We moved through a dense stretch of forest, the occupants of the carriage growing unnaturally quiet. Trees arched and met over the path, skeletal wood blocking out the late morning sun and stealing the heat from my skin. The rhythmic clomp of the horse’s hooves and the squeak of the carriage wheels sounded magnified in the heavy silence.
I followed Duncan’s and Fiona’s stares through the screen of branches to a decaying ruin lurking just off the road. Leaning forward, I squinted into the unnatural darkness. The ground was grayish brown and bare, like winter. The crumbling stone structure, equally gloomy, appeared devoid of all life. It might have been my imagination, but the air seemed to move in a sluggish rhythm, punctuated by a steady throb like a heartbeat and carrying the slightest stench of rot.
Kenna wrinkled up her nose. “It stinks.”
“Aye.” Duncan nodded. “When my great-grandfather, King Angus Andrew Kellan MacCrae, made a covenant with the Protector o’ Doon, a powerful blessing covered the kingdom. Our enemies, gathered in yonder cottage at the time, were instantly struck down and smitten from the land, except for one wee witch, a girl who managed to escape. But that land—the witches’ land—was too defiled to be blessed.”
I gripped the edge of the carriage and leaned back as Duncan continued, his voice quietly somber and devoid of theatrics. “Therefore, the witches’ land is not under our protection. No Doonian can set foot inside its malevolent boundaries—nor would they want to.”
Only after the trees thinned, their patterns of dappled light and shade playing across my vision, did I have the courage to whisper, “What happened to her—the witch?”
“To this day, that wee witch still roams the hills outside of Doon in her eternal quest for revenge.” At Duncan’s words, icy fingers skittered down my spine, lodging an irrational fear into the pit of my stomach.
I looked over to Fiona as a shadow passed across her face. She made a hasty sign of the cross, her lips moving in what I assumed was a silent prayer. This was her heritage, and I could see she didn’t take it lightly. As we left the forest behind and entered into the brilliant morning sun, she breathed more easily.
“You’re trying to scare us.” Kenna crossed her arms under her chest and shifted away from Duncan.
“Nay, but it does help to explain the suspicion of some of our people, does it not?”
Before I could ask Duncan how they knew the witch was still alive, Jamie bellowed “Whoa” and pulled the horses to a stop in front of an ancient stone chapel.
“This be the Auld Kirk,” Fiona said with something akin to reverence in her lilting voice. She looked relieved to have moved on from evil witches to a more pleasant topic.
“The entire kingdom, if they so choose, attends services here Sunday morn,” Duncan added.
“Even the royal family?” Kenna asked in surprise.
“Aye. We dinna stand on ceremony here.” I looked up, startled to see that Jamie’d turned around to answer Kenna’s question. “From the stable lads to the king himself, we each have a role to fulfill.”
Even though his eyes where hidden in the deep cowl of his hood, I felt him watching me as he continued. “In Doon we are all equal parts of the greater whole. ’Tis our greatest strength.”
After a pause, he turned, clucked to the horses, and drove on. His unassuming declarations about life in Doon struck me as remarkable—as if their idealistic existence was nothing out of the ordinary, as if there was no other way to live.
Having completely lost the tenuous calm I’d achieved earlier, I searched for something to focus on that wasn’t our princely chauffer. Luckily, I was saved by the appearance of small gingerbread-like buildings in the distance.
“Is that the village?” I leaned out over the side of the carriage to get a better look.