The Renegade's Heart (35 page)

The smith looked at her, understanding in his
eyes, then glanced down at the threshold of the cottage and smiled.
The silver hilt of that blade shone there, even surrounded by fresh
snow. Then he spoke to Murdoch. “The laird will ride to hunt at
first light, and you are the prey he seeks.”

“No! Alexander would not,” Isabella began to
protest, the words dying on her tongue as she realized he
would.

“His beloved sister has been seized by a
renegade,” the smith said quietly. “What else would a man of honor
do but lend chase? He would have ridden out last night, had it not
been for the storm.”

“I thank you for your tidings,” Murdoch said
briskly. “Come in.” Even as he gestured in welcome, he retrieved
his boots and tugged them on, then lifted his tabard.

The smith’s gaze danced over the interior,
his eyes narrowing as he watched the fire on the hearth. Isabella
realized then that they had never put more wood on the fire during
all the night, yet it blazed as vigorously as it had upon their
arrival. “I will not, but I thank you.”

“We should leave with all haste,” Murdoch
said to Isabella. “We will not be here at cock’s cry.”

She nodded and hastened to fetch her own
kirtle, well aware that the smith lingered outside the door. In
moments, they both were dressed, their cloaks only slightly damp.
Murdoch caught her hand in his and led her through the portal, then
bent and removed the dagger from the threshold.

Even as he returned the blade to the smith,
the doorway glimmered and shimmered. The sight reminded Isabella of
the surface of the millpond in summer, then the entire cottage
faded from view as surely as if it had never been. Snowy fields
stretched around them, the air still and cold. In the distance was
the silhouette of Ravensmuir, silhouetted against the pewter
churning of the sea.

A horse nickered and Isabella turned to see a
white stallion stamping behind the smith, fighting the bit and
tossing his head.

“Zephyr!” Murdoch strode to the horse, his
delight more than clear. He stroked the beast, checking him with
care and the horse nuzzled his hair with affection. “How did you
retrieve him?” he asked, his eyes alight with pleasure.

The smith smiled. “I feared his shoe was
loose. Indeed, concern kept me awake half the night, until my own
wife bade me go and check so she could manage to sleep. I could not
confirm my suspicion, so was compelled to take him for a ride.” He
shrugged. “It seems I erred, for his shoes are all in good
condition.” His eyes widened in mock horror. “In fact, the beast
fared so well that he escaped me this morn and I could not catch
him.”

“I thank you for yet another gift!” Murdoch
said, clasping that man’s hand and grasping his shoulder. “I owe
you much, Master Smith.”

The smith turned to Isabella with a smile. “I
told you once, Murdoch Seton, how you might best repay me,” he said
softly, his words making no sense to Isabella.

Murdoch grinned, through, and caught Isabella
around the waist, swinging her into Zephyr’s saddle. He was
invigorated and animated as he had not been since that first day,
and Isabella dared to be encouraged by the sight.

“I shall do my utmost to keep that pledge,
Master Smith,” he vowed.

“A man of reason can ask no more.”

“Can you tell us more of how Murdoch can
evade the Elphine Queen?” Isabella asked.

The smith shook his head. “The charm must be
filled unwittingly, but fear not, my lady. I believe he has
embarked well upon it.”

It was not all the reassurance Isabella might
have hoped to hear, but she smiled a little and thanked the smith
all the same.

The men shook hands then, and parted. For a
long moment Murdoch watched the smith walk back toward the village.
He then took the reins in his hand and led Zephyr across the
fields. He kicked the snow aside whenever he had doubt as to what
laid beneath it, and Isabella admired the care he took with his
steed even though they made a slow pace. She could see that not far
ahead, the ground became more level, and there he would be able to
ride with her.

There was a faint tinge of pink on the
eastern horizon when Murdoch abruptly stopped. He gestured to the
surface of the snow, and it was only with the light of the dawn –
and the shadows it cast – that Isabella could see what he
indicated.

Tracks in the snow.

“What is it?” she asked.

He crouched, peering at the marks without
disturbing them. “Small boots, like those of very small children.”
He flicked a glance at Isabella and she knew what he was
thinking.

“Spriggans.” She pointed to long lines.
“Dragging their spoils in the night to Ravensmuir, just as they
vowed they would.”

“They are the thieves?”

“They reside at Kinfairlie keep. My sister
Elizabeth has seen them for years. There was a time when one of
them, a spriggan named Darg, believed all the hoard of relics
within Ravensmuir’s caverns to be its own possession. That spriggan
fought mightily with my aunt Rosamunde when the hoard was sold at
that auction.”

Murdoch nodded. “And so they reclaim what
they believe to be their own.” He flicked a glance at her. “And so
we find another place where the veil between the worlds is
thin.”

“There is an old tale that Kinfairlie’s tower
has a window which looks into Fae,” Isabella recalled. “My sister
Vivienne was much enamored of that tale.” She shook a finger at
Murdoch. “It told of a lost maiden, one claimed by a Fae bridegroom
who left a red rose in exchange for his bride. That rose proved to
be wrought of ice and melted in Kinfairlie’s hall. There is yet a
stain upon the floor there, and Alexander always points to it when
he recounts the tale.” She sighed and nodded. “And Rosamunde tells
that she entered the realm of the Fae in the caverns beneath
Ravensmuir, when they collapsed and killed Tynan. She only survived
because she was taken into the Fae realm.”

He cast her an intent look. “But she left
it.”

Isabella thought about the matter for a
moment, then nodded. “She did! Padraig saved her, though they talk
little of the details.”

Murdoch grinned at her and Isabella dared to
be encouraged at his prospects.

“Why would the spriggans leave Kinfairlie?”
he asked then. “It is no small labor to take their spoils this
far.”

Isabella shrugged. “Darg sang of intruders,
kings and queens who would seize what was not their own.”

“They fear to be robbed again.” He nodded,
then cast Isabella a sparkling glance. His confidence was visibly
returned. “And so they shall be, but not by a king or a queen.” And
he swung into the saddle behind her, his arm locking around her
waist.

“It is odd to see it without the ravens,”
Isabella whispered, as the keep of Ravensmuir loomed before
them.

"What do you mean?"

“There were always ravens resident here. They
always circled the tower and it is odd to arrive here to find them
gone.”

“What happened to the ravens? Did they leave
when the keep was ruined?”

“No, they left later. Their departure was why
my brother Malcolm chose to leave his inheritance.” Isabella was
aware of Murdoch’s interest. “He said the entire flock flew around
the broken tower, as if in tribute, then flew as one across the sea
and disappeared. He took it as a sign that he, too, should leave
Ravensmuir.”

“Where did he go?”

“He has taken the trade of a mercenary in
Europe, against Alexander’s counsel. Alexander holds the seal of
Ravensmuir in trust for Malcolm, as well as the horses that
rightfully belong to that holding.”

“The black destriers?”

“Kinfairlie continues the breeding, in
Ravensmuir’s stead.”

They rode in silence for a moment, then
Murdoch cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but I do not understand.
Why would Malcolm abandon his inheritance because of the ravens
departure? While the keep is damaged, he would still have the
income from the breeding of the horses to aid in its
reconstruction.”

“He saw their abandonment as a sign,”
Isabella said. “These ravens were not like their fellows elsewhere.
My uncle could speak to them, it was said, and they gathered
tidings for him from afar, ensuring that he knew of the deeds of
men when he should not. It was told that he learned their language
from his own father, who was Laird of Ravensmuir before him, and
that no secrets could be kept from either of them.”

“And thus they were said to be sorcerors,”
Murdoch said with a smile.

Isabella smiled back. “When truly, they
simply had unnatural allies.”

“There are those who would call that sorcery
in itself.” Murdoch sobered. “Or perhaps the spoils of an unholy
bargain.” He surveyed the keep with narrowed eyes and she thought
of his own bargain. Then he coaxed Zephyr to greater speed.

As if he would face the worst as soon as
possible and be done with it.

Isabella swallowed, not nearly so intent upon
parting from her knight – or seeing him pay some dreadful price.
She wanted to hold this moment fast, to have as much time as
possible with him, but she knew it was not to be. The moon was
setting, taunting her with the fact that it was waning already. Its
last light glinted on the snow, making its surface look to be
crusted in diamonds.

In the distance, something gold winked as it
moved into the shadow of Ravensmuir.

* * *

At the heart of Kinfairlie’s forest was a
smoking wasteland. It was not a large area, merely a clearing that
had been made bigger than once it was. The contrast between its
blackened state and the surrounding forest was remarkable.

But what struck Stewart’s heart was the
realization that the burned area was precisely where their camp had
been.

Stewart and the boys arrived at first light,
all of them exhausted after a day and a night of hard riding. They
halted their steeds as one to stare at the blackened ground. Within
this circle, the trees were burned to stumps, and the undergrowth
was still smoking.

It was curiously silent, the wild creatures
having retreated to other areas of the forest.

The sky was as pale as burnished silver,
devoid of clouds, and the wind was still. There was only the
tendrils of smoke rising from the devastation. Stewart crossed
himself as he looked upon it, for he feared the worst. They rode
through the forest toward Kinfairlie in silence. When they reached
the perimeter of the woods, Gavin bit his lip and looked out to the
sea.

“Do you think my lord Murdoch was trapped in
the fire, sir?” Hamish asked, his voice small.

Stewart considered the scene. “Either he has
been captured and languishes within Kinfairlie’s dungeon, or he
escaped. If he escaped, it must be because he followed the road
away from Kinfairlie.” He scanned the land in every direction.
Could Murdoch have ridden across the fields? He caught a glimpse of
movement in the far distance, though he could not identify what he
saw from this vantage point. Whatever – or whoever – it was seemed
to be moving toward the ruined keep of Ravensmuir.

Something white, on a snowy field.

“The laird prepares to ride out,” Gavin said
quietly, pointing to the array of pennants and horses being
mustered in Kinfairlie’s distant bailey. “I say my lord Murdoch
lives.”

Stewart could not suppress his smile. “I say
you are right, and I am glad of it.” He pointed toward the distant
motion on the fields. “Do you with your young eyes think that to be
a white horse with a rider crossing the fields to Ravensmuir?”

Gavin’s expression lit as he stared. “I
cannot say for certain, my lord, but I believe you to be right in
this.”

“And I would know the truth of it,” Stewart
said. “Ride on, for Ravensmuir!”

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

Isabella was filled with trepidation as she
and Murdoch reached Ravensmuir. The sun was piercingly bright,
which only made the shadows within the ruined keep seem more
ominous.

From the road that approached the gates of
the keep, Ravensmuir would not appear damaged, for the curtain wall
remained mostly intact. From this vantage point, Murdoch having
ridden across the fields, Isabella could see that the wall was a
mere facade. One tower yet pointed at the sky, its windows as dark
as midnight, and the rest of the once majestic keep lay in piles of
tumbled stones.

Murdoch rode Zephyr through the gates, where
once a sturdy portcullis would have blocked the path. Alexander had
had the smith remove the portcullis and install it at Kinfairlie,
for it was strong and there was little to defend at Ravensmuir any
more. Once through the portal, Isabella could see only the sea
stretching to the horizon in every direction. The great hall was
collapsed to one side, the stables shaky on the far side of the
bailey. The land fell into great pits, the turf broken and dark
hollows visible.

“Once there were caverns,” Isabella said. “An
entire network of them that wound beneath the keep and led down to
a secret harbor by the sea. When the spriggan Darg challenged
Rosamunde and Tynan over the ownership of the relics, the caverns
collapsed.”

“How?”

“I am not certain. Rosamunde is reluctant to
dwell upon it. She gave us only the bare details.” Isabella
swallowed. “It must have been terrifying.”

Murdoch nodded. “But that was how your uncle
Tynan died?”

“It was the last time he was seen.” Isabella
shuddered. “No one dared to descend into the ruin to seek his
body.”

Murdoch dismounted, his manner thoughtful,
then lifted her down from the saddle. Isabella glanced up at that
one tower, unable to keep herself from looking for the ravens even
though she knew she would not see them.