Grief and anger vied for supremacy in Gavrael’s heart, leaving him strangely hollow. As he stared down at his father, the image of his mother’s body surged to the forefront of his mind and the last of his youthful illusions shattered; tonight had birthed both an extraordinary warrior and a flesh-and-blood man with inadequate defenses. “Why, Da? Why?” His voice broke harshly on the words. He would never see his mother smile again, never hear her sing, never attend her burial—for he would be leaving Maldebann once his da replied, lest he turn his residual rage upon his own father. And then what would he be? No better than his da.
Ronin McIllioch groaned. Slowly he opened his eyes in a blood-crusted squint and gazed up at his son. A ribbon of scarlet trickled from his lips as he struggled to speak. “We’re … born—” He broke off, consumed by a deep, racking cough.
Gavrael grabbed his father by handfuls of his shirt and, heedless of Ronin’s pained grimace, shook him roughly. He would have his answer before he left; he would discover what madness had driven his da to kill his mother or he would be tortured all his life by unanswered questions. “What, Da? Say it! Tell me why!”
Ronin’s bleary gaze sought Gavrael’s. His chest rose and fell as he drew swift, shallow gasps of smoky air. With a strange undertone of sympathy, he said, “Son, we canna help it … the McIllioch men … always we’re born … this way.”
Gavrael stared at his father in horror. “You would say that to me? You think you can convince me that I’m mad like you? I’m not like you! I’ll not believe you. You lie. You lie!” He lunged to his feet, backing hastily away.
Ronin McIllioch forced himself up on his elbows and jerked his head at the evidence of Gavrael’s savagery, the remains of McKane warriors who had been literally ripped to pieces. “You did that, son.”
“I am not a ruthless killer!” Gavrael scanned the mutilated bodies, not quite convinced of his own words.
“It’s part of … being McIllioch. You canna help it, son.”
“Doona call me son! I will never be your son again. And I’m not part of your sickness. I’m not like you. I will never be like you!”
Ronin sank back to the ground, muttering incoherently. Gavrael deliberately closed his ears to the sound. He would not listen to his da’s lies a moment longer. He turned his back on him and surveyed what was left of Tuluth. The surviving villagers huddled in small groups, standing in absolute silence, watching him. Averting his face from what he would always remember as their reproving regard, his glance slid up the dark stone of Maldebann castle. Carved into the side of the mountain, it towered above the village. Once he had wished for nothing more than to grow up and help govern Maldebann at his da’s side, eventually taking over as chieftain. He’d wished to always hear the lovely lilt of his mother’s laughter filling the spacious halls, to hear his da’s answering rumble as they joked and talked. He’d dreamed of wisely settling his people’s concerns; of marrying one day and having sons of his own. Aye, once he had believed all those things would come to pass. But in less time than it had taken the moon to bridge the sky above Tuluth, all his dreams, and the very last part of him that had been human, were destroyed.
It took Gavrael the better part of a day to drag his battered body back up into the sanctuary of the dense Highland forests. He could never go home. His mother was dead, the castle ransacked, and the villagers had regarded him with fear. His da’s words haunted him—we’re born this way—killers, capable of murdering even those they claimed to love. It was a sickness of the mind, Gavrael thought, which his father said he, too, carried in his blood.
Thirstier than he’d ever been, he half crawled to the loch nestled in a small valley beyond Wotan’s Cleft. He collapsed for a time on the springy tundra, and when he wasn’t quite so dizzy and weak he struggled forward to drink, dragging himself on his elbows. As he cupped his hands and bent over the sparkling, clear pool he froze, mesmerized by his reflection rippling in the water.
Ice-blue eyes stared back at him.
CHAPTER 1
DALKEITH-UPON-THE-SEA
THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND
1515
GRIMM PAUSED AT THE OPEN DOORS OF THE STUDY AND gazed into the night. The reflection of stars dappled the restless ocean, like tiny pinpoints of light cresting the waves. Usually he found the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks soothing, but lately it seemed to incite in him a questing restlessness.
As he resumed pacing, he sifted through possible reasons for his unrest and came up empty-handed. It had been by choice that he remained at Dalkeith as captain of the Douglas guard when, two years ago, he and his best friend, Hawk Douglas, left Edinburgh and King James’s service. Grimm adored Hawk’s wife, Adrienne—when she wasn’t trying to marry him off—and he doted upon their young son, Carthian. He had been, if not exactly happy, content. At least until recently. So what ailed him?