Read Knight Everlasting Online
Authors: Jackie Ivie
Knight Everlasting (28 page)
Each step flooded him with more red emotion, darkening the view to a blood hue that his slit eyes made darker. More powerful. Harsher. A moment before impact, he slid to a knee, scraping skin on the sod, putting his claymore upward at the same time, and that hooked the hilt of Dugald's sword as he ran right past his nephew. The man's weapon went sailing right out of his useless bloodied hand, and then Aidan was up on his feet, moving to face his uncle, head lowered and bellowing. Deep. Throbbing deep. Making certain there was no mistaking his intent, by his stance and tone.
The crowd answered his bellow, making a swell of noise that barely penetrated the angry haze of red Aidan was living. He watched Dugald's frustrated search before the blade landed to the side of him, blade down, where it trembled in place. Aidan circled his uncle, giving him time to retrieve his weapon and making certain Dugald understood everything that wasn't put in words. There wasn't going to be a survivor this time.
And that was when he saw what he most prized. Fear. Soaking through the red haze, coloring everything and feeding the heartbeat that was controlling everything. There wasn't pain attached to anything. There was anger and intensity and movement and reaction. Instant reaction.
Dugald moved his vision from his nephew's for a moment to fetch his sword, and when he looked back, Aidan had moved so far to one side, his uncle had to find him again. And then Aidan was charging, gaining speed and momentum and surprise to the attack. Dugald MacKetryck was a stout man. The match to his nephew in bulk. And muscle. And weight. He didn't move easily. He was hampered by his injury and had to use his left hand. The right one was held to his side, dripping and bloodied and useless.
Aidan used a pushing motion behind each slash of his blade, staying on the attack and forcing the man to give ground, shoving and pushing with each sword move until Dugald lost his stance and started backing away. Again. Despite sticking his feet in and lowering his head and sending cursed slurs through his teeth. Tripping. Breathing hard. Tripping again.
When he went down, Aidan was right with the movement, using his uncle's falling motion to slice at his left hand, hooking the hilt of Dugald's blade again. From there, it was another flip of his wrist to send it up and into the air again.
Aidan backed off again, jogging backward ten paces. Then he put his head and shoulders down and bellowed again, raising his chin as he did so, which sent the cry to the heavens above. This time the crowd was loud enough to get through the red haze coloring everything. Thumping came through the ground as Aidan circled his uncle, waiting for the man to regain his blade again.
Circling. Pumping his blade into the air, calling on the crescendo of crowd thumping in rhythm with his motions. Reveling in it. Waiting. Taunting.
Dugald moved his vision again to gain his blade. This time when he looked back, Aidan was right in front of him, making his uncle react with a jerk that didn't come naturally to the man. And enjoying the abject fear deep in those emerald eyes. Eyes that had stolen Aidan's wedded wife. Usurped his place. Seen his father's last gasp for breath, after he'd shoved the blade into him.
Just as his nephew had seen. And witnessed. And staunched. Setting it aside as something too painful to deal with. Ponder. Think on. Aidan watched the dawning realization of it in his uncle's eyes. And gloried in the fear.
Aidan renewed his attack, lashing time and again, putting punishing force with each push of his blade over and over again, until Dugald started backing up again. Flagging. Sucking for breath. His uncle was forced to use both hands on his sword in order to meet the continual punishment of Aidan's blade as each move got faster and faster until the motion was near blurred. His uncle tripped again. Caught it. Parried another blow from Aidan. Tripped again. Going down.
This time, Aidan reached over and grabbed the sword from his uncle's hands, wet with blood and sweat. Aidan jogged back several steps, keeping his uncle in sight, and then he tossed his head into the air and held both blades high and yelled the reaction into the sky.
Massive throbs of crowd approval matched every beat of his heart, accompanying the red wash coloring everything and the loud whoosh of each heartbeat in his ears. Making a mass of sensation that filled every portion of him, making him one with the moment. The dawn was alive with it. The very air was filled with it. It was thunderous and it was massive, and it was daunting. And then it was something else . . . deathly. Aidan's senses warned him a moment before the dirk tossed at him would have hit his back.
He was on his back and rolling, keeping the swords above his head in order to keep the motion as the dirk aimed at his back passed harmlessly by. Another dirk hit the ground beside his head. Another near his leg and then another and another as his uncle violated every code of conduct by tossing dirks without honor or anything other than murderous intent.
It was the same that had done in Aidan's father.
His push-up shove from the ground was punctuated by the fanning of one sword in front of his chest at the same time. That movement deflected the next dirk, sending an arc of sunlit sparks flying from the contact of skean to sword blade. The reaction of the crowd made the air vibrate, pumping red through the entire scene, while surges of thumps went all along the rock walls, into the earth, the sky. His very existence. Joining the red-induced vision he was enjoying, encapsulating and moving through.
Aidan went into a crouch, with bouncing movements made on the balls of his feet as his thighs took the brunt force to make each parrying move. That way he made the smallest target possible. He started circling Dugald again, keeping the blood-lust fully in front of him with the thunderous beat of his heart. Each breath. Each blink of his dry punished eyes.
Dugald MacKetryck was on his feet, swiveling in a small arc, a dirk in each hand, ready to launch them. Aidan made the same maneuver, except he held swords in his hands, rather than blades. He watched his uncle sneer, giving him the time to move. Then the man tossed both dirks directly at him. Aidan was too quick for him as he moved to slam his fists against each other in front of his face. This put the sword tips down while the flat of the blades shielded his chest and throat. He heard the dirks hit through the trembling of the blades, and before they'd landed, he'd spun to the left, pulling his sword up at the same time. To make the perfect throw. For one moment in time he stayed still . . . posed, one knee to the ground with his arm cocked back. Then he launched the sword in his right hand, and even before it left his hand, he was pulling two dirks from his belt and sending them flying behind the sword.
Dugald was impaled by a sword through his chest, while the man shook in place from the two dirks spearing each eye socket. Aidan watched as his uncle sagged to his knees and then fell forward, slamming the blades further through his skull. And then Aidan put his remaining sword in the air and yelled until his throat gave out. And then he did it again.
The Red MacKetryck had won again.
Chapter 23
“It's time to prepare for your wedding.”
Of course it was. Juliana looked at the rock wall before her nose and blinked it back into focus. She'd thought she'd spent every tear before falling into a fitful sleep on this mat. Sleep filled with dreams, desires, wicked entreaties. More than once she'd awakened to such a clear image of Aidan MacKetryck, it had hurt a thousand times worse to find she was still in Dame Lileth's tower room.
“Come, Lady Juliana. Your bath awaits.”
Her bath. Juliana sighed heavily and rolled onto her back, looked at the crosspieces of wood supporting the roof, and waited for her eyes to dry. Nothing made sense anymore. She'd always thought life had a destination. She was alive for a purpose. A reason. She had a destiny to fulfill. And the moment she'd admitted love for Aidan, that was when she thought it the clearest. She loved him endlessly. Completely. Wholly. With every breath her body kept sending her. She'd die for him. She'd risk heaven for him. But it wasn't to be. He required her to wed another. And that changed her certainty of destiny. Was life truly just a series of nonlinked events until one died? Did nothing have significance? Not even love?
“You should try a bit of this pie. Baked fresh this morn. With fresh duck.”
Juliana's shivers worsened. The slats of wood assembled above her went blurred and indistinct. She gulped and kept swallowing and blinking until the sensation passed. “I'm not hungry,” she answered finally in a whisper.
“You will be. You've a long eve ahead of you.” The woman snickered again.
Juliana hugged her arms about herself and watched the ceiling waver some more. She wondered if there was a potion the woman could give her to get her through the upcoming evening and then the ceremony without one sign of her heart breaking.
“Come along, dearie. I'll reheat your slice for you.”
“I'm not . . . hungry,” Juliana repeated.
“Starvation takes a powerful long time to kill one.”
“Does it?” Juliana asked.
“Dugald MacKetryck proved it. With his first wife, Dame Fiona Finlay. Now . . . that woman lasted fortnights of time. Howling and crying and carrying on with the agony. Starvation.
Tsk. Tsk.
” Dame Lileth clicked her tongue.
Tsk. Tsk.
” Dame Lileth clicked her tongue.
“Dugald's first wife . . . starved herself? But . . . why?”
Dame Lileth thought that was very funny. She was cackling with it. “Oh nae. Na' that one. Too stubborn. All the Finlays are stubborn. Dugald starved her. All the way to her grave. He dinna' even care about starting a clan war with Finlay. They're a small clan. Weak. And Dugald was getting impatient. Seven years wed. He wanted a differing lass to wife. One that would give him bairns. Male bairns. And he had his eye on Siniag MacGorrick. She was a lovely lass. Winsome. All who met her wanted her. Dugald got her.”
“So . . . he wed again?”
“I just told you Siniag was winsome. Frail. She could na' withstand his fists. Or his mating. She cried herself to weakness. The ague took her. That first winter.”
Juliana blinked at the roof above her, not even noticing it was clear, focused, distinct. “So. He's not wed.”
“You are a verra lucky lass.”
Juliana frowned on that. “How so?”
“My sweet laird is a demon on the battlefield. His anger takes over. He is nigh invincible. 'Tis why you're na' preparing to be Dugald's fourth wife. Lucky lass.”
Juliana moved into a sit and crossed her legs beneath her, while leaning against the rock behind her. “Dugald's . . . fourth wife?”
“Come. Sit at my table. Drink a bit of my mead and eat a bit of my pie.”
“And if I don't . . . you won't explain?”
Dame Lileth bobbed her head and smiled at Juliana. “You're a verra sharp lass. Verra. Aidan would've done well with you at his side.”
Juliana winced but had it covered over as she stood, and shook out the folds of her green linen bliaut. It was heavily creased, worn-looking, and damp in places. Used. Found lacking. Ready for the discard pile. It matched the wearer of it, she decided, walking over to the table. Dame Lileth had an oblong table, set against one wall and jutting out into the room. The end closest to the wall was devoted to all kinds of urns and vases and pots and vials. That was where it was dark and shadowed unless the torches were lit. It was a complete contrast to the side closest to the fire and the slits cut through rock to allow air and light, and if one bothered to look, a good view over the shoreline of Buchyn Loch with the rise of mountain beyond that.
The lighter, companionable side of Dame Lileth's table had an arrangement of thistles and heather garnishing it, goblets crafted of thick glazed glass, and hammered leaden platters. Juliana pulled out a stool and sat at that end.
“What happened to his third wife?” she asked once she was seated and sipping at mead that had been darkened with molasses.
“That would be Dame Edme KilCreggar, Lady Reina's sister. Dugald was wed to her the longest. Nigh on a decade. Still . . . nae bairns. I was sent for to assist her with the creation of one. Stupid man. The barrenness was na' his woman's issue, but his. The pox does odd things to a man's abilities. I made the mistake of telling him so.”
Juliana gasped. “What did he . . . do?”
“Strapped me to a stake. With Lady Reina. But you already ken what happened next . . . and how that ended.”
“What about the wife, Edme?”
“She just . . . died. Lachlan could na' even find out how.”
“Lachlan . . . MacGorrick?” Juliana split the name in her disgust.
“Aye.”
The woman chuckled and set a sliver of her meat pie onto the platter in front of Juliana. She'd warmed it somehow atop her fire, and it gave off wonderful smells.
“He spies for . . . you?”
Dame Lileth sat on a chair facing Juliana, put her arms into a steepled position with her hands clasped, and then rested her chin atop it. “Lachlan is a man of many talents. And useful. 'Twas always best to know what the Black MacKetryck was up to . . . afore he did it.”
“Smart,” Juliana replied.
“So . . . do you think he'd be of more use to Arran . . . or Alpin?” she asked.
Juliana reached out and broke off a bit of her pie, chewed it, and swallowed before answering. They'd used a bit of herbs . . . perhaps garlic and sage, with their filling, making it tastier than the usual. With the addition of the mead, it made excellent fare. It seemed Highlanders knew how to feed their captives once they placed them in fancy, invisible, silver-lined cages, too.
“I would na' remove him from Dugald's service,” she replied.
Dame Lileth lifted her head and grinned, showing she still possessed most of her teeth, and they were in healthy shape. “Ah lass. I forget. You're sharp, but untried. Frightened of what you might learn. You doona' ken.”
Juliana stopped her sip from the tankard to look over the rim at Dame Lileth. “Know . . . what?” she asked.
“How everything changes just by your presence. As I foresaw.”
“What?” Juliana asked again.
“You've been here less than a day, and already you've done what none others could. I thank you for that.”
Juliana tipped a swallow into her mouth. These Highlanders truly did brew the best ales and meads, and their whiskey was probably vision-inducing as well.
“You've freed us of Dugald. He was killed this morn. In battle. At Aidan's hands. As is just and destined . . . and seven years overdue.”
“Aidan . . . killedâ” Juliana was choking and coughing. She shouldn't have tried to swallow when shock closed off her throat.
“Aye. Aidan. Your Aidan. I already told you the man is a devil on the field. None others will challenge him. Except Dugald . . . and then he cheated. And now he's gone. Doona' fash it. The man was black all through. 'Twas a fair match. All agree. Aside of which Aidan had to win your hand back . . . after Alpin lost it.”
Juliana put the tankard down very carefully, right next to the leaded tin platter. And looked at it. Then she looked back over at the woman. Grimaced on the dry feeling in her throat. Steeled herself. “What . . . of Alpin?” she asked, and hunched her shoulders slightly not only to withstand the answer but to hide an emotion that might be relief.
The woman's features settled into lined blankness. “Alpin lives, lass. And that was your doing as well. He was dosed up with a bit of dandelion mixed with valerian . . . or so Lady Reina informs me. By a wench named Sorcha. You recollect Sorcha?”
Juliana nodded. Her throat wasn't working. Her heart was using the space to hit her with every beat of it.
“Seems Alpin found Sorcha as lusty as his brother did. He'll regret that. The woman is vengeful. Mean-spirited. She left him prostrate. Unable to fight. Although he'll be well in time for the wedding.”
The wedding . . .
Juliana looked away. At the window and then at the view past that. She didn't see any of it. “Lachlan will be of more use to Arran, then,” she said finally.
“Arran?”
“Alpin will have no need of him.” Juliana's voice cracked despite the effort she was exerting. She couldn't help it. “He'll have me.”
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If Lady Reina had been put to work on a wedding dress that would be correct attire for a bride of a MacKetryck clansman, she'd outdone herself.
The richness and artistry of it was apparent with every breath, and every heartbreak-filled moment it took to walk down the five stories of stairs from Dame Lileth's tower, Arran at the lead, the looming form of Heck at Juliana's left side, while the near albino-looking form of one of Alpin's men was on her right. He had the palest hair Juliana had ever seen. The palest blue eyes. And the leanest form. His name was Muir. Juliana remembered that from the introduction. Muir . . . MacGorrick. She'd nodded and looked away quickly, and kept the musing quiet. It appeared that not only was MacGorrick a large family in the clan, but none of them appeared to favor the others.
The silken feel of her blue-toned underdress caressed every step, while the drape of her pure white samite bliaut added a rustle to the stillness. The satin had been embroidered all about the bodice and hem with silver stems and leaves, and then they'd filled in the leaves with real golden threads. The underskirt had been gathered from beneath, forming a billowing effect that contrasted with the smallness of her waist, as well as allowed the underdress to peek out whenever she moved. There was a strap attached to each wrist, one holding to Heck's outstretched one, the other to Muir, and that lifted the skirts elegantly from first the stone steps, and then the rushes on the floor just outside the great hall.
“My lady?”
Heck stopped at the archway leading to the great hall. Juliana could hear the laughter and chatter and music that had grown louder with every step they'd taken. Heck stood patiently, looked down at her. Juliana knew why. It was the same question he'd asked when he'd arrived to escort her. Aidan had sent his senior man. He'd been several minutes behind Muir. And too much reminder. And that was trouble.
“You ready?”
It was said with the same concern. And it engendered the same reaction as her eyes filled with more stupid tears. She hadn't been able to hide them when she'd turned from contemplation of the unseen view from Dame Lileth's tower and seen who it was.
And she couldn't now.
She nodded slightly and kept her eyes on the space right in front of her. On the back of Arran's
feile breacan
. She didn't dare look up. Not with tears filling each eye and just waiting for a wrong blink to send them down her cheeks. Maybe when she was seated, with her hands clasped in front of her, and Alpin at her side. Then . . . she'd look. Maybe.
feile breacan
. She didn't dare look up. Not with tears filling each eye and just waiting for a wrong blink to send them down her cheeks. Maybe when she was seated, with her hands clasped in front of her, and Alpin at her side. Then . . . she'd look. Maybe.
The caplet atop her head pulled slightly at her tresses with the bowing of her head. This headdress had been brought when she was nearly finished. It was fashioned of silver and gold, interlaced and studded with all shades of pearls, some white, some ecru, some gray, and there were even black pearls smelted into the latticework by yet another metal artisan. The same pearls were attached to the ribbons leading from her caplet to thread among her hair, in a vain attempt to contain it. Lady Reina had worked her fingers through Juliana's hair, enticing it into a riot of silken curls. That shortened the length considerably from the knee-length one of yester-eve, to one that just grazed the bottom of her buttocks.
They entered the great hall, and a resultant hush started settling among the inhabitants. All of them. Throughout the room. Juliana heard the shuffle of feet, the scrape of stools, the dropping of more than one tankard, or body, and then what could be the sound of many breaths being held. Arran walked in a path that was opening while Heck and Muir continued to walk her inexorably right past the larger, raised dais that belonged to the laird of Clan MacKetryck, toward the smaller one.
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