Rift (6 page)

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.

She feared a late arrival so much that she’d forgotten Alistair’s warning about the loose step as she raced down the stairs. The stone wobbled and jerked under her weight, twisting her foot and turning her speed against her. She pitched forward, tumbling over the stone staircase until she landed in a heap in the central corridor.

“Em, I thought you’d gotten lost. I was about to go hunting for you in the guest quarters, but it seems you were merely perfecting your entrance.”

She rolled onto her side to see Alistair leaning over her. His coal-black locks grazed his cheekbones, which were softened by the dimples that framed his grin.

“Ugh.” She’d attempted to break her fall by landing on the heels of her hands. Raising her palms to examine them, she was relieved to see that the smooth stone floor hadn’t left her with open cuts or scrapes, but she could already feel the bruises forming.

Alistair’s smile vanished. “Are you injured?”

She shook her head, though she wasn’t convinced she’d escaped unscathed. But she wasn’t willing to entertain the thought that she’d be limping into the ceremony. Fragility was the last impression she wanted to make when she was presented to the Circle.

Alistair extended his hands, but she waved him away.

“I’m fine,” she said, ignoring the fact that she was still a tangle of limbs and fabric. Her cloak, finely woven wool the gray of morning mist, a gift from her sister to wear at the ceremony, was twisted through her legs and prevented her from standing.

Alistair pushed his own cloak back over one shoulder, revealing the belted tunic and leather trousers he wore beneath. She caught sight of the long sword that hung in a scabbard at his side. Her mind flashed to the sparring knights and she wondered if Alistair had met either of them on the practice field—and how he’d fared against them.

He folded his arms and sniffed the air, feigning contempt. “Too good for help as always, I see.”

“Hold your tongue,” she said.

As Ember leaned forward to unbind her legs, heavy footsteps reached her ears. She fumbled with the long cloak, desperate to be on her feet before anyone else arrived. Having Alistair see her like this was one thing, but anyone else . . .

“What’s this?”

She gritted her teeth, not looking up at the questioner, whose voice was already lighting with mirth.

“She took a spill down the stairs,” Alistair said. Ember threw him a venomous glance.

The man Alistair had spoken to looked at her, arching an eyebrow. “Is this the young lass you’ve been jabbering about for the past year? Is she that eager for her calling? I’ve never considered whether you’d get to the ceremony faster rolling instead of walking, but I’m game to find out. Would you like to start over from the very top of the staircase?”

“Hold your tongue, Kael, and show some respect for Lady Morrow,” Alistair said while Ember finally kicked herself free of the cloak. “It’s not her fault no one’s bothered to fix that step.”

“Of course, Alistair.” Kael’s blue eyes were dancing beneath his wheat-blond fringe of hair. “My lady, I meant no offense.”

He winked at Ember before wiggling his eyebrows. She rolled over, horrified by the flood of crimson into her cheeks, and tried to regain some semblance of dignity.

“We’ve been so eager to meet you after all the praise our Alistair has heaped upon you.” Kael offered a sweeping bow, all the while grinning at Alistair. “But what of your champion? Didn’t you catch the lass when she fell?”

“She was on the ground before I got here,” Alistair protested. “I would have caught her if I’d had the chance.”

Now on her feet, Ember shot a glare at Alistair. “You would not. I’ll have no man catching me.”

“Feisty as ever.” Alistair laughed and elbowed Kael. “What did I tell you? She was made for Conatus.”

“Now that everyone is vertical, let’s see to proper introductions,” Kael said. “I’m Kael MacRath, a knight of the Guard.”

Ember’s training set in and she dropped into a curtsy. “Ember Morrow. It’s an honor, Lord MacRath.”

Kael chuckled. “I can’t remember the last time anyone addressed me as Lord MacRath. It’s Kael, please.”

Ember blushed again and gave him a shy smile. “Then you must call me Ember.”

He smiled, but his brow furrowed. “An unusual name.”

“My mother named me,” Ember said, shifting her weight uneasily. Her father always went into a fury when she tried to inquire about the circumstances of her birth. “I don’t know very much—only that the midwife said neither I nor my mother would survive, but a healer from Conatus came to our manor and saved us both. My mother said the healer took the tiny embers of life I clung to and breathed them into a fire.”

Kael’s rapt attention unnerved her further, so she said, “My sister, Agnes, has a proper Christian name as chosen by my father.”

“Your sister, Agnes?” Kael glanced at Alistair. “Isn’t she—”

“What are you doing here anyway?” Alistair asked, cutting off his question. “Shouldn’t you already be in the hall?”

“We were sparring.” Kael gestured to his mud-covered boots. “You know Barrow—anything to avoid a ceremony. In truth he would have stayed away, but I thought it best that we make an appearance.”

Barrow?
Ember’s cheeks were burning, but they went cold when a tall, helmeted figure appeared in the hall. While watching the battle below her window, she’d wanted nothing more than to discover she had recognized Barrow. But now that he approached, she was apprehensive.

“Dallying, Kael?” Barrow asked as he approached them. “You were the one who insisted we quit the field. I thought we daren’t miss the solemn occasion.”

Though Ember couldn’t see his face beneath the steel helm guarding his forehead, nose, and cheeks, his quiet, deep voice unsettled her very bones. Despite coming upon Kael and Alistair’s laughter, Barrow did not sound amused. Encountering him here, after she’d fallen and suffered Alistair’s teasing, the very idea that she’d ever be a match for Barrow in sword fight seemed so silly it made her bones ache.

Barrow’s pitch-black cloak covered his broad shoulders, sleek as night, making her even more embarrassed about the crumpled fabric of her own cloak. Ember tried to restore some air of dignity, standing as straight as she could and inclining her head to the warrior. He didn’t acknowledge the gesture, glaring at Kael instead. Beside her, Alistair straightened up, eyeing Barrow warily.

Kael shrugged, jerking his chin at Ember. “Our guest of honor is practicing acrobatics on the way to the ceremony.”

Alistair laughed, which earned him a stern look from Barrow before he glanced at Ember.

“It’s good to see you again, Lady Morrow. I trust your journey was without incident,” Barrow said. “The Circle will be awaiting your arrival.”

Keeping her head ducked, Ember shouldered Alistair aside, murmuring, “Of course.” She had no idea if Barrow had heard her, but she felt blood draining from her face. She was already up against enough today. She didn’t need any of the Guard to think poorly of her, but especially not Barrow.