Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (19 page)

"W
ell, Alistair,
what is it to be? Are ye in or out?"

Calder's voice echoed hollowly
from the cold stone walls of the council chamber. The knight's brawny arms
rested on the long table before him as he regarded Alistair with stony eyes. The
six men around him sat so quietly that Alistair could hear the faint sound of
birdsong through the narrow windows. Outside there was sunshine, open air,
while what remained of the council was huddled in chill darkness. Like rats,
Alistair thought. Like traitors.

He repressed a shiver and took
his accustomed seat just beside the laird's empty place. Of course that chair
was empty; the laird was dying and Jemmy had not been invited to this
particular meeting of his council. It felt good to sit here again, Alistair
thought. It felt
right
.

He drew a deep breath and met
Calder's gaze.

"I'm in."

Calder's eyes flickered, though a
moment later he smiled broadly. I surprised him, Alistair thought. He expected
I'd refuse. And for all his smile, he's not the least bit pleased.

"Well, that's fine,"
Calder said. "Isn't it, lads?"

"Oh, aye," they agreed
quickly. "Just fine."

Alistair glanced around the table.
Four of those seated there were new men like Calder himself, barely known to
Alistair. The other two had sat on Kirallen's council for years without every
saying more than 'yea' or 'nay.'

"Where is Sinclair?" he
asked. "And Gregor and Logan?"

"Sinclair is dead,"
Calder answered. "Gregor is away just now and Logan—well, Logan couldna
make it here today."

It was more likely that Logan did
not even know the council met today. He was the laird's man, always had been,
and would never stand for Calder's arrogant assumption of power.

How had this happened? Alistair
wondered. How could the laird have given Calder, a knight with no ties of blood
to the Kirallens, so much power? Well, it didn't matter how it had happened. The
fact remained that Calder was in charge here. But that would change. In time.

"The laird gave me his
blessing last night," Alistair said. "Jemmy's out and I am in. Until
Malcolm comes of age."

Calder smiled slyly. "Right.
So that's the tale, is it?  Well, I hear the old man won't wake again, so who's
to say?  Now, 'tis time the boy learned what's to come when the laird is dead. He's
waiting just outside."

Alistair repressed the protest he
wanted to make and simply nodded. He had known this moment must come. He just
hadn't expected it to come this soon.

Malcolm walked into the room and
stood hesitating, his bright eyes moving quickly across the men and settling on
Alistair with relief.

"Where is Uncle Jemmy?"

"He's not needed,"
Calder answered before Alistair could speak. "This is between us, my
boy."

Malcolm drew himself up. "I
am not
your
boy, Sir Calder. What have you to say to me?"

Alistair kept his face carefully
expressionless. "Malcolm, I saw the laird last night. He told me his will.
You are to follow him, not Jemmy."

"But Alistair, he didn't
really mean that! He's been angry with Uncle Jemmy, and since his last illness
he has been—"

"Hold your tongue,"
Calder ordered. "No one gave ye leave to speak."

Malcolm's eyes flashed. "I
shall speak when and how I please, Sir Calder. I take orders from my
grandfather and uncle, not from you."

"And from me?" Alistair
asked quietly.

"Of course," Malcolm
said quickly. "I didn't mean—but Uncle Jemmy
is
my guardian. He already
named me his heir, even over the children of his own body. Did ye not know,
Alistair?"

Alistair hadn't known. It was a
clever move on Jemmy's part, one he hadn't expected. But it wouldn't help him
now.

Calder laughed. "And ye
actually believe that?"

"Of course I believe him. Why
shouldn't I?
He
doesn't lie," he added pointedly, glaring at Sir
Calder.

He is so damn much like Ian,
Alistair thought. The same reckless pride and hasty tongue. The same disregard
for danger.

"Watch yourself, boy,"
Calder growled. "I'll stand only so much from ye."

"And then what?"
Malcolm challenged.

Before Calder could answer,
Alistair spoke sharply. "That's enough, Malcolm. You'll hold your tongue
and do as ye are bidden."

"By him?" Malcolm said,
pointing to Calder.

"By your council,"
Alistair said firmly.

Oh, this was hard, much worse
than Alistair had expected, seeing the shocked hurt spreading across the boy's
open face.

"
My
council? These
men? Do ye not know what they are? Traitors, every one of them. But you—"
for the first time Malcolm looked like the young and frightened boy he was. "Alistair,
you're not like them—ye
canna
be—"

"Be quiet," Alistair
snapped. "Do ye no' ken I'm acting in your interests? Now run along. We've
work to do."

Malcolm stared at him in disbelief,
but Alistair kept his own face carefully expressionless as the boy walked out
of the chamber, his shoulders stiff. But in the moment before he turned,
Alistair had seen the tears shining in his eyes. He clenched his hands tightly
together and looked at the men remaining.

"He'll come around."

"He'd better," Calder
said. "But whether or no, we have five years before he's of an age to act.
By then, he'll be with us, or..."

"Or what?"

Calder shrugged.

"Dinna even think of hurting
him, Calder," Alistair warned. "I won't stand for it."

"Oh,
you
won't stand
for it? Well, Alistair, 'tis time ye learned there's no room here for a man who
can't pull with the rest. If ye should decide to leave with the Maxwell wench,
we'll carry on. D'ye understand me?"

The men around the table stayed
silent. Calder might speak of pulling with the others, but he meant nothing of
the sort. He was in command now, him alone. And left to Calder, Malcolm had no
chance at all.

Alistair held Calder's eyes for a
long moment, then dropped his gaze to the table before him.

"Aye. I understand. But
still—I would not see Malcolm harmed. He's Ian's son."

"Then teach him to hold that
tongue of his."

"I will."

Calder nodded. "Good. Now,
ye say ye saw the laird last evening. How much longer does he have?"

"Master Kerian said a few
days—a week at most."

Calder nodded. "Just as ye
said, Hamish."

The man thus addressed smiled
eagerly. "That's right, Calder. You can count on me."

"A week," Calder said,
frowning. "Well, we can wait that long. And then Jemmy will be taken care
of."

Alistair cleared his throat. "I
had thought—if we gave him gold to buy a ship—he'd be happy to go back to
Spain."

Janus, an older man who had sat
on Kirallen's council for many years, nodded his agreement. "I think he would."

"But what if he doesna want
to go?" asked Sir Dunstan.

Calder sliced a hand through the
air. "Spain? Nay, I think not. Master Jemmy is bound for...more distant
points."

"Calder," Alistair said
strongly, "Jemmy is the laird's son and my kinsman. I—"

"Dinna fear, Alistair,"
Calder said. "There will be no blood guilt on your hands."

Alistair glanced around the table.
Janus looked troubled, but the rest of them were smiling their approval. The
room seemed to draw around them, dark and cold and stifling.

"I don't like it,"
Alistair said.

"Ye needn't take part,"
Calder said. "Just stand back and let it happen, man."

"I don't like it,"
Alistair repeated, though his voice held little strength now.

"'Tis not the way ye'd have
it," Calder said, not unkindly, willing to give a little in return for
Alistair's obedience. "We all ken how ye must be feeling. But when it's
done, ye will see it was the only way."

Alistair considered arguing
further, then bowed his head. His silence was the only answer Calder needed.

A
listair blinked
in bright sunlight as he walked into the courtyard. He drew a long breath and
tried to banish the chill of the council chamber.

"Alistair."

Malcolm touched his arm. "In
there—ye didna really mean it, did ye?"

"Aye, Malcolm, I did. The
council is control now and ye had best get used to it. There's no use in
angering Calder any more, all right?"

Malcolm drew back, his eyes
sparking. "I'll not take orders from that traitor. Nor any man on the
council."

"I'm trying to protect you,
Malcolm, don't you see that?" Alistair said urgently, putting his hands on
Malcolm's shoulders. "They hold the reins and there's nothing either one
of us can do about it."

"But d'ye no' ken what they
mean to do?  They mean to get rid of Uncle Jemmy."

"The laird said—"

"My grandfather is wrong!
And he never meant for Uncle Jemmy to be hurt. Do you think they'll just let
him walk away?"  His eyes widened and he took one step back, shrugging
Alistair's hands from his shoulders. "But ye know that already! You hate
him, too, ye always have... I wanted you to come back!" he cried, wiping
one sleeve across his eyes. "I prayed for it every day that ye were gone. But
now—now I wish you'd stayed away!"

Alistair leaned against the wall
as Malcolm ran off. He wasn't going to make this easy. But if losing the boy's
trust was what it took to save him, then that was what would have to be. He
only wished it didn't hurt so damn much.

The courtyard was full now, the
servants hurrying about their work. Alistair let his gaze wander over the
battlements, each stone so familiar. Up on the highest tower sat two shapes,
dark against the sun-bright sky.

When he looked back at the
courtyard it was gray and dim, the people no more than walking skeletons, clad
in borrowed flesh. None of them were real.
He
wasn't real. He was but a
living ghost and the corbies were waiting with endless patience to strip the
dead flesh from his bones. He shuddered, gripped with horror. How could any man
see what he was seeing and still go on, pretending that anything they said or
did actually mattered? It was all vain, all hopeless...

And then Deirdre walked into the
yard. She was bathed in light, shining like a brand in the empty darkness. Alistair's
gaze fastened on her with desperate hunger.
She
mattered. She was real
and true and beautiful beyond all words.

The grayness receded before her
and the courtyard was just a courtyard again, filled with people who were
hurrying about their business. For the first time he noticed Alyson was with
Deirdre, an apron tied about her waist and a linen coif covering her hair. When
Deirdre saw him she waved and smiled. Finn, just beside her, barked once in
greeting.

Alistair pushed himself away from
the wall and walked over. "Good morning," he said, bowing to the two
ladies. Deirdre smiled brilliantly, but Alyson turned away without speaking. She
knows about the council meeting, Alistair thought. Even if she doesn't know
exactly what was said, she understands what's happening.

Damn
them, he
thought with weary anger, why don't they run? Why doesn't Jemmy take her out of
here and go back to Spain?

But he knew the answer to that
question. Jemmy was a Kirallen and had been given his full share of reckless
pride, just as Malcolm had. Alistair sighed. He'd forgotten what weary work it
was to keep Kirallens from cutting their own throats. And how dearly it could
cost.

Deirdre was looking up at him,
one hand shading her eyes against the light. How different she looked now from
the woman he'd seen in Maxwell's hall! Like a gem covered in dust, she'd been,
but now she blazed in sunlight. In her shining eyes he could see the man of
honor she still believed him.

When she smiled at him he smiled
in return. He couldn't help it. If he lay upon his deathbed, Deirdre's smile
could not fail to call an answering response.

"Would ye care to join me
for a ride?" he asked.

"Right now?" she said
eagerly and he nodded, his heart twisting in his breast. How could he bear to
part with her?  Yet it must be done, and quickly. Calder had already found one
weakness in him and hadn't hesitated to exploit it. Malcolm would be safe
enough for now; Calder needed him. But Deirdre was a different story. He had to
get her out of here before the game he had begun this morning turned deadly.

"Alyson, do you mind if I—"
Deirdre began.

"Go along," Alyson
said, not turning. "I can manage here."

"Do you think she was angry
with me?" Deirdre asked as she and Alistair walked toward the stable. "She
sounded very strange."

"A woman's moods."  He
shrugged. "She'll get over it soon enough."

Casting about for some other
topic of conversation, his eye fell on a spray of wild roses hanging over the
stone wall.

"For you, my lady," he
said, breaking off a blossom and presenting it to Deirdre with a bow.

"Why thank you," she
answered, dropping him a curtsey as she buried her nose in the fragrant spray. "Oh,
just smell this!" she sighed. "Do you think Alyson would mind if I
cut some?"

"I am sure she would not. Here,"
he added, drawing his dagger. "Use this."

She turned it in her hand,
looking at the finely wrought stag's head set with chips of emeralds. "Such
a pretty thing," she said. "I've often noticed it before."

"It was a gift from the laird,"
Alistair answered, his gaze moving to the mews, where a small, golden-haired boy
was peering out at him from the door. He looked familiar, but Alistair could
not quite place him. "There was a set—one for Ian, one for Jemmy, and this
one for me."

"Sir Alistair!" the boy
called. "Can ye spare a moment?"

Then he saw Deirdre and smiled. "Good
morning, Lady Maxwell."

"Hello, Robin."

Robin Bowden, Alistair thought. Lady
Kirallen's brother. Clare McLaran's son. My kinsman, even if a distant one. Whatever
can he want with me?

"Sir Alistair," the boy
said in a rush. "My grandmother, Emma McLaran, that is, sent ye a gift
some time ago. It was—" he blushed painfully, "well, before she heard
that ye were gone. I've been looking after it, but now that ye are
back..."

"What did Emma send?"
he asked.

Robin stepped out of the door and
extended his arm. A hooded falcon sat upon it. "She is a rare beauty, is
she no'?  Will ye come see her?"

Alistair hesitated, torn between
his pleasure in the gift and his need to speak to Deirdre.

"Go on," Deirdre said,
dropping a handful of blossoms at her feet and reaching to cut another spray.

Alistair stepped into the soft
dimness of the mews as Robin deftly unhooded the falcon. The boy handed him a
feather and he gently stroked the bird's breast, whistling softly as the falcon
regarded him with baleful yellow eyes.

"Do ye have the care of
her?" Alistair asked.

"I do," Robin said,
drawing himself up proudly. "She eats from my hand now. I think she's
ready to fly to the creance."

"Well done!" Alistair
said, impressed that such a slight young boy could have persuaded this fierce
animal to trust him.

"Ye should take her out
soon," Robin said seriously. "Now that she's yours, she must learn to
know ye."

Alistair looked at the bird, then
glanced out the doorway toward Deirdre. She was busily cutting flowers, Finn
sitting just beside her.

My hawk, he thought. My hound. And
my lady fair.

It was happening, just as it had
been foretold. Everything was in place now. And there was nothing he could do
to stop it.

He stared unbelieving into the
bright fresh day, every muscle in his body clenched. Then he started, frowning,
as Calder walked toward Deirdre, a false smile on his face.

"Good day to ye, Lady
Maxwell," Calder said.

Deirdre looked up, her hands full
of flowers. "Sir Calder," she said coolly.

"Ye are as lovely as the morning,"
Calder said, seeming not to notice her tone. "Would ye no' say so,
Alistair?"

"Aye."  Alistair bit
off the word, watching Calder narrowly as he took Deirdre's arm. "Come
along, my lady, we have things to do. Good day, Calder."

"And to the two of ye, as
well," Calder said genially. "'Tis a fine day, is it no'? Best enjoy
it while ye can, for I fear a storm is coming."

Deirdre began to gather up the
sprays of blossom at her feet. "I want to get these into water."

"Leave them," Alistair
snapped. Seeing her start of surprise at his abrupt change of mood, he
deliberately lightened his voice. "If we're going to ride, we best get
started."

"But—" Deirdre took one
look at his face and obviously decided this was not the time to argue. "Robin!"
she called. "Can you see that these are taken to my chamber?"

"Of course, my lady,"
he answered brightly. "I'd be glad to."

As the boy bent to gather the
fragrant blossoms, Deirdre took Alistair's arm and slanted him a smile from
beneath her lashes. "He's a fine lad, isn't he?  Maeve was quite taken
with him."

"Aye," Alistair
answered absently. "He's very much like his mother. She was—"

"What was she?" Deirdre
asked curiously.

"My first love, I
suppose," he said with a smile and a shrug. "I was ten and she was a
very grand sixteen, and I used to follow her about like a puppy. She was very
kind to me. She'd known my mother a bit—they were distant kin."

"Your mother was a
McLaran?"

"Aye. She died when I was
six."

"And your—"

"What say we race to yonder
oak?" Alistair said quickly, before she could start asking questions about
his father. He had no desire to even think about the man, much less tell the
whole squalid tale to Deirdre.

Deirdre looked at him as if she
would say more, then let the matter drop and tossed her head. "Fine, sir. But
when I win,
I
shall name the forfeit."