Page 4 of The Rise of the Highland King (The Last Celtic King #1)

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Ferda left them after the first couple of miles, with promises to be in touch as soon as she could, though part of Maeve doubted that she would hear from her friend for a long time. Whatever was going on with the White Sparrows, she had the feeling that Ferda would get caught up in it—and Maeve, meanwhile, had her own story to get on with. Still, as they rode away, she could not help but wonder about the people she was leaving behind for this journey; not just Ferda, but Breana, Eoin, and the four elders back at camp, not to mention all the other rebels. There were always some twists and turns, always some reason to leave people behind.

Maeve wondered if there would ever be a time when she would be able to stop doing it, a time when she would be able to rest and be with her family and be happy. She rode close to Cailean as she had these thoughts, glad that no matter where the waves of the wild sea took them, they'd always at least have each other.

"I cannae believe that Cailean let me come on this journey!" young Dirk Bruce was declaring for the fifth time.

"Neither can I, cousin. Ye're barely out of yer swaddlin' clothes," Darren teased him. "Come, Fergus. The two of us should go scout out the road."

The two older Bruce cousins did just that, while Dirk rode closer to Maeve and Cailean.

"Me uncle, Kier, I mean, he taught me a song for the road," he told them. "Can I sing it for ye?"

Maeve laughed. "Is that how ye'd like tae pass yer time?"

" Hark, the sounds o' the roarin' sea…" Dirk started. Many of the other men picked up the tune, and soon, they were all robustly singing. Maeve didn't know the song, but she smiled as even Cailean hummed along to the music.

The joy was short-lived, though.

Soon, Darren and Fergus returned. "Quiet," Fergus hissed. "We cannae be so loud—quiet, now."

The singing abruptly stopped as Cailean raised a firm hand. "What's goin' on?" Cailean asked as Maeve looked back and forth between the grim expressions on the Bruce cousins' faces. "Did ye see someone?"

It was unsettling to see them like this. Fergus was usually taciturn, rarely letting emotion show, and Darren was usually cheerful, but now both looked equally worried and maybe even upset. Maeve didn't know what could have possibly gotten them both like this.

"Someone's watchin' us," Fergus said after a moment.

"Ye saw someone?" Maeve asked cautiously.

"No," admitted Darren, "But we ken what it is tae be watched, and there are eyes on us. Nae more songs, Cailean—it isnae safe. There's someone watchin' us."

Cailean swore loudly, then covered his own mouth, running his hand through his hair. "Fine. Fine. We'll ride on, quietly, and we'll take a different route. Whoever this is, we're gonnae get them off our trail, but we cannae afford tae be late for this meetin'. Understood?"

Silently, Maeve and the other ten men nodded, even Dirk, who had now gone pale. They were all thinking it, she knew—thinking of the False King who still ruled over their land, of the threat that hung over all of them. The sudden jolt of a reminder that he was watching them, that no matter where they went, that threat was ever-present—it was a vivid reminder of what they were, who they were, and what they were really doing. There was no way around this. This was no gentle trip through the fields of the Highlands.

Right now, on this journey, they were fighting for their lives and the lives of everyone and everything they loved and would ever love.

There was no more singing as they continued their journey. No more talking. The twelve rebels rode together in silence, each lost in their thought. Maeve thought of her sister, who had only just regained her freedom. If they were caught on the road, or if they failed when they arrived at McKenzie clan, would Breana lose it again? Maeve could not and would not allow such a thing to happen.

The night arrived sooner than any of them would have liked, and although Cailean wanted to ride on through the night, Maeve argued that that wasn't such a good idea. "I ken ye think we're bein' followed, but it's been hours since Darren and Fergus saw or even thought they saw anythin'. And if we dinnae rest, ye'll be in nae shape tae meet with the chieftain tomorrow."

They set up camp deep in a forest, arranging for two of the twelve of them to always be awake and keeping watch. Maeve and Cailean had taken the first watch, and they'd woken again for the fourth, encouraging Dirk and his watch partner to go back to sleep.

Now they sat at the treeline while their friends slumbered, silent but relying on each other's presence. Maeve watched as Cailean silently whittled a tree branch using the knife she'd given him. It was a small gesture, but it warmed her heart, knowing that the gift she'd given him was at least providing some comfort.

"What are ye makin'?" she asked in as quiet a voice as she could muster.

"Nothin' much," Cailean replied with a tired half-smile. "I never learned how tae whittle, not really. Senan tried tae show me many times over the years, but since we were always on the move, always aware of the threat hangin' over us, I never stayed calm enough tae sit down and learn. All I wanted tae do was learn tae fight."

He held up the stick he'd been whittling, and sure enough, it was a mess of wood shavings and not much else. Maeve laughed a little. "Ye ken," she said, "This is?—"

Suddenly, Cailean grabbed her, his hand sliding over her mouth. His voice was urgent. "Shh. Did you hear that?"

Maeve's breath caught in her chest, her heart speeding up as the adrenaline instantly hit. She barely dared to move as she strained against the sounds of the wind to hear what Cailean had. She was acutely aware of their friends asleep behind them, and her hand travelled to the sheath at her side where Tailfeather always waited, ready to defend if need be.

"McNair! Is that ye?" a booming voice called. "The Chief sent us tae find ye—ye've been takin' too long."

Cailean slowly released Maeve, and the two exchanged cautious looks before standing up together. Maeve heard the others stirring, but she didn't turn around to face them. Instead, she took Cailean's hand, and the two of them walked forward to meet the newcomers.

Just beyond the treeline, each bearing a torch and a noticeable sword at their side, waited twelve burly warriors, all with identical expressions on their faces. At the forefront stood the man who had called out, a tall, grey-haired, grizzled man who reminded Maeve a little of Kier except without any of the secret warmth in his eyes.

Cailean squeezed her hand, passing a silent message as he did for her to hang back, then let go. Maeve fought the urge to grab him back and keep him close, instead resting her hand on the hilt of her sword and watching carefully as he stepped forward. In terms of numbers, their party was evenly matched by this group, and Maeve knew that whatever they did now would have to be with extreme caution.

"I'm McNair," he said bluntly as soon as he was close enough to be fully in sight of the group. "Ye're McKenzie's men?"

"We are," the speaker said. The rest of the men just watched, each of them with an intensity that made Maeve shiver. "I am Seumidh McKenzie, cousin and right hand of Chief Murtagh, and he sent me and this group tae find ye. He was beginnin' tae think ye werenae comin'."

"We stopped tae rest for the night." Cailean signalled to Maeve with a hand gesture that would have looked almost casual to anyone who didn't know them. She understood, and though she was reluctant, she turned and hurried back to the group. As she went, she heard Cailean continue speaking, buying them time.

Maeve arrived in the clearing a few seconds later, and her heart relaxed a little at the sight. Darren was already awake and vigilant when she got there, packing up their things, and Fergus was waking up the others.

"Danger?" Darren asked as soon as he saw her.

Maeve shook her head. "Nae danger. Well, nae yet. But we must get back tae Cailean at once."

With a swift nod, Darren threw his pack over his shoulder. The others were up now and each grabbed their own pack, and soon all ten of them were following Maeve back through the treeline. They all emerged behind Cailean, and Maeve felt reassured by the combined strength of the rebels around her as they faced down the McKenzie men.

"Quite the group ye've brought for a friendly discussion, McNair," Seumidh commented as he noticed the rebels emerging. There was a low, dangerous note in his tone.

Cailean remained as cool as the air around them, unfazed by the implied threat. He shrugged and said, "Seems tae me we're matched man for man," he noted.

"Or man for women. Ye've brought two wee lassies with ye," one of the McKenzie men said with a snort.

"Aye, and a babe in arms, as well," another noted as his eyes found Dirk.

All of the McKenzie men laughed darkly, and Maeve felt the frisson of anger ripple through her friends. The other woman warrior, a tall, slim woman named Deirdre, took an irritable step forward, but Maeve put a hand on her arm to warn her to stop. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Fergus doing the same to young Dirk.

The McKenzie men waited a moment, and then Seumidh laughed, raising his hands. "Easy now, lads. Be polite tae our visitors. Else, the chief will have somethin' tae say about it. We're addressin' the would-be king here, after all."

Cailean bristled at the title but did not otherwise react. He said, "It's late. I'm sure yer men misspoke from tiredness." He glanced at Maeve, who nodded. "We're ready tae move if ye'd like tae escort us the rest of the way."

The smile on Seumidh's face grew wider, and Maeve was reminded of the images of hungry wolves she'd seen in illustrations. If this was Murtagh McKenzie's right-hand man, she was extremely wary to find out what the chief himself was like. "We'd be honored," Seumidh said with a slight bow.

"Somethin' isnae right here," Maeve whispered to Cailean as they followed the McKenzie men through the forest and out the other side. "These men…"

"They're rough around the edges," Cailean told her reassuringly. "But dinnae look so nervous, love. I believe that Murtagh McKenzie wants tae talk with us in good faith, but dinnae forget that everyone is at the edge of their tempers these days. Likely his men are as mistrustful of us as ye are of them."

Maeve made a small sound of disbelief.

"I mean it," Cailean told her, slipping his hand into hers again. "Think of it from their perspective. They're offerin' tae go against the king—false though he may be, he is the ruler, and has been these twenty years—and place their entire clan at risk. All for a claim from a young upstart who could easily be lyin' about the whole thing."

"People believe who ye are," Maeve assured him. "And those who dinnae are soon convinced. We have proof, we?—"

"I ken that, but that doesnae mean they must trust me immediately. Did ye?" Cailean gave her a slightly ironic smile, then faced ahead once more.

It made sense; Maeve had to admit it, and yet she could not help the squirming in her stomach. When would the day come, she wondered, when she would stop seeing shadows in every corner? She'd lived a whole life in the darkness until Cailean had found her and saw her. She trusted him to be her light, and she knew that he would always see her—but the world just seemed so full of the dark.

The whole group travelled in what was close to silence after that, watching as the night became the dawn as they chased the sun's rise. At last, the noise of civilization rose in the distance, then soon after, they saw the fence that circled the castle town that lay between them and McKenzie Castle.

As they rode through the town, the villagers were just opening their doors and windows and starting to set up their stalls in the streets. It wasn't many at first, but Maeve felt it as eyes followed them. A small group of children started giggling and following them through the streets, and slowly, but surely a bigger group of adults began to cluster at the sides of the streets.

"That's him," Maeve heard someone tell their friend, "The lost McNair."

"The lost king!" someone else exclaimed, hope in their voice brighter even than the rising sun.

The whispers and even shouts grew louder behind them, and Maeve felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the morning sun fill her. She'd known the hope that Cailean's return had brought to the villagers of the little places they'd travelled to as rebels, most noticeably Broken Windmill, and how he fuelled the rebels. She'd witnessed how faith in him had rescued many of the Darach men and helped bring the Bruce lands on the way back to their former glory. But this was the first time she'd ever truly gotten to witness strangers react to the news that the McNair prince had returned to save them, and she could not help but be inspired by the hope and excitement that blossomed around them.

"They're all feelin' like there's a possibility of livin' again," Darren told Cailean in a quiet voice that Maeve only just overheard. "And it's all because of ye."

"Let's hope I can live up tae their expectations," Cailean replied back quietly.

"Nae hopin', ye big bampot. Just doin'."

Maeve glanced at them to see Darren grinning and Cailean rolling his eyes with a smile. It made her smile, too. She thought of her own friends—of Eoin, back at the castle taking care of Breana; of Breana herself, struggling but succeeding slowly but surely to adapt; of Ferda, travelling off into the unknown to treat with the Sparrows. And, of course, Cailean, here by her side, the weight of the whole country on his shoulders.

She was proud of them—and scared for them, too. But she knew that she'd make her way through it because she'd always have Cailean by her side, just as he'd always have her, supporting him through his burdens, no matter what happened.

Around them, the crowd kept murmuring about the king who had returned. Maeve felt a renewed sense of determination as she listened to them. Because they'd been waiting all this time for Cailean—and now, at last, he was here.

They were here. Together. They'd save this country and the people at any cost, fight through whatever it took—and they'd do it all hand in hand.

McKenzie Castle was decorated grandly, and the great hall, where they were led to feast, had been designed to impress. Gorgeous tapestries decorated the wall, including, Maeve could not help but notice, a furling banner of the McNair capercaillie. The food laid out on the table was abundant and opulent, with various meats, fruits, and vegetables, and several different types of wine. It was certainly a welcome fit for a king, but Maeve found her unease return as she sat at the table next to Cailean and stared at the piles of food in front of them.

"I feel like I havenae eaten in years," Dirk said excitedly as he piled food onto his plate.

Darren elbowed his younger cousin discreetly under the table. "Be polite," he hissed. "Eat slowly."

"If Darren's tellin' ye to be polite, ye've definitely done somethin' wrong," Fergus noted in an undertone.

The cousins' banter continued, amusing enough, but Maeve could not help but think about the kernel of truth it hid. They never went hungry at Bruce Castle; the rebels were never short on food, but they deliberately avoided such opulence as this. After all, why should they feast so grandly while the villagers and common folk across their country suffered?

Maeve had to remind herself that not everyone thought the same way. This was a feast that had been thrown in Cailean's honor, and she needed to view it as such. Overthinking was helping nobody.

The banter and Maeve's rumination were both cut short as a tall man entered, his black hair streaked with grey and his dark eyes focused intently on Cailean from the moment he arrived. She knew immediately that this was the chieftain, Murtagh McKenzie. He looked very much like his cousin Seumidh, and beyond that, he wore the stature of a man who was used to being in charge.

"Welcome," Murtagh declared once everyone was settled, "And our thanks for comin' all this way, McNair."

"Thank ye, as well, for such a warm welcome," Cailean replied diplomatically. "And for the invite. We are very interested in findin' a way forward together."

They were introduced to the main group of their hosts—Murtagh and Seumidh, of course, and a group of other councilmen for the chieftain. A young woman also sat there, a little younger than Maeve herself. She was tiny, too thin and drawn with blonde hair the color of straw, and her eyes focused on the table in front of them instead of anything around her. She was sparingly introduced as Murtagh's daughter, Sorcha, but otherwise ignored.

They ate for a while, then Murtagh got to his feet again and began to speak.

Murtagh beamed. "Me elder brother, Grodric, was a friend of yer father's," he said, with the fondness of an old uncle. "He was loyal tae a fault—and he fervently believed in the oath he took in yer father's name. These old oaths still last, ye ken, deep in our blood, even if the way we followed them fell away. But now they'll give us the chance for new beginnin's—for a better Scotland for all of us."

While he talked, Maeve watched him as carefully as he was watching Cailean. Though Murtagh's avuncular tone and joyful attitude certainly seemed inspiring, Maeve saw the deep curiosity in his eyes, and calculation there too. Whatever reason he had for suggesting this treaty, no matter how he spoke of Grodric and the old oaths, it was not purely from the goodness of his heart.

Her gaze found Sorcha again. The girl was still staring at the table, still shy and withdrawn, and Maeve found herself remembering dinner tables from long ago. In her mind's eye, she remembered little Breana, sitting staring quietly at the table in the same way while Maeve clung to the edge so hard that her knuckles turned white. Only their younger sister had ever been comfortable at the family dinner table.

Maeve wanted to reach out to Sorcha and ask if she was all right, to protect her the way she couldn't protect her younger self or Breana's younger self. She knew she was making assumptions and that Sorcha's demeanor could be from any number of other sources, but she couldn't stop her instincts from prickling uncomfortably.

As she looked back at Murtagh, who was still speaking, she saw a shine in those eyes—a shine that was also uncomfortably familiar from her memories. His stare lingered too long on Cailean as he spoke, and Maeve had the dreadful feeling that this was a man assessing not an equal leader in a rebellion, but a prize to be won.