Page 15 of The Rise of the Highland King (The Last Celtic King #1)

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The courtyard of O'Sullivan Castle was a sea of strange faces and colors, almost overwhelming in its variation. Maeve, still in her kitchen maid outfit and now with a scarf around her hair that she'd managed to steal from Nessa's room, found it easier to blend into the crowd than she could have ever dreamed. She lost herself amongst the visiting spectators, her eyes drawn instantly to the large platform that had been set up in the middle for the execution to take place.

Cailean's execution.

Unless she did something soon, she would see the man she loved once more—for the last time. But what could she do? What could anyone do now? She stopped herself in that train of thought before it could go any further. She'd learned since joining the rebellion that she could not allow herself to give in to despair.

Maeve made herself look around at the gathered crowd. Many were the False King's people, people she remembered from a childhood that seemed almost like it belonged to someone else. There were advisors here and clan chiefs who were firmly on the side of the enemy, many of them. But there were other chiefs, too—those who were undecided; those who might have been swayed to the rebellion if Maeve and Cailean had only had more time. It was so frustrating to stand here, unknown, amongst them, left without any idea if there would ever be anything she could do to stop all of this.

This wasn't the first time she'd been standing here like this, in this courtyard, staring up at that platform and waiting for her father to murder a man. The memory came so forcefully that it almost knocked Maeve off her feet.

Maeve was eleven years old, Breana thirteen, and they stood at the front of the crowd as their father triumphantly took center stage. Their mother stood at his side, and on his other side, her face a mask of fierce pride for being chosen, stood Nessa. Only nine years old, Nessa had already been trained to be cold and cruel, already selected as the favored daughter who performed all the duties of the firstborn in the absence of a son despite being the youngest.

Breana squeezed Maeve's hand. "I hate when she wears that look on her face," she whispered. "She reminds me of Father at his cruellest."

"I ken," Maeve agreed. She shivered, her young mind made uncomfortable by the large gathered crowd, but more so by the horror of what she knew was about to happen. "Do ye think she even cares about what she's here for?"

"She's nae as callous as ye think, I'm sure of it," Breana said virtuously. "Maybe she'll even plead tae father for clemency. She's still just a bairn, Maeve. Her heart cannae be fully frozen yet."

Maeve smiled faintly at her, though doubt flooded her heart. Yes, Nessa was very young, but wasn't she still a child too? Wasn't Breana still young enough to almost count? It seemed to her that, here in O'Sullivan Castle, there was no time to be 'just a bairn'. There never had been. And Nessa, who looked so much like their mother but with the expressions of their father, had been raised since birth to be filled with ice in a way that Maeve and Breana had only ever disappointed their parents.

Their father stepped forward and gestured behind him. His movement revealed the prisoner there, bound with a hood over his head. Maeve knew who he was—Patrick McAndrew, a laird of only nineteen or so whose father had recently died in a failed attempted uprising against the king. Patrick was now here to pay for his father's crime and to remind the people that such behavior would not be tolerated.

Maeve had snuck down to the dungeons last night to see him. She had been unable to resist, unable to fight the unsettling feeling in her stomach that something was very, very wrong. He'd called her 'wee one' and told her not to cry for him. She'd asked him why he didn't just say he was sorry, just disown his father's name and swear allegiance to Maeve's father and to the true king. Patrick had smiled at her sadly, trying to comfort her through the bars.

"I'll never pledge me allegiance where me heart is not. The False King can take me father's life, he can spill me blood too, but he'll never gain the love or trust of this country. If I'm tae die tomorrow, wee one, ken this—it isnae for nothin'." He'd touched her hand briefly. "Dinnae fret. One day, we'll be free."

Maeve hadn't understood. "But ye could be free now. I could get me father right now, and ? —"

"That wouldnae be freedom," Patrick had told her. "If ye remember one thing of me, lass, remember that—we can never be free unless we keep the faith when it matters most. Anythin' else isnae worth toleratin'."

But now, bound and hooded in the courtyard, Maeve couldn't see how this was any kind of freedom. Patrick was going to die before he even had a chance to properly live, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Maeve wanted to scream and cry, wanted to do something , but she knew that if she moved, both she and Breana would be harshly punished. And so she stood still amongst all those gathered and watched.

Her father talked about the glory of the king and the intolerance they had for traitors. He rhapsodized about the new Scotland and the way the country was flourishing. It all fell hollow on Maeve's ears, but she just held Breana's hand and kept her eyes trained on Patrick.

"Me daughter, Nessa, is here today tae witness the new Scotland our revolution has brought for us," her father announced. "Nessa, before we continue, is there any boon ye would have from yer dotin' father? Anythin' ye ask, I'll give it tae ye. Should we spare this traitor's life?"

The crowd seemed to hold its breath. Breana squeezed Maeve's hand. "This is it," Breana whispered. "This is when she'll save him."

But Maeve saw the flash of something close to fear in Nessa's eyes before the coldness descended once more. Maeve heard the practiced tone to her words as she began to speak, and knew she was repeating what she'd been taught.

"Nay, Father," Nessa said. "Nae traitor tae our king deserves tae live."

Anger and despair flooded Maeve's heart at those words. How could Nessa do this? She had the chance to save the young man, and instead…

Her father finished his speech, and the hood was removed. Patrick looked beaten and broken, but when he glanced up into the crowd, there was still that same fire and determination in his eyes that Maeve had seen the night before.

"Any last words, traitor?" O'Sullivan asked.

"Freedom," Patrick said, his quiet voice somehow echoing around the courtyard. "Only freedom."

Maeve's father scoffed and raised his sword.

"Look away, Maeve," Breana whispered in her ear, hiding her own eyes.

But Maeve did not look away. As the sword swung down, she met Patrick's eyes one last time. She saw the small, sad, defiant smile on his face as he saw her, just for a second. And then it was over. His head rolled, his body slumped, and Maeve's father called out in triumph.

On the platform, Nessa turned away. Breana began to softly weep. But Maeve just stood there, still as stone, staring, and wondering. Wondering about freedom—and what it might one day mean. For all of them.

Maeve blinked away the tears that the memory brought to her eyes, and a renewed determination filled her. Ten years had passed since that day, ten years in which Maeve had grown and changed and flourished. She knew who she was now, more than she'd ever believed was possible. And she knew what it meant to be free—and to fight for that freedom. She understood now why Patrick had been willing to die rather than bow to the False King. She understood his bravery and his sacrifice.

And now she stood here again in this courtyard, waiting for the execution of a man who was not only the man she loved, but the one who symbolized that hope and freedom that Patrick had died for. She could not, would not, do nothing.

The murmuring in the crowd fell into a dead silence as five figures ascended onto the platform that stood in the middle of the courtyard. Nessa, looking pale and drawn but otherwise stoic, was followed by two guards dragging a hooded figure between them. Maeve's breath caught as she recognized Cailean; even hooded, she'd know him anywhere.

But the last figure drew her attention as he took center stage, just as he had all the way back then. Her father, Laird James O'Sullivan—the man who Maeve feared most in the world—looked triumphantly over the crowd.

"Today is a grand day for our country," O'Sullivan announced. "Today, the Liar Prince will be executed at long last. Today, finally, our clans will be united under the banner of our One True King!"

Some people in the crowd cheered, though others stayed silent. Maeve fought through the crowd as Cailean was dragged to the block which stood beside O'Sullivan, desperate to get to the front, desperate to reach him.

"The rebellion will be quashed!" O'Sullivan announced, sneering down at the bound figure at his feet. "This criminal who stole me own daughters away from me, who robbed the life from one of our most beloved chieftains, will die today, and harmony can at last return tae Scotland. Is this nae what we've fought for, me friends? Is this nae what our men have wished for all these years—for a united Scotland for all our wives and children?"

Rage flooded Maeve at those words. How dare her father twist the aims of the rebellion to suit his own narrative? How dare he act as though he had anyone's best interest at heart other than his own?

"Many years ago, me youngest daughter was offered a boon at an execution similar to this one," O'Sullivan announced. "Today, I offer her this same boon as a reward for her faithfulness and steadfastness. Nessa, would ye have me spare this traitor tae the crown?"

Just as it had ten years before, the whole area seemed to hold its breath. Maeve, too, found herself lacking air as she stared at her sister, waiting.

Nessa opened her mouth—then closed it again. She looked out over the crowd, and though her eyes brushed over Maeve, Maeve got a strong feeling that Nessa knew that she was still here.

"Father," Nessa said after a moment. "Forgive me, but I have taken ill. May I be excused?"

O'Sullivan's eyes narrowed, but he forced a smile on his face a moment later. "Of course, daughter. The whims of a woman, me friends! Too tenderhearted."

Nessa was led away, and O'Sullivan turned back to the crowd.

"But this is why we must make the country safe. For our tenderhearted, soft women who cannot fight for themselves. And now, we'll finish off the threat once and for all."

With a triumphant flourish, O'Sullivan reached for the hood. Maeve gasped, realizing that the moment had come. She needed to act now, no matter what the cost. She surged forward, ready to make a run for the stage—then stopped as she felt a hand on the small of her back, urging her to stop.

"Wait," Eoin's voice whispered in her ear. "Just wait for me signal."

"Eoin—what?—"

Eoin nodded toward the platform, and Maeve turned just in time to see O'Sullivan pull the hood from Cailean's head. His blond hair tumbled out, and Maeve saw that burning determination in his grey eyes—the fire of rebellion, of determination, of truth. She froze, caught in the memory, horrified by what she was sure was about to happen.

And then Cailean moved.

In one swift movement, he unbound his tied hands, which Maeve now saw had always been loose. Eoin nodded to Maeve, and the two of them surged forward toward the stage. Cailean hit out with his hand, and Maeve saw it there—the small knife she had given to protect him, now being used to save his life.

The knife caught her father in the shoulder, and he howled in pain, stumbling back and clutching the injury. One of the guards turned to attack Cailean as the crowd kicked into a frenzy, but the other guard was quicker, parrying his blow. The second guard's own hood fell away, revealing Darren, a wild grin on his face as he engaged the true guard in combat. Eoin jumped up onto the platform and joined the fight, protecting Cailean as more guards approached.

Maeve stayed on the ground level, keeping a watchful eye on the confused crowd who were loud but stunned, not acting yet, but a dangerous boiling pot that might explode for or against them. She remained close, ready to protect Cailean if she needed to, but knowing that someone needed to be taking care of this situation from all angles. She knew that if she got close to her father now…

Cailean moved forward to the front of the platform. As he did, a strange silence fell across the entire area—a different silence than before. This one was like a pause, an anticipation, as the whole world seemed to teeter waiting for what came next.

"Ye all ken who I am," Cailean announced in a booming voice. It was the most beautiful sound that Maeve had ever heard. "Or ye suspect ye do. Let me be clear once and for all. I am Cailean McNair, the last living heir to the McNair family name. Me father was Robert McNair, and he and his wife—me mother—Fiona McNair were yer king and queen. They, along with me siblings, Graham, Barry, Abigail, and Neala, were killed at the hands of the False King, but their legacy lives on through me. Through all of us."

A low murmuring broke out around them. Maeve heard doubt there, but she could not tell if it was doubt in Cailean's words or doubt against the lies they'd been fed so far.

"My family is nae dead. Their legacy is strong, and their memory even stronger. They dreamed of and worked for a better Scotland, a united and free Scotland. Nae this control, this tyranny , under which our country has been livin' for twenty years." Cailean gestured behind him to O'Sullivan, who was watching him with wide eyes. "This man is the true traitor. This man is the one who betrayed the oaths he and his kind made tae me own family, made tae our country."

Maeve risked a glance at him, and her heart flooded with love and admiration at the strong, powerful man—the king— she saw standing there. She would not move, would not interfere, until he had said his piece. She knew in her heart that only he could reach them now, and she believed that he would do it.

Cailean locked eyes with the clan chiefs in the crowd, one after the other, as he spoke. "I ken many of ye, by reputation or by name. Many of ye kent me as a bairn, or our fathers or grandfathers were friends. Have ye forgotten all of that, in these decades that have passed? Have ye forgotten what the McNair name once meant?"

A wave of something rippled through the gathered crowd at those words.

"They say that capercaillie once led me ancestor from the woods against all odds. The rebellion found me and led me from the brink, too, when I should have died with me family. I have tae believe that there's a reason for that. A reason that I lived when they did not."

Cailean finally caught Maeve's eyes at that, and he gave her such a warm smile that she felt for a moment that there was nothing wrong left in the world.

"This country is me reason. Ye, from the mightiest clan chief tae the most hardworkin' villager— ye are me reason. It's reason enough for me and for me fellow rebels tae fight and live against whatever the False King may throw at us. Enough tae be worth whatever hardships we may fight. Enough tae live for, and enough tae die for." Cailean took a breath. "What dae ye live for, me friends? Do ye remember the oaths ye and yer families took tae the McNair name, the promises ye made tae this country? Where are those promises now? What do those oaths mean, deep in yer hearts?"

Maeve saw it as their enemies within the crowd rallied, ready to fight. But she saw something else, too. She saw so many of them—clan chiefs, warriors, villagers, all of them—reacting to Cailean's words, their eyes alight, their whispering voices turning upwards in a tone that might even have been hope. There was a long, tense moment, a moment that seemed to last for an eternity, and Maeve realized that this was it—the last moments before this particular battle was all over, one way or another.

Her father recovered enough from his injury to move forward, still clutching at his injured shoulder, his face contorted in anger. "What are ye waitin' for?" he demanded. "Ye heard him. He's a self-confessed traitor. Seize him! Kill him!"

O'Sullivan guards appeared around the edges, and many of the enemy clan chiefs and warriors reached for their swords. They were ready to close in, ready to attack, and Maeve felt the battle coming—the kind of fight that could break everything they'd fought for, the kind that would change the entire world.

Or end it.