RETURN TO LOCHLANN
It was dark. Dark and wet and rainy. The sun had come out earlier, glowing in the mist and helping to dry their cloaks. Duncan was glad of the brief respite from the drizzling, icy rain. Even if it did not last.
“Think: it'll be warm, when we're there,” Duncan said to Blaine. Blaine snorted.
“Dinnae talk of it until we're sitting there afore the fire, sir,” he counseled. “Not till I'm warm enough tae no' have numbness of me backside again.”
Duncan laughed. He was numb, too, his legs long ago losing their sensation to the riding and cold. He would be more than glad to reach the castle. As it was, the terrain was known to them. They had passed across the moors during the light and reached the point where they climbed into the hills as night fell. They would be there soon.
“Almost there,” he said cheerfully. If Blaine had wished to comment, his reply was cut off by his horse lurching sideways. Blaine was about to swear, but only got out half the word when he chuckled.
“She's cannier'n me by half again, sir! She's found the road, sir.”
Duncan blinked, surprised. The cobbled road that led across the moorland and up to the raised hill where Lochlann stood was, indeed, below them. He felt as his horse, too, lurched to his right and the gait changed, walking more slowly and rolling on cobbles, slick with rain.
“We're almost there,” he said again. Blaine chuckled.
“You proved me wrong, sir,” he said cheerfully. “And yerself right.”
Duncan grinned. He didn't care who was right. All he cared about – all he thought about for the moment – was being warm and dry once more.
The horses certainly knew warmth and dryness for themselves was getting closer too, for they quickened their pace, heading slightly uphill towards the castle.
Duncan rode as if in trance, too tired to do anything but keep his eyes half open and keep himself awake. Home. Alina. Home. He kept himself awake with the litany, round and round his head. Home. Alina...
“Who goes there?”
Duncan jumped, biting his lip in surprise. The sentry!
They were at the gatehouse. After all that waiting and longing, it had sneaked up on him when he least expected. He smiled, too exhausted to feel any but the faintest haze of relief.
“I am Duncan MacConnoway,” he called up to where the sentry stood, perhaps ten feet above them. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, and then shouted again. “Duncan MacConnoway and Blaine MacNeil.”
“Yer business?” the sentry called cautiously from his position. Duncan bit his lip, feeling his patience fray. He was cold, exhausted, wet, and weary. He wanted a fire, new clothes, and something to eat. The sentry was being deliberately difficult.
“I am a guest here,” he said firmly. “You know that as well as I do.” The instant he had said it, he felt his heart sink. All he needed was for the man to insist on proof, which would involve calling out the earl, who was probably dining and would not want to be disturbed. They could be waiting here for an hour, because of that. He was about to turn round again, cursing, when a voice called out from near his shoulder.
“Have sense, Alec,” Blaine bellowed cheerfully. “Ye ken it's me. Now stop bein' daft afore I come awa' up there and push ye off.”
Duncan could not help laughing. Blaine himself was probably ten years at least the junior of the sentry at the gate, but he heard the man clear his throat sharply. Blaine was, after all, the master-at-arms, and for all his youth, respected for the skills that had raised him so far so rapidly.
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, the sound of metal, scraped on wood, told him that the locking bar was raised, the gates thrown open. An instant later, as the wood screamed a protest on badly oiled hinges, the gate was open and he and Blaine were riding side by side, together, towards the great hall. He did not think he had ever felt greater relief.
He and Blaine left their horses at the stables, a pleasure in itself to see their relief at warmth and dryness, bran mash steaming in buckets as the stable boys ran to care for them. Then, exhausted, the sword under his arm in its concealing ragged wrapping, they headed to the hall.
“Oat porridge, sir. And stew. And ham. And great big jugs of mulled ale, big as yer head,” Blaine sighed.
Duncan chuckled. “Quite so, Blaine. A few paces and we're there.” His own mind was filled with less uncomplicated longings. He wanted, more than anything, to see Alina.
They walked up the steps to the hall and were admitted to the hall. The warmth hit Duncan like a fist, searing into his marrow. He found himself beginning to sweat, fingers starting already to swell with warmth.
“Bloody heat.” The heat staggered him, and he whispered the oath to Blaine. Who laughed.
“I'm red as a red currant, sir,” he said, pointing to his flushed face. The big fires still blazed and his face was livid in the orange-red glow, sweat beading on his broad forehead, darkening already damp hair.
Duncan laughed, wincing as his own fingers swelled in the heat, turning red as the circulation returned. The two of them sat on the bench where the men-at-arms sat, while servants, only just retired from serving dinner, were roused to fetch them ale. Duncan took the stoneware cup and took a great mouthful, feeling unbalanced as the warm fluid raced through his blood, fizzling in his head.
“...And oat bannocks and chestnuts and great big pies,” Blaine continued the litany as the servants returned, bearing bowls of steaming soup.
Duncan laughed. He was glad they had brought something less substantial, at least for starting, for his stomach was hard and empty and he knew any hard food would have come straight back up again. He and Blaine sat in companionable silence, feeling the painful tingle of life returning to nose, fingers and ears white with freezing. The sword leaned against Duncan's knee.
Thank Heaven they let me take it in. The presence of an edged weapon longer than an eating knife was strictly forbidden in the great hall. Concealed and padded as the sword was, the guardsmen had eyed it curiously but let Duncan carry it in when he and Blaine insisted. The weight of it leaning on his leg was a pleasant one, a reminder that they accomplished something. The first quest.
All he needed to do was deliver it to his lordship.
When he had eaten his fill, which happened surprisingly fast, he stood. Blaine, head down over his third plateful of stew, looked up dazedly.
“I'm going upstairs, Blaine,” Duncan said. He lifted the sword from where it lay beside him. Blaine nodded.
“Want me tae come with ye, sir?” He looked wistful and Duncan laughed, shaking his head.
“No, Blaine. You stay here. Finish your dinner. I'll not be long.”
“Aye. Ta, sir. Thanks.”
He reached for his tankard of ale. When Duncan walked quietly out of the back entrance he was starting to sing. He grinned, glad to hear the young man return to rude health.
He crossed the hallway, lit with flickering torchlight in sconces on the walls, then nodded to the guards who stood to attention as he passed. He must make an effort to learn more of their names, he decided. Shaking his head, he went lightly up the stairs in gray darkness, heading for the west turret. And Brien.
When he reached it, walking lightly through the drafty hallways and up the long stairs, he stopped. The door was shut. He knocked. The sword was strangely heavy on his arm and he winced, rolling his aching shoulder.
“Come in.”
He opened the door.
Brien was sitting at his desk, long dark robe drawn around his shoulders. A fire burned in the grate, the whiter light of candlelight flooding the desk before him. He looked up when Duncan entered, setting the sword down at his side with a slight ring of iron on flagstones.
“Oh,” he said mildly. “It's you. Greetings.”
Duncan stared at him. Of all the responses he had expected, almost total indifference was the last one. He cleared his throat. “I am returned, successful, from the first task, my lord.” He reached down to the sword at his side.
“Let's see it,” Lord Brien said smoothly. He reached across the desk and took it from Duncan, holding it easily despite the weight. It could have been made for him. Duncan blinked. He supposed it was – at least, for a family member who was likely the same height and strength as Brien was.
Duncan watched as he unwrapped it. He saw his face glow with warmth, a smile moving his lips.
“Ah, yes,” Brien sighed. In the light, the blade glowed a grayish silver, the ghostly patterns of welding making black and bluish traces on the blade, as if it has been breathed on by a phantom. He smiled. The sword was a thing of exquisite loveliness, the hilt plain but decorated with a single green stone, a cabochon of some dark moss colored stone Duncan had never seen.
He watched, heart oddly moved, as the old man held the blade, making a pass with it, and then resting it on the desk.
“It is good to have it returned to us,” Lord Brien said simply. “You have done well and I thank you.”
Duncan cleared his throat, feeling a strange lump well in it. “I may retire to my chambers now?” he asked. “Or...Is my lady Alina still awake?”
Lord Brien looked at him strangely. There was compassion in his face, if Duncan chose to see that, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced with his even blandness.
“The lady Alina is retired to bed,” he said smoothly. “She traveled far – visiting her sister. I think she will not be awake until tomorrow morning, late.”
“Oh.” Duncan's heart sank. Of all the things that had sustained him, keeping him alive and awake on the journey home, it was the thought of seeing her again. The fact that she was here, yet asleep – tangible and unreachable – was crushingly disappointing. He swallowed. “Well,” he said a little helplessly. He shrugged.
“Go now to your rest,” Lord Brien said cheerily. “You have well earned it, young man. And I cannot wait to see the results of the remaining tasks I set you.”
Duncan swallowed again, feeling another, less acute disappointment. Somewhere in him, he had nurtured a vague hope that Lord Brien, on completion of the first task, would relent. See his scheme for the madness it was, and unburden him. That hope died slowly before him.
“Yes, my lord,” he said dully. He walked out slowly, all the exhaustion of the previous week seeming to reach him at once, so that he could barely place a foot before the other. He reached the threshold and sat down heavily, heart thudding in his chest.
The door swung shut behind him. Lord Brien worked long hours.
Duncan fought to maintain his own wakefulness. He was heavily disappointed, and weary beyond anything he could previously have imagined.
Perhaps she is still awake, he thought hopefully. Or, if she is not, I cannot simply wait without sight of her.
Knowing it was wrong, he got wearily to his feet. He wiped his hands on his trousers, still wearing the same hose and tunic from the journey, and headed back the way he had came. Then, at the end of the hallway, he went right. Towards the family's bedchambers.
Taking another flight of steps, he walked silently, aware that the territory was not one he should enter – certainly not at this time of night, in any case. He walked lightly to Alina's bedchamber, knowing which it was from when he was here last. It seemed at once like yesterday and, as if it happened a hundred years ago, in someone else's lifetime. He knocked. Listened for a long moment at the wood, seeking to hear any sounds of wakefulness. There was none. Knowing what he did was wicked, he rested his hand on the door handle.
The door swung gently open, revealing a room the color of charcoal in the darkness, the shadows painted onto an uncertain backdrop of moonlight and the last glow of the fires.
He listened. He could hear the sound of someone breathing. As his eyes adjusted to the softer light, he made out the edges of the bed, and the form within it.
He tiptoed forward and stood at the bedside.
Alina.
It was her. Hair shimmering in the pale light, blue-shined, lashes resting on her porcelain cheeks, she slept.
Duncan stared down at her. Her breath was smooth and even, her rosebud of a mouth slightly parted as she sighed in her sleep. He felt his loins stir and bit his lip, fighting away their prompting.
His desire of her seemed misplaced. She was so beautiful, a beauty so pure and absolute that he felt it was almost wrong to long for her. He watched as she sighed in her sleep, turning slightly to reveal the soft rounding of her breast, covered with the night shift and the coverlets.
He tensed. He had never seen her so undressed before – the long velvet gowns and petticoats she wore, with Heaven only knew what manner of undergarments under those – did not reveal her beauty so. Here, dressed only in a simple shift, she glowed from within, her form seeming too ethereally-lovely for words.
He watched as she sighed and shifted again in sleep, a wrinkle of her brow showing that her dream disturbed her. He almost reached down to smooth it away, but stopped himself in time.
Whisht! You don't want to wake her, he chided himself. Lord Brien was correct in saying she was tired. He was sure that, had she not been, she would probably have awoken as he opened the door, letting the light from the hallway in to fall, softly, on her face.
Watching her a while longer, trying hard to resist touching, he stood at the side of the bed, heart like a coal inside him – glowing, but burning all of him within that glow, as if he would die of longing.
“Come on, scoundrel.” He whispered it to himself, feeling somehow tainted, as if his presence here was brutish and wrong in the face of loveliness.
He walked quietly to the door and slipped out, closing it as silently as he could behind him. Then he sank down to sitting on the floor.
Lost in thoughts, heart glowing with his love for her, Duncan curled up beside the door and, sooner than he would have thought, he was deep asleep.