The Edinburgh Seer Complete Trilogy

by Alisha Klapheke

  Spinning to face Thane, Nathair put the key back on his belt and pulled out a knife. “Heir, you claim I have no honor, but you are mistaken. Technically, I did not break my promise. I didn’t take Aini down. She came to Edinburgh of her own accord and Jack Shaw took her freedom. Not me.”

  “On your orders,” Thane said very, very quietly.

  Nathair shrugged. “Jackie interprets my orders as he sees fit. He is a clever man with none of the emotional baggage I have with you. It’s best this way. My honor won’t get in our way.”

  Thane laughed without any humor. “So why are you flipping that knife around like you have some further darkness to throw at this scene?”

  He glanced at Aini, wanting to see her strength. It was there, in her unblinking eyes and fisted hands. Chill air wrapped around Thane’s middle and flew up the back of his head, ruffling his hair.

  Jackie strolled into the cell, smoking yet again and wearing just a white button-down shirt, a flat cap, and a vest boasting a fine, gold pocket watch. Thane hadn’t even heard him open the door. “I told you, Earl Nathair, this Heir of ours is a warrior poet. Further darkness…” The man chuckled.

  Nathair smiled and there was a true sadness there that surprised Thane. He’d thought Nathair was now only made up of hate and drive and mad energy. But the grief in Nathair’s eyes fled quickly and Thane wondered if it had been there at all.

  Nathair lobbed his knife into the air and Jack caught it neatly, cigarette still burning between his lips. “Do as you see fit with her,” Nathair said and the wind went out of Thane’s lungs like he’d been hit by a train. “Our Heir needs motivation. I must keep my promise not to touch her.” He left through the secret door, not looking back once at Thane.

  Thane thrashed against the hands holding him. They slammed him against the brick wall and stars floated through his field of vision. He blinked and saw Jack approaching Aini.

  “Heir, I do hope you don’t hold this against me. It’s you making this happen, you know. If you’d simply put on the clothing they’d had ready for you and practiced your fine speech,” he said, throwing his cigarette to the ground and twisting it under his heel, “even adding your own warrior poet spin to it, we wouldn’t be in this position. Aini would still be in the upper rooms having tea.”

  Thane spat blood from his mouth and tried to pull away. He was yanked back, the wall smacking his skull again. “You don’t seem like the type to care about tea, Jackie.”

  Jackie’s eyebrows lifted. “No? I like tea. I appreciate the simple things in life.” He set the edge of Nathair’s knife against Aini’s calf, just above her boot.

  “Go ahead and cut me.” Aini hissed as the knife pressed into her skin. Blood welled over the steel.

  “Really? Hmm.” Jackie glanced at Thane and shrugged. “Does she not know what these things do? I’d have thought a rebel leader would have a good awareness of knives.”

  Aini looked at the cell’s corner. “You can’t hurt me.”

  Jackie tipped his head and removed his cap. He tossed it to one of the men holding Thane. “Now that is a lie. I see the pain in your face. See?” He dragged the blade across her leg.

  Thane bucked. One man lost his grip and Thane launched himself forward, then there was a gun in Jackie’s hand, faster than anyone could’ve drawn a gun. Jackie pointed the weapon at Thane’s head. “This is growing dull. This whole, you fight, I draw a gun thing. More pain for you and her.” He looked at his men. “Take him upstairs and see he does as he must.” He looked back at Aini’s bloody leg.

  The blood stopped flowing, and the wound began to mend itself. Thane locked eyes with her. What was this? How was she doing that?

  She glanced at the air around her. Jackie made a cut along her other calf. Aini stared Jackie down, then coughed, her body contorting from the struggle of being tied to a wall.

  “My Heir,” Jackie said, “I will continue to cut her and watch her heal with this strange ability she has. It does hurt, as you can plainly see. It is up to you how much she hurts today.”

  Thane asked Aini a question silently. She had her eyes closed though. Decision fell over Thane, heavy and dark. For today, he would obey. Until he figured a way out of this. He would be the Heir in Nathair’s game. Today. Just today. Somehow he would find a way to warn Edinburgh of the poisoned water coming their way. Somehow. Some way.

  Chapter 12

  The Curse of Hope

  The gulls shouted to one another as Bran followed Neve, Myles, and Vera onto High Street. The sun was strong enough to warm the scarf twisted around his neck and halfway up his face, but the wind was pure Baltic, so he didn’t mind it a bit. Neve tugged her woolen cap lower nearly covering her eyes. Her dyed blond hair was tucked under the edge in a bun-braid sort of situation. Myles had a scarf on like Bran’s, but with pink polka dots that Bran wasn’t sure was very undercover. His bald head and huge sunglasses reflected the mid-morning light as he faced Vera.

  “I think I should get one of those blue signal flags too,” Myles whispered.

  “Do you, aye?” Vera glared, then glanced up the roadway, most likely looking for the lorry of weapons. “Well, I don’t.”

  “Neve, she is being mean. Do something.”

  The crowd bumped them into one another. The noise of street musicians, though not as upbeat as they’d once been, blended with loud questions from children and jokes between uni students jostling the stream of people headed the same direction.

  “We are in a deadly situation, Myles. Can you please stop goofing?” Vera was whispering, but Bran thought maybe she didn’t really need to be. No one would be able to hear or really understand what they were talking about. Not unless one was a kingsman undercover. Which was doubtful. The people around their unit seemed legitimately regular folk.

  “I shall never, ever stop goofing, sweetheart.” Myles grinned widely and Neve’s own toothy smile echoed it. “I am happy,” Myles said.

  “Happy?” Bran had thought he was the only one.

  He honestly thought he was going mad. They were headed behind enemy lines with no weapons on them and they’d most likely be recognized by a patrolling kingsman and brought to Nathair who would summarily shoot them all. But he couldn’t fight this bright spot of hope inside his chest. It made him feel like he could fly without any hard candies. Aini was alive. Thane was alive. That was a good start.

  “Because.” Myles adjusted his sunglasses. “Our boy is going to wear a crown today. And the yucky old John isn’t anywhere around. Nathair can fuss around all he likes, but Thane is going to show off a crown in front of everyone today. A crown. That has to be good.”

  “I agree,” Bran said. “Nathair is in a precarious position. Aini is really his only Ace to play. If we had her, he’d have a tough time turning this his way. Vera, have we heard back from our French spy yet on support from Lady Darnwell?”

  “Not yet. But I’m taking that as a good sign. A No would’ve been quickly reported. Negotiations and planning take longer.”

  Bran nodded.

  The crowd milled about the open area behind the government buildings. Red-striped caution tape marked off an area along the corner where last night’s bullets had eaten some old stone away. Holding very large guns, kingsmen stood around a newly finished stage. The scent of pine stirred in the air and mixed with the scent of expensive perfume.

  On the stage, a bevy of Scottish nobles sat in cushioned chairs. Their jewelry glittered in the morning sun and declared as loudly as any pronouncement that they supported Nathair’s little move here with all the money in their fabulous bank accounts. Banks Nathair controlled. It was odd not to see all the Campbell supporters up there. The nobles that had gone to the rebels’ side were in the crowd now, dressed like common folk in less flashy coats, ready to move on the blue flag’s signal or Vera’s command. Did the nobles on the stage know what had happened last night? That one rebel faction had warred with Nathair’s men? Did they realize how tangled this whole rebellion was?
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br />   Nathair himself climbed the stage’s steps and raised his hands. His usual kingsman jacket had been replaced by a deep blue coat that came down past his knees, swept back to show his Campbell kilt. He didn’t wear the king’s black coat. He was a kingsman no more.

  “Welcome, my countrymen. Today is the most important day in our lives.”

  More than a few of the nobles seated behind him swallowed and eyed the crowd, fingers touching necklaces or silk ties nervously. They didn’t know how the people of Edinburgh and beyond would react to this open display against the king. And they knew very well how King John would eventually respond. A man shifted in his seat and leaned over to whisper to the woman Bran assumed was his wife. She looked toward the stage’s steps like she was considering a quick exit. Nathair had his work cut out for him. Well, they all did. Because if they were going to rebel and win, the Dionadair and converted Campbells would have to win those moneyed nobles too. It’s not as if King John was going to hand them Scotland. Ammo cost a lot. Ships and tanks and anti-aircraft weapons cost even more.

  Nathair’s voice rose. “I cannot and will not hold my tongue any longer. None of us can. King John of England is a tyrant.”

  Families and factory workers traded panicked looks. Some eyed the street as if John was about to tromp down the lane like a giant and squash them all into nothing.

  “He takes the money we earn right out of our palms.” Nathair’s fists shook at his sides. “Taxes to support his obsession with French land.”

  A few voices rose in agreement.

  “We don’t need French lands,” Nathair said. “Let our old friends keep what is theirs.”

  The line of nobles behind him nodded. None were from the French court or French landowners as far as Bran could tell—the French always wore a fleur-de-lis in some form or fashion—but many of the nobles on stage held French blood in their veins and were torn by the current wars with King John in northern France.

  “King John denies our basic freedoms as Scots, refusing to allow us to marry as we please, making it impossible to run our businesses mindfully, and forcing those of us who hate him to do his dirty work.”

  “Och, that was a smart line there,” Vera whispered.

  Nathair was talking about himself. Claiming he’d been coerced into shooting sixth-sensers without a trial, chasing rebels down like dogs, and treating his own countrymen like unwanted guests in his house. Bran’s face contorted in disgust. What an arse. Would the people buy this little story of poor Nathair being forced into being a mean, nasty thing by bad King John? It was ludicrous.

  Nathair’s hands spread wide like he wanted to embrace the whole of the city. “I must atone for all I’ve done in the king’s name.” He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands like he was praying. “This is my home. I cannot abuse it any longer. Will not. No matter what punishment King John doles out onto my clan and kin.”

  The crowd murmured, some nodding and others whispering quickly like they knew more about this and were sharing secret information.

  “He gave one hundred thousand to the hospital yesterday,” a woman beside Bran said. “That’s what my sister told me. And he fought off the king’s assassins that were sent in the middle of the night. Did you hear?”

  “Aye.” Her friend pulled a broadsheet from her bag. The front showed a picture of Nathair with the Saltire, the Scottish flag, behind him. “This tells the whole story. They were handing them out in the pubs this morning, first thing.”

  Propaganda. That was fast. The Dionadair were working on the same kind of idea, but with the truth instead of lies. But they’d missed this chance. They’d been too slow.

  Vera spotted the broadsheet and her eyes about popped from her skull. She swore and pulled out her phone.

  Nathair stood, head dipped like a man heavy with guilt. Bran had seen him use this technique against Thane and Senga. It had worked with both of them. He’d claimed his fault in the matter and played on the need people had to forgive the unforgivable in some lost attempt to change the evildoer in question.

  “Thankfully, the kings and queens of old have sent us the solution to all of our problems. I know you’ve heard the stories.” Nathair’s gaze flicked to somewhere off-stage, then returned to his audience. “Long ago, the rulers of Scotland, of Alba, were crowned upon an ancient rock given to us by God Himself. Strange happenings surrounded this Coronation Stone. It was said to roar when the true Heir to the throne touched its black and glittering surface.”

  He lowered his voice and leaned toward the crowd, his forearms braced on his legs. Only the gulls dared to interrupt.

  “The stories are true. The stone was on Bass Rock. It has been recovered. It named one man as the true Heir of Scotland. This chosen ruler placed a hand upon that ancient stone and the earth…the earth trembled.”

  Bran’s heart beat loudly as everyone whispered and stared.

  Where was he going with this?

  “And the curse was enacted.” Nathair straightened quickly, causing one man to gasp. “Now, if King John of England dares to defy our true Heir his throne and power here in Scotland, the curse of the old kings will strike him dead.”

  The crowd was putty in his hands.

  “All hail my own son as the Heir to Scotland’s throne, Thane Campbell.”

  Thane strode out of the crowd and climbed the stairs. He wore clothing similar to his father’s—dark blue long coat, old-style kilt belted and thrown over the shoulder, boots. But on his brow glowed a declaration of who he was now. A golden crown.

  Bran felt sick. That crown was as good as a target on a person’s head and it was nothing Thane had ever wished for. But Bran remembered that ghostly sword in Thane’s hand on the old hill. This was his fate.

  “He is glorious.” Neve covered her mouth and glanced at Myles.

  Myles shrugged one shoulder. “Can’t argue, love.”

  The Scottish nobles on the stage stood as Thane crossed the pine surface with stately steps. Thane stared into the crowd, eyes narrowed against the sun that flashed over his crown.

  “What’s he going to do now?” Myles took his sunglasses off and squinted at Nathair. “He has to let him have the necklace and make this real to these people. But then Nathair will be toast, right? I don’t get his angle on this.”

  Bran plucked the sunglasses from Myles’s fingers and slapped the things back onto the colonial’s daft face. “Keep them on, fool.”

  Nathair’s new men had surrounded the stage, but their guns weren’t aimed at Thane. They were gently tilted toward the crowd to defend the Heir. One man stood on the stage near the earl. He flipped his long, gray coat back to show a red silk lining and a set of serious revolvers. With a confident gaze, he scanned the area like he was keeping an eye out for threats. Bran had the sneaking suspicion this was the man who’d tipped his hat to him as the rebels fled.

  Nathair bowed at the waist and kissed Thane’s knuckles.

  Stomach roiling, Bran bristled. “What a charlatan.”

  Myles laughed. “You sound like Aini.”

  “Good,” Bran said. “Come. Let’s find a place we can talk without all these ears around.”

  Vera nodded and pushed past him, leading them toward a closed Subject Identification Card check-in shed beside the road, a good stone’s throw from the stage. The shed’s one window reflected their faces.

  Bran huddled the group together, but they all kept an eye on Thane. “I’m wondering what the curse will do if this bunch feels fully devoted to Thane as Heir. Villains are the heroes of their own stories and all that.”

  “Oh, you’re thinking the curse won’t work?” Neve bit her lip, her eyes darting side to side.

  That’s exactly what Bran was thinking.

  Nathair, still bowing low, slipped the Coronation Stone necklace from his head, opened Thane’s palm, and curled his son’s fingers around the piece of ancient stone.

  The effect was immediate.

  Wind rose and twisted Thane’s kilt and
lifted his hair, tangling it in the gold spires of his coronet. The ground under their feet shook like madness. People shouted and called out. Two of the nobles on the stage bowed low like Nathair as the blue light of the ghost kings began to gather in the air around Thane.

  Thane’s gaze found Bran on the outskirts of the crowd. He wanted to shout some encouragement to his friend. Thane’s eyes showed pain, grief.

  “Is she alive?” Bran spoke the words in the midst of the stone’s roar, knowing Thane wouldn’t hear him, but hoping he’d understand.

  A woman with flushed cheeks fell into Myles, breaking Bran’s view of Thane, and the roaring ceased. The woman shoved something into the colonial’s hand.

  On the stage, Bran noticed Nathair’s man bump into Thane and knock the Coronation Stone necklace from his hand. Nathair scooped it up before anyone seemed to notice.

  Bran exhaled, frustrated beyond belief. “We are in a bad spot, friends. A bad one.” The curse hadn’t worked against Nathair because of his show of humility. Were the ancients so easily fooled or was there more to this?

  While a mass of common folk and nobles queued up to swear fealty to Thane in the messiest, most desperate way in history, Myles unfolded the paper the woman had given him.

  It was filled with numbers.

  Vera ripped it from Myles’s hand. “It’s code. It’s from him.” She looked toward Thane.

  “Can you read it?” If Thane had sent this, they needed to read it and read it now.

  Neve touched the paper tentatively, then frowned at something behind them. “Does it say anything about Aini?”

  “Hold your wheescht.” Vera waved her hands for them to get quiet. “Aini is indeed alive. They’re going to hurt her if we don’t do as they say. Thane has to obey them.” Her gaze tore across the page. “He says to hand out vision-inducing gum when he raises his hands. Something about water supplies here, and in Inverness and Glasgow. Ah, Nathair is going to poison the water.”