Highland Steel (Guardians of the Stone Book 2)

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  Unless the fates be faulty grown

  And prophet’s voice be vain

  Where’er is found this sacred stone

  The blood of Alba reigns.

  Alas, no more. For the good of mankind, Una herself had brought the destiny stone into this tomb, never again to be warmed by summer’s smile. For by the power vested in this stone, men were doomed to commit the vilest acts in Alba’s name. This she knew only too well because she had witnessed the worst. Alas, it was true; she saw far more with one good eye than most saw with two—more’s the pity over that.

  Setting the crystal down gingerly upon the Stone of Destiny, she breathed deeply, preparing herself for the rite. The very thought of it wearied her, for every glimpse into the crystal drained her of life, and yet these were sentient moments when the destinies of men could change with but a flip of the hand.

  She positioned the crystal carefully for her eyes alone, so that the more concave side faced away from the entrance, just in case. To all but a few, the keek stane might seem merely a pretty crystal, but for those blessed with the sight it revealed betimes too much—things to come, things that passed, things that lingered now in twilight. Aye, and it was these nebulous visions Una sought above all others, for they alone revealed paths she might yet alter. The trick of that was to distinguish them from the rest, and for that she needed two great stones with divergent powers.

  “Una!” she heard the child Sorcha call from above, presumably from Una’s workshop, but Una did not respond.

  She knew instinctively Sorcha would not venture down this way, for it was forbidden to all save Una and to Aidan as leader of his clan. Someday, there must be rest for Una’s weary bones, and sometime before that time she would choose a disciple to carry on the Old Ways. Until then, this room was sacred. No one would dare disturb her here—not even precocious young Sorcha. Thus, she bided her time until Sorcha wandered away, settling her one good eye on the keek stane, transported momentarily to another time. Alas, she didn’t need the crystal to spy the past, for it played behind her lids like recurrent dreams.

  Blood. Treachery.Death.

  Here in this place, long, long ago—but so not so long ago for Una—Kenneth MacAilpín called together the kings of seven Pecht nations: Cat, Fidach, Ce, Fotla, Circinn, Fortriu and Fib, represented by great men the likes of Black Tolargg and Drust. Each came from noble lines, but they were all seven prepared to bend the knee to Kenneth MacAilpín. For this Una blamed herself, because she had been the one to convince them. MacAilpín’s minny had been a Pecht princess, whilst his Da hailed from a long line of Dalriadic kings. It only seemed to her that, as a child of two nations, he should be the one to unite the clans. But she had been blinded by hope.

  Blood. Treachery.Death.

  Smoothing a wrinkled hand over the cold, firm Destiny Stone, she remembered…

  With a hopeful heart she’d blessed Lia Fàil —the Stone of Destiny, proclaiming it the seat of future kings—not simply for those Gaels who’d brought it by way of Erin, but for all the clans of her beloved Alba. In a ceremony attended by a hopeful nation, they’d crowned MacAilpín upon this very slab of stone, and oh, what a feast they’d had! On that day MacAilpín swore an oath by the sword of the Righ Art and the clans made merry for a sennight, celebrating peace, at long last.

  But, lo, Una had forgotten how fickle men’s hearts could be. As surely as the men sobered, and the flesh of the roasts were plucked away, leaving only twisted bones, so too returned the vanities and vagaries of men.

  MacAilpín, fearful of being challenged for his throne, called together the fathers and sons of all seven nations—here… at Dubhtolargg—asking them to sup, presumably to discuss the boundaries of given fiefs. However, once they arrived, he waited until they were well into their cups, laughing uproariously over jests and only then did reveal his treachery, plunging them all into pits that were carved beneath their seats and sown with deadly blades. All those who did not die by the blades he then slew from above, murdering every last one. He plundered their bodies and stole their treasures. That was MacAilpín’s treason and Una had been powerless to stop it. After all, what could one old woman do against an army of men?

  Nay, though she’d wept… and even as she’d wept, she went to preside over the Stone of Destiny, cursing it that very day—cursing it so any man who sat upon it without right was forevermore destined to war against his own kin. Just as MacAilpín had served the Pechts, so too would his descendants suffer their end. Justice. Or so it seemed, at the time. But it was an act of grief, no less, no more. Now the curse could not be undone. And the true tragedy was that Scotia was doomed with the stone and without it as well, and all Una could do now was attempt to minimize the damage done. So here sat the Destiny Stone and here it would remain forevermore. Yet what of Aidan and his clan? Were these poor folk destined to relive the same treachery again and again until they were done?

  Her heart filled with an age-old sorrow as she recalled Padruig mac Caimbeul’s bold act of treachery—played in much the same manner as MacAilpín’s treason. She could not know for certain if he meant to mock these people with his betrayal, but Padruig too had come as a friend and left with blood on his hands—the blood of Aidan’s sire and many of his kin. Long, long after they’d gone, Una discovered poor Lael clinging to her father’s dead body beneath the table, smeared with blood and wailing like a bairn. Not even her mother’s soft, broken coos could untangle the child from her father’s stiff limbs.

  Moisture filled Una’s eyes and she blinked away the memory, admiring the stone sadly. Ach, but even the most benevolent magik sometimes went awry in the service of men.

  But enough reverie for one day.

  Once she was certain Sorcha was gone, she set aside her staff, leaning it upon the Stone of Destiny to lay her hands upon the keek stane, ready at last to begin. Her voice began as a whisper and then perfused the grotto.

  Through the glass the sands shall go,

  On and on as time must flow,

  Reveal to me now another place

  But in others’ minds leave no trace!

  All about the room mist coalesced, gathering like a storm cloud before the altar. The keek stane glowed a brighter green, casting its pale light upon the nebulous mass. Faces formed in the cloud, peering back at Una from another time.

  Stark green eyes. The face of Lael. The sword of the Righ Art. Rising up by a bloodied hand. A mound of dead. She gasped aloud.

  Blood. Treachery.Death.

  With a pounding heart, the priestess waved a trembling hand and swept the mist away as though by a rush of unseen wind. Her bony fingers locked into a pleading fist. “Spare the child,” she implored, and then closed her eyes, spying wee Lael as a child of eleven.

  They stood together by her minny’s grave beneath the rowan tree. “Una,” the memory child whispered at her side. “I will kill them all one day.”

  Una felt the specter’s presence beside her as though she were here and now. Tears pricked at her eyes—she felt them cloud even her phantom eye. Sun glinted off the dirk in her ghostly hand—her father’s dirk—and Una felt compelled to warn, “Take care, child. Vengeance is a double-edged blade.”

  “Ach, Lael, what ha’ ye done, lass?”

  True to the Butcher’s word, Broc sat gulping down his victuals as they dragged Lael into the tunnels below the donjon. His expression full of worry, he set his plate aside and stood, coming to the bars to peer at her.

  She couldn’t find her voice—not yet.

  She wasn’t even certain what it was she was feeling at the instant, but it wasn’t triumph, nor even justification. If she had but kept her mouth shut and her hands to herself, she might have somehow negotiated not only her own release, but Broc’s as well. Now, instead, she’d been sent here to the gaols with Broc and both of them would rot here for the rest of their days. David would never compel his liegeman to show them mercy, not after what she had done.

  Her brother had always claimed she
was a termagant, though in truth, she had never behaved so irrationally, not in all her life. For all that she’d accused David of being calculating, she was far more deliberate in her actions than he could ever think to be. However, unlike David, at least she was driven by honor. Even now she had no kind words for the king of Scotia, but despite what she knew of him—despite all the atrocities he had committed against the people she loved—David had stood there, simply gaping at her, not even defending himself, and some part of her felt terrible for that fact—not to mention horrified over the look the Butcher gave her, as though he thought her mad.

  And mayhap I am.

  The men restraining her dragged her past Broc’s cell, before the one adjoining his, and whilst one stood unlocking the door, the other two brutally restrained her. She had no fight left in her at the instant, but this they could not know.

  “Ow!” she complained. “Ye’re hurting me!”

  “Ye should ha’ thought o’ that before attacking your king!”

  Hearing that news, Broc let his forehead fall against the bars. “Ach, nay Lael,” he said again, but he spared her any more words whilst the Butcher’s men were in their company.

  “He is not my king,” Lael persisted, discovering a bit of pluck. “My people do not bend the knee to the sons of MacAilpín. I do not hail from Scotia!”

  “Aye?” The cell door opened and one of her guards shoved her inside. “An’ who the bloody hell are ye folk anyway?” he asked, slamming the cell door shut behind her. “Perchance ye hail from the land of faeries?”

  The other guards guffawed.

  “Because unless ye do,” the man persisted, “if ye were born in these Highlands, then your as much a Scot as me—crazy bitch.”

  At his words Lael might have thrown herself at the door, save that she was done behaving angrily and irrationally. “Nay. I am not.”

  She wanted them to know: She hailed from a lineage as old as the Highland hills. Her people had fled long ago to keep themselves free. They’d survived wave after wave of pillages from the north, and the endless politicking of the tribes after the son’s of Aed and Constantine returned from Erin two centuries past. Her people were the last of the Painted Ones—those the Roman’s called Pechts. They did not recognize Scotia, nor any of its kings. They were survivors, and they would never abandon the Old Ways. She would keep her faith until her dying breath, because she was a child of old Alba, a sister to the wind, a daughter of the forest. Moreover, her clansmen were the guardians of the one true stone of destiny vaulted deep in the Red Hills. She was not a crazy bitch!

  “Lael,” Broc interjected, trying to calm her.

  She turned to face her friend, a bitter loneliness creeping in so far removed from her own kin. His eyes pleaded with her. But he did not know her either. Hot tears pricked at her eyes. She longed for her brother’s console and his protection. Broc, as big as he was, could scarce help her now—he could not even help himself! Nay, she’d failed them both.

  “They know not who I am, Broc Ceannfhionn,” she whispered brokenly. “And neither do you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Apparently, it was not enough they had very nearly hanged her this morn; the daft wench had gone after the one man who might have pardoned her out of hand.

  His face mottled with anger—or perhaps with fever—David quit the hall, grumbling something about ruined tunics.

  There was little Jaime could do for the lass now.

  Her fate was in David’s hands.

  Jaime was sworn by oath to uphold David’s law. But on the off chance that it might make a difference he sent dinner to the laird’s chamber. A hearty meal would go a long way toward soothing the king’s ire, and the sooner he received it the better, but be damned if had any inkling why he felt so compelled to save the vixen when she clearly had a death wish for herself. She might be his prisoner, but the thought of her blood adorning the edge of his blade made his supper sour in his gut.

  Once the hall was returned to order, he mounted the tower steps to see to David. Fortunately for the lass, he knew the King to be a just man. If Jaime gave him a bit of time, not too much, and filled his belly with ale and food, perhaps it would settle his ire enough to see the girl properly ransomed to her family, perhaps with a promise of fealty. Thankfully, by the time Jaime arrived and knocked upon the door, the king’s voice was much gentler. “Come in,” he said.

  Jaime shoved open the heavy oak door, and found the king seated before a lit brazier aside a small table replete with victuals. A tankard of ale froze halfway to his thin lips and he held it in midair, waiting for Jaime to enter and close the door. He looked tired, careworn, and far older than his forty-two years. It seemed to Jaime that the past two years alone had aged him far more than the ten before. Once he was certain Jaime came alone, he said, “She’s off her bloody head!”

  Jaime gave him a nod and a grim smile. “She’s a madbit, certainly,” he agreed, and then dreading the coming discussion, he wandered over to the laird’s bed, examining the hefty furs as David’s gaze followed him across the bower.

  Aside from a peek into the door, this was Jaime’s first time in the laird’s chamber and he found it opulent by most standards. The covers were plush and well stitched. Doubtless, they would keep him warm throughout the winter—unlike his prisoners down in that cell. The cold alone would brittle their bones.

  Off her head, indeed—that, or she had cause to be angry with David and Jaime considered that a moment, for he suspected she might.

  Certainly she seemed to know David, and David seemed to know her as well. Jaime was hardly privy to every interaction David had with the men he sought to rule.

  “The room is well appointed,” the king remarked, mistaking the turn of Jaime’s thoughts. “I suspected MacLaren indulged himself at my expense.”

  Jaime shrugged. “I did not know the man.” In fact he had never met Donnal MacLaren’s youngest grandson. He knew him by reputation alone, but as reputations went, Jaime had nary a stone to throw.

  The king blew a hefty sigh. The intensity of it seemed to snuff the oxygen from the room. The candles on their braces flickered desperately, choking on their wicks. “I wish I dinna,” the king confessed.

  Jaime discarded the furs upon the bed, wondering how well King David knew Rogan MacLaren. David wasn’t always quite as forthcoming as Jaime might have wished. The king had a grand scheme though he wasn’t particularly inclined to share it. However, knowing his character, he had long ago placed his faith in his king; he didn’t simply serve David, he trusted, respected, and aye, he loved the man.

  In the end he realized that unlike some, all David did, he did because he believed it would bring peace to those he ruled. In fact, some day Jaime was certain they would name him a saint, for his patience and benevolence would be far more apparent in hindsight. In the meantime, Malcom mac Dhonnchaidh’s grandson was bound to earn the animosity of those who didn’t understand.

  Outside the tower window, snow gathered on the sill, barred entrance to the room by Roman-styled glass—a rare luxury in any demesne, but certainly unlike anything Jaime had ever seen outside of the King’s chambers in London… or apart from the ancient Roman monasteries. The glass was certainly unexpected this far north and in such a mean demesne no less. For an instant, he tried to remember whether the other windows were adorned in such a way.

  “Come,” David bade him. “Sit and drink a spell.” He motioned toward the empty chair at the table and gave a discreet little cough, not so deep as before.

  Pre-occupied with the girl, Jaime nevertheless wandered over and sat down and David pushed an empty tankard toward him, then filled it with what Jaime presumed was ale.

  “I gave the cretin sacks full of gold,” David disclosed. “And this is how he put it to use.” He waved a hand about the expanse of the room, clearly disgusted by the prospect. “The rest of the keep is as unkempt as a donkey’s arse,” he grumbled. “’Tis clear enough the man cared not a whit for anyone but hims
elf.”

  A tiny smile played at the corners of Jaime’s lips. “At least he had his priorities,” he said.

  “Greedy bastard,” David replied, and then he downed his cup and poured himself another. “His grandfather deserved what you gave him, never doubt it.”

  Jaime winced, staring down at his cup.

  “In much the same vein, I hope Lael’s brother skewered Rogan through and left him to rot.”

  Lael.

  He knew her name, Jaime noted, but David had not been present when she’d revealed it to him. “I take it ye know her well?”

  David peered up at him then, lifting one dark brow. “Drink up,” he commanded, avoiding the question.

  Hardly in the mood for libations, Jaime nevertheless reached for his cup, realizing David had something difficult to say. Foremost in his thoughts was that he’d somehow managed to save the lass’s neck from the noose only to bloody his sword with her head. Then again… why should he care what happened to the changeling? The vixen was none of his concern.

  “I trust ye,” David announced. “More than most—certainly more than Montgomerie, the bloody turncoat!”

  Jaime nodded soberly. Piers de Montgomerie was one of the first barons David sent north to hold Scot’s land. It was yet unclear where the man’s loyalties lay. Apparently he’d gone and wed some Brodie lass, and then he’d stood against David, siding with her brothers. Alas, that was a chance David must take whenever he sent a strong leader north; no man could hold these lands who did not put his people first.

  “It pleases me greatly to see you get your due,” the king said after a time.

  Jaime lifted his tankard. “For that I thank you, Your Grace.”

  David waved a hand, dismissing his gratitude. “No need for formalities betwixt us here,” he insisted. “Out there, perhaps, but in here my farts are no less pongy,” he said, and placed a hand to his belly. “Particularly after a bit of bad haggis.”