The sand was freshly raked, waiting for new boot prints. Adaira couldn’t help but shiver when she remembered falling to her knees and watching her blood harden into gemstones. She wondered if those gleaming pieces of her had been raked deep beneath the sand.
She let her eyes drift, taking in more of her surroundings. Without rain, the arena felt almost like a place Adaira had never seen before. It was well lit by iron-bracketed torches, and the wooden stands that surrounded the ring were overflowing with spectators. Breccans sat shoulder to shoulder, nursing cups of ale and wine and eating cold dinners from their satchels. Their hair was wind-snarled, their shoulders wrapped in plaids and shawls to ward off the slight chill of the night. Some were talking while others looked weary, like they might fall asleep where they sat. Even children were present, whining and crying and sleeping in their parents’ arms. The older youths entertained themselves by chasing each other up and down the stands.
The Breccans quickly took note of her presence on the balcony. Their murmurs grew like a wave building up, their attention like pricks upon her skin.
She looked at them as they looked at her.
But Adaira soon sensed that the Breccans were required to be present. As she stepped closer to the edge of the balcony, she was struck by the same feelings she’d had the day before, when she had followed David out onto the sand. Eerie, unsettled feelings. She didn’t like this place. Even with the firelight and the countless people around her, something about it felt sinister.
“Join me, Cora.”
Innes’s voice was calm and deep. As if she sensed Adaira’s aversion.
Adaira turned her attention away from the arena to study the balcony. Lit by standing candelabras and framed with blue curtains, it was not a large space. Two high-backed chairs were set close to the stone balustrade, where the laird could sit and watch whatever unfolded in the arena, and a small table was within reach. A bottle of chilled wine and two gold-chased goblets rested on it.
Innes had already sat down in one of the chairs and was pouring each of them a glass of wine. Adaira stepped closer, her left knee popping as she lowered herself to sit.
“Is something happening tonight?” she asked, accepting the goblet that Innes handed to her.
“Yes.”
Adaira waited for Innes to expound on that, though she was learning that her mother was not a woman of many words. All these one-worded answers were going to drive Adaira mad, and she almost spoke curtly but caught her tongue when Innes pointed upwards.
“Any time I call for a culling,” the laird began softly, “the clouds break, as if the northern king wants to witness from above. It is the only reason why I believe the spirits enjoy watching our lives unfold on the isle.”
Adaira gazed up at the sky. The clouds broke like long, pale ribs, exposing a luminous full moon and a smattering of stars.
She stared at the night sky, captivated by its beauty, which she had so often seen and taken for granted in the east. The sight softened her, and the tension that had been building since she beheld the arena eased. She thought of Torin, Sidra, Jack, vivid images of them coming to mind: Torin riding the hills. Sidra harvesting night blooms in her garden. Jack walking along the coast, harp in hand. All of them lifting their eyes to the same moon, the same stars. How close to them she was, and yet how far away.
The thought made her chest ache, as though a dirk had pierced her, hilt deep.
The moon-drenched visions broke when the arena door swung open with a bang.
A tall, armored man stepped forward. His boots crushed the sand, and the light gleamed on his steel breastplate. Woad was imprinted on the backs of his hands, on the cords of his neck and the shaved portions of his head. His face was stern until he smiled. And when he raised his arms, the clan cheered.
Adaira could feel the roar reverberate through the wood under her feet. She exhaled, watching as the man lowered his arms. The clan fell quiet again in response, and he swiftly forgot about the crowd when he looked to the balcony. Adaira felt his eyes trace her face as he stepped closer, then stopped in the center of the arena.
“Laird Innes,” the man said, his voice raspy, as if he had spent years shouting. “Lady Cora.” He bowed to them both, holding the stance until Innes spoke.
“Begin the culling, Godfrey.”
He straightened, the corners of his lips tilting in a crooked smile. He turned to address the crowd next as he walked around the perimeter of the ring. “The dungeons have overflowed this past moon. Every cell has been filled, awaiting this night. Every sword has struck a whetstone, every axe has been sharpened until it shines. Tonight, however, is one that is wholly devoted to Lady Cora, who has returned home to us after many long years away.”
Adaira stiffened. “Who is this man?” she asked Innes in a whisper.
“The Keeper of the Dungeons,” Innes replied.
“And why is this night devoted to me?”
The laird made no response, keeping her gaze on Godfrey as he came to a stop in the arena. Adaira was about to ask again, more sharply, when the dungeon keeper continued.
“On this full moon, I bring you one you’ve seen fight before. You know him well, although both his name and honor have been stripped from him. I bring you Oathbreaker!”
Sounds of dissent sprouted in the crowd. Adaira frowned, leaning forward as a tall man was escorted into the arena. He wore a ratty tunic and boots, and his pale knees and forearms were stained with grime. A leather breastplate freckled with old blood was buckled over his chest. A full helm shielded his face, and his wrists were shackled behind his back until he was brought to a halt, standing to the left of Godfrey. One of the guards unfettered the prisoner, freeing him from the irons, and what looked to be a dull, mundane sword was set into his hands.
Adaira stared at the one called Oathbreaker, surprised by how still and quiet he stood, like a mountain in the sand. There was no way to tell his age, or even to catch a glimpse of his expression. But he seemed hewn from stone, and she had the prickling sensation that he was staring at her through the slits in his helm.
“Next,” Godfrey continued in a booming voice, “I bring you one who has never stepped foot in this arena before. A young man who had days of great purpose before him until he committed an irrevocable sin.”
Adaira was frozen in her chair as the second prisoner was brought forward. He also wore a tattered tunic, soft hide boots, and a leather breastplate that looked as if someone had died wearing it. But his head was free of a helm, to show his face to the crowd.
He was young. Younger than her by a few years. His grimy face was creased in fear, and he seemed to be frantically looking for someone in the crowd.
“I bring you William Dun,” Godfrey announced. “Who murdered a shepherd to steal his resources as well as his flock. And we know what we do to those who kill and take what doesn’t belong to them!”
The crowd hissed and booed.