Page 16 of Fallen
They weren’t supernatural beings; they were just very good at hiding.
“The Bastard mustn’t slip through our net,” MacKinnon said, his voice rough now. “I want ye to bring him to me in chains.”
Duncan MacKinnon shifted in his chair and stared moodily down at his goblet of wine. The rich liquid gleamed darkly up at him, but after Carr’s visit, he’d lost his taste for it. He’d sent his right-hand on his way and was grateful to be left alone in the solar once more.
But, of course, that left him alone with his thoughts. And they were bleak these days.
Muttering a curse, Duncan ran a tired hand over his face. Fatigue pulled him down, making his limbs feel leaden and his body ache. He was only forty winters old, so why did he suddenly feel like an old man?
With a sigh, he set his goblet aside on the stone edge of the hearth, and leaned down, ruffling Bran’s ears. The charcoal grey brindled wolfhound stirred from its sleep and sat up, pushing against his leg.
Warmth rushed through Duncan, and he let the hound lick his hand.
No matter what happened in his life, despite his many disappointments and betrayals, he could always rely on Bran. Dogs were uncomplicated. No matter what he did, Bran would remain at his side.
Heaving himself up out of his chair, Duncan walked unsteadily to the open window of the solar. There, he braced himself against the stone ledge, closing his eyes for a few moments as his head spun. He’d consumed too much wine on an empty stomach. A foolish thing to do.
I must stop drinking so much.With everything he had to deal with at the moment, he needed a clear head. He needed to be strong. And that also meant that he had to start eating properly again.
Duncan opened his eyes. He would make sure he cleared his platter at the noon meal today. He would also resume his afternoon swordplay sessions with Carr. At his age, he couldn’t afford to let his physical condition slip.
The clan-chief’s gaze swiveled then to the view beyond his window. He spied industry in the bailey below: men shoeing horses, and servants carrying barrels of ale and sacks of grain into the broch. Beyond, the roofs of Dunan village itself rose. Outside the walls, stark against the jade pinewood, he saw smoke rising in a dark column.
A lump rose in Duncan’s throat at the sight of it.
Funeral pyres.
Just after daybreak, he’d been returning from a ride out with his hounds when he’d seen the folk of Dunan carrying the dead out of the fortress.
There had been a dozen of them, and he’d heard that at least another dozen were gravely ill in ‘The Warren’. The sickness now had Dunan in its grip, and he was powerless to stop it.
The pressure in Duncan’s throat increased, clamping down and making it hard to breathe. This stronghold belonged to him, and the lives within it were his responsibility.
Yet for the first time since he had assumed the role as clan-chief of the MacKinnons, Duncan wished the charge had fallen to someone else.
7
Unnatural Behavior
ONE DAY SLID into the next, and Coira grew increasingly jittery and on edge.
Kilbride felt overrun with men.
Coira didn’t like it. Her past had left her with a distrust of males. The best thing about coming to live at Kilbride had been the ability to thrive in a female environment. She didn’t need to be wary of her companions here, or drop her gaze in fear of inadvertently enticing a man. She didn’t need to lock her door at night, scared that some drunken letch might stumble in and collapse on top of her. It had happened once atThe Goat and Goose. But here, Mother Shona ruled. And she was a woman who taught others to be strong. She’d given Coira skills that made her feel as if she was taking back just a little control over a world that had nearly destroyed her.
One evening, as the shadows lengthened and a chill breeze blew in from the sea, Coira decided that she needed to relieve some tension, to forget about the worries that plagued her.
It was bad enough that they were harboring a fugitive—although Coira had slowly relaxed in Craeg’s presence over the past days—but they now had Father Camron and his flock to contend with. The mere sight of the abbot’s self-righteous face put her teeth on edge.
She’d deliberately avoided practicing with her quarter-staff since Father Camron’s arrival. However, this evening Coira decided to take a calculated risk and find a private spot away from prying eyes.
Retrieving the stave from her cell, she made her way to the eastern edge of the abbey grounds, to a secluded area where a small orchard of apple and pear trees grew on the far side of the vegetable plots.
The trees were in full leaf now, the first tiny bulbs of fruit just making an appearance.
Carrying her staff loosely at her side, Coira entered the orchard. A little of the strain within her unknotted, and she deepened her breathing, letting the stress of the past few days release.
In the midst of the orchard, in a small clearing, she halted. There, she began to go through her drills. Immediately, as the staff whistled through the air, Coira started to feel better. The physical exertion eased the tightness in her chest and loosened the rigid muscles in her neck, back, and shoulders. She hadn’t realized she’d been so tense.
