Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (2 page)

"Alistair," he said, his voice cracked and
harsh.

"Aye, Laird."  Alistair was instantly alert.

"Tell me—all of it."

Alistair obeyed, his voice as flat as though he was
reporting a routine mission, not the death of his own foster brother, Gawyn's
son and heir. Only at the end did he falter.

"He should have waited for me," Alistair
said. "He said it himself—asked my pardon—"

"And ye gave it," Gawyn said.

"I did. But I'll never forgive him! Stupid,
reckless—I'm sorry," he added quickly. "The fault was mine as much as
his. Or more," he added bitterly.

"There was naught ye could have done," Gawyn
said firmly, giving Alistair the comfort he could not find within himself.

"'Twas quick," Alistair said. "He did not
suffer."

Gawyn nodded. Whether Alistair spoke the truth or not,
Gawyn must believe him. He had no choice. To do otherwise would surely drive him
mad, and madness was a luxury he could not afford.

"I want ye to do something for me," he said.

"I know," Alistair said. "Have no fear,
laird, Darnley is a dead man."

"Nay. Not that. Not now. I want ye to send for
Jemmy."

"Jemmy?"

Alistair repeated the name as if he'd never heard it
before. But of course he had. Jemmy was the laird's son, after all, as much
Alistair's foster brother as Ian had been.

"Jemmy?" he said again, and now his voice
held the beginnings of anger. "Whatever for? Malcolm is Ian's heir. There's
no need to be bringing Jemmy back here—if we can even find him!"

"A letter." The laird gestured toward his
writing table.

Alistair retrieved the parchment and studied it. "Cadiz,"
he said. "So he's still in Spain... But why?" he demanded. "Why
now, after all these years?"

"He is my son...his place is here. I want him
with me."

Alistair looked at him sharply, surprise and disbelief
etched across his face. He knows me well, Gawyn thought, a bit too well to
swallow that lie whole.

"You don't want Jemmy," Alistair said. "Did
ye no' say yourself that you've no use for him since he ran off? Now lie back
and drink that draught Master Jenkin left ye."

"No—I want Jemmy, I tell ye—"

He broke off with a choked gasp that brought his
foster son instantly to his side, face taut with concern. Gawyn regarded him
through half-closed eyes, satisfied with what he saw.

"All right, laird," Alistair said
comfortingly. "If ye want Jemmy, ye shall have him. Though God knows what
good he will do," he added in a mutter.

Alistair will obey me, Gawyn thought. Though he
doesn't understand yet what I mean to do, his loyalty is absolute. Even when he
does know, he will obey, because there is more than the fealty of knight and laird
between us. But will he ever forgive me for it?

When Alistair understood that Jemmy was to be the
instrument of peace with Darnley, he would be furious, hurt, betrayed—but he
would stand fast. He
would
, Gawyn thought. He must.

God would never be so cruel as to take both Alistair
and Ian and leave him only Jemmy.

The Chevron Hills, One Year Later

A
listair's first thought when he woke was: God be
thanked, I am back Scotland. His second was: Darnley is still alive.

The ground was cold beneath him, the wind chill, yet
he was sweating.  When he opened his eyes, faint morning light stabbed into his
throbbing head and every muscle ached as he sat up. The sky was gray and the
damp air smelled like snow.

Painfully, he got to his feet. As far as the eye could
see there was naught but empty moor. But Scottish moor, he reminded himself. Last
night he'd crossed the border and if he had been feeling a bit better, he would
have fallen to the earth and kissed the ground.

He looked about, trying to fathom exactly where he was.
He'd left Leicester behind two days ago and headed straight north, which should
put him . . . square in the middle of nowhere. With a fever upon him, a
snowstorm on the way, and almost nothing left of his provisions.

Good planning, Alistair, he told himself as he moved
stiffly to saddle his horse. Brilliant. As fine an effort as ye've managed this
past year. Only this one will likely kill you.

And would that be such a bad thing? a voice asked in
his mind. Why not just give it up? Everything ye tried has failed... why not
end it here and now? Just lie down, go back to sleep, and let God do the rest.

He slumped against his horse, fighting the temptation
to give in and take the coward's way. Who would ever know? the voice asked
reasonably. No one but yourself.

"Sod it," he said thickly, pulling himself
into the saddle. Once mounted, he tried to get his bearings, but nothing looked
familiar and the sun was invisible behind the clouds. Finally he let the
stallion have his head.

He rode half in a dream, alternately chilled and
burning, and it was hours later that he raised his head and saw the hills
rising to the east. Two hills, jagged, with a narrow pass between them. There
was something familiar about this landscape . . . When he realized where he
was, he laughed harshly. Turn west, ride hard, and nightfall would find him
back at Ravenspur. The one place he could not go.

He stared up at the hills again, his eyes lingering on
the narrow passage between. There, just at the top of that rise, stood a cave. Fergus'
cave. If Fergus was still alive.

There had been a time when Alistair visited the old
man often, but years had passed since he'd ventured up this path. He wondered
if Fergus had heard what had happened to him, then knew it didn't matter. Fergus
might dwell on the edge of Kirallen's domain, but he was a
taibhsear
, a
holy man, owing allegiance to no one but his gods. Surely he would not deny
Alistair shelter for the night.

He jerked the reins and started up the rocky slope. Before
they had gone half a mile, the first cold snowflake touched Alistair's hot
cheek.

A
fterward, Alistair could never quite remember how he'd
come to Fergus' cave. Once the snow began to fall in earnest, there was nothing
to his memories but swirling whiteness and deadly cold, until at last he pushed
aside the stiffened hide covering the cave's entrance and stumbled inside.

Fergus was sitting by the fire, white head bent as he
studied the parchment spread open across his lap. He looked up at Alistair's
entrance, surprised but not alarmed. "Peace be upon ye, traveler," he
said courteously. "Be welcome here."

Alistair dragged back his hood and the
taibhsear
got nimbly to his feet. "Why, it's Alistair," he said, a smile
creasing his weathered face.

"Fergus," Alistair croaked. "Can ye
give me shelter?"

"Well, let me see," Fergus said. "I'm
expecting the King of France with half his court . . . but I suppose I could
squeeze ye in somehow."

Alistair managed a faint smile as he sank down by the
fire. "Good."

Fergus touched his knuckles to Alistair's brow. "Now
that's a fine fever you're carrying. Let's get ye out of those wet
things."

Alistair laid his head on his bent knees. "Just
let me rest a bit."

With surprising strength Fergus gripped his shoulders
and pulled him upright. "Up, now, there's a lad. Just lift your arms..."

A short time later Alistair was covered warmly,
propped against a rolled sheepskin with a steaming mug in his hands. He drank
the brew down, grimacing at the bitterness, but by the time Fergus returned
from stabling the horse, Alistair was warm and the pounding in his head had
subsided to a dull ache.

"So where did ye blow in from?" Fergus asked
casually, shaking the snow from his cloak and spreading it to dry.

"London."

"Been doing a bit of traveling, have ye?  Seein'
all the sights?"

"I went to London to kill John Darnley,"
Alistair answered shortly.

"Did ye now?" Fergus did not seem the least
surprised by this statement. "And is he dead?"

"Nay."

Fergus nodded. "Good."

"Why, are you a friend of his?"

"I've had dealings with the man, but that's neither
here nor there. 'Tis for your sake I am glad."

He refilled Alistair cup and poured for himself.
"Drink up, lad, and stop glaring at me. The last thing ye need is murder
on your conscience."

"This was not murder. 'Twas justice."

"So you're God himself now, are ye?"

"I am--I
was
--Lord Ian's foster brother. I
was
responsible for my men. Now they're all dead, every one of
them."

"I ken a great wrong has been done," Fergus
said gently, "and not only to Lord Ian and his men."

"And do ye ken you're harboring a banished
man?"

"I've heard as much. But what I couldna learn is
why
ye were banished. They say ye turned traitor to the clan, tried to seize
control and drive Lord Jemmy out. Some say ye tried to kill him--or the laird--or
both."

"Are ye no' afraid such a desperate character
might murder you, as well?"

"In your condition? I think I'll take my
chances."

Fergus smiled and tossed a log into the fire. Then he
sat down and waited for Alistair to speak.

"I did not turn traitor," Alistair said at
last. "Though 'tis true I did my damnedest to drive Jemmy out. He's weak,
Fergus, he is not fit to rule--" he broke off, coughing.

"Whisht, lad, sit back. Take it slowly."

Alistair lay back against the sheepskin. "The laird
took the notion to make peace with Darnley," he went on at last, "and
Jemmy was all in favor of it. Och, I canna blame the laird. He's aged since Ian
died. He's not a well man, not in body nor in mind. But Jemmy is a different
matter."

"I remember Lord Jemmy," Fergus said mildly.
"He used to come here years ago, bring me animals to mend. He seemed a
nice lad."

"Nice?" Alistair snorted. "He is a fool.
Twelve years he was gone, Fergus, twelve years he spent in Spain. But did that
make a difference to our Jemmy?  Nay, not him; he walked in and started giving
orders as if he'd never been away
!
He stripped us of
our honor, made terms with that murdering bastard Darnley and expected the clan
to swallow it without complaint. Aye, I fought him.
Someone
had to do it.
But when it came to the point, the laird sided with his own blood. And so I had
to go."

"Off after Darnley with murder in your
heart?"

"I would have had him. God's teeth, I was so
close
.
Then he fled to France, the coward."

"So now what, Alistair?"

Alistair leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
"I dinna ken," he admitted wearily. "I could not think beyond
getting back to Scotland . . ."

"Dinna fash yourself over that. 'Twas what was
meant to be. All is well, for ye are here now, just as I saw."

"You saw that I was coming?" Alistair asked drowsily.

"Not exactly...but someone. I'm no' a young man,
Alistair. 'Tis time another took up the burden. And here ye are."

"But—"

"Whisht, we'll talk it through tomorrow. But know
this: long ago, when ye were but a bairn, I went to the laird and asked that ye
come here to be fostered. He refused me. But ye came anyway, did ye no'?  It
must be the hand of fate."

Alistair wanted to argue, but he was too weary. Tomorrow,
he thought. Tomorrow I will tell him that I cannot stay for long. I have to
earn some gold, take ship for France, find Darnley...

Even if you could get to France, what then? the voice
said in his mind. What hope do you have of finding him when you cannot even speak
the tongue? Give it up. You tried, you failed, and there's nothing left to do
but join the others now.

"Go on, lad, sleep now," Fergus said. "All
will be well now that you are here."

T
he Chevron Hills, Four Months Later

Fergus lowered himself carefully to the flat stone
outside his cave. The day was scented with new grass and heather, blossoms and
fresh breezes. Spring at last, he thought, turning his face up to the sunlight.
Just when I had begun to doubt it would ever come again... He chanted softly:

Greetings to ye, Sun of the Season,

As ye travel the skies on high,

With your strong step on the wings of the heights

Ye are a happy mother to the stars.

At the sound of footsteps Fergus looked up to see
Alistair Kirallen walk over the crest of the hill, a shaggy bull trotting
docilely beside him. The familiar weight of helpless pity settled over Fergus
as he watched the younger man approach. Alistair's eyes were shadowed, his
expression grim, and he kept his gaze fixed on the ground, oblivious to
fragrant sunlit landscape through which he walked.

Taibhsear
,
they called Fergus in the true tongue, vision seeker, bridge between this world
and the next. In his day Fergus had been called upon by lords and lairds and
even, once, a king. If they had not been pleased by his advice, at least they
had admitted its worth. But what good was all his vaunted wisdom now?

When Alistair arrived, Fergus was certain he would
recover swiftly from his illness and accept the new life that had been offered
to him. But Alistair did not recover swiftly. He lingered on the edge of life
and death for weeks, the fever stripping flesh from bone until there was almost
nothing left.

Worst of all was the damage to Alistair's spirit. He
did not speak of finding Lord Darnley any more, and though he listened
politely, 'twas clear he had no interest in all Fergus longed to teach him.

No matter how often Fergus might tell himself that
Alistair was getting better, he knew it wasn't so. Alistair's spirit was dying,
right here before the
taibhsear's
eyes. If things continued as they
were, Alistair would be dead by autumn.

But Fergus had not yet given up. There was one more
thing to try, and today, Beltain, was the day to try it. Whether it would work
or not, Fergus simply did not know, but he was well aware that this was his
last gamble, and he wagered for Alistair's life.

"Good morning," he called, and Alistair
looked up, startled.

"And to you," he answered courteously. "Here
is the bullock you asked for."

"A fine one he is, too," Fergus said
approvingly, standing and looking the animal over.  

When Alistair leaned his elbows on the beast's back, the
sunlight fell full upon his face, stripped down to bone and flesh. His eyes
held a bitter humor, the closest Fergus had seen him come to laughter since he
arrived.

"Well, this is a fine thing," Alistair said
with a hard edge to his voice. "Here I come, seeking the wisdom of the
ages, and ye have me reiving cattle!"

Fergus met his eyes with a bland smile. "So ye
object to reivin' cattle, do ye?  Well, if ye ask me, 'tis a step up for a
banished man."