Bleary-eyed, Alistair peered at her as though he were dreaming. “Lady Eira?”
“I’m here to keep my promise, Lord Hart,” she told him.
His blue eyes sharpened, and he stepped back, ushering her into his cell. She sat in the wooden chair beside his pallet. Alistair glanced at his unmade bed and rumpled sleeping shirt.
“I can dress . . .”
“There’s no need,” Eira said, gesturing to the pallet. “Please sit.”
Alistair obeyed, and Eira smiled when the young knight sat straight and at attention as if he were wearing his Guard uniform.
“I will tell you all you wish you know,” Eira said. She lowered her voice. “But first I have a question for you, Alistair.”
He blushed when she used his Christian name. Eira took that as a good sign.
“Ask me what you please, my lady,” he murmured.
“If I could give you anything in the world,” Eira said softly, “what would you want?”
TWENTY-NINE
EMBER’S HEART JUMPED at the knock on her cell door, as it had gained a habit of doing, but her pulse slowed again as it was also wont to do when she opened the door and didn’t find Barrow.
“May I come in?” Alistair asked.
“Of course.” She stepped back so he could enter. His visits had become frequent since her recovery. Ember was surprised to find she welcomed his company—their relationship had eased back into the familiar patterns of their childhood. The light banter and teasing they shared helped alleviate the dull ache that had made its home in her chest.
“I have a surprise and a gift,” Alistair said. “Or rather, it’s a gift that’s also a surprise.”
“I don’t need any gifts, Alistair.” Ember smiled. Or surprises, she thought.
“It would be a shame to let your recovery go uncelebrated.” Alistair winked at her. “Besides, if you say no, you’ll only feel left out. Everyone else will be there.”
Ember peered at him suspiciously. “Be where?”
“Open this and see if you can guess.” Alistair brought his hands around from behind his back, revealing a cloth package bound with twine.
With a puzzled glance, Ember took the parcel from him. She drew her dagger and cut the twine. When she pulled back the cloth covering, a soft green fabric peeped out at her. Ember shook out the dress that had been folded within the plain cloth. It was the color of faded grass. Lovely, but simple—its fabric smooth and light, lacking the finery and weight of the gowns she’d worn at home and had donned for her audience with the abbot. It reminded her of something that female servants wore when they gathered in the manor for the annual Yule celebration, when her father distributed gifts.
“Do you like it?” Alistair asked.
Ember nodded but asked, “Why have you given me a dress?”
“The village on the loch is celebrating the spring planting with a ceilidh,” he told her. “I’d like to take you.”
She hesitated and he quickly said, “As your friend, Ember, nothing more. You’ll see when we get there that everyone from Tearmunn is in attendance. The village festivals never fail to impress. Food, dancing, drink. Surely you want to go?”
“Of course,” she said, and Alistair’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been hearing about it. But aren’t we required to be here for the ritual of Fidelitas tonight?”
“We are,” he said. “But the ritual takes place at midnight. There’s plenty of time for festivities before the ceremony.”
She smiled at him. “Then I would love to go.”
“Wonderful,” he said. “Change your clothes and I’ll be back to fetch you soon.”
When he’d left her, Ember stood holding the dress in her hands. The ceilidh did sound appealing, but despite what she’d told Alistair, part of Ember was reluctant to go. If all of Tearmunn would be at the celebration, that meant Barrow would also be there. And Ember had made a habit of avoiding him. Not that it took much effort. Her former mentor seemed to be avoiding her as well. She saw him at meals and occasionally on the practice field when she and Sorcha had sparring matches.
As Barrow had predicted, Sorcha was an exceptional teacher and Ember had made significant progress. But she didn’t fully credit her new mentor’s skill for her swift advances in combat. After Barrow had disowned her, Ember had thrown herself into training relentlessly. She was determined to fill the void in her chest with an unparalleled commitment to her training. For the most part this strategy had proven successful. It was only when she saw Barrow, or when he acknowledged her with a polite but restrained greeting, that she felt like he’d punched her in the gut.
It was all foolishness, she thought as she unbraided her hair, letting it fall in waves down her back. Had she not let herself become overly admiring of Barrow, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She might have more relief if her overactive imagination would spare her nightly visits from the tall knight. In her dreams Barrow recanted his words from the stable. He asked her forgiveness and promised never to leave her side. But the worst of it was that her mind didn’t stop at a simple reconciliation. Instead it pressed her into his arms, showed her the shape and strength of his body in far too intimate ways, and made her wake breathless and bathed in sweat.
Ember shed her usual clothing and found a clean kirtle. She slid the dress over her head. It buttoned up the side so the waist and bodice hugged her curves. Though she didn’t quite know what to make of Alistair supplying a dress so perfectly tailored to her size, she was grateful for its lovely shape and the way the skirt swirled around her ankles, flaring out if she turned in a circle or twisted side to side.
After a soft knock at the door and Ember’s invitation, Alistair reentered her room.
He looked at her for a moment and she saw him swallow. “You’re lovely.”
“Thank you,” Ember said. “You look quite the dashing knight yourself.”
And he did. Alistair had traded the Guard’s uniform for finely woven chausses, a fitted linen shirt, and a dark vest. He was clean-shaven and he smiled at her, his face full of the boyish charm that so many women would surely find irresistible. But not Ember.
For a moment she wondered what could be wrong with her that she would reject the professions of love from one so desirable as Alistair. He was her lifelong friend, a proven warrior, and inarguably handsome.
Though she might muse about her own heart’s failings, she knew it was no use to speculate about Alistair. She could think of him as nothing other than her friend.
His brow furrowed. “Has Eira spoken to you yet?”
“Eira?” Ember shook her head. “Does she need to see me?”
“She’ll seek you out, I’m sure,” he said. “When she does, please listen to what she has to say, Em. Eira is a great leader. She can do so much for us. For all of us.”
He drew something from his vest pocket. “In the meantime I know she wanted you to have this.”
Dangling from his fingers was a pendant suspended by a thin gold chain.
“Why?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said with a weaseling smile. “Perhaps she thought you’d be suffering without the fineries of home.”
“Ugh.”
He looped the chain around her neck. “You should wear it tonight.”
“I don’t know,” she said as he fastened the clasp. “It’s a fine gift. What if I lose it?”
“Don’t lose it.”
She cupped the pendant in her hand. It was rimmed with gold, its surface delicately carved to reveal a rose crossed by two swords.
Alistair leaned over her shoulders. “The Bloodrose. It represents the love and sacrifice required of a true warrior.”
He took the pendant from her fingers, turning it over. “See.”
“Sanguine et igne nascimur.” Ember read the inscription. “In blood and fire we are born. And Eira’s name is here as well.”
“She has great faith in you,” Alistair said.
“I don’t know why,” she mur
mured. “I’ve done little since I came here.”
“Little?” He snorted. “You killed a striga that led us to a prisoner who may be more important than any we’ve ever taken.”
She tilted her head, peering at him. “Is there news about the prisoner?” She’d heard little other than that the wild man was still confined in the stockade.
He looked away. “Only rumors.”
“What rumors?” she asked.
But Alistair smiled, ignoring her question. “Remember what I said. Listen to Eira.”
“I will,” Ember said, distracted by her own thoughts.
“Please, Ember,” Alistair said. “I want you to understand how much I trust her.”
She looked at him, surprised by the seriousness of his words. But the solemn moment had passed.
“Shall we go?” He offered his hand and Ember took it. “Ian’s readying our mounts.”
They rode from Tearmunn at a leisurely pace, watching the sun set over Loch Duich as the horses picked their way down the hillside. Alistair kept Ember laughing by admitting to her all the mistakes he’d made during his trial with the hobgoblins.
“It’s a miracle I’m not dead,” he told her.
Ember doubted that all the faults he’d heaped on himself were true but thought them instead created for her entertainment. “I saw you bait the striga. You were incredibly brave.”
“All fools are brave.” His eyes twinkled in the rosy twilight.
The sounds of the planting festival drifted toward them from the village that squatted at the edge of Loch Duich. Bonfires began to dot the hillside behind the village, ringing its perimeter with flames that leapt toward the heavens. But it was the music that tugged at Ember’s spirit. Pipes, flutes, and drums wove complex melodies bursting with life.
They left their horses tethered at the village border, giving coins to the pack of boys who’d been assigned to watch over the mounts. Alistair led the way into the center of the festival, and with each step Ember’s senses were assailed by sight, scent, and sound. The music roared in her ears; her heart pounded with the frenzied drumbeats. Venison, beef, and pork roasted on spits, filling the air with savory odors. Local artisans called out to them, hawking wares ranging from pottery to potions. At the center of it all was the dance. Bodies flew about in a broad circle, dipping, twirling, bowing—partners changed, hands clasped. Laughter and shrieks of delight became part of the ceilidh music.
“May this planting grant us a blessed harvest.” Father Michael smiled warmly at them. “And the ritual of Fidelitas prepare us for the work to come.”
“Have we missed anything?” Alistair asked him.
The priest gestured to the musicians. “Only the chance to dance with your commander. He talked his way into the performance as soon as he arrived.”
Ember tracked the spot to which Father Michael pointed, and gasped. Lukasz was seated amid the village musicians, beating furiously on a bodhran.
Alistair was laughing, but Ember turned a questioning gaze on the priest.
“Music is a great love of the commander’s,” he told her. “And he rarely is afforded the opportunity to play.”
He looked past the dancers at Lukasz, whose eyes were closed as he lost himself in the fierce rhythms he created. “He’s very talented,” Father Michael observed.
“Don’t tell him that.” Sorcha materialized from the crowd with Kael at her side. “If you do, no one in the barracks will sleep again because Lukasz will be drumming all night.”
“She’s right.” Kael tipped his wooden cup to his lips. “I know you love to build up our spirits, Father, but in this case have mercy.”
“Any other surprises?” Alistair asked.
“I think we’re about to be surprised by rain.” Sorcha glanced up. The sunset had vanished behind a cluster of threatening storm clouds.
“It’s a planting festival. Rain is welcome.” Kael grinned, casting a sidelong glance at the ring of dancers. “I’ll tell you what would surprise me: if our Barrow manages to get through this night without a betrothal. I think I’ve observed a dozen maids vying for his attention. The poor man hasn’t had a chance to eat, or even sit, since we set foot in the village.”
Though her chest was burning, Ember couldn’t resist searching the blur of moving bodies. Finding Barrow was too easy. He was taller than most of the villagers. She watched as he lifted a girl up at the waist, twirling her around and releasing her. The girl laughed as her golden locks bounced, gleaming in the firelight.
Ember pulled her eyes away, suddenly wishing she were back in her room. Or blind.
“Hold your tongue, Kael,” Sorcha said. Ember glanced at her and was surprised at the sympathy in her gaze. Sorcha smiled briefly at her before shoving Kael playfully. “You’ve had too much whisky. You know Barrow has no interest in these girls.”
“I’ve hardly had too much!” Kael turned over his cup, empty. “Look, my cup is empty. Does anyone want to assist me in righting this wrong?”
Alistair laughed and turned to Ember. “Whatever you please, my lady.”
“I see your true nature, choosing the pretty girl over your handsome mentor,” Kael said to Alistair. “Turncoat.”
Sorcha took Kael’s arm. “I’ll help you, poor fool.”
“A good woman, this one.” Kael laid a noisy kiss on Sorcha’s cheek.
As they walked away, Alistair asked, “Do you want to go with them?”
Ember shook her head. “I want to dance.”
Though her chest was still burning at the sight of Barrow’s hands on that girl, Ember knew indulging her jealousy would prove as empty as Kael’s cup. She loved to dance and dance she would.
Alistair regarded her with surprise. “Dance?”
“Yes, Alistair,” Ember answered, taking his hand. “I can dance with my oldest friend, can’t I?”
She saw disappointment flicker briefly in his eyes as her words drew a firm line between them, but he answered, “You can. And we shall.”
He took her hand, leading her into the throng of dancers, who moved around the bonfire with rapid twists and twirls. When the song ended and the partners made their bows, Alistair tugged her into the line.
“See you in a bit!” he called as the music rose again.
She laughed. The dance began, and after only a few turns she was out of Alistair’s arms and in those of another man. The joyful abandon of country dance had her spinning and flying down the line as the men of the outer circle moved clockwise and their female partners moved counterclockwise. Dizzy but ecstatic, Ember reveled in the flare of her skirts, letting the music carry her feet in steps so fast and turns so quick she felt as though she barely touched the ground. Her partner caught her forearms, whipping her around and sending her with gales of laughter on to the next man.
Her laughter stopped when she recognized him.
She could tell Barrow was as surprised to see her standing before him as she had been to suddenly encounter him as her next dancing partner. But of course she would—Scottish country dances always involved changing partners and hadn’t she known that Barrow was in this dance circle? Had she hoped for this without admitting it to herself?
They both went still for a moment. Barrow coughed then, stepping toward her. Ember bit her lip, offering him an uncomfortable smile. His arm encircled her waist and he clasped his hand in hers. They began to whirl in time with the pounding drums.
The world slowed. The music and the other dancers faded, leaving only her and Barrow moving together. She could see each spark leap from the bonfire, escaping from the flames to dance toward the night sky. Her pulse drowned out the drumbeat, jumping through her veins. She could feel Barrow’s heartbeat too, as if her own heart were racing alongside his.
They were dancing, feet flying as they followed the pattern of the circle. But Ember moved like one mesmerized, her eyes never leaving Barrow’s steady gaze. With each step their bodies drew closer, hands gripping each other’s fiercely. Soon the dance would
force them apart, throwing them into the arms of the next partner. That knowledge made Ember’s chest tighten.
Barrow was still holding her eyes with his. They were dancing so close now that each step, twist, and turn had them brushing against each other. Ember could feel the heat of his body contrasting with the chill of the spring night.
The melody rose and a downbeat struck, signaling each dancer to relinquish his partner for the sake of another. For a moment, Barrow’s fingers dug into the fabric of her dress as if he wanted to cling to her rather than let her go. That was when the sky opened up.
Rain fell in swollen drops that exploded on Ember’s head and shoulders, soaking her within moments. The deluge scattered the crowd. Dancers, musicians, and spectators ran shrieking, desperate for shelter. Sheets of rain blinded Ember, plastering her hair to her face and neck.
“This way.” Barrow’s hand slipped around her wrist. He tugged her away from the fire, which spit and sizzled its protest as the rainfall attempted to extinguish the flames. Barrow was running, and Ember was pulled along with him into the dark forest. She wiped at her face, struggling to see. Between the shadows and the heavy rain, she might as well have been running blindfolded.
Barrow slowed and then stopped, releasing her wrist. She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to shut out the rain. But somehow it was no longer raining, or at least the initial torrent had stopped. A scatter of drops hit her at irregular intervals, but she no longer felt as if she were standing beneath a waterfall.
Where had Barrow led her?
Ember looked up and found herself beneath one of the largest trees she’d ever seen. The branches of the ancient oak spread above them, offering temporary shelter from the deluge, but Ember’s clothes had been soaked during their flight. Barrow leaned against the tree’s broad trunk.
“We can linger here until the storm passes,” he said, brushing his still-dripping hair off his face.
Ember twisted her own heavy, wet tresses in her fists, wringing out the water, and then pushed them back behind her shoulders. The sensation of having the full length of her hair covering her back was odd, but not unpleasant.