yard towards what was probably the great hall.
“The MacDougalls sold me to a slave ship bound to the caliphate,” Ian said. “I was a slave there.”
Craig’s features grew livid. “They what?” He stopped, his fists clenched till his knuckles whitened. “They told us ye were dead… Had I have kent, I’d have come for ye.”
“I ken, Craig.”
They entered the great hall, which was full of people eating the midday meal. Craig led Ian to the table in the corner by the fireplace.
Ian’s gut squeezed as he saw his uncle, his cousins Owen and Domhnall, and other warriors of the clan he’d recognized.
Craig called for the clan’s attention, and everyone turned their heads.
“Look who came back,” Craig said. “Look who we thought was dead thanks to the damned MacDougalls. I swear, they’ll pay for this, too.”
Uncle Dougal was the first ones to recognize him.
“Ian?” Dougal said.
Ian nodded, his chest tearing from a mixture of emotions he’d never thought he’d feel again—elation, relief, and even a hint of peace.
Dougal stood up from the bench, then the rest of them. Ian was hugged, hands clapped him on the shoulders, on the back. Noise rose around the table—questions. What happened? Where had he been? Was he healthy?
With his stomach clenching, he answered the same thing he had told Craig. Slavery ship. Baghdad. Slave.
How had he come back?
There was a battle and he managed to escape.
That it hadn’t been a battle but a massacre, and that he hadn’t seen any other survivors from the palace, he couldn’t bring himself to tell them.
Because he didn’t deserve to be alive, he thought, a cold emptiness spreading in him. He was a monster. A killer.
And that, he couldn’t tell them, either.
“Where’s Father?” he said finally, silencing everyone.
Their faces turned somber, and a bad feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach.
“Uncle Duncan is unwell,” Craig said. “He’s resting now. ’Tis good ye came.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Ian asked. He hadn’t been able to get much information about his father’s condition in Loch Awe.
“We dinna ken. But Ellair, the healer, doesna think he has much time left.”
An iron knot formed in Ian’s throat. “Take me to him,” he said.
“Aye,” Craig said.
They walked out of the great hall and went to the biggest tower on the northwestern corner. Up the circular stairs, they came to the second floor and stopped at the entrance to the lord’s bedchamber. Craig explained, it now belonged to Kenneth MacKenzie, who was appointed castle constable because Craig had resigned from the position. He wanted to be with his pregnant wife as much as possible. She was now back in the safety of their home.
Kenneth MacKenzie had given his chamber to the dying man to make him comfortable.
“I will leave ye with him,” Craig said on the stairs. “Have yer time with him. I’ll be in the great hall.”
“Aye.”
Ian opened the door and stiffened, noting a small, thin figure lying in bed under the blankets. As long as he could remember, his father had always been a powerful man and a warrior. But his whole life, he’d grieved the loss of Ian’s mother who had died in childbirth. Ian always wondered if Father had secretly blamed him for the death of the love of his life. They’d never been close. Ian had been raised in his uncle Dougal’s house together with Craig, Marjorie, Domhnall, Lena, and Owen. They were more than cousins, more like real brothers and sisters to Ian.
With his father, there had always been this distance. And now, it seemed, they were almost out of time to change that.
On weak legs, Ian approached the bed, studying his father with wide eyes. His hair was now yellowish-white, not light red like before. Deep wrinkles covered his pale, weathered skin. Dark circles around his eyes were hollow. He looked more like a skeleton than the man Ian used to know.
Sharp pain shot through his gut, and his whole body went numb as he sank to his knees by the bed. He swallowed to relieve the aching tension in his throat.
“Father,” he said.
The man opened his eyes. The whites were yellow, the brown irises dull gray. He glanced around, then focused on Ian. He frowned a little.
“Ye look like my son,” he croaked. “Who are ye?”
Ian felt his throat work, his jaws tightening. “’Tis I, Ian. I came back.”
“Ye came back for me? Will ye take me to my Mariot with ye?”
Ian shook his head. “I’m alive, Father. I wasna dead. I could finally come home.”
Duncan exhaled softly and closed his eyes. “I thought ye were dead. I thought I’d lost everyone I loved.”
Ian’s heart weighed heavily. He’d never heard those words from his father. If Duncan knew what Ian had done to survive, he’d never repeat them again.
“What happened to ye, Ian?” Duncan asked.
Ian repeated the same story, and Father’s eyes closed mournfully.
“A slave… They didna break yer spirit, though, eh, lad?”
Ian looked down, swallowing the pain and humiliation.
“Nae,” he said. “I wouldna be yer son if they did.”
Duncan lifted his hand from under the blanket. Ian squeezed it. It was the hand of an old man—boney and covered with age spots.
“I’m glad to see ye before I go, my boy,” Duncan said. “Ye must take the estate now. Live there. My sword is yers now.”
Ian bowed his head. “Aye, Father.”
“Now go, Ian. I must rest.”
“Aye.”
Ian let his father’s hand go and watched as he closed his eyes and breathed evenly but weakly. He was probably asleep. Ian couldn’t move. He stood there taking every small part of his father into his memory.
Then he left the room, silently. He needed something strong to dull the ache that was spreading in his body like a wound. Coming here, seeing everyone he loved and grew up with, and seeing his father dying was too much. He needed to get drunk and forget.
He asked someone in the courtyard where he could find some ale or uisge, and they pointed at the eastern tower.
“Cellar,” the man said.
Ian went down the curved stairs to the underground storeroom. There, he looked through the casks and barrels and chests, and finally saw what he was looking for—a small barrel with an unmistakable scent.
And then he heard something. Like a moan or a quiet call. He looked around. There was a door. The moan repeated, and he could swear it came from the other side. Putting the barrel down, he took a torch from the wall and opened the door.
It was pitch-dark. The room was more like a cave going into the distance. The moan came from somewhere farther in, he thought. He continued into the room, shining the torchlight around the space.
Someone lay on the floor.
A woman.
She was blond, her shoulder-length hair spilled over the ground. She was dressed like a man, wearing tight blue trousers and a light-blue tunic that fell past her hips. She had a bag over her shoulder. She looked unconscious, although she moved her head a little and then moaned again, frowning but not opening her eyes. She wasn’t a thin woman but curvy and long-legged. And pretty. So pretty he froze to marvel at her features for a moment.
Ian sank to his knees by her side. She had a small bleeding wound at her hairline, a large bruise at the top of her forehead, and scratches all over her face and hands. Her clothes were partially torn.
Ian cupped her face gently. “Lass!” he called. “Lass! Can ye hear me?”
“Mmmm.” She turned her head.
“All right. I need to get ye out of here.”
He put the torch on the ground so he wouldn’t burn her and took her into his arms, then the torch, careful not to bring it too close.
He needed to find the steward and s
ee if she was one of the maids, because there weren’t many women in the castle, and all of them were maids. But first, he needed to get her help.
Now, with a purpose to aid someone, the ache in his chest diminished. He only hoped the lass was all right.
Chapter 3
She opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. Pain split her skull in two. She moaned and touched her head. Bandage.
She lay in a room with round stone walls. A simple slit window let daylight in. She turned and saw that there were more beds, some chests by the walls. Everything looked massive, heavy…
The word “medieval” came to mind.
Where was she? How had she gotten here?
She half rose on her elbows, wincing at the aches in every part of her body. Her head spun and nausea rose in her stomach. She thought she was going to be sick, but thankfully it passed.
Did she remember anything at all?
Her head was empty. A gauzy curtain seemed to hang around her mind. She knew something was behind that curtain, but she couldn’t seem to reach out and pull it away.
Someone entered—a man. A tall, gorgeous red-haired man in a knee-length tunic belted over narrow, woolen pants, a sword on his back. His hair was cropped short, and he had intense but kind brown eyes. His skin was tanned, as though he spent hours outdoors.
Something about him was familiar; although, she was sure she’d never seen him in her life.
“May I come in, lass?” he asked.
The sound of his voice was deep, melodic, and very pleasant. She nodded. He came in and sat on the bed next to hers.
“How are ye feeling?” he said.
“I—my head is killing me. Do you know what happened to me?”
“Nae. I found ye in the cellar, looks like ye’ve taken a fall.”
“Oh.” She touched her head again and winced. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I don’t remember…”
“Ye dinna remember how ye fell?”
“No. Actually, I don’t remember anything.”
He frowned, studying her. “Even yer name?”
She shook her head, a cold wave of fear sweeping over her. She didn’t even know who she was.
“Come, lass. What’s yer name?”
“Kate,” she said.
Her hand shot to her mouth.
“Oh! I remembered my name! Kate. Yes, I think it’s Kate.”
“Kate,” he murmured. “A bonnie name. My name is Ian.”
“And you don’t know me at all?” she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Nae, lass, I’m sorry.”
“Someone must know me.”
“Do ye work here as a maid? None of the maids recognized ye, but mayhap ye were new and the steward just hired ye.”
She shrugged. Something about it didn’t sound right to her.
“I’ll go and fetch him. He will ken ye.”
Before she could think, she grabbed his big, warm, callused hand. He turned to her.
“Don’t go,” she said.
Something about him brought comfort and security to her. He was so tall and muscular, and he looked kind. He’d found her. He was trying to help her. He was the only person she knew.
He frowned. “Ye want me to stay?”
“Yes, please. I’m…I’m afraid to be left alone. I don’t know who I am, and I’m not even sure if this is a dream…”
“I’ll be right back, lass. I’ll just find the steward. I promise I’m nae going anywhere.”
He squeezed her hand reassuringly, and she felt better.
“Okay,” she said.
He winced. “What?”
“Yes, okay.”
“Strange word. Mayhap, people began speaking new words while I was away.”
She smiled and leaned back in her pillows.
Soon, Ian was back with a man in his forties with a big beer belly. The man was bald and looked like he was in a hurry to be somewhere and Ian was wasting his precious time.
“Who are ye?” said the man, leaning over her as though she were a strange animal at the zoo.
Kate sat up, feeling vulnerable, and wanting to protect herself. “My name is Kate. I’m not sure how I got here. Do you know me?”
“Nae. Never seen ye in my life. Where did ye find her?” he asked Ian.
“In the eastern tower. In the underground chamber.”
The man’s face straightened. “Underground? Where the food and drink provisions are?”
“Well, not in that chamber, in the one beyond the door.”
The man narrowed his eyes at Kate. “I have never seen ye. Why were ye there?”
“I don’t know!” Kate said.
“Where are yer things?”
“She had a bag, a small bag.”
Ian picked up a small, over-the-shoulder purse.
“Give it to me,” the man, who must be the steward, said.
Ian didn’t move, his eyes locked with Kate’s. “Nae,” he said. “I’ll check it myself.”
Ian opened the purse on the bed, then rummaged through it. There wasn’t much space in it, but he produced a plastic bag with a sandwich. A bottle of water. Napkins.
The men stared at them as though they were the devil’s things.
“What is that material?” the steward asked.
Ian unwrapped the plastic bag and removed the sandwich. “Dinna ken. But this is bread, some salt pork, and some grass, I think. Or mayhap cabbage. And something else—something red… A berry?”
“Ye’re a thief!” cried the steward. “Ye were stealing, weren’t ye?”
Kate sat straight up despite the headache that was killing her.
“No! I never— I don’t know what I was doing there, but it was definitely not stealing!”
“If she says she isna a thief, she isna a thief,” Ian said.
He sniffed the sandwich. “This smells delicious, lass. Did ye make this?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Then what proof do ye have for not being a thief?” the steward insisted.
“I don’t!” Kate cried. “I don’t have any proof at all. I don’t even know who I am.”
“Ye canna just blame her for what she hasna done,” Ian said. “Look at her. She canna even walk. Let her be, let her heal, and mayhap she’ll remember something. Or mayhap, someone will recognize her.”
The steward crossed his arms over his chest and gave a nod, although unwillingly. He turned and walked out of the room.
“Dinna fash yerself, lass,” Ian said. “Ye will remember something. And in the meanwhile, I will try this. It smells too good.”
He bit into the sandwich, chewed, and his expression changed to one of pure bliss.
“Heaven and hell, lass. Did ye make this?”
“I don’t know!”
“This is delicious. Mmm. Do ye want some?”
“No, I couldn’t even if I tried. I’m still nauseated.”
“Mayhap ye’re a cook?”
She shrugged, watching blankly as he continued devouring the sandwich.
“Aye, good. I will let ye rest. Ye need to recover. I will be back soon to check on ye. Aye?”
She nodded. “Thanks, Ian.”
Her head pounded, and she felt like all the energy and life were sucked out of her. She turned onto her side, huddled deeper into the blanket, and watched Ian leave. She began sinking into the deep, dark waters of sleep, but even still the fear lingered. Who was she? Why did the things in her purse seem strange to them?
And what if once she remembered all that, she wished she hadn’t?
Chapter 4
Ian’s head hung between his shoulders as he sat over the cup of uisge. He felt heavy, as though all his body parts were sacks filled with rocks. His mind was hazy from the alcohol. He felt numb in his chest and light in his head, and that was exactly what he needed.
Not to think about his dying father. Not to think about his terrible past. And not to think about what confusion his arrival must have caused in his
family. And then that strange, bonnie lass who didn’t know who she was… He felt for her.
And he didn’t want to feel for anyone.
“I havna had a drop to drink since before that battle with the MacDougalls,” he told Owen who sat by his side in the great hall and must have been as drunk as Ian was.
“Oh, aye?” Owen said.
Ian looked up and chuckled. “Aye. What do ye suppose, they throw feasts for slaves in the caliphate? The masters barely drink themselves.”
Owen raised his cup. “To drinking! And to yer return.”
They smashed the cups together. Ian threw back his drink, the liquid burning his throat and leaving a trace of fire as it slid down into his stomach.
Owen gave Ian a careful, probing glance. “What did ye do there exactly?”
It was as though he’d thrown a bucket of snow over Ian. He tensed, all light-headedness gone. He rolled his shoulders, his foot bouncing under the table. He stopped it, but the need to release the unease itched in him. He rubbed the back of his neck.
The dusty, square courtyard he’d seen countless times was in essence a large coffin. Swords flashing before him, his victims' screams as they were dying—their eyes always held surprise, then anger, and then finally acceptance. The memories pressed in on him from all sides, threatening to crush him like an ant.
He sucked in the air, released it, then took another deep breath and another. The cup was empty, and he poured some more uisge and threw it down his throat.
Only when his stomach burned, his mind clouded, and he could breathe easier, did he say, “What did I do? What slaves do.”
Owen watched him with a concerned frown. Ian had to give it to Owen, he was smart enough not to press for more information. He simply nodded and poured himself another drink.
“I canna imagine how hard it was for ye.”
Ian nodded. “That’s one word for it.”
“How did ye escape?”
The memories of crushed bodies under the rocks, of arrows piercing flesh burned his psyche. Then Abaeze. The friend who had saved his life…and taken his death.
“Someone attacked the palace. Destroyed it. Killed everyone. I was verra, verra lucky.”
And he didn’t deserve that luck.
“It wasna yer fault, brother,” Owen said softly. “That ye were lucky. I can see ’tis torturing ye.”
