Page 32 of Luthias

He hated the sight of me.

Being his sire’s mirror image had given Struan hope at first. He had been born with the same pale hair, which had always been more silver than gold, but that was not the only strangeness that had made the other lads in the clan wary of him. No matter how long he remained in the sun his frost-white skin, like the old laird’s, never tanned. He had the same tall, slim build, the regally remote features, and even the same subtle peaks on the curves of his ears. His only weakness, which often daily tormented him, should have endeared him to his sire, who suffered the exact same odd affliction.

Instead, nothing about his younger son had pleased the old laird.

As Struan grew older he noticed his sire would gaze fondly at Callum while at best sparing him only a glance. Even when the brothers had returned to Dun Deigh from winning an important battle, the old laird cared to hear the details only from his eldest son. Time had never healed those wounds, but since his sire’s death they had ceased festering. The old laird would never again look upon him with that faint disgust in his eyes.

Despite Callum’s suspicions Struan no longer wished to be laird. Power, he had discovered, could be had by other means.

His morning continued with listening to his patrol captains, who came to report on the previous day’s sightings.

“We’ve seen more MacRoss patrols in the slopes, my lord, but none ride near our boundaries,” one sentinel was saying, catching his interest. “They’ve also posted watchers over a recent slide above their westernmost loch.”

Struan knew that area; due to the unstable ground and steepness it had not been used by the clan’s shepherds for many years. “What interests them there?”

“I cannot tell you, my lord,” the sentinel admitted. “Our closest watchers cannae see the place plainly due to the tree lines in the slopes. That and you ordered we no’ cross the boundary.”

“My lord. Ah, War Master.” The bent, twisted figure who hobbled into the hall flapped one of his oddly-flattened hands, and leaned heavily on his walking stick. “I bring news from the town I must tell you. ’Tis of grave importance.”

“Leave us,” Struan told the sentinels, who gave the cripple the usual looks of pity-masked horror before they departed.

Tavish limped closer, his stick making dull thuds on the stone floor. Since being caught as a young lad in a tunnel collapse that had partially crushed him, the former miner’s body had healed, but the bones he’d broken had grown odd knobs that kept them askew. He had lost most of the use of his hands, and sported a visible dent in his skull that twisted one eye upward. The terrible injuries had left him incapable of performing even the simplest labors, and his appearance frightened their vassals.

Callum and the rest of the clan used him to carry messages to and collect debts from the village, mostly to keep him occupied and out of sight. A living reminder of a fate that could befall any of the Carack, Tavish made everyone uneasy. Struan knew his mind to be unaffected by his bodily distortion, however, and wondered just how Callum had been using the cripple.

“What makes you play herald this morn, brother?” he asked him.

“More I play spy for the laird, you ken.” He chuckled as he pulled a scroll from one of the many pouches he wore on his belt. “A ship brought in cargo from Francia, and messages from the gallóglach sent to fight for the Quarreler in Flanders.” He smirked. “Our lord commanded me pay handsomely for any scroll marked for the MacRoss to be sent to us. Today one arrived.”

He took the scroll from the cripple, and found the seal had already been broken. The brief message inside contained news that would be very unwelcome for the MacRoss, Struan thought as he carried it over to the hearth to burn it.

“Do you no’ wish to save the scroll for Laird Callum?” Tavish whined. “I’d wager he’d be pleased to hear of the traitor’s return. Aye, and wield such as a weapon against that fack Luthias. ” He spat on the floor.

“Indeed.” Struan pitched the scroll into the flames before he turned around to regard the cripple. “Do you scheme to take my place now?”

“Never should I dare, my lord.” He tried to bow and ended up sprawled on the floor. As he groaned and pushed himself upright he tilted his head back and grinned. “You’ll tell the laird ’twas my cleverness, aye? He’ll see my value to the clan.”

In that moment Struan saw the eagerness in the cripple’s eyes reflected in his own heart. Had his life become an endless series of futile efforts to win the notice of first his sire and now Callum? He might not be broken and ruined, but he felt the same longing as Tavish for being held worthy by and important to his older brother as well as the clan. Unlike the cripple, however, he could cease such childish efforts.

“I shall tell my brother ’twas your doing.” He reached down and helped the man to his feet. “Go and rest now. You’ve earned that much.”

Once Tavish hobbled off Struan went to the hearth to look down into the flames. As ever being close to fire made his pale skin flush red, and if he stood there too long tiny blisters would begin to pop out on every inch of his exposed flesh. Like his sire cold never bothered him, but his weakness left him incapable of tolerating any heat. The food he ate had to be left first to cool; he was forced to bathe in the icy waters of the loch instead of a steaming bath. When he took a wench he had to first drench her to dispel her body heat long enough for him to fack her, and inevitably she would shiver and whine. During the hottest days of summer his weakness even obliged him to spend his days down in the dungeons, where the sweltering sun could not reach him.

Callum knew of it, of course, and often subtly taunted him about it. You cold bastart.

Struan heard chain clatter on stone, and glanced down to see the binding silver he wove in his braid slither around his boots. He wore it in the same way his sire had, but the clasp had given way again. For a moment he felt angry, and then he realized what it could mean: freedom from his own self-enslavement. He might resemble the old laird, but he was not him. He would never be him.

’Tis time to put away childish things.

He drew his dagger, and reached back with it to cut through the heavy cable of his braided hair. Like the silver chain he’d always worn it in imitation of the old laird, hoping that, too, would earn him some notice.

“Aye.” He pitched his braid into the flames before he stepped back from the blaze, sweat streaking down the sides of his face and the shorn ends of his hair brushing his shoulders. “’Tis time to prove my value to myself.”

Emery couldn’t get used to being shadowed by Ameron and Kyal, whom Darach had assigned as her personal guards. She also didn’t like not knowing why she suddenly needed two heavily-armed highlanders following her everywhere. Yet when she went to talk to the chieftain he always seemed to be out with one of the patrols. The laird also disappeared every day with Taveon before she could speak to him, and no one wanted to let her out of the stronghold but wouldn’t say why.

“Wait until the men return for the evening meal, my lady,” Ameron advised her. “I reckon the laird or the war master shall ken more by then.”

“More about what?” When he shrugged she headed toward the hall leading to the forge, then stopped and turned around. “I’m just going to talk to Camdyn. I know how to get there.” As the guards exchanged a look she glowered. “Or do you want to go and help grind some grain for Cook? She was complaining the other day about running low on oat flour again.”