Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T he cottage Thora had seen in her vision was not far from Castle MacDonald—an old relic of Clan MacNeil, used in the days of his grandfather to house any members of the clan who needed a place to stay while travelling. Finding it had been an easy task for Archibald, who had torn through all the records to find what they needed after remembering something he had read a long time ago in the clan’s history. No matter how many times Cillian witnessed Archibald’s ability to retain and recall everything relevant to the clan, he was still just as impressed by it and though he teased him for being so studious even as an adult, he couldn’t thank him enough now that his knowledge had come in so handy.

“Is this it?” Cillian asked Thora, pointing at the cottage at the bottom of the hill where they had stopped. Despite his best efforts to force them to stay in MacDonald Castle, where they would be safe, Thora and Ava had insisted on coming with him and his men, neither girl taking no for an answer. In the end, Cillian had agreed only because Kai warned him, they would follow regardless, and he thought it safer for them to stay with his party rather than follow them at a distance.

“Aye,” said Thora. “That’s the one I saw.”

Cillian dreaded to ask what he wanted to know, but ignorance seemed even worse, clawing at him until he finally said, “Can ye sense her?”

Thora glanced at him; her gaze sympathetic but guarded. “It doesnae work like that.”

He couldn’t allow himself to believe anything other than that Enya was alive and well. If anything had happened to her, he didn’t think he could bear it—all that grief, all that pain and regret, the knowledge that he couldn’t save her. In the end, it was bound to kill him, too.

Glancing behind him, Cillian looked at all the soldiers who had accompanied him on this mission. Not knowing how many men Laird MacNeil would have with him, he had brought as many as he could spare without leaving the castle vulnerable, and they were all more than willing to follow him, knowing Enya’s life was in danger. She had endeared herself to the clan, that much was obvious to Cillian. There was no man or woman who was not concerned for her fate, even those who had been left behind waiting with bated breath for any news.

“Ye’ll stay here,” he told Thora, turning to look at her. “I will leave some men with ye an’ Ava.”

He had expected Thora to argue, to claim she was just as good of a fighter as Kai, but she only nodded, perhaps because she was too scared for Enya and wanted to waste no time arguing with Cillian. He was glad for it. Even if she was a good fighter, they all ran a risk by attacking the cottage, and should something happen to Thora, he knew Enya would never forgive him for allowing her to come.

“If I see anythin’, I will send one o’ the men tae ye,” she said. “Cillian… bring her back.”

Staring at the cottage in the distance, Cillian took a deep, steadying breath. When he spoke, it was more a promise to himself than to anyone else.

“I will.”

Tied up in that dark room, Enya had begun to doze off when she heard the first signs of commotion. Footsteps echoed all around her as if people were running up and down the entire building, all of them shouting to each other. Enya could only make out a few of the words—some were orders, others screams for help. Through the boarded-up window, cries filled the room, and soon the tell-tale clang of steel against steel reverberated all around her.

It’s Cillian. It must be.

She was elated. Thora must have had a vision, Enya thought, just as she always did when someone close to her was in danger. She had never been more grateful for her gift; it had led her to Enya, and now that Cillian was there, she was no longer afraid.

He would save her. She believed that more than anything else.

The sounds of the battle became louder and louder with every passing second, drawing closer to where they were keeping Enya. Her heart pounded, anticipation building inside her, but until that door opened, she wouldn’t know if the first to get to her would be Cillian or Duncan or even Laird MacNeil.

Please, let it be me love, Cillian.

Enya’s gaze was glued to the door, the shadows in the room and her own fear giving it an almost monstrous, menacing appearance. Closing her eyes firmly, she prayed and prayed, mumbling under her breath as her ears buzzed with the chaos outside.

And then the door was thrown open and Enya opened her eyes to see Cillian there, haloed by the light in the hallway as he heaved, his clothes and skin stained with blood. In his hand, he was holding the sword Enya had given him and that, too, was bloody, dripping crimson all over the floor.

With a wordless cry, Cillian ran to her and fell to his knees, the sword dropping from his hand as he reached for her face. Enya could feel the blood smeared on her cheeks, wet and tacky and warm, but she didn’t try to pull away from him, not when he looked so desperate.

“Ye’re alive,” he said. “Ye’re alive.”

Enya nodded, craning her neck to lean a little closer to him, as much as her bonds would allow. “I’m alright,” she assured him. “Dinnae fash, I’m nae hurt.”

For a few more moments, Cillian sat there, staring at Enya and brushing the hair off her face, seemingly overwhelmed and not knowing what to do. But then, he took a deep breath and composed himself, reaching for a small blade to cut the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles. The moment she was free, Enya sprung up off the chair and fell into Cillian’s arms, giving herself a moment to hold onto him tightly.

“Duncan is?—”

“I ken,” Cillian said, as he picked up his sword off the ground. “I ken. Thora told me. She saw it. But I dinnae understand why…”

There was only one other time Enya had seen Cillian so heartbroken before: when he had talked to her about his sister, whom he had not managed to save. It was no wonder, though, that he was devastated by Duncan’s betrayal

Taking a deep breath, Cillian grabbed Enya’s hand and began to pull her out of the room. “We must leave,” he said. “Hurry.”

Enya trailed after him, rushing to keep up with his pace, the two of them running through dim corridors. Enya tried to keep her gaze ahead—everything was covered in blood, bodies lying dead on the ground, and her stomach churned at the stench of blood that seemed to permeate everything. So many men had lost their lives, all because Laird MacNeil wanted to wage war on Cillian and his clan for reasons Enya didn’t even know.

So many people dead… so many I cannae heal.

She could only hope Cillian’s side didn’t have too many losses and that she could quickly heal all the injured. In the dark, she couldn’t tell which man belonged to which faction. They all looked the same, most of them young, all of them gone too soon.

When they stepped out into the morning light, Enya squinted at the sudden brightness, her head throbbing once more with the headache that, up until then, seemed to have subsided. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the scene before her, and she saw Cillian pull back from her just in time to block an attack from one of Laird MacNeil’s men.

The battle was still raging around them, Cillian’s and Laird MacNeil’s soldiers throwing themselves at each other with abandon, their swords meeting again and again. Enya, both hands now free, reached for the blade of one of the fallen soldiers but didn’t immediately attack any of them.

She had never seen a real battle and now it was difficult to bring herself to attack when she knew she could kill someone.

How could she take a life, even one that belonged to an enemy? How could she cause pain when her very existence dictated that she heal it?

“Ye!”

Enya turned at the sound of Laird MacNeil’s surprised voice at finding her there. She watched him march towards her with a finger pointing accusingly right at her. She took a few steps back, trying to maintain the distance between them, but Laird MacNeil looked crazed, his eyes wide and his face splattered with blood, his hair and beard a matted mess.

“Where dae ye think ye are goin’? Heal me men,” he demanded. “Why are ye standin’ there, useless? Go! Heal them!”

Enya told herself there was nothing with which he could threaten her now. She would not help him, for now that her family was safe, there was nothing he could say to force her hand. Even if he killed her, it would be preferable to her healing his men

“Did ye hear me?” Laird MacNeil asked, still advancing towards her. When Enya refused, he marched up to her with a furious cry, raising his sword to attack.

“If ye will nae help me,” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips, “there is nay reason fer me tae keep ye alive. Ye have served yer purpose and brought me Laird Cillian on a platter. I tried tae get rid of him once already, years ago, and it didnae work. But I kenned he would fall fer ye,” he cackled. On pure instinct, Enya raised her own blade in response, blocking the attack just as she heard Kai call her name. Looking up, Enya saw her brother running to her, despair contorting his features as he swung his blade, plunging it through Laird MacNeil’s back, the tip of it almost grazing her.

Time seemed to stretch and slow, the three of them panting—Enya and Laird MacNeil looking at each other in shock while Kai let out a roar and pulled the sword out of him, letting him collapse onto the ground. Enya did not move, she could only stare at the body, ears buzzing, unable to hear anything around her until Kai screamed her name. Snapping her head up, she found him reaching for her, drawing her into a tight embrace.

“Ye’re alright,” he told her. “I’ve got ye. I’ve got ye.”

“Where’s Cillian?” Enya asked pulled away after an instant, still clutching onto Kai’s shirt even as she searched for him, her panicked gaze scanning the crowd. “Where is he?”

She had hardly managed to finish her sentence when she heard him nearby, his voice filled with so much rage that it shook her to the bone. He and Duncan were circling each other, both covered in sweat and blood and grime, snarling like wild animals.

“Why?” Cillian said. “Ye were me friend! Ye were me braither! How could ye dae this tae me? Tae our people?”

“How can ye nae ken after all this time? Ye say ye care about me,” Duncan shouted and for a moment, he was so enraged that he seemed to forget he was in the middle of a fight. “How? Did ye never notice?”

“What are ye talkin’ about?” Cillian asked. “And o’ course I cared! I was yer friend!”

“Then how did ye never see how much I loved Eleanor?”

Duncan sounded like a wounded animal, holding nothing but grief. Even under these circumstances, it was difficult not to feel sympathy for him. He suddenly seemed like a man who had already died many years before and was simply roaming around the living since.

“Eleanor? Me sister,” Cillian asked, in disbelief.

“Aye.” Duncan said. “I loved her! I wanted tae wed her an’ ye… ye let her die. This is me revenge!”

Enya could see the exact moment that something broke in Cillian at the accusation. He had believed for so long that he was to blame for his sister’s death, and now his own friend wanted to kill him for it. Surely, it only served to make him feel that he was to blame after all.

“Why did ye waited all these years?”

“I tried tae talk mesel’ out of it. But then ye were ordered tae get married and… Ye dinnae deserve tae be happy after what ye’ve done!”

“I ken now that Malcom MacNeil is the man who killed Eleanor in that raid,” Cillian said, his voice dripping with hatred.

“Shut yer mouth!” Duncan shouted. “Ye ken naethin’.”

Enya could listen no longer. She wanted Cillian to be safe, and despite her sympathy for Duncan’s pain, she wanted him to know that Cillian was right.

“’Tis true, MacNeil just told me as much…’twas him who raided the castle years ago.”

“I kenned it!” Cillian exclaimed, after turning briefly tae look at Enya. He seemed relieved to see MacNeil dead and Kai standing next to her, protecting her. “An’ she would certainly hate ye if she could see ye now, Duncan,” he said, turning back to his childhood friend. “Ye sided with the man who took her from us.”

That was too much for Duncan. He seemed to vibrate with rage, his entire body shaking as he let out a wordless scream and charged like a bull towards Cillian, their swords meeting with a deafening clang. Enya watched in horror as they attacked each other again and again, trading blow after blow in a vicious fight. This was personal for them both, she knew. They both fought like they wanted to destroy the other, their anger getting the better of them both and leaving nothing behind but destruction.

It wasn’t difficult to see they weren’t evenly matched, though. Duncan was a skilled fighter, but he didn’t have Cillian’s speed or strength, and it didn’t take long for Cillian to dominate the fight. Duncan could do nothing but defend himself, trying to dodge and deflect and run away from Cillian to save his neck, but no matter what he tried, Cillian was right there, dealing yet another attack.

The mention of his sister had turned him vicious, relentless. The man before Enya wasn’t Laird MacDonald, but rather a warrior, someone who was forged in steel and blood.

When Cillian’s blade plunged into Duncan’s stomach, Enya could have sworn she saw a tear run down her beloved’s cheek. With his free hand, he reached for Duncan, holding onto him as he lowered him to the ground, gentle even as Duncan jerked and spasmed, blood spraying out of his mouth as he coughed.

There was no real victory in killing him, Enya knew. By killing him, Cillian had lost a part of himself.

“Ach… ye were always the better fighter,” Duncan said, letting out a wheezing laugh. “But ye were never the smartest.”

As he spoke, Enya saw the glint of a blade in the sun as Duncan pulled out his sgian dubh . There was no time for her to scream, to warn him, to do anything other than watch, wide-eyed, as Duncan plunged the blade right into Cillian’s chest, near his heart.

And Enya, as though she had been the one to be struck, collapsed to the ground, lips splitting in a scream.