The Claiming of the Highlands Read online

  Having decided on the course of action he would take, Rodric shifted his focus back to Thomas, who stared at him with little expression on his face, revealing nothing of what he might be thinking. From what Rodric had learned, the boy had grown up in the forest, so based on that and his clothes, he couldn’t be too knowledgeable about the ways of the royal court. Yes, this could be the perfect way to make a fool out of him. Besides, knocking this particular opponent down a peg could only help him.

  “It is the custom for me, as High King, to lead everyone to the dance floor.” Rodric glared at Thomas, his gaze challenging. “However, on this special day, in which the Lord of the Highlands has returned to our august company, I think it would be more appropriate if the young Lord Thomas Kestrel led us in the first dance.”

  Thomas’ sharp eyes remained locked on Rodric, showing no emotion, apparently unperturbed by the suggestion. Gregory leaned down to whisper to Kaylie as tension wove itself throughout the room.

  “Remember that the first dance at this feast is the Dance of the Kings and Queens. Rodric is simply trying to embarrass Thomas and show everyone here that he doesn’t belong.”

  “I would be honored,” replied Thomas, rising from his seat. “Unfortunately, I have no one to dance with.”

  Kaylie knew that the prescribed dance was incredibly intricate, requiring several dozen set poses and movements to be conducted flawlessly to the rhythm of the music. When she was a young girl, she felt that all she did was train to perform this dance, which she found to be more difficult to learn than her work with Kael to master the sword. She was about to rise and try to help Thomas with the dance so that he wouldn’t appear the fool when a voice broke through her thoughts.

  “It would be a pleasure, Lord Thomas.”

  Corelia Tessaril elegantly rose from her chair and glided gracefully toward the newly proclaimed Highland Lord, every eye in the room on the Princess of Armagh. Thomas accepted her hand and walked her to the middle of the chamber, which had been cleared for this very purpose. He couldn’t help but notice how her silk dress shimmered in the firelight and clung to the curves of her body. He found the beautiful woman distracting, almost intoxicating when he caught a whiff of her perfume. And he struggled to keep his thoughts from going any further, knowing that she was also exceedingly dangerous.

  As Thomas escorted Corelia to the dance floor, Kaylie stared in disbelief, her eyes turning to daggers. Her disappointment showed as she was forced to watch the Princess of Armagh grasp Thomas’ arm tightly as they walked through the crowd, Corelia leaning in close to Thomas to say something in his ear. Gregory leaned down to whisper to her once again.

  “Don’t let your irritation show,” her father instructed. “She can use it against you if she sees it, and she will see it. Next time be quicker. Don’t get angry, get even.”

  Kaylie glanced at her father, embarrassed because he had noticed her reaction, but then realized the truth of his words. She forced herself to regain her composure as the musicians began to play the music for the Dance of the Kings and Queens.

  “For hundreds of years only royalty learned this dance,” Rodric taunted. “As the Lord of the Highlands, I have no doubt of the young Lord Kestrel’s lineage and his ability to lead us in this dance.”

  Rodric snorted then laughed after he finished his pronouncement, obviously thinking that there was no way a boy reputedly raised in the forest would have knowledge of the intricate steps required.

  “Do you know this dance?” asked Corelia, outwardly calm but suddenly a bit nervous, as she was rethinking the alacrity of her decision making. This was a chance that could benefit her in the future, but not if it ended with her humiliated due to her partner’s unfamiliarity with what was required.

  “We’re about to find out,” grinned Thomas.

  The gracefulness that Thomas had displayed many times in battle became readily apparent on the dance floor. That and the fact that he did indeed know the complicated moves demanded of the dance. As Thomas twirled Corelia across the chamber, Rodric’s smile fell from his face as he realized that his attempt to demean the boy had turned against him. In fact, many of the young women, watching the Lord Kestrel’s movements and skill, quickly became entranced with the young Highland Lord, clearly viewing him as more than just someone who had wandered in from the wilderness.

  As the dance came to an end, the applause loud and deafening in the chamber, Corelia stared at Thomas breathlessly. Her face showed both surprise at what she had just experienced, but also intrigue and a touch of infatuation. She realized that there was more to this new Highland Lord than she had expected. Her calculating mind never stopped working as she continued to think about how she could turn Thomas to her advantage.

  “You surprise me, Lord Kestrel,” said Corelia, her face flushed a rosy pink from their exertions. She pulled Thomas in close, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

  “I had a very good teacher,” replied Thomas, doing his best to ignore what Corelia’s low-cut gown revealed.

  “Who?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother is a queen?” Corelia sounded incredulous, still trying to fathom how someone raised as Thomas had been could have any inkling of what was required in a royal court.

  “No, but she learned during a time when there wasn’t much difference between a lady and a queen.”

  Corelia didn’t understand his reply, her confusion plain. Nevertheless, her interest in this new Highland Lord increased tenfold. With a smoldering look, Corelia was about to try to sink her first lure into him. But she was too slow as Thomas caught her off guard by speaking first.

  “Princess, it was truly a pleasure, and you are a magnificent dancer. Thank you.” Thomas smiled at her, and much to her surprise his grin quickly pierced her calculating heart. “Yet it seems that there are several others who would like to dance with you, and though it pains me, I would feel a great deal of remorse if I prevented you from dancing with these other admirers. Hopefully, later this evening, we could dance again.”

  Thomas bent at the waist, took her hand and kissed it softly, then backed away from a now crowded dance floor filled with other couples until he was lost in the mix.

  It took Corelia a few moments to regain her senses as she watched him move to the edge of the crowd and back among the Marchers. She didn’t know if she was more shocked by how much she enjoyed dancing with Thomas or how smoothly he had extricated himself from her grip. Placing her weight on one leg, she continued to watch the Highland Lord, arms crossed, one foot tapping, deep in thought, realizing that this boy would be a much more formidable prospect than she had expected.

  “When next we meet, Thomas,” she whispered to herself. “You will not escape me so easily. Perhaps next time I’ll surprise you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hidden Meaning

  Rodric’s face turned a flaming red, the vein in his forehead throbbing dangerously, as he watched Thomas dance with his daughter Corelia. No matter what he attempted, nothing seemed to take that blasted boy down a notch. And why was that foolish girl trying to help him? She should know better than to involve herself in a matter such as this. Unless she had her own machinations in the works. He pondered that for a few minutes, wondering what his daughter might be contriving, before gazing around the chamber. He noticed Killeran seeking to entertain several ladies in a corner, though it appeared that they received his attentions half-heartedly at best. Rodric motioned angrily to the Lord of Dunmoor for him to disengage himself.

  Killeran, his large nose once again leading the way, reluctantly approached. He had expected this conversation ever since the boy declared himself the Highland Lord, and as a result he had done his best to avoid the High King since he had arrived in Eamhain Mhacha. His strategy had worked, until now.

  “For ten years he was in the Highlands. For ten years! And you couldn’t even kill a boy.” Rodric grabbed Killeran’s arm roughly,
pulling him away from the other revelers to a quiet place along the back wall of the chamber. “Then Chertney gives you an army of Ogren and some Shades and you still can’t kill him! A whelp and a few Highlanders routed you. I should kill you now for your incompetence.”

  Killeran cringed against the stone, his face turning white at the vehemence of Rodric’s castigating whisper. He tried to stammer out an apology, but the High King cut him off.

  “But not yet, no matter how much your death might be deserved. The Highlands will be mine, one way or the other.” Rodric’s voice dripped contempt, the throbbing vein on his forehead threatening to explode. “The Lord Thomas has much to do to rebuild his country. There will be much going on. He will be distracted. That’s when we’ll strike.”

  Killeran had trouble following the conversation, his face revealing his obvious confusion. Rodric seemed to be talking to himself more than him. Rather than seeking clarity, Killeran chose to remain silent, not wanting to push the High King over the edge.

  “And this time, Killeran, if you fail you will die. I’ll give you to the Ogren. They’re always hungry, especially for pompous, incompetent bastards.”

  Rodric released Killeran’s arm, turning away.

  “Meet me in my chambers tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss your next, and perhaps final, assignment then.”

  Killeran stood there for a moment, puzzled, watching the High King wade into the crowd, his small stature quickly swallowed by those standing around him. What was Rodric talking about? Usually he picked up hidden meanings quickly. It was a necessary trait to survive and excel at Dunmoorian politics. Maybe all the wine he had been drinking in anticipation of this encounter had dulled his senses. With the boy now the Highland Lord, the only way to gain control of the Highlands would be to …

  Killeran smiled, his drink-muddled thoughts finally breaking through the fog. Now he understood what Rodric planned. He had pulled it off once before with the grandfather and father, so why not again? It might actually be fun, he thought, ignoring the inconvenient memories of all that he had suffered because of this upstart Highland Lord, and how many times he had barely escaped dire circumstances with his life, not contemplating the fact that eventually his luck just might run out. No, if he was interpreting the High King correctly this would give him a chance to get even with the boy who had done such a good job of embarrassing him and threatening the plans he had laid so long ago, plans that now teetered on the verge of destruction. The Dunmoorian Lord began to laugh, his nasal twang catching the attention of the people around him.

  To hell with them. He stared back defiantly at anyone brave enough to turn in his direction. To hell with them all. Rodric. Chertney. The whelp.

  “I’ll get what’s coming to me,” he whispered to himself. “One way or the other.”

  Killeran wandered back into the crowd in search of another glass of wine. If he had to deal with Rodric in the morning, he would have some fun tonight.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A New Pawn

  Ragin Tessaril wiped away the drops of sweat that regularly stung his eyes. He had no wish to attend the feast, yet despite making that fact known, his father still felt the need to order him to stay away so as to save him the embarrassment of revealing his injury. Or in terms of how he interpreted his father’s order, to reveal that he was less than what he had once been. Though whether his father felt shame for him or for himself, he didn’t know. And he really didn’t care. Instead, he had trained for hours, hacking at the various wooden figures designed to help swordfighters hone their skills, seeking to channel the rage that ran through him like a deep-flowing river, knowing that his tormentor was within easy reach but that he could do nothing about it. He resisted the urge to scratch at the jagged scar that ran down the right side of his face. The wound had healed, but it still festered within him, leaving him bitter and angry.

  That one moment in time, up on the battlements of Tinnakilly, had changed his life drastically. When he had captured the boy, he was on top of the world. Favored by his father, having gained in Rodric’s eyes in his constant, relentless competition with his sister, respected by his father’s underlings, yet in seconds it had all changed irrevocably. His power, his appearance, his prospects, his personality. The life he had become accustomed to, the life that he had deserved, had been taken from him by one lucky strike by a woodland boy.

  He knew in his heart that he would get another chance at the new Highland Lord, to pay him back for what he had taken from him, and when he did, he wanted to be ready. He wanted to show that upstart that luck had won him the day the first time they had dueled. But the second time they met, the boy would discover that his luck wouldn’t be enough.

  “It wasn’t luck. You’ll never kill the Highland Lord with a sword. His skill with a blade surpasses yours no matter how much you hack at these pieces of wood.”

  Ragin spun around, sword poised to strike, searching for the source of the voice. A shape stepped out of the shadows that wrapped around the edges of the training room. Tall and gaunt, skin pulled tightly over his bones, and wearing gray robes that revealed liver-spotted, skeletal hands. The most memorable aspect of the figure approaching the Prince of Armagh were the eyes, the black, malevolent eyes that sent a shiver through Ragin’s body.

  “You said as much yesterday,” stated Ragin bitterly. “Who are you to say so, Malachias? What skill do you have with a blade?”

  “I am a man who understands the desire for revenge, the necessity of it, how the need for revenge burrows into your heart until you can think of nothing else,” Malachias replied in his raspy voice. “And I stand by what I said. Train all you want. You’ll never kill him with steel.”

  Ragin’s rage at being criticized withered, replaced by fear. He sensed a power in this man that both terrified him and excited him at the same time.

  “Then how?”

  “I see it in you now, Ragin. The boy took more from you than your good looks on the battlements of Tinnakilly. Your hatred of the new Highland Lord grows every time you think of him. Every time you see him. Every time you hear of him and his latest exploits.”

  Ragin was unnerved that this Malachias had hit so close to the mark. That he could read his very thoughts.

  “So what if it does?”

  “I wouldn’t fault you, after the gift he left you.” Malachias gestured to the scar that marred Ragin’s once handsome visage. “Yet every time you think of him, you hate yourself just a little more as well. You hate your weakness. He’s too strong for you. Not only with the sword, but also the Talent.”

  “The Talent?”

  Malachias gestured toward Ragin. In an instant, he couldn’t move his body, arms tight to his sides, legs pressed together. It felt like his head was caught in a vice. He could only move his eyes to track Malachias as he began to pace the room.

  “You didn’t know? Yes, your rival seems to have many skills that most people don’t know about. This Highland Lord has some ability in the Talent. He can harness the power of nature. So even if by some miracle you could compete with him with a blade, you’d still be at a disadvantage. You would be vulnerable. As you are now.”

  The sweat began to pour off of Ragin as he realized he was at Malachias’ mercy. Though he struggled against his invisible bonds, he couldn’t convince any part of his body to move. Malachias stepped in front of him, his height placing the Prince of Armagh in an unwanted shadow.

  “But as you can see, and as I have said, I can help you. I can give you a way to negate his Talent. I can give you a way to destroy him.” Malachias leaned in close, his face just a fingerbreadth from Ragin’s, his foul breath, smelling like an open grave, wafting over him. “You need only decide. But beware, my young Prince of Armagh. For if you want to achieve power, real power, a power that only a handful in all the Kingdoms have the ability to employ, there is a price that you must pay. Are you willing to pay that price?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Dance

  Thomas
walked through the crowded chamber, the lords and ladies parting in front of him, many offering their good wishes. Some because they truly were pleased to see him take the throne of the Highlands; others hoping to curry favor at a later date. He approached Gregory and Kaylie, who had just finished speaking with Rendael, King of Kenmare. The old king had guided Sarelle away from Gregory so that he could speak to the Queen of Benewyn on his own about some proposed trade agreements.

  “King Gregory,” said Thomas, inclining his head as a sign of respect. “Princess, you look beautiful this evening.”

  Kaylie could only whisper a thank you as she tried to hide the blush that she felt spreading across her cheeks. She still struggled to look Thomas in the eyes because of the shame that burdened her.

  “You are full of surprises, Thomas. In fact, just today I believe you’ve tweaked Rodric’s nose at least three times. That’s a feat that most men can’t lay claim to no matter how hard they may try.”

  “I do what I can, King Gregory,” chuckled Thomas nervously, still a bit uncomfortable standing next to Kaylie. He wanted to blame her for what had happened in Tinnakilly, but the more he thought about it the more he had realized that it had all been beyond her control. His grandmother had been insistent in that regard, and he had no reason to doubt her. “I was hoping that in the months ahead we might discuss some matters regarding Fal Carrach and the Highlands. Before the death of my family we had excellent relations between our two Kingdoms. I would like to make it so once again.”