Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) (30 page)

A horn blasted, and he was suddenly grateful for the fact that not all his men were so witless as these. He recognized Fergus’ windy blare the instant he heard it and knew at once they would be receiving guests. Twice the horn sounded, which set Aidan immediately at ease, for he realized these must be friends.

B
roc Ceannfhionn, they called him.
Broc the blond.

If Aidan had considered Lang Glen a tall man, Broc was taller yet, with legs as strapping as tree trunks and arms the size of Keane’s legs. Aidan was hardly a diminutive man, but he felt dwarfed by Broc’s size height and breadth. But there was little guile in the behemoth’s kindly blue eyes.

To celebrate their arrival, Aidan sent Keane after the
uisge
and tankards. His sister Lael continued to manage the kitchens, and his wife did not seem to mind, so he continued to make his requests of Lael, bidding her to bring their guests victuals to fill their bellies. Aidan had come to realize his wife was a skilled diplomat, for she had managed to deal fairly with all his siblings and had won herself a sort of truce with Lael—hardly an easy feat.

“To what do we owe the honor?” Aidan asked Broc, slapping him congenially upon the back.

Broc’s face was set in grim lines that seemed at odds with his boyish features and his bonny blond hair. “We come on behalf of The MacKinnon,” he said gravely.

Mulling that over, Aidan saw the men inside and stood before the chieftain’s table as the tables were being filled to the edge with food and drink. Everyone worked together to bring foodstuffs from the pantry—cheese, bread, whatever fruits remained that had not been preserved for the winter, salted fish, honey from their store and a new kind of wine Lìli had spiced using late-blooming flowers. As it was not yet time to sup, they did not assemble the trestle tables, for there was room for all to sit at the long table. Unlike the halls of others’, here space was limited and they did not employ a permanent dais. Neither was Aidan inclined to lord it over his kinsmen so they sat on both sides of one long table, facing one another as equals. Aidan urged the men to sit once the table was completely prepared. “What business has the MacKinnon with us?” he asked Broc, curiosity needling him.

Broc’s entourage, all of them eyeing the spread, beat the giant to their seats but Broc seemed far too troubled to spare the food a glance. “We received word a week ago of a secret council David called.”

A ripple of foreboding swept down Aidan’s spine, though he covered whatever unease he felt and led the way to their seats. “Come, give me the news while you sup... I ken you must be famished after the journey north?”

Acknowledging the truth of that statement with a nod, Broc reluctantly found his seat at the table and began his tale. When he was done, Aidan simply sat, staring at the man, considering everything he had said while Keane poured him another tankard full and another for their guests.

“So David called his banner men the instant I left Chreagach Mhor?”

“So it seems,” Broc acknowledged, nodding soberly. He lifted up his cup and brought it to his lips, taking a hefty sip, and then merely shook his head and cleared his throat. “He didna invite Iain, or we would have come to you long before now,” he continued, as though perfectly accustomed to the burn of the
uisge
. “We only discovered the meeting by chance.”

Aidan’s reached out for his own tankard. “By chance?”

“Aye,” Broc said, but before he continued, he introduced the men he had ridden with into the vale: his cousin Cameron, and another three strapping young lads—all MacKinnon liegemen.

“’Tis glad I am to know ye,” Aidan offered. “
Fàilte
.”
Welcome
.

“
Mòran taing,”
Cameron replied in the old tongue.
Many thanks
. Aidan thought he might be a few years older than his sister Lael, though not by overmuch.

He gave Keane a nod as he held the
uisge
jug over his own cup, asking for permission. Grinning like an idiot, his face stained with the remnants of bruises, Keane took his seat to Aidan’s left, leaving the right-hand seat unoccupied—a subtle nod of respect to Lìli, even in her absence. That pleased Aidan immensely.

But the story Broc came to relay was curious, and indeed it seemed to be a matter of happenstance—or divinity, one, depending upon the view—that he had gleaned the information at all. Apparently, David had ensconced himself in the manor house of one called Alma, who had been the nursemaid and healer for the MacEanraig clan, Broc’s clan by birth. Broc alone from the MacEanraig chieftain’s family had survived a savage raid upon their village, and he had been taken as a boy to be cared for by the old MacKinnon laird. In the meantime, Alma returned to what remained of their village to rebuild their homes. Broc’s loyalties to Ian MacKinnon were unshakable, Aidan knew that from the stories he had heard overall. But it seemed a large part of the warrior was heartsick, even all these years later, over the demise of his bloodline. As a child, Broc had buried his entire family and had watched his village burn, reduced to ash. Now this woman whose years should have ended long ago—a bit like Una—and who by the grace of the gods continued to breathe, had returned to him with a tale—one that made Aidan’s blood run cold.

“I’ve nay clue what David means tae do,” Broc confessed. “But I know he came here to Dubhtolargg, and I know that whatever he has proposed to you comes with treachery at hand.”

Lìli came into the hall then, and Aidan blinked at the sight of her, suddenly hesitant to introduce her to his guest. His heart was tripping over Broc’s forewarning.

Whatever he has proposed to you comes with treachery at hand.

She may betray you at least once before she finds her true path.

His intuition—the first he’d had upon meeting his wife—might yet prove true, though he couldn’t bear it. He called her over nonetheless and introduced her. Aidan smiled at the way his guests all rose to greet her, their eyes widening at the sight of his bonny Scots bride. She had the power to render a man mute, that much was true.

Aidan stood as well.

Broc was the first to speak. “
'S mise le meas
—
yours respectfully
, my lady, I wish ye both long life and bairns aplenty. My wife is bearin’ me another in two months hence and this time, we are hoping for another boy.”

Lìli nodded and said, “Congratulations to you and—”

“Elizabet,” Broc provided and his face nearly split in two at the mention of his wife’s name. “She reminds me a wee bit o’ you,” he confessed.

His cousin Cameron laughed. “He’s got himself three daughters—all bonny as ye, my lady—but only one son. Soon he’ll be able to start his own clan of womenfolk, one to rival even Dubhtolargg’s!”

Aidan laughed. No doubt, his indulgence toward his sisters was fodder for much gossip, but few enough witnessed it firsthand. It didn’t bother him.

“Aye, well,” Broc said, his face turning a bright shade of pink that seemed all the darker for the paleness of his hair. “As to that...” He unsheathed his claymore and Aidan straightened, the hairs on his nape suddenly prickling and standing on end. But the blond giant merely laid his sword carefully upon the table, where the etching on his blade was most easily read.

Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich.

Hills and streams and MacAilpín.

As the legends went, one did not exist without the other, since the beginning of time.

Aidan peered at his wife. Recognition flickered in the depth of her eyes, and he realized she understood what it was she beheld.

But of course she would, for she knew the old tongue, so it stood to reason that she had learned her histories as well. It was the sword of the
Righ Art
—the High King and Chief of Chiefs. It was the consecrated blade of Kenneth MacAilpín. Lost amidst the
Sìol Ailpín
—the fractured Highland Clans who claimed blood lineage to the original Ailpín line—it had not been seen in more than a century. The sword, along with the stone, belonged to the rightful heir of the throne of Scotia, come to them by way of the Dalriadic kings, along with the stone called
clach-na-cinneamhain
, which as legend would also have it, was then blessed by a Pecht priestess. When the two were rightfully united, the chieftain who sat upon the stone and wielded the sword would rule undivided lands. It should have gone exactly so … except that, after the blessing, under a banner of truce, Kenneth MacAilpín murdered a Pecht rival for his throne. Thereafter the stone was cursed, consigning any man who sits upon it without right to war amongst his own kin. Seeing the way of it, after Kenneth’s son Aed was murdered in cold blood, Aidan’s clan removed the stone and secreted it where it now remained.

For a long moment, Aidan merely stared at the sword, and though he considered it, he decided not to send Lìli out of the hall, for without knowledge of the stone, she could not truly comprehend exactly what it meant to have the sword sitting here before her, gleaming upon his table. And yet … if she was to become a true member of his clan, he must begin to trust her.

He pulled out his wife’s chair and sat in his own, considering the sword and its markings—markings he knew intimately because they matched those of the stone hidden within the ben.

For what seemed an eternity, Lily stood at his side, and then she sat too.

Once his wife was seated, the men Broc had brought along with him sat as well, but they all remained silent, waiting to see what Aidan would say about the ancient sword that had been lain upon his table.

“To whom does it belong?” Aidan asked, feigning ignorance.

Broc hesitated a moment, his eyes meeting Lìli’s and then returning to Aidan’s once more. “To me,” he said finally. “The sword is mine.”

L
ìli’s gaze snapped up to meet the giant’s bright blue eyes.

His eyes assessed her keenly, watching her reaction and that of Aidan’s as well.

For his part, Aidan seemed hardly fazed by the sight of the blade. But Lìli knew enough to know that men would kill for the sword Broc had placed upon the table before them.

“How did you come by it?” her husband asked casually, but Lìli sensed his tension in the rigid set of his shoulders.

“It belonged to my father,” Broc disclosed.

Aidan merely nodded. “Well kept.”

A shadow crossed Broc’s eyes, dimming the sparkle that had appeared only moments before at the mention of his wife. “I took it from my father’s body,” he continued. “But I did not realize what it was at the time. I only knew it to be my father’s. When Alma came to advise Iain MacKinnon of David’s secret meeting, her eyes fell upon the sword in my scabbard and the auld woman wept bitterly at my feet.”

Once again, Lìli’s eyes met that of the man seated at the opposite side of the table. Now his eyes glistened with tears she knew he would never shed in the presence of so many men. His golden hair was long and fell below wide shoulders, much like that of her husband’s, except that Broc’s coloring was nothing at all like Aidan’s. Where Broc appeared much like a golden Gael god, her husband had the dark look of his Pecht ancestors. And still, though Broc had the appearance of an angel—if ever there were angels—she sensed in him a strength born of his circumstances. Ironic that he had pledged his sword to the MacKinnon, and that sword was the sword of kings. Its presage gave her a little shiver.

Broc continued with a heavy sigh. “Alma begged my forgiveness and told me the tale of the sword. It has been passed down to my blood kin for more than four score years.”

Lìli recognized the tension in Aidan’s voice. “But you call yourself MacEanraig?”

Broc’s gaze did not waver from her husband’s. “As with you, I call myself naught. Ian MacKinnon named me Ceannfhionn as a child. Almost no one refers to me as MacEanraig anymore, but aye, I suppose to protect my lineage from murdering rivals, the Ailpín name was forsaken somewhere along the way—and perhaps as a reminder that might is not the rightful hand that rules, my clansmen took the maxim, ‘Sola Virtus Nobilitat.’”