Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(64)

“There is a single reason.” Lachlan gestured to Cairenn sleeping upon the pallet in the corner. “And there she is.”

The boy glanced at her. “I don’t understand.”

“You will, someday, if fate is kind.”

“Fate has been kind, by returning the firstborn of The MacEgan to take up the white rod as you were meant to.”

Fingal’s words were buoyant but they weighed upon Lachlan like a mantle of lead. He and Cairenn had entered the mead-hall of his father’s house in an effort to change the fate that lay before them, but now, with his brother’s fervent gaze upon him, Lachlan began to realize that choosing a different fate for himself meant settling the fate he yearned to reject onto the young shoulders of his own brother.

“Our father’s truest wish,” Lachlan said, his heart rising to his throat, “was to do what was best for the entire clan.”

“It is my truest wish, as well.”

“Well then,” he said, placing his hands on Fingal’s broad shoulders. “You and I have a decision to make.”

***


The wind off Loch Fyfe tossed Lachlan’s hair as he stood within the stones on the council height. It felt strange to stand bareheaded before his people after spending so much time in hiding. He felt their scrutiny upon him, and their assessment, like a hundred thousand lances.

He straightened his shoulders, though it was like shifting the weight of a stone carrier’s yoke. Fate was rolling over him faster than he could comprehend, but he was resolved: He would do what duty demanded.

Once silence settled under the wind-whipped clouds, Callum Ewing walked into the circle, his snowy hair oiled and gleaming so that every man could see the tracks of the comb in it. The chieftain stopped in the center, where the white rod lay at his feet.

“These six weeks and more,” Callum bellowed, “have been terrible times for our clan.”

A murmuring of agreement rippled through the gathering.

“Our lands have been ravished,” he said, “our people frightened, and our own chieftain—a good man, a strong leader, and my friend—murdered on his own lands.”

Lachlan flinched at the reminder and sensed the same shock ripple through Fingal where his half-brother stood beside him.

“All this,” Callum said, “is what happens when we are divided. Fergus himself warned us of this. Fergus himself offered a remedy.”

Callum Ewing bent down and took the rod in his hand. When he straightened, he turned toward Lachlan.

“Lachlan MacEgan, the firstborn son of Fergus, is the true heir to the chieftaincy.” Callum pointed the rod at him like a sword. “This rod, and the lordship of all of us, belongs to you.”

The rod glowed like a beacon. Lachlan walked toward it though he was hardly aware of crossing the beaten grass. Ever since his father had made his intentions clear, Lachlan had known this day would come. He’d never wanted it, but he had envisioned it, the rod stretched out to him like this, glowing as the clouds parted and set the marble surface alight. His visions had never quite gone so far as to see that rod firm in his grip. Not like now, as his palm pressed against its chill girth.

It was heavier than he’d expected.

“Say hail.” Callum raised his arms to the crowd. “Hail to the chieftain of—”

“NO.”

Lachlan’s shout echoed across the hill. “No,” he repeated, as a restlessness began among the men. This was the fourth time the council had convened and these men had hoped to return to their homes, and to peace. “Before a decision is made,” he said, “heed my words.”

He walked in a circle and raised his own voice so that he would be heard by even the farthest man.

“My father, your late chieftain, was a man of great wisdom,” he began. “He recognized the source of English strength and chose to adopt it, so that we, as a clan, may be stronger.” He lifted the rod to show it to all of them. “But are we not Scots?”

A shout of assent rang out, and then another.

“My father settled this duty upon me.” He tightened his fist on the raised rod. “But shouldn’t I, a clansman just like each one of you, have a say in who shall be chieftain of my own people?”

He stopped in front of his half-brother, whose eyes shone bright.

“As heir, it is my choice whether to take the rod,” Lachlan said, holding out the scepter to his half-brother, “or to pass it to the better man.”

A moment of surprised silence hovered over the hill. Fingal bowed his head before him, and then raised his beaming face. A shout of huzzah erupted, followed by more. Soon the crowd added the approval of pounding feet and the rise of joyous laughter. Lachlan embraced Fingal, and then separated from him so that Fingal could hold out his hand. With ceremony, Lachlan placed the rod in his palm. Gripping it, Fingal raised it above his head so that all the gathering could see.

Lachlan drank in the sight of his brother and their exultant clan while his chest swelled with pride.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Cairenn swam up from sleep. The sunlight beat against her eyelids. Somewhere nearby came the shuffling of feet, the rustling of fabric, and a strange, intermittent, scratching sound. As the intensity of the sunlight increased, she moved her leaden limbs and felt the tickle of the wool against her skin. She became aware of something else, too—a presence in the room, a loving warmth that she instantly recognized as Lachlan.