Oath of the Outcast

by C M Banschbach

  “I’m Alan MacDuffy, nephew to Laird Brogan MacDuffy. I’m here on official business with the Clans.”

  The guard swept a glance over the rest of them, lingering on the worn clothes and ragged appearance of both Sean and Damon, likely wondering what sort of official business involved them and a Gedrinian.

  But he waved them through. Sean was the last to urge his horse on the bridge, swallowing a slight fear at the hundreds of feet of empty air that ended at the sharp rocks at the base of the Carraig. Draco didn’t seem to notice. He clopped steadily across, safe between the stone walls of the bridge.

  Sean breathed a sigh of relief when they passed under the portcullis and into the courtyard. Jes cast one glance back at the sharp drop off and shook his head. Grooms came to take the horses, and Alan beckoned the small group close.

  “Now remember, I claim you under my protection,” Alan told Jes in a low voice. “Damon, do you think Sarksten will recognize you?”

  “He should,” Damon replied. “But, it’s been a few years. I’m sure the last time he saw me I was a corpse.”

  “This should be interesting,” Alan muttered. “Let’s go.”

  The steward met them at the doors and escorted them to the main hall. Servants hurried to bring them cups of cool ale while the steward went to fetch Sarksten. Banners hung from dark wooden ceiling beams. Furs draped the benches shoved up against the walls. Low fires burned in the wide hearths on either side of the wide hall, driving away the chill that forever lurked in the stone this close to the mountains.

  Jes curled his upper lip in disgust after one sip and set his cup down. Sean stifled a smirk as Alan grabbed the discarded mug and drained most of the contents. Though after the events of the last few days, he didn’t blame Alan.

  Brisk footsteps announced Sarksten’s approach and he emerged from a side door. He carried an air of command with him that made Sean straighten in response.

  “Alan MacDuffy.” The lord came forward to clasp his hand. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “Lord Sarksten.” Alan inclined his head. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

  Though Sarksten looked older than Brogan by at least a decade, he moved with an easy grace. His eyes glinted in interest as he studied them, revealing the intelligence that had crafted the famed battle strategies that won tremendous victories during the war. Sean no longer doubted any of the stories he’d heard of Sarksten or of the desperate stand taken by he and his battle-hardened soldiers to hold the Karanti back from taking Castle Bright.

  Some even said he was the reason Rhys lived, though Sean had never heard why. Rhys had never much mentioned the lord on his rare leaves during the war.

  “I heard from Brogan that you were going to find your Seer.” Sarksten turned his attention back to Alan.

  “Aye and ran into a bit of trouble with Lord Adam’s guards. We’ve been on the run for a few days.”

  That’s putting it a bit mildly.

  Sarksten shrewd gaze settled on Sean. “You are the Seer?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Welcome.” Sarksten clasped Sean’s hand in a firm grip. “I always thought highly of the Clans’ Seers during the war.” The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened slightly, and his sharp eyes studied Sean as if looking for something. As if wondering what Sean could do.

  Irritation flashed through Sean. He’d wanted to think that Sarksten wouldn’t be another man just wanting to use the Gift for his own gain.

  “You are one of the Baron’s men?” Sarksten shifted his attention to Jes, pausing for a moment over the Gedrinian’s weapons. Jes made no move to reach out in greeting to the lord.

  “Yes, sir.” Alan stepped in. “He is under my protection.”

  A thin smile crossed Sarksten’s face. “A wise decision.” He turned to where Damon stood partially behind Alan. He reached out in welcome, but his face went slack in surprise.

  “You—”

  “My lord, we need somewhere private to talk,” Alan hurriedly said.

  “My—my chambers, at once,” Sarksten stammered, his face still white as his beard. He shook his head, jerking his gaze from Damon and waved them towards the doorway where he’d entered and leading them up a winding stair. Every few steps he’d turn for a moment to regard Damon before continuing on. He ushered them into his study, shutting the door with a startling quickness.

  He strode to his desk, leaning on the polished wood as his mouth worked.

  “How—? You—? We buried you.”

  Damon lifted one hand in a half-hearted gesture and glanced to Alan for support in the silence of the room.

  “I’ll explain what I can,” Alan began.

  Sarksten jerked a nod. “Sit down.” He waved to the wide chairs scattered throughout the room, then collapsed into his seat behind the carved oaken desk.

  Sean settled into the window seat, and Jes leaned against the wall a few steps away. Damon and Alan sat closest to the desk.

  Alan spent almost an hour recounting the negotiations with Adam, and Sean and Damon’s escape. Damon slowly recounted his story of the assassination and his survival, glossing over the intervening years in rushed sentences. Sarksten’s attention never wavered, locking on to Damon over steepled fingers.

  When they finished, Sarksten sat back in his chair. “This changes everything.”

  “I have no illusions of reclaiming the throne,” Damon spoke. He’d barely moved throughout Alan’s report. He sat slightly hunched over, his hands clasped in his lap. “I’ve heard enough to know that Alsaya may be past needing a king, but something has to be done about—the Baron.”

  “And what would that be?” Sarksten shifted forward to rest his elbows on the desk. The shock had been shuttered away, to be replaced with bluntness. “He lives outside our laws. Neither I nor Brogan can claim him. We can do nothing to help him.”

  Sean shifted forward. But there has to be something he can do!

  “No, but we can.” Jes broke his silence. He gave Sean an understanding nod. “There are men coming to join us right now. We only require safe passage through these lands.”

  “And if I refuse and instead take you in like the outlaws you are?”

  Jes maintained his relaxed stance against the wall, but his hand fell to his sword. He held Sarksten’s gaze—watching, challenging. Unease prickled along Sean’s arms. Alan shifted in tense alertness. Not from fear of Sarksten’s threat but fear of what Jes would do if he tried.

  “You forget he is under my protection, Lord Sarksten.” Alan stood and stepped between Sarksten and Jes. “And he has not been declared guilty of breaking Alsaya’s laws.”

  Sarksten narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps. In the meantime, we will prepare for Brogan’s arrival.”

  “Laird Brogan is coming here?” Sean shifted forward.

  “Yes. Chieftain MacTavish has begun the call. We’re going to war against Adam.”

  A chill settled over Sean. War. His visions would come true.

  Alan cast a sympathetic, but knowing, glance to him. A stark contrast to the sharp interest that lit Sarksten’s eyes. Neither of them acted surprised by the declaration of war, confirming his worst fear. This is because of me. Adam took me to provoke the Clans and bring on the war that he wanted.

  “Brogan returned to Camlin to assist with mustering the Clans’ warriors,” Sarksten said. “My lords are preparing as well. Our main forces will meet outside the hills in a few weeks’ time.”

  Sean crossed his arms tight across his chest as any hope for going home vanished before his eyes. War was coming. His place would be with the Clans, beside his laird and the chieftain.

  Damon stared at his hands, equally subdued.

  What will the Clans and lords would do when they find out he is still alive?

  “You are all welcome to stay here until we leave to meet the Clans,” Sarksten’s voice broke through Sean’s thoughts. “I’ll have my steward show you to rooms, and find new clothes for both of you.” He tipped
a nod to Damon and Sean.

  Damon mustered his thanks, barely lifting his head. Alan gave a slight frown of thoughtful consideration. But Sean recognized the hesitation and uncertainty in the young prince’s posture.

  He’s been in a prison for the last seven years. He’s scared of taking his old position back.

  Sarksten called the steward in and gave him orders for their accommodations.

  “The evening meal is in a few hours. Please, join me at my table.”

  Alan bowed. “We’d be honored, my lord.”

  Jes pushed away from the wall, arms still crossed as he passed the lord. Damon tentatively glanced at Alan as if waiting for him to lead the way. Sean strode forward, nudging Damon forward to follow Jes.

  The steward led them through an endless series of stone staircases and halls that left him breathless and feeling less kindly towards the Carraig.

  If we have to go up one more flight of stairs, I’m going to go sleep outside.

  The steward finally halted at a suite of rooms in the northeast corner of the castle, and ushered them inside.

  Warmed water already awaited them in one of the smaller rooms, and the steward returned shortly with clothes. Alan sent Damon first. The prince returned, looking barely recognizable with freshly shaved face and new clothes that revealed just how thin he was.

  Sean went next, scrubbing away the grime of two months in the dungeon and the sweat and dirt from their journey. His borrowed clothes fit fairly well. The calluses on his palms caught on the smooth cloth. Even though he and his family enjoyed a higher social standing as the Talam’s blood, they still didn’t have cloth as fine as this. It made him feel uncomfortable.

  He shaved and ran a towel over his damp hair again. It was longer than he liked, and Sarah would hate it. He folded the towel over the rack with a sigh. He wasn’t going to last long thinking about his family every few minutes.

  He left the wash room and stepped out into the circular common room. Two other doors opened off into bedrooms. The room closest to him held two beds. Alan’s pack lay on one, and one he recognized as the Baron’s rested on the other.

  Sean crossed over to it, resting a hand on the leather bundle. We’ll get him back.

  “Jes,” he called as the Gedrinian crossed from the washroom into the other bedroom. Jes tilted his head inquisitively.

  Sean nudged the pack towards him. “You should keep hold of this.”

  Jes regarded him for a moment, then nodded. He took up the pack and disappeared.

  Despite how inviting the bed looked, Sean couldn’t bring himself to rest. Too many thoughts ran like wild goats through his head. He went to stand next to the narrow window in the common room, staring out at the foreboding mountains.

  War, the word echoed in his mind. Adam wants war. Are we playing right into his hand?

  Sarksten and Brogan seemed to think there was no other option.

  “You all right?” Alan came to stand by him.

  Sean glanced up. The others sat in their own silence around the room.

  “I will be once we figure a way to get him back,” he replied in a low voice.

  “I know. I left him behind. Again.” Guilt colored Alan’s voice, and Sean felt some of the same stain.

  He shifted to lean one shoulder against the wall. The grey stone felt warmer than Castle Bright’s had. “How’s Caitlín?” he asked instead.

  “None too pleased that I volunteered myself for this little trip,” Alan replied. “It won’t be too much longer before the babe is here.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, aye, she’ll be waiting to murder me when I get back.” They both shared a quiet laugh.

  “Sarah’s doing fine,” Alan answered his unasked question.

  Longing again threatened to overwhelm Sean. He hadn’t asked Alan about them yet, as if that would keep the homesickness at bay.

  “Is she?” He knocked his fist against the stone. “It’s been months.”

  “She’s holding up. Your father has been taking care of them.”

  “Rhisiart and Máire?”

  “They miss their father.”

  Sean swallowed back sudden tears. During the time in Adam’s dungeons, he tried not to think about his family. He’d had no idea what the druids could do and wasn’t about to give them anything else to torment him with. But now that he actually let himself, he realized how desperately he needed to see them again.

  Alan rested a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. “We’ll get you home.”

  Sean gave him a short, grateful look. “War is coming, Alan. How do we know there be a home to go back to?”

  “What have you seen?” Alan’s fingers drummed against his arm as he leaned against the wall.

  “Bits and pieces. Nothing solid.”

  “So, no point in asking if you know who wins?” Alan attempted a smile.

  “Not yet.” Sean smiled. “But events are beginning to align according to the future I saw. Perhaps it will show me more.”

  Alan shook his head. “I’m just glad I don’t have the Gift.”

  Sean smiled tiredly. “There are many days I forget that it is a gift.”

  “Get some rest, Sean. The last few days have been hard on everyone.” Alan clapped him on the shoulder again.

  Sean nodded but stayed at the window. He considered trying to see Rhys. He hadn’t been able to see his brother in years. All his visions had become clouded ever since Rhys was expelled from the clan, but the visions of Rhys had ceased.

  He pressed the heel of his hand into his chest as if to push away the hollowness. He’d been missing a part of himself for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it had felt like to have a brother until Rhys had walked into his cell.

  He blinked hard against a new wave of exhaustion. His body ached, but sleeping meant dreaming. And dreaming meant more visions of war.

  He’d been spared the worst of the war visions during the Sea Wars. Now he was the only Seer the Clans could bring to battle. He wasn’t ready for that responsibility.

  Rhys could have been here with us. He could have helped me like he used to. The hollow feeling in his chest widened a little more. If we don’t get him back, I’m going to be on my own again. I don’t know if I can do it.

  Chapter 23

  Moonlight leaked through the prison bars, attempting to reach Rhys sprawled on the cot. A soft grunt escaped him as he moved in an attempt to find a comfortable angle. He had to admire Kane’s effortless ability to inflict pain.

  Time had blurred together over the long hours spent with Kane with the druids.

  Two days, Kane said last time.

  They’d left him alone all day, but he wasn’t anticipating the respite to last much longer.

  So three, maybe four days?

  Rhys swore softly as he swung his legs over the side to sit up against the wall. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but perhaps he could get some sleep this way.

  A movement in the shadows by the cell door shocked him to alertness. Kane lurked against the bars, just outside the light cast by the guttering torches. Rhys swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat.

  “What?” he growled. Only the sight of the bars between them helped steady his nerves.

  Kane ran the edge of his knife under his nails. “The druid wants your blood,” he eventually spoke.

  “Why?”

  “He thinks you are like your brother.”

  “No, why are you telling me this?” Rhys rubbed dried blood from his hand, pinching hard to make sure that the pain he felt was in the real world. There was no tangible pain in the druids’ controlled dreams.

  Kane met his eyes for a moment. “What the druids do is not natural. A man should be warned.”

  Rhys tried to disguise his shudder with another movement. “Hasn’t stopped you from using their methods.”

  Kane glanced around the cell before settling back on him. “Not all of them. Some men don’t deserve to be used i
n their—practices.” Rhys thought the torturer shifted in discomfort for a moment.

  “Didn’t think you would care.”

  “Even damned men sometimes have a conscience,” Kane replied.

  Rhys couldn’t form a retort. Is that what I am? A damned man with a conscience?

  He turned his head away. He’d take the warning, but he didn’t have to acknowledge the messenger. Kane pushed away from the wall, sheathing his knife slowly. He paused another moment as if he wanted to say something else but then turned and walked away with barely a whisper of a footstep.

  They think I’m like Sean? I’ve never had any sort of dreams like him. Rhys slumped back against the wall.

  “The druid wants your blood.”

  He looked at the scarlet flaking his skin. The druids had been bleeding Sean for some reason.

  What do they want my blood for?

  The silent prison gave him no answer and neither did the dread worming its way back into his mind. After the few hours spent under the druids’ control, he was beginning to understand Sean’s fear and hate for them.

  He closed his eyes. Sitting up against the wall had eased some of the stiffness binding his ribs and chest. He’d need to save what little strength he had left if the druids were coming for him.

  Sleep came in brief spurts through the remainder of the long night. Finally, dawn began to creep across the sky, shining timid light through the cell window, barely stirring him.

  The rustle of robes on stone brushed into Rhys’s consciousness. Kane’s warning filtered back to him. Alisher wanted to see if he was like Sean. Rhys would give him the truth. I’m nothing like Sean. Not anymore.

  He came awake fighting. He might have only been one man, but he had learned from thieves and assassins in the mountains.

  A quick jab to the throat sent one soldier reeling back with a choking gasp. Another guard reached for him. Rhys grabbed the man’s arm and twisted, wrenching the elbow joint. The man swore and stumbled away as Rhys released him.

  But Rhys swayed on his feet, giving another man an opportunity to pin one of his arms behind his back. The first soldier rose shakily to his feet, only to receive another kick from Rhys.