Page 2 of For an Exile’s Heart (Ancient Songs #2)

Dalriada, Scotland, the fifth century AD

A dair MacMurtray parted reluctantly from his friends when his father’s message found him. A fine day it was at the very beginning of summer, and the group of them—some warriors newly released from the training field, a number of musicians, and a flock of lovely young women—had been enjoying far too fine a time. Young Forba, she with the red hair and the wide brown eyes, had been instructing Adair on the harp. That took him wondrously close to her and offered an apt opportunity to steal a kiss.

But Father had sent the most disagreeable of his advisors, Donnar, who bent such a look of stern disapproval on Adair that he could do naught but make his apologies and go.

They hurried at a fearful pace down the skirt of the hill where the scent of wild thyme danced in the air like the notes of Forba’s harp, where the larks circled as if to catch the laughter from below, and the water of the stream sparkled like a band of beaten silver. Adair began to wonder, not without trepidation, what his father wanted, and a hint of foreboding bit at the pleasure that filled him. He had not much time to contemplate it, though, for Donnar led him through the settlement to the big, dusky roundhouse where his father, as chief of the clan, resided with his wife—Adair’s stepmother—his three sons, and his two young daughters.

After the bright sunlight outside, the darkness of the interior made him blink. Carved pillars soared to a lofty roof and the stones underfoot were worn smooth by the passage of many feet. Adair’s people had held this land for countless generations. As his father never ceased with reminding him, they were descended from one of the greatest warriors Erin had ever known, and thus entitled to their place.

They were, so, meant to achieve great things. And they had a duty to the land that superseded anything so paltry as personal desires or intentions.

Adair had a love for the land deep and wide as the sky over the brae, rooted like the oaks from which these pillars had been stolen. A truth he often thought Father failed to see.

“Ah, Adair. There ye be.”

Gawen MacMurtray was a big man, broad in the chest and brimming with life. In his younger days he’d been a fine warrior, and still took the field from time to time if the need came about. Adair could remember his going out often when he and his brothers were still young, all dressed for battle and wearing the torc that denoted his status as a high chief.

Mother would plait his wild red hair ahead of time—because this had been before she died in childbed. And Adair’s two older brothers had looked on in sheer longing, because they too wanted to go out and fight.

Adair acknowledged now, approaching his father, who sat in his great chair with but two of his advisors in attendance, that something had changed after Mother died. A measure of Father’s laughter had deserted him, though he still led with strength. He’d taken a second wife, far too soon to Adair’s thinking, but he’d never regained the joy he’d once carried within him.

“Father,” Adair said, coming to a halt in front of his sire.

Gawen shot an exasperated glare at his man, Donnar. “It did take ye long enough to find him.”

“He was up the mountain, my chief. With his friends.”

The look Adair’s father turned upon him was unmistakably disapproving. “Again? Is it all ye do, son? Play in the heather?”

“Nay, Father.” Adair shifted on his feet. “I spent all morning on the training field, and part o’ the afternoon. ’Tis a grand day, though, and—”

Gawen snorted. “Most o’ your days are grand, or so it seems. No matter. I have not the time to chastise ye now. Come sit down. We have serious matters to discuss.”

Adair glanced at the two advisors—three now, with Donnar there—before taking a place on the rug at his father’s feet. Old Fergal, who had been alive so long he carried the very history of the clan in his head. And Anlon, who advised Father on matters of war.

Ah, Adair did not like the frowns on either of their faces. Serious business indeed.

Father said without further fanfare, “Your brother has returned.”

“Aye, so.” Adair had seen him, his brother Daerg, that was the middle of Gawen’s three sons. He had been away for some three months, having left home at the very end of winter just after the seas calmed enough for him to sail. Off on Father’s implacable mission. “I saw him arrive.” Though Daerg had not paused to speak with him, and Adair had not lingered either.

“Your brother,” Father announced very harshly indeed, “has failed in the task he was set.”

“Has he?” Adair raised a brow. Surprising indeed, for Daerg rarely failed at any assignment, especially one set by his father.

Gawen nodded. He looked like a man who had a bee stuck in his mouth, and Adair realized he struggled with his disappointment, or perhaps the desire to curse.

“That makes two o’ them.” Perhaps unwise for Adair to say so. Indeed, surprise made him speak. Both his older brothers had Father sent in turn to Dalriada, the land over the water in Alba, to try to claim the share of territory there he believed he was owed.

First his oldest son, Baen, last autumn. Baen had been gone so long that they had all believed he’d been successful and stayed to settle the portion of lands that had been promised to Gawen long ago.

But Baen had returned upon the icy blasts of early winter with tales to tell, and defeat in his eyes. Kendrick MacCaigh, the chief holding the lands in Dalriada and brother to Adair’s own dead mother, had refused to keep the agreement he’d made with Father long ago, and surrender the promised lands.

So Daerg had been sent. Daerg, with his hair as red as Father’s, his staid and sonorous sense of duty, and his somewhat dogged nature. Only to return also, so it seemed, in ignoble defeat.

“Ah, I am sorry,” Adair said. The claiming of the Dalriadan lands meant a great deal to Father. “This must be a sore disappointment.”

Gawen MacMurtray got to his feet. “Daerg said Kendric sent him home. He said his uncle could no longer stand the sound of his voice in his ears, and that if he did not at once board his boat and leave those shores, he would be forced to end his own nephew’s life.”

“He was jesting, surely,” Aye, hotheaded the members of the family might be at times, but they did not slay those of their own blood.

“I am no’ so certain. Daerg was no’ certain, which is why he left. Though,” Gawen said heavily, “it broke his heart to bring a defeat back to me.”

“No doubt.” Gawen MacMurtray did not easily accept disappointment, especially from his sons. And they’d felt that, all three of them, their lives long. It had made of Baen, the eldest, an exemplary warrior rivaling their famed ancestor, Ardahl MacCormac. It had made of Daerg a son so dutiful, he would roast himself alive on searing coals if his father asked it.

And it had made of Adair—what? A man who avoided such duty and the striving for such perfection. Who instinctively avoided the things with which he knew, to the bottom of his soul, no one could match up.

Gawen took an impatient turn around the floor, watched carefully by everyone else in the room. He had a temper that, in his younger days, had sometimes got away from him. His beautiful young wife, Adair’s mother, had helped him tame that. It rarely escaped him these days.

But Adair could see that he fought for control now.

“I ha’ spent most the day speaking wi’ Daerg. I do no’ blame him. I do no’ blame him for failing in the task I set.”

Adair wondered if that was true, if Daerg believed it was true.

“Kendrick MacCaigh proves stubborn and, according to your brothers, deaf to all forms of reason. He refuses to yield what is owed to me.”

What was owed—land.

Back in the old days, years ago, when both Father and Kendrick had been young men, Father had sponsored his new wife’s brother in a campaign to the land over the water. A place of opportunity, it was said to be. The agreement being that if Kendrick founded a settlement there, half of what he held would belong to Gawen.

Kendrick had never returned from Alba, though tales had come of a rich settlement. Now, with three grown sons, Gowen wanted his portion.

He’d sent Baen first, even though he wanted the portion in Alba for his second son, Daerg. Baen would inherit the lands here, in Erin.

This place Adair so loved.

“Father, ’twas a long time ago, that. Perhaps Kendrick feels since ’twas he who fought for the land, set up the settlement, and has held it all these years, he has a right to it.”

Gawen glared at Adair. “I do no’ doubt that is what he thinks. But there is such a thing as honor. We had an agreement.”

Aye, but a man seeing a young nephew he did not know arrive, seeking claim to what was hard won, might no longer see it that way.

“Where is Daerg now?”

Gawen waved his hand. “I sent him to rest. I do no’ blame him, nay, but I will admit I am sorely disappointed in him. I suppose I should have known better.

“I expected Baen would be the one to succeed. He is strong and competent, and carries my authority. And then I told myself it should be Daerg, since the lands are meant for him. But”—Gawen resumed his seat, facing Adair—“Daerg is not a persuasive man.”

The big room fell into silence. Gawen stared at Adair meaningfully. Adair gazed back at his father, sensing a hovering significance.

“Ye are.”

“I am what, Father?”

“A persuasive man.” A slight grimace of distaste crossed Gawen’s face. “Ye do not apply yoursel’ as ye should on the training field. Ye are certainly not first among my warriors. Ye prefer whiling away the time wi’ your friends, playing at draughts and listening to music. But by all accounts, ye do possess a silver tongue that could charm a flea from a hound.”

Adair, with dawning horror, saw where this was going. He did not speak. Glancing at the other occupants of the room, he noticed they exchanged glances.

“It seems,” Gawen said heavily, “it is what I need—someone with a silver tongue and the ability to talk Kendrick around, and make him see he does not want war.”

War?

“Perhaps I should have sent ye in the first place.”

“Nay.” Adair’s legs unfolded beneath him. He rose to his feet.

Gawen stirred to anger. “Ye will no’ speak that word to me. Am I no’ only your father, but your chief? Have ye no’ sworn fealty to me?”

Adair had, not long after he turned thirteen. But that had been a formality, one that had not affected him overmuch. He had two older brothers to serve and carry the duties required.

“I—am no good, Father, at negotiating. I will be no use in Dalriada.” That dark land over the water that could be glimpsed from Erin on a clear, beautiful day. A place of risk and danger.

“Ye will be of every use.” For the first time in your life , so Gawen’s tone implied.

It made Adair flush with something akin to shame. “If Kendrick has denied Baen—no mean talker in his own right—and Daerg, who has a stake in Alba, why should he listen to me?”

“Because ye will not come at him with demand. Ye will come in kinship. Make him see ye in a good light. Tell him ye wish to stay there in Alba.”

“Stay? Ye are sending me awa’ for good?”

“To be sure, not. ’Tis Daerg who will go there to hold those lands for me. But ye can win Kendrick over, see. Make him think ye are the one who wishes to stay.” Gawen’s gaze flicked over Adair, not without a measure of disdain. “He will see no harm in ye.”

“But—” Dismay swept through Adair, full and strong. “I cannot leave here.” The land of his ancestors. He lived for Erin, his bones the rock of this place, the waters his blood. Each breath he took, the kindly breeze. How could he make his father understand that?

“Ye can and ye will.” Gawen once more rose from his chair. “Mayhap ’tis my own fault. Ye were so young when your mother died. Little more than a babe, and wi’ the look o’ her about ye. I found it hard to discipline ye the way I should, though, by the gods, I was firm enough wi’ your brothers. Adair, ye will do this thing. Go and pack your belongings. Be ready to leave by dawn.”

Adair stared at his father, aghast. “So soon?”

“The season is upon us; there is no time to waste. Baen does not know it yet, but I ha’ negotiated for him a fine marriage that will expand our holdings here. He will one day be a powerful chief in Erin. Daerg’s holdings must be secured as well.”

His gaze once more flicked over Adair. “When ye have secured Daerg’s claim in Alba, ye can come home.”

“And if I too fail?”

“Ye will no’.”

How could he be so certain?

As if he’d heard the question, Gawen leaned closer. “Ye will no’ fail as your brothers have done. And ye will no’ come home till ye have secured our portion of those lands.”