Rift Page 4

  “Stop fussing, Ember,” Ossia Morrow said, stroking Agnes’s cheek. From her sister’s perpetual cowering, Ember thought, one wouldn’t have guessed that Agnes with her pale skin and flaxen hair was the older of the two girls. Yet she boasted eighteen years to Ember’s sixteen.

  Ember forced herself to sit up straight, though she longed to be free of the armored carriage that bore them from her father’s lowland manor to the solitary fortress of Tearmunn. The trip had been infuriatingly slow, and time was working against them. Ember was required to be present at Tearmunn on this Oestara—the spring equinox that followed her sixteenth birthday. The roads in the south had been choked with pilgrims making their way to cathedrals and holy sites for Easter. Though they’d stepped aside for the char branlant and its entourage of horsemen, there were still enough travelers filling the roads to hinder their party’s progress. No doubt some of the pilgrims had taken extra time clearing the road, stealing a few more moments to gawk at the company of knights who escorted them—both serving to ward off bandits and to signal to the outside world the gravity of this trip. Ember was sure that villagers’ whispers filled the air long after they’d passed.

  She wished her father hadn’t insisted upon making the journey. If Alistair and Barrow had been her only companions, she was certain she would have had a mount of her own. Ember’s presence riding alongside two men would have given the pilgrims even greater cause to gossip, which would have delighted her. She would have ridden beside Barrow. Instead she was a prisoner in the dark carriage with only her whimpering sister and dour mother as company.

  Agnes cried out and almost jumped into her mother’s lap when there was a sharp rapping on the carriage door.

  “Peace, dear ladies.” Alistair’s cheerful voice was only slightly muffled by the barrier. “We’ve reached the north end of Glen Shiel and we’ve just spotted Tearmunn and Loch Duich beyond.”

  Ember resisted the urge to clap in delight, knowing her mother would chasten her. She waited until her mother deigned to answer, “Thank you, Alistair.”

  Ember swallowed a sigh, envious that Alistair had spent the trip out of doors astride his mount. Even with the constant rain chasing their party, Ember would have preferred enduring the elements to her confinement.

  “At last this wretched trip is over.” Ossia wrung her hands, eyeing Ember. “Though if all goes as we expect, we’ll return on the morrow.”

  Ember didn’t respond. Her hopes and those of her family diverged with no hope of reconciliation.

  “Only if Mackenzie is present.” Agnes worried at the brooch on her cloak while Ember frowned. Agnes had grown deeply attached to what Ember had assumed was a love token sent from France by her betrothed. Ember had even been tempted to steal it and hide it, only to see if Agnes could survive a day without it. But Agnes had confessed the brooch wasn’t a gift from her betrothed. Whom could it be from?

  Since they’d departed her father’s house, Ember hadn’t been able to speak to her sister alone. She worried over Agnes’s persistent gray pallor and frequent sickness.

  “Father said he must pay his respects to Mackenzie given he’s the clan leader nearest Tearmunn,” Agnes continued, trying to keep the conversation pleasant.

  “Of course, of course,” Ossia said. “But surely Mackenzie will be there.”

  Ember’s mother wore an increasingly sour expression. She hated travel, being happiest in her own manor, directing the activities of the kitchen. Much to Ember’s despair, her mother believed that carding wool, spinning yarn, and occasionally embroidering were delightful ways to while away the hours and insisted her daughters spend their time doing the same.

  “If Mackenzie is there, his son will be too.” Agnes’s gaze settled on Ember, and worry crept over her face. “I suspect Father hopes a match will be made.”

  Ember gave her sister a tolerant smile and went back to musing about her future—one that she hoped wouldn’t involve matches of any sort. The carriage jolted again and Agnes groaned, clutching her stomach.

  “We’re nearly there.” Ossia took Agnes’s trembling hand. Agnes nodded, her face pale.

  Ember’s insides had begun to churn as well, but it had nothing to do with their transport’s inability to manage the poor conditions of the road. Soon they would arrive at the Conatus stronghold at Tearmunn, and on the morrow her fate would be decided. Ember closed her eyes, offering a silent prayer that the knights would find a purpose for her other than marrying a son of Mackenzie.

  “Are you unwell also?” Her mother’s question snapped Ember’s eyes open.

  “No,” Ember said.

  Ossia smiled, turning back to still-whimpering Agnes. Ember watched her sister with concern, increasingly anxious that Agnes’s distress was the result of much more than a dyspeptic stomach.

  An hour later the carriage rocking ceased and its door was flung open to reveal the ruddy, bearded face of Ember’s father. Though he didn’t look as ill as Agnes, he was obviously in a foul temper as he reached for his wife’s hand.

  “My lady.” With his aid, Ossia carefully descended from the char branlant. Ember let Agnes exit second, despite the fact that she was desperate to throw herself from the close confines of the carriage. Agnes kept a handkerchief pressed to her mouth as she leaned heavily onto her father. She gave a small cry when the horses, restless and eager to be free of their harness, whinnied loudly and began pawing at the earth.

  “There, there, lass,” he said. When Agnes was safely in her mother’s care, he turned to Ember.

  “Ember.” His voice offered none of the coaxing tone with which he’d addressed her sister.

  Though she didn’t want or need to, Ember took his proffered hand, allowing him to assist her out of the carriage. She’d done enough to incur her father’s wrath of late and had no desire to provoke him further. The moment Ember’s feet touched the ground, her father turned away, moving to join his wife and elder daughter.

  “I don’t think Agnes will do well when she’s sent to France.” Alistair approached Ember. “Sea voyages can be much worse than overland travel.”

  Ember laughed, but guilt made her offer an excuse for her sister. “It’s not entirely her fault. The roads were awful.” Her mind returned to the way Agnes clutched the brooch. How often she seemed close to tears. What was Agnes keeping from her?

  “That’s because they’re rarely used.” Alistair’s words broke through her thoughts. “Tearmunn is at the ends of the earth because we don’t encourage nor do we want visitors.”

  The ends of the earth, Ember thought with a shiver born of fear and excitement, and it’s to be my new home.

  Alistair was watching her, only half hiding his smile. “First impressions?”

  Ember frowned at him in confusion.

  “The fortress?” he asked.

  Having been so relieved to be free of the carriage box, Ember hadn’t bothered to take in her surroundings. Now she turned and gasped. The carriage had stopped outside of an immense stone structure that lay nestled against the steep hillsides of Glen Shiel. Spikes of sunlight pierced through the heavy gray skies, making patches of water sparkle on the backdrop to the fortress, Loch Duich, for a few moments before they disappeared again, leaving the waters dark and secretive.

  Tearmunn itself was an imposing, solitary stronghold, its gray stone form as bleak as the skies that hung low above it. The outer walls of the keep shielded the inner buildings of the fortress from view. From below, Ember spotted archers keeping watch from their perches along the top of the walls.

  “Why did we stop here?” she asked, watching as her family climbed up a steep path to Tearmunn’s gates.

  “Outside travelers must enter on foot,” Alistair said. “The carriage must remain here until it’s inspected.”

  “Inspected for what?” she asked.

  “I can’t say until you’re one of us,” he said, offering his arm. “But that will be soon enough.”

  “I hope so,” she said, lightly grasping h
is elbow.

  Alistair cast a sidelong glance at her as they started up the path. “I’ve done all I can.”

  “And for that I’m indebted to you,” she said. “But my father—”

  “Your father will find his influence is far less here than amongst the nobles,” he said.

  Ember didn’t answer. Her long skirts made the climb tricky. The fabric near her feet was quickly darkened by mud. She imagined that Agnes and her mother must be going mad at the indignation of trekking through the muck. She didn’t want to imagine what her father’s reaction would be.

  She wasn’t at all surprised to find him awaiting Alistair as they passed through Tearmunn’s gates, his face a thundercloud.

  “What sort of barbarians are your people?” He shook his fist in Alistair’s face. “I came here in good faith to fulfill my debt and this is the way I’m treated.”

  Alistair bowed before Edmund. “My apologies, Lord Morrow. I realize the climb was inconvenient, but all visitors must enter the keep on foot.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Just arrived and already raging?” A rotund man, whose squat face was capped by carrot-red hair striped with silver, strode toward Edmund, arms outstretched.

  “There he is!” Edmund’s sour mood vanished as he embraced the other man. “You old rascal, it’s good to see you.”

  “And you, Lord Morrow,” the red-haired man said.

  Edmund drew his wife forward. “My lady Morrow, let me introduce to you Lord Mackenzie.”

  Ember’s mother curtsied. “My lord.”

  Mackenzie grabbed the startled woman and noisily kissed her cheeks. “Fine woman indeed. Welcome to the wild north.”

  Ossia spluttered, her face flaming.

  Ember waited for her father to erupt into curses, but he roared with laughter. “Never change, do you?”

  Mackenzie shrugged. “Why would I?” He surveyed Agnes and Ember like they were prize cattle. “Who else have you brought for me to kiss?”

  Edmund laughed again. “My daughters, Agnes and Ember.”

  Ember stopped holding her breath when Mackenzie didn’t make good on his kissing pronouncement, but she guessed she wasn’t nearly as relieved as Agnes, who was clinging to the sleeve of their mother’s dress.

  “Fine lasses.” Mackenzie raised a brow. “Not married?”

  “My elder daughter, Agnes, is betrothed to the Count of La Marche.” Edmund beamed while Agnes blushed and clasped the brooch on her cloak.

  “And this one?” Mackenzie’s gaze fell on Ember. “The auburn-headed girl?”

  Ember knew better than to speak, but she desperately wanted to give this uninvited spectator a lashing with her tongue.

  “Ember is the reason we’ve been called here,” Edmund said. “I owe a debt to Conatus.”

  “Don’t we all,” Mackenzie said. “Have no fear, my friend. It’s likely they’ll train the girl as a healer and keep her nearby.”

  His voice dropped to a wheedling note as he glanced at Ember once more. “My son Gavin is in need of a wife.”

  “Is he now?” Though it came out as a question, Ember was certain that her father was already well aware that Mackenzie had a bachelor son. She wondered if Gavin had found time to grow a belly as large as his father’s.

  “After the ceremony we’ll talk,” Mackenzie said, smacking Edmund on the shoulder. “Our holdings are close enough to Tearmunn that your Ember could serve Conatus and a husband.”

  Ember wanted to scream. This plot would undermine all her hopes for what coming to Tearmunn could mean. Agnes was smiling at her encouragingly and Ember was working so hard to keep her temper in check that she jumped when Alistair’s voice was suddenly in her ear.

  “I’ll steal you away before that can happen,” he whispered.

  Her anger died in a giggle. “My savior.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Would you expect anything less?”

  She shook her head, now happy to ignore her father and Mackenzie as they lamented things like taxes and English encroachment.

  “Besides,” Alistair went on, “it won’t come to that. Haven’t I promised?”

  “I know,” she said, but despite Alistair’s confidence, she had a hard time believing he could hold as much sway over her fate as he boasted. He’d only arrived at Conatus in the previous year.

  Alistair raised his voice so everyone could hear him. “Pardon the interruption, my lords, but I’m to escort Lord Morrow and his family to their quarters.”

  Mackenzie nodded. “Of course. We’ll speak again soon, Morrow.”

  “Indeed we shall.” Her father fell into step alongside her as Alistair led them through the courtyard.

  “Perhaps we’ll find a suitable home for you in this debacle after all.” He smiled at her, but Ember saw only the calculations of his mind and no thought for her happiness in the expression.

  “Yes, Father,” she said, knowing that any argument would earn her a cuff from her father’s hand and a disapproving gaze from her mother.

  As Lord Morrow began to recite the desirable traits of the Mackenzie clan and the wealth of their landholdings, Ember let her gaze wander around the keep. The thick outer walls enclosed a broad courtyard bustling with activity. They passed the stables first, the sharp, sweet scents of hay and grain filling the air. She pinched her nose as they walked by the tannery, but her eyes were drawn in fascination to the mysterious glow and shock of sparks from the smithy. It was almost as large as the stables, and Ember was startled to see women among the well-muscled, leather-aproned blacksmiths.

  Following her gaze, Edmund snorted. “Bloody Amazons. We must get you away from this place as soon as a marriage can be arranged. I’m a man of my word and I’ve brought you here as promised, but I won’t have Conatus twisting your mind. Religious orders have a strange way about them.”

  “Yes, Father,” Ember said again, but her hopes were expanding by the moment. This place, hidden from the eyes of the world in the wilderness of the Scottish highlands, had set itself apart from society and its rules. It offered the only escape Ember might find from her father’s designs on her life.

  “That’s the barracks.” Alistair glanced over his shoulder, gesturing to a squat building on their right. “The quarters of the Guard.”

  Ember smiled when he winked at her.

  “The kitchen is straight ahead and, of course, you’ll be staying in the manor,” he continued, leading them to a larger building to their left. “The guest quarters are here as is the great hall, where the ceremony will be held tomorrow morning.”

  Ember peered into the kitchen as they passed it. Fires roared in the massive ovens as servants shaped loaves, turned spits, and trussed game birds. Ember’s mouth began to water as the savory odors spilled over them.

  Alistair must have seen the hunger on her face, because he said, “The great feast will be held tomorrow evening, but tonight servants will bring repast to your quarters.”

  “We thank you, Alistair,” Ossia said. “Our journey has left us weary and much in need of refreshment.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Alistair said. “We are here to serve you.”

  Alistair led them into the manor, a building far more appealing than the austere barracks. The Romanesque stone walls of the great house featured friezes of ancient battle scenes and great adventures of classic mythology. The interior of the building welcomed them with walls covered in intricately carved dark wood.

  “Watch your step as we ascend the stairs to your quarters,” Alistair said. “The fourth step is horribly wobbly. It will soon be fixed, but alas, not during your stay.”

  “Humph.” Edmund scowled as he tested the broken step and found it unbalanced indeed.

  The room in which Alistair left them was small but well appointed. Ember wandered immediately to the windows, which offered a view across the courtyard and over the expanse of the loch. Despite the unfamiliar setting, she felt oddly at peace—a sentiment not shared by her family. Ossia was crooning
over Agnes, who still complained of an upset stomach.

  Edmund paced around the room. “We’ll sup, we’ll sleep, and tomorrow this nonsense will be over.”

  Ember bowed her head and then returned to her watch from the windowsill. She took a deep breath, willing that tomorrow didn’t bring an end to her stay at Tearmunn, but instead a new beginning.

  FOUR

  TIME HAD SLIPPED through Ember’s fingers, forcing her through the halls at a breathless pace. Her family had departed much earlier, as her father had hoped to speak further with Lord Mackenzie prior to the ceremony. Her mother and sister being absent, Ember was left to her own devices and she’d spent far too much time gazing out of the room’s narrow window at two figures sparring in the practice fields below. A tall, broad-shouldered knight was evenly matched by a lanky, quick rival. She was breathless as she watched them battle. Every time she thought one was about to best the other, the faltering soldier would feint, roll, or twist in a way Ember thought impossible, rebalancing the fight once again.

  Though certain she must be imagining it, given the great distance from her window to the field below, the sounds of their battle rang in Ember’s head. Even more far-fetched, Ember couldn’t stop herself from believing that she knew the taller warrior. His strong, confident movements, the twist of his waist and set of his shoulders: it was Barrow. She was sure of it.

  But that very notion was ridiculous. She’d met him only once and though she’d watched him fight, it hardly meant she could recognize him from this sort of distance. Not to mention that his face was hidden by a steel helm.

  Whistles of air chased their blades, punctuated by the sudden staccato whenever their weapons met. Ember pressed her face against the window, trying to see them more clearly but mostly wanting to confirm her suspicion that it was Barrow she watched. As the knights dove, leapt, and circled each other, she felt as though she witnessed not some savage exercise but an unending macabre dance defined by exceptional skill and wicked grace. She made a game of pretending she was Barrow’s opponent, thinking of how she would strike and dodge, imagining the type of blade she’d wield if she were a knight. How magnificent it would be to master skills that matched his. It was a daydream both impossible and wonderful. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been watching them until the church bells began to peal, signaling the start of the ceremony.