The entrance to the great hall of Dun Bhuird was flanked by two housecarls—proud, strong men, tall and thick in the girth, stalwart. Encased in coats of leather plates, they stood beneath the wide, overhanging eaves that sheltered the hall’s entrance. The wide platform, held aloft by four carved pillars, threw deep shadows over the men, cloaking them in a dangerous stillness. A threat, a warning, serving the same purpose as the carved dragons whose bodies twisted around the tall pillars—ancient wooden columns that spoke of the High Hall’s origins, its auld Norse ancestry. Kathryn had long considered the housecarls an appropriate reflection of the wooden creatures—both silent and still except for a flicker of the housecarls’ pale eyes as they watched her then returned to the horizon for signs of raiders.

Strange to know she had warriors ready to protect her at an instant. Wise enough to know it would take more than strength to defend her from the moments of darkness that could suddenly haunt her thoughts.

Kathryn had gone to bed annoyed and awoke in the same frame of mind. She was a Scot, a Highland Scot. Pragmatism should be part of her nature, yet her cousin Brodwyn’s remarks of the evening before had tirelessly dashed hither and thither through her mind, constantly disturbing her rest by refusing to be ignored.

God’s teeth, she was an adult now, old enough not to be bothered by her cousin’s words. Having been on this earth all of eighteen years meant she was well past the age of paying any regard to Brodwyn’s mean comments. “The Bear might as well have sent you to that nunnery after all,” she had sniped when Kathryn reproached her for her behaviour around the men.

Kathryn had turned on her heel and walked away, telling herself that Brodwyn always managed to avoid having to answer for her behaviour, forever acting as if Kathryn were the one in the wrong. Brodwyn preferred to retaliate with words that pinched and prodded. Words that hurt like Brodwyn’s poking fingers had back when they had been children, Kathryn the younger by five years.

She hadn’t realised that Gavyn’s absence would diminish her in a way his presence had not been able to accomplish. She felt as if she were actually locked in that purgatory that priests spoke of, a vile waiting room removed from this earth where the soul had no notion of its destination, be it heaven or be it hell.

Taking a deep breath, Kathryn strode into the fresh air leaving her maid, Lhilidh to collect a few concoctions from the stillroom that she had prepared the day before. Letting out the breath in a long whispering sigh, she spoke her thought aloud—“A-a-ah, but this feels better”—just loud enough that no one would know it was her cousin’s absence she referred to.

The ground fell away here, and she could see everything. Her whole world was bounded by the horizon. During the past two years she had never so much as crossed its borders, yet it had seldom felt like a prison. She loved this land—Comlyn land that her family had tamed over many generations.

The chill of early morning, when the sun’s fingers had just begun their long climb over the eastern horizon, was her favourite part of the day. Its only flaw was the ravens taking wing from the cliff by the waterfall. She didn’t need reminding of her husband or the raven that flew on his banner.

Taking another long breath to still her mind, she returned to her purpose of settling her thoughts for the start of a long day. Forget Brodwyn , she told herself.

Standing on the edge of a drop high enough to break every bone in a body were it to fall from there, she reflected on the beauty of the quiet dawn colouring the dew-coated boulders edging the lip. At this height, sometimes the dawn’s light struck the eye like silver, clear as crystal. On other mornings sunrise tinted the valley with the same mellow hue as the chieftain’s gold and silver embossed shield hanging above the carved chair at the high board.

Her father had ruled from that chair. Aye and some said he had ruled from the saddle of his horse as well, merely by the fierce look of him—a terrifying sight, his shoulders swathed in a bearskin. He hadn’t always been wise or just, she admitted now. The Bear had been a man whose flaws were as one with his strengths. Still, she had loved him. Not that Erik, the last Comlyn Chieftain, had seemed to notice.

Astrid, her elder sister, had always been his favourite.

Now they were both no more, and Alexander, her brother, with them. Their essences left where they’d succumbed, haunting the granite walls of the McArthur’s Cragenlaw Castle like unwelcome guests.

Yet, her father’s image remained writ large on her memory, as if they had spoken yesterday. More than two years since, Erik the Bear had been placed in the ground, his grave marked by the huge cairn atop Bienn á Bhuird. His loyal clansmen had built the monument to mark his passing.

She gulped hard, swallowed as if the action would fill the hollow spaces loneliness had carved in her heart. Day by day, the weight of her emotions crowded together yet couldn’t fill her up. From the day they had brought the bodies of her father and brother home from Cragenlaw, she had felt alone—surrounded yet alone.

Even her husband had departed within days of making his vows before the priest.

A lesser woman might have crumpled, but not her, not Kathryn Comlyn.

She had stopped wishing, If only Father were alive . Eric the Bear was long gone. No matter that she was a wife in name only, she felt she had gained maturity. Gavyn had left Magnus and Abelard in in control—in control of her. Fate had stepped in to change that, Magnus had broken his thighbone and now had a limp that slowed him down. Abelard had simply aged, his eyes dimming so that he found it difficult to read. Their misfortune had served her. She had learned more about the running of a clan than she had known before.

And a lot of good it did her. None of that knowledge prevented her clansmen from seeing her as a woman—as naught but the Bear’s wee lassie.

Lhilidh broke into her reverie, saying, “I have everything in the basket, Lady. Let’s be off now. Maw will be waiting.”

“It’s to be hoped she slept last night. Her pains are getting much worse.” Kathryn ran her fingers through the little pots of salve, linen twists of powder and small flasks of potions, checking she had all she would need for the folks expecting her to visit over the morning. “Hmm, thank you Lhilidh, it appears to be all there, as you said. Let’s be off.”

They had to duck their heads low to enter the wee house. The doorway was covered by a length of auld cowhide hung from a rough wooden beam to keep out wind and rain. The grey walls, a jumble of stones pieced together into a whole, had been carved from huge rocks that the mountain birthed aeons ago. The thick thatched roof glowered down at all who entered, two bushy eyebrows of bracken hanging over each wee window. At least the heather thatch kept off the rain more ably than the gaps between the stones thwarted the wind.

Her fondness for Lhilidh, meant Kathryn had done her best to provide a few creature comforts inside for the lass’s ailing mother, though naught would cure what ailed Geala. She knew that the most her efforts could achieve was to stave off the pain that constantly doubled Geala over. First she had brought herbal decoctions and, lately, milk of the poppy. Poor Lhilidh was ignorant of the true state of affairs.

Death was no stranger to Kathryn. How could it be with the Bear as a father? The same couldn’t be said for Lhilidh. Not because Kathryn deliberately kept her suspicions to herself; she dreaded breaking the bad news to the young lass. With Geala gone, Lhilidh would have no one. That is unless one was forced to consider Nhaimeth—the wee Fool Astrid had taken with her to Cragenlaw—as family.

Reason enough to keep her counsel a while longer.

Lhilidh crossed the threshold first and ran to her mother’s side. Geala lay curled up in her plaid, her gaunt face the colour of cold ashes. “I think she’s asleep,” she whispered, but from her expression she feared the worst.

Kathryn followed her, touched her fingertips to Geala’s face, as startled as Lhilidh when her mother began to grumble under her breath, a hodgepodge of words too softly spoken to understand. “She’s fine but in pain. See whether any wine is left in that flask we left her yesterday. She’s been dribbling and her mouth will feel dry.”

Curling an arm around Geala, she propped the older woman’s lax body against her shoulder while Lhilidh tipped a cup up to her mother’s lips. “That’s it, Geala. A few wee sips and you’ll start feeling more like yourself.”

Soon Kathryn had her sitting up, with Lhilidh for support, while she gave her milk of the poppy for the pain. Naught else worked anymore, and no wonder. Since winter, Geala had gradually grown weaker and thinner while the bulge of her stomach had grown apace. Catching Kathryn looking, the older woman ran her much wrinkled hand over her protruding belly and gave a dry laugh that set her coughing. “There are some foolish auld biddies out there who believe I’m having another bairn.” She broke off on a crack of laughter then squeezed Kathryn’s hand. “You ken better, lass,” she acknowledged. “Besides, I’ve had twa bairns, more than enough for any woman.”

“Three bairns, Maw,” Lhilidh interrupted.

“Nae, just you and Murdoch, and him dead afore his faither which is nae richt.” Geala’s eyes brightened and, though her lips smiled at Kathryn, they held a flicker of slyness before settling back into her usual pain-worn expression. “You never kenned that Murdoch was only your half-brother Lhilidh, aye an truth be told, half-brother to you an’ all, Kathryn.”

Kathryn’s gasp fast became a frown, her thoughts racing through a maze of confusion. She soon grasped that Geala’s decision to blurt out the secrets, was the realisation that she was about to meet her maker. A priest would have been more fitting to hear her confidences, yet Geala’s disturbing confession tugged at her curiosity. “Half-brother?”

“Aye, but dinnae worry, that was a lang time afore you were born. Ma son grew into a fine figure o’ a man just like his faither.” She laughed, though few might have recognised it for one as the sound rasped up the walls of a dry throat before she thought to continue. “Whether he would have been as lusty and hard to refuse as the Bear, we’ll never ken since his years on this earth ended while he fought at the Bear’s side.”

This brought to mind the last man to fight at her Father’s side, Doughall Farquhar. The Bear had dragged her out to meet her first Farquhar groom and, praise be to God, he had died before they made their vows and, aye, her father soon after. She found it hard to believe Erik the bear had kept a son secret from them all. A brother , Geala’s son .

Kathryn sought to bring the lad to mind, but her father had frowned on his daughter’s becoming too friendly with the clansmen. In his eyes, his daughters had been meant for something better, worth more than a common warrior, and look at her now, married to a warrior from the wrong side of the border, though few would say he was wrought from the common mould. Geala was right about her father; there was no denying that as a Chieftain he had looked the part—a fair mountain of a man, larger than life. From the depths of her memory, she plucked out her earliest recollections of him wearing his bearskin cloak. Powerful he’d been, rugged as the mountain he presided over, even in death, from the high cairn.

Lhilidh broke in on Kathryn’s thoughts, “Am I … are we…?”

“Nae, she’s nae sister of yours.” Geala cackled again, this time as if the pair of them were there for her amusement. “The Bear and me didn’t last past his first marriage.”

That was as may be, but Lhilidh’s newfound courage made her insistent. “An’ what about Nhaimeth? Is he my brother?’ the lass asked, while Kathryn sat in front of them on a stool—waiting, listening, wondering what had drawn her ‘sister’ toward the dwarf.

“Nhaimeth, ye say? Nae, I didn’t give birth to that wee fool. His faither thrust him on me when his wife died giving the bairn life. Blamed the bairn, an’ if not for me he’d like as not have left him on the mountain.”

She shook her head as if she regretted her moment of compassion. “Ach, I was feeding Murdoch anyway and had enough milk for twa, an’ he was but a bairn, nae matter what he looked like with his crooked back and stumpy legs. Aye, that’s God’s truth. Wi’ the twa lads under my roof I never had to worry about lang cauld winters with nae food again. It was enough.”

Reaching up with a claw-like hand, Geala patted her daughter’s hand. “Yer faither was a braw man, and I still had my bonnie looks then. But he was only visiting. I hardly ken if he’s alive or dead—probably the last, him being handy with a sword. You have his eyes and his fine straight nose, lass. Quality.’ Geala touched the round snub nose that centred her worn features. “Dinnae look for more.” She finished then as the poppy’s strength, left her weak and no longer able to hold her head up. Geala leaned back, her head in the crook of Lhilidh’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

Soon Lhilidh had her mother wrapped once again inside the folds of her warm plaid. Geala had fallen back once more into the land of dreams by the time Lhilidh tucked her up in the thick wolfskin—a comfort provided by Kathryn.

After a few more visits to clan’s folk who were ailing, they returned to the hall, climbing the wide, worn steps of the steep slope side by side. They walked a while in silence before Lhilidh found the courage to speak the thoughts on her mind, “It would have been nice to have a sister. Even so, I would never have presumed. You’re the lady of the hall and I’m happy to be your maid.”

“It’s strange to discover that, though we were ignorant of the truth, we once had a brother in common. I truly wouldn’t have minded having you for a sister. It can’t be denied that, like you, I have no one. You realise that Geala hasn’t got long now; naught anybody can do will make her better?” Lhilidh nodded. “Shortly you and I will have only each other to rely on, and I’m happy that it’s so.”

“You have Brodwyn.”

Kathryn broke out in smiles, as if the bad humour she had woken up in had been cast aside. “Lhilidh, you make jest. Next you’ll be adding that null Harald to the list, since he’s my cousin as well; but Brodwyn… I’d as soon take a wild cat to friend.”

Though she didn’t smile, since they were her betters, Lhilidh’s eyes creased at the corners, if only for a moment. “You have the Raven,” she spoke his name in the way folk had once mentioned the Bear, with a hint of wonder.

Kathryn’s top lip curled from habit, at the thought of her husband. The Raven. He was a paradox of a man if she ever had beheld one, with a face that inhabited some folks’ nightmares if you came upon the wrong side of his features. Yet the first time she beheld him, her breath had caught, swelled in her throat with an emotion she didn’t understand. His straight hair, black as a raven’s wing, the aristocratic nose and full lips… She’d thought that at last she had something for Brodwyn to be jealous of, then he’d turned and she had perceived how wrong she was. Knowing Brodwyn, she would probably have laughed, have derided the contrasting sides of a face that bespoke a creature both myth and man.

Then she discovered he was just a man wanting his own way, and so stubborn. Pull down the Dun on the Bienn? Not if she could prevent it.

Farquhar would likely pull the tall cairn down piece by piece and use the stones to build the Keep he had been so set upon the last time they spoke.

The last time…

Kathryn closed her eyes. At first, she had felt wicked for having thoughts in her mind she dared not express aloud. Gradually she had come to realise that, like Geala, she would have to be happy with the lot that fate had sent her. And as time passed, the notion that she could ever be chief of the clan receded. She had tried—aye she had—with little measure of success. It seemed a woman could have only the amount of power a man allowed her.

She shrugged inwardly at the continuation of a thought that had presented itself around yuletide. Though Brodwyn was not the example she would have chosen, Kathryn soon became aware that acting the shrill-tempered shrew she had presented to Gavyn on their wedding night would reap her no rewards. If only the other methods of grasping the power she craved didn’t strike her as base … yet what option did she have?

If the Raven ever returned to Dun Bhuird, she would have to do what she could to make him fall in love with her.

As they reached the top of the ridge, she opened her gaze to the bright day through air so clear, so pure; she could see the breeze toss green waves through stems of oat and barley, watch a red deer lift its head, as if feeling her gaze on him. Wild things had that preternatural sense that kept them safe. She would have to try to develop something similar herself, she decided, as the deer returned to nibbling barley until someone spied it and gave chase. Kathryn couldn’t find it in her to blame it. Like her husband, no sooner acknowledged than gone.

Soon enough there would be little for the deer to steal. The fields would be busy with folk threshing the crops, and the winter ale would be brewing, as in every year, whether Farquhar was here or not.

She took Lhilidh’s arm and began steering her towards the hall’s elaborate entrance. “It’s true I have Farquhar, yet even after two years I’d be hard pressed to say my life has changed since I wed. He’s been gone so long it’s difficult to recall his face,” she lied. “Meanwhile you and I will be as close to sisters as nature allows us. Life must go on,” she said, her voice dropping away to naught, knowing that if her husband still lived, he was out there in a foreign land somewhere beyond the sea.

If he lived .