“Please, Laird,” William begged, falling to his knees. “Have mercy! It wasn’t my—”
Godfrey nodded to one of the guards, who swiftly gagged William with a strip of dirty plaid. Adaira winced as she watched. The young man’s voice melted away; she couldn’t hear his agony over the roar of the spectators and the wool of the gag, and one of the guards slid a dented helm over his head.
“He’s not permitted to speak?” Adaira asked Innes, alarmed.
Innes took a sip of her wine. Her eyes were on the arena, but she said, “Do you remember the other day? When you and I stood in the shepherd’s croft, beholding a murdered man? I asked Rab to follow the trail the flock had left, to find the culprit.”
“Yes, I remember,” Adaira said, but she went cold at the sound of Rab’s name.
“All evidence led to this boy’s croft. His mother claimed that he came home with blood on his boots, and that she saw him hide the stolen sheep with their own flock.”
“And so you decided to hold no trial for him?” Adaira murmured, unable to hide her disgust. “Because of information Rab gathered?”
“I don’t know what your trials look like in the east, Cora,” Innes said, glancing at her. “But we let the sword speak for us here. As we live by it, we die by it. There is no greater honor. And the culling gives criminals the chance to either redeem themselves with a courageous death or prove that they deserve to be pardoned and granted an opportunity to return to the clan.”
“Is that all?” Adaira challenged.
But Innes was silent, refusing to argue. Her attention was fixed on the arena again.
Adaira’s mind reeled. In the east, the Tamerlaines conducted spars to mimic true combat, but hearings were held when crimes were committed. Those who were guilty were allowed to argue in defense of themselves, and only then did the laird pass a fair judgment.
Adaira set down her wine, unable to drink it. She watched as Godfrey stepped back. The sound of a ram’s horn signaled the commencement of the fight.
The crowd roared. Adaira felt the sound vibrate through her. She sat, stiff and white-knuckled, as Oathbreaker took a cut at William Dun. The sword almost grazed the younger man as he stumbled back, awkwardly moving his sword in a sad attempt to parry.
Oathbreaker held the advantage in this fight, in strength and size and skill. He didn’t slow. He pursued a scampering William around the arena. The crowd began to grow weary of watching the one-sided fight until Oathbreaker at last knocked the sword from William’s hands. Weaponless, William began to run, his swiftness his only defense.
“Innes,” Adaira breathed. “Innes, please—”
“Cora.”
Her name was a stinging lash against her soul, but also a warning. Some Breccans were watching the fight, but some were watching the balcony, measuring her reaction.
Adaira held in her pleadings, but her blood turned to ice as she made herself witness the culling. She felt as though she had taken another dose of Aethyn. Her stomach knotted, and perspiration gleamed along the lines of her palms like rain-limned webs. She wiped it away on her plaid, only to feel sweat begin to dampen her tunic and boots, as if she burned with fever.
She watched as William finally stumbled and fell, sprawled on the sand. The same sand she had bled and fainted on. The place where her father had drawn her up to her feet in the rain.
Oathbreaker stood above the boy, but something about his posture and stance looked weary. As if he had lived a hundred years and had seen far too much. As if he didn’t want to bring this spar to an end.
He hesitated only for a moment before he plunged his sword into William’s throat.
There was a crack of bone and an eager spray of blood.
Adaira closed her eyes.
She focused on her breaths, the way they whistled through her teeth.
Let it end, let me wake in the east.
But there was no waking from this nightmare. There was no waking to her chambers in Sloane, with the painted wall panels and the shelves full of books and the sunlight streaming in through the windows. There was no Jack, no Torin, no Sidra.
Adaira opened her eyes to a dead boy on the sand, his blood a crimson shadow beneath him.
Her gaze drifted to Innes.
Her mother sat straight-backed in the chair, hands resting on her knees. Her expression was so poised and neutral that she could have been limestone. She didn’t seem callous, but neither did she seem thrilled, and her profile was sharp, firelit. She watched the arena without blinking, her blue eyes like a frozen loch in midwinter.
Adaira didn’t know if Innes had turned the lairdship into this figure, or if the lairdship had molded Innes into what she was. But this was the woman Adaira had come from. Bone and breath and blood. A woman who blessed raids and called for cullings to clear out the criminals in her dungeons. A woman who hid scars and never appeared weak before those she didn’t trust. A woman who had given up her heir and only son in order to bring Adaira home.
Adaira began to rise. She didn’t want to be a part of this another moment, but Innes’s low voice stopped her.
“If you leave now, you won’t get the answer to your question.”
Adaira slowly resumed her seat. “What question?”
Innes only indicated the arena.
Adaira returned her attention to the ring. Oathbreaker had come to stand before the balcony, solemn and bloodstained.
Adaira wondered if, having been victorious in this encounter, he would be given his freedom. Were his past crimes absolved, since the sword had proven him worthy to live?
“Down to the keep,” said Innes.
Oathbreaker simply stood for a moment more, and Adaira wondered if he had heard her mother’s verdict. But then he bowed his head and removed his helm, revealing his face.
She saw that he was older, a man in his middle years. His hair and beard were bedraggled, threaded with silver, and yet not even the conditions of the dungeons had hidden the fierce auburn sheen of it. A copper hue that drew the eye and held it, and Adaira’s pulse skipped. He looked familiar, and she wondered . . . had she seen him before?
What oath had he broken?
But seeing the sadness in the downturned corners of his mouth, in the gleam of his eyes as he continued to gaze up at her, Adaira knew.
The sword fell from his hand in defeat.
“You asked David what happened to him,” Innes said, watching Adaira’s reaction. “The man who carried you east.”
Adaira’s breath caught as Oathbreaker turned away, his bloodstained armor dripping red constellations onto the sand. Her heart rose in her throat, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She could only watch him through the tears that stung her eyes. Tears she refused to let fall. Not here in this place. Not with hundreds of gazes upon her.
She watched as Jack’s father disappeared through the doors, returning to the dark maw of the dungeons.
Chapter 12