“Yes, Father,” Ember said again, but her hopes were expanding by the moment. This place, hidden from the eyes of the world in the wilderness of the Scottish highlands, had set itself apart from society and its rules. It offered the only escape Ember might find from her father’s designs on her life.
“That’s the barracks.” Alistair glanced over his shoulder, gesturing to a squat building on their right. “The quarters of the Guard.”
Ember smiled when he winked at her.
“The kitchen is straight ahead and, of course, you’ll be staying in the manor,” he continued, leading them to a larger building to their left. “The guest quarters are here as is the great hall, where the ceremony will be held tomorrow morning.”
Ember peered into the kitchen as they passed it. Fires roared in the massive ovens as servants shaped loaves, turned spits, and trussed game birds. Ember’s mouth began to water as the savory odors spilled over them.
Alistair must have seen the hunger on her face, because he said, “The great feast will be held tomorrow evening, but tonight servants will bring repast to your quarters.”
“We thank you, Alistair,” Ossia said. “Our journey has left us weary and much in need of refreshment.”
“Of course, my lady,” Alistair said. “We are here to serve you.”
Alistair led them into the manor, a building far more appealing than the austere barracks. The Romanesque stone walls of the great house featured friezes of ancient battle scenes and great adventures of classic mythology. The interior of the building welcomed them with walls covered in intricately carved dark wood.
“Watch your step as we ascend the stairs to your quarters,” Alistair said. “The fourth step is horribly wobbly. It will soon be fixed, but alas, not during your stay.”
“Humph.” Edmund scowled as he tested the broken step and found it unbalanced indeed.
The room in which Alistair left them was small but well appointed. Ember wandered immediately to the windows, which offered a view across the courtyard and over the expanse of the loch. Despite the unfamiliar setting, she felt oddly at peace—a sentiment not shared by her family. Ossia was crooning over Agnes, who still complained of an upset stomach.
Edmund paced around the room. “We’ll sup, we’ll sleep, and tomorrow this nonsense will be over.”
Ember bowed her head and then returned to her watch from the windowsill. She took a deep breath, willing that tomorrow didn’t bring an end to her stay at Tearmunn, but instead a new beginning.
FOUR
TIME HAD SLIPPED through Ember’s fingers, forcing her through the halls at a breathless pace. Her family had departed much earlier, as her father had hoped to speak further with Lord Mackenzie prior to the ceremony. Her mother and sister being absent, Ember was left to her own devices and she’d spent far too much time gazing out of the room’s narrow window at two figures sparring in the practice fields below. A tall, broad-shouldered knight was evenly matched by a lanky, quick rival. She was breathless as she watched them battle. Every time she thought one was about to best the other, the faltering soldier would feint, roll, or twist in a way Ember thought impossible, rebalancing the fight once again.
Though certain she must be imagining it, given the great distance from her window to the field below, the sounds of their battle rang in Ember’s head. Even more far-fetched, Ember couldn’t stop herself from believing that she knew the taller warrior. His strong, confident movements, the twist of his waist and set of his shoulders: it was Barrow. She was sure of it.
But that very notion was ridiculous. She’d met him only once and though she’d watched him fight, it hardly meant she could recognize him from this sort of distance. Not to mention that his face was hidden by a steel helm.
Whistles of air chased their blades, punctuated by the sudden staccato whenever their weapons met. Ember pressed her face against the window, trying to see them more clearly but mostly wanting to confirm her suspicion that it was Barrow she watched. As the knights dove, leapt, and circled each other, she felt as though she witnessed not some savage exercise but an unending macabre dance defined by exceptional skill and wicked grace. She made a game of pretending she was Barrow’s opponent, thinking of how she would strike and dodge, imagining the type of blade she’d wield if she were a knight. How magnificent it would be to master skills that matched his. It was a daydream both impossible and wonderful. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been watching them until the church bells began to peal, signaling the start of the ceremony.
She feared a late arrival so much that she’d forgotten Alistair’s warning about the loose step as she raced down the stairs. The stone wobbled and jerked under her weight, twisting her foot and turning her speed against her. She pitched forward, tumbling over the stone staircase until she landed in a heap in the central corridor.
“Em, I thought you’d gotten lost. I was about to go hunting for you in the guest quarters, but it seems you were merely perfecting your entrance.”
She rolled onto her side to see Alistair leaning over her. His coal-black locks grazed his cheekbones, which were softened by the dimples that framed his grin.
“Ugh.” She’d attempted to break her fall by landing on the heels of her hands. Raising her palms to examine them, she was relieved to see that the smooth stone floor hadn’t left her with open cuts or scrapes, but she could already feel the bruises forming.
Alistair’s smile vanished. “Are you injured?”
She shook her head, though she wasn’t convinced she’d escaped unscathed. But she wasn’t willing to entertain the thought that she’d be limping into the ceremony. Fragility was the last impression she wanted to make when she was presented to the Circle.
Alistair extended his hands, but she waved him away.
“I’m fine,” she said, ignoring the fact that she was still a tangle of limbs and fabric. Her cloak, finely woven wool the gray of morning mist, a gift from her sister to wear at the ceremony, was twisted through her legs and prevented her from standing.
Alistair pushed his own cloak back over one shoulder, revealing the belted tunic and leather trousers he wore beneath. She caught sight of the long sword that hung in a scabbard at his side. Her mind flashed to the sparring knights and she wondered if Alistair had met either of them on the practice field—and how he’d fared against them.