The next gust of wind sent a spray of water flicking against her cheeks. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. The air was tainted with the scents of death, peat fires and the chill of autumn air.
The backs of Macrath’s fingers tickled over hers, and she wanted to grab onto him, to have him hold her in his arms, but, with their numbers so drastically reduced any affection they showed each other would be noticed immediately.
“Stay strong, lass,” he whispered. “They are free from fear now. Free from the brutality of this world.”
Tendrils of the piper’s tune swirled gently around them, easing into the clouds until the song came to an end. Lady Beatrice inclined her head to the musician and stepped forward, her gaze raking over the fourteen entrants and the many servants and guards allowed inside for the burial.
Palm upward, the council woman spread her hand out toward the small boats. “We gather this afternoon to say goodbye to the discontents of game four.”
Ceana frowned. Even in death, Lady Beatrice saw the dead only as discontents and nothing more. She took away their very humanity by framing them that way.
“To let go of the memories of the discontents of the previous games. If you will repeat after me the Sìtheil Prayer for the Departed.”
Surprise tightened her stomach, but she supposed for a place that saw as much death as it did, it made sense they had their own prayer for the dead.
“Blessings to those who have preceded us in passing;
Released from pain and dread;
Sleep now, and know we are not weeping;
For tears are best not wept for the dead;
Peace be forever now your everlasting;
And the gods protect you on this journey next led;
Through blessed moors and a castle for keeping.”
Ceana mouthed the words but could not bring herself to actually say them. Aye, they were giving blessings to the dead, but she did weep for them. She wept for them all.
When the last of the entrants said, keeping, Lady Beatrice motioned to the archers on the beach who stood beside barrels of flames. The guards cut the ropes tying the birlinns to the pier and shoved the rims with their boots. The crafts drifted slowly out into the loch. Ceana’s lungs constricted as she suppressed her sobs while watching the bodies glide over the murky waters.
Air broke in whispers as the archers let their arrows fly. Dozens of flaming shafts shot through the somber sky, landing in the kindling set up on the boats, a few fizzling in the water. Great flames burst where the arrows had buried themselves. As the fires grew, licking over the bodies, black tendrils of smoke curled and twisted into the sky.
The piper had once again taken up his playing. It seemed that each chord of his song weaved its way in and out of the flames and smoke as though he charmed the infernos himself.
They stood on the beach, feet rooted in the rocky sand, lips grim, eyes stinging, arms wrapped around themselves. Even the council looked a little more stiff-backed than usual. The previous burials had been quick, hurried, uneventful. There were no prayers. There were no ceremonies. But the council had said this mourning period would be different.
Not because of the brutality—the games had all been ruthless and bloody. Not the numbers, because the first game had seen their numbers cut by nearly half. ’Twas because this was the game before the last. Within the next couple of days only two of them would be left, and after days of carnage and death, those left needed something to keep them going. Whether that be the thought of winning the crown, or the idea that if they did not make it through the final game, they would be mourned properly. They would be honored for giving their lives.
They watched until the birlinns were only tiny flaming dots on the horizon, and then the council walked off the pier and mounted their horses. “A mourning meal has been provided for you in the tents.” Lady Beatrice led her council from the sands and back toward the castle.
Ceana walked numbly over the dunes and moors. Footsteps echoed softly on the wooden bridge, and then they filed beneath the gate. The iron portcullis was not pulled all the way up, its spikes low enough to threaten their heads as they passed through.
The lights of the candles inside the large tents glowed on the outside of the walls. Ironically enough, in the short time since they’d walked from the beach, the skies had gotten darker. Guards and servants alike were welcomed into the tents with the fourteen entrants remaining.
Macrath walked silently beside her, as did Boarg, and while she’d craved silence, now she wanted to hear their voices. Wanted to distract herself from the horrors of the past week. But everyone mourned differently.
Boarg mourned the loss of Aaron, who was his cousins’ son. In a way, he might mourn her as well, unsure if she’d be able to make it through the next round. Macrath, besides nursing aching ribs, a bruised and beaten body, was also deep in thought. Planning how they would win? Or praying that the last game was not beyond Ceana’s abilities.
And her? She preferred not to contemplate it anymore.
Death would come to them all. It was only a matter of time and circumstance whether she be a lass of nineteen summers or an elderly woman with a graying head.
After a week of observing and living in a deathly hell, Ceana wanted to float off into oblivion. Wanted to recapture those moments on the beach when it had been only her, Macrath and the heated passion of their two rocking bodies.
She walked through the open flap of the tent, the air inside noticeably warmer. Wind whistled beneath the edges and slapped against the tent walls. The trestle tables were slowly filling with outsiders.
Outsiders?
Though they may have been servants, family and guards of those passed and those still living, to Ceana they were outsiders brought into the fold only after the horrors she’d witnessed were over.
They’d not had to experience death first hand or kill another during these games. They’d not been submerged in freezing water, praying that the one to find you would indeed cut you loose. Or, have to swim around bodies, knocking into lifeless flesh in order to find your loved one.
And yet, outsiders though they might be, she found their presence oddly calming and welcome. They brought with them something different than what was encapsulated inside the walls of Sìtheil Castle. An innocence of sorts that she wasn’t willing to let go of.
“Let us get some wine,” she murmured.
Boarg and Macrath both stepped forward to clear a space for her on a bench. She smiled an apology to the servants who were displaced, then slid along the wooden bench. Boarg and Macrath flanked her, each handing her a glass of wine at the same time.
“I suppose I may look like I need both,” she said with a meek smile. And perhaps this was just what she needed, to drown away her pain in a cup.
“Apologies, my laird,” Boarg mumbled at the same time Macrath said, “Och, I didn’t see that your clansman had gotten you one.”
“ ’Tis all right. I’ll take both.” She took both cups, sat one in front of her empty trencher and took a long sip of the other. It was a smooth wine, not like what they were normally served, and even better than the wine they’d been given at the Samhain celebration. It was sweet and heady at the same time.
“I see they’ve favored us with the Sìtheil mourning wine,” Boarg said.
“Sìtheil mourning wine? You’ve had it before?” Ceana raised the glass to her lips again.
“Aye.” He didn’t expand further.
“As have I,” Macrath murmured.
How was it that both men had tasted mourning wine before and she had not? “Appears I am the only one who hasn’t.”
“A good thing, lass,” Macrath said, glaring into his cup.
“Aye,” Boarg agreed.
Ceana was pretty certain she didn’t want to know the reasons behind both men having been exposed to a wine that was obviously kept only for certain occasions. She just wanted to escape. But she realized, there would be no escape. No getting away from the dark
ness that covered this place. That stain covered her. She glanced down at her hands, expecting to see the prominent veins beneath her flesh turning black and that blackness leaching out to cover her skin. But they remained the same. Unlike her mind.
“Will you share with me how you came to drink this wine?” she asked.
Both men were silent, and she glanced from side to side to see them both nod silently, brooding, their eyes ahead.
“My story is simple,” Macrath said. “Leticia brought me to observe the games when I was a boy. I think it was her plan all along to have me entered. The mourning wine was poured and she brought a cup to my lips and whispered that this wine would be the last taste upon my tongue.” He set down his cup roughly, wine sloshing over the sides to spill on his hand. “I was sick for nearly a week after that cup. Poison. She was not pleased I lived.”
Ceana swallowed hard, biting the tip of her tongue. The harshness of Macrath’s story left her feeling hollow. She reached out with a napkin and wiped the spilled wine from the back of his hand.
“It will not be the last thing you taste,” she swore.
“Enjoying the wine, I see?” Leticia’s cold, smooth voice reached out and grabbed them both by the throats.
Ceana jerked her hand away from Macrath’s. She turned slowly around to see Leticia smiling over her own cup of wine.
“Best be careful with that,” Ceana said, letting all the cruelness inside her seep into her own smile. “Sìtheil mourning wine has been known to make some ill.”
Leticia’s face colored red and her eyes shot fire. “How dare you speak to me that way?” Even still, she eyed her cup wearily.
“Dare I? What allegiance do I have to you?” Ceana stated.
“I outrank you,” the woman seethed.
Ceana shrugged. “Inside these walls, there are only two ranks—the council and the entrants. You are but an outsider, and you have no sway here.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Leave her be,” Macrath said to Leticia.
Leticia took a step forward, a snarl peeling her lips. Before she could speak, a cheer went up as servants filed into the tent carrying fried fish, pease porridge and bannocks. Their entry momentarily distracted the dozens of examining eyes.
Macrath owed this woman nothing anymore. He deliberately turned his back on her. In a day or two he’d either be dead or Prince of Sìtheil. She’d either bow down to him, or laugh over his corpse. At any rate, he was done with her overbearing nature. And if it caused him another lashing in Lady Beatrice’s torture chamber, then so be it. But he suspected that the councilwoman did not look kindly upon his loving stepmother.
“And just who do you think you’re talking to, bastard?”
He bared his teeth, sucking his tongue against the back and pushed his wine cup away. Bracing his hands on the table, he rose slowly, feeling every bone in his back unfurl as he stood. Ceana touched his elbow, but he brushed her aside. She wanted to keep him safe, he knew that. But there was no stopping him. Too many years of anger, frustration and torment had boiled over, the gods themselves couldn’t have held him back.
Macrath looked his stepmother—his tormenter—in the eyes as he spoke in a low, threatening tone. “I said, leave her alone.”
“And what are you going to do about it, Macrath? Nothing. You are nothing.”
He clenched his fists and forced himself not to throttle her. “I have listened to your shite, the venom you’ve spewed since before I could speak and I will not listen to it anymore.”
“Oh, you will listen and you will listen well.” She stepped so close he could smell the herb-scented water she’d rinsed herself in that morning. The same that she always had—rosemary and lavender. A scent, that combined, made him nauseous. Thank the gods Ceana’s essence was more earthy and floral. “You were born a nothing. You grew up a nothing. You will die a nothing. And if you don’t die during these games, I will see to it that every one of the Campbell allies joins forces against you. Believe you me, before winter ends, you will cease to breathe.”
Macrath laughed then. A rumbling sound that started at the center of his abdomen and burst from his mouth. But the laughter didn’t reach his eyes. He was mocking her. Mocking her grasp at authority, for he knew in truth, she had none. Aye, she’d been able to torment him as a child, even as a man, but her power ended now. He cut his laughter short, and leaned in so close the tip of his nose nearly touched hers.
“We both know, my father,” gods but it felt good to thrust that back in her face, “will never gather his allies nor his own warriors, against me. I trained those men. They will side with me. Not with you. Your threats are empty. The only way for you to kill me is to sneak into my chamber and slit my throat yourself. But you’ll not make it past my threshold without me waking, and if you draw a knife on me, I’ll have no qualms about striking you down—and no remorse for doing so.”
Leticia sucked in a startled breath and staggered back a step. “I cannot—”
“Save your breath, stepmother.”
Victor approached, his face blotchy and red. “Step away from the countess,” he ordered.
Macrath rolled his head, giving his hated flesh a long, calm stare. “Where have you been?” he asked. “You’ve missed our family reunion. We are brothers, aren’t we?” This last part he said facing Leticia again.
The woman’s lips had gone white she pressed them so hard together.
Rage burned through his veins, and the tight leash on his control started to loosen.
“Ha!” Victor burst out a laugh. “There’s no way to prove that. Your mother was a common—”
The leash dropped. Without hesitation, Macrath thrust out, slamming his fist into Victor’s face. The vile maggot yelped, gripping his nose from which blood spurted, and faltered backward on his feet until he fell hard on his arse. Only Boarg’s grip on his elbow kept Macrath from leaping forward to pummel the limp-wicked arsehole into the ground.
“Victor!” Leticia shouted, falling to her knees and reaching for her son.
Victor batted her away, striking her on her hands and arms, smearing his blood on her. Served her right that she had such a venomous child.
“Get away from me!” Victor shouted at her, in his embarrassment.
Macrath snickered. The only thing worse then getting your nose busted in front of a room full of strangers was having your mother rush to your aid, or at least that’s what he’d been told.
Victor turned his glare on Macrath. “You’ll pay dearly for this.” He pushed to his feet, whirled on his booted heels, hand still clutching at his nose and shouldered his way loudly out of the tent.
“You will not get away with striking my son.” Leticia stood, shoulders rigid. Her face had gone red and splotchy—a female version of Victor. He’d never seen her so angry.
Macrath didn’t say a word. Didn’t change his expression, simply stared at her. She was probably right. Lady Beatrice would have to punish him. But it had felt good to hit that bastard in the face. Damned good. And he’d do it again in a second.
He flexed his hand and re-clenched his fist. His knuckles were sore, but it was an ache he’d longed to feel for years.
“Macrath.” Ceana touched his elbow, her voice filled with fear.
He glanced down at her, grinned and winked, hoping to ease her anxiety. He spoke in low tones, so no one could overhear. “Guess I was dreaming of the day we’ll be crowned and the first thing I wanted to do as Prince of Sìtheil.”
She licked her lips nervously. “Aye, and I bet it felt amazing.”
“It did.”
“Macrath!” Leticia shouted, trying to return his attention to her, but he only had eyes for Ceana.
“What do you think the council will do about it?” his tiny woman asked, eyes flitting nervously to Leticia.
“I don’t know.” He glanced behind her at her guard. “Best stay close to Boarg.”
Ceana shook her head. “I can’t let them hurt you.”
; “Do not ignore me!” Leticia bellowed her rage.
He flicked his gaze at Leticia, saw her make a move to step forward but hesitated at his glower. Macrath glanced toward the tent flaps and answered Ceana, “Won’t be any worse than what they’ve given me already.”
Ceana’s eyes closed and he watched her throat ripple as she swallowed. Slinging an arm around her shoulder he tugged her in close, but all the while kept his eye on Boarg. The guard gave him a silent nod. Macrath longed to press his lips against Ceana’s hair, but with their audience… He was in enough trouble as it was.
“I will speak to the council about this!” Leticia continued to bluster while he ignored her.
“Do not fash over me, mo cridhe,” he whispered to Ceana. “Just remember we will soon rule this place. One more game and the throne is ours. Keep your mind tied to that. Do not look back.”
“Macrath Mor! Son of the Earl of Argyll, turn around.” Lady Beatrice’s voice grated like a rusted blade down his spine, gripping his ballocks in her viselike grasp. She would be harder to ignore than his stepmother.
“Macrath,” Ceana whispered frantically, clutching at his shirt.
“Shh, lass, all will be well. The lady… fancies me.”
“Aye, bloody!” Ceana wouldn’t let go, her eyes wide and locked on his.
“Bloody, aye, but not dead.” He winked at her, hoping his bravado would seep into her. The last time they’d been punished, Ceana had been the one taken, but nothing had happened to her. He’d had the bloody shite beat out of him. But Ceana had been safe. “Be strong, I’ll not let them break me. Don’t let them break you.”
“Macrath!”
He turned slowly. Leticia smirked, looking entirely too self-satisfied. He took in the severe tightness of Lady Beatrice’s hair pulled in a knot at the nape of her neck. But the austerity of her hair contradicted the expressionlessness of her face. She studied them all with disinterested eyes and a flat mouth making Macrath question whether or not the woman had a soul. Judging from how she’d treated the entrants, the way she brushed off death as though it were nothing but a foul stench, the mildness of her manner was flawed. And disturbing.
Lords of the Isles Page 118
