Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,13
Castle, the Irvine stronghold. It had been a few weeks, but Cassian’s man hadn’t sent word that anything was afoot. “Not yet … but as soon as he does, we’ll know.”
Maximus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table while he massaged his temples. “Each discovery we make feels like pure chance. Even after all this time, that witch is still playing with us.”
Draco grunted his agreement, while Cassian sighed deeply.
Indeed, that long-dead bandruì wielded the power of life and death over them. She was their mistress, and had been since that fateful day after the Ninth fell.
Cassian felt a dropping sensation in his gut, and a chill washed over him. What if all of this was nonsense? What if they solved the last line and nothing changed?
The witch’s riddle suddenly played through Cassian’s mind, as it often did, taunting him:
When the Broom-star crosses the sky,
And the Hammer strikes the fort
Upon the Shelving Slope.
When the White Hawk and the Dragon wed,
Only then will the curse be broke.
For years, he’d feared the riddle would get the better of them. For centuries, they’d only managed to decipher the first line. The ‘Broom-star’ was the fire-tailed comet that appeared in the night sky every seventy-five years. The fort upon the Shelving Slope referred to the old name for Dunnottar.
And they now knew that Shaw Irvine’s ‘Battle Hammer’ was to strike the fort.
Cassian clenched his jaw so hard that pain lanced through his ears. No, he couldn’t let himself despair, couldn’t let himself believe that the bandruì was simply toying with them.
He had to believe that the curse could be broken.
His attention returned to Maximus. Out of the three of them, he had the most to live for. Ever since meeting Heather, something had changed in the Roman. After centuries as a loner who didn’t ally himself with anything or anyone, not only had he recently wed the woman he loved, but like Draco, he’d also willingly joined William Wallace in his cause. These days there was a spark in him that had been missing for so long, and seeing it pleased Cassian.
Warmth replaced the chill in his chest. These two men were his family. The loner and the rebel were the brothers he’d never had in his old life, for he’d been an orphan.
Cassian looked to Draco then and saw that his face was marred by a fierce scowl. Unlike Maximus, who’d joined the Scottish cause because he wanted to be part of something bigger than himself—as he loved a Scottish woman, and her fight was his fight—Cassian suspected Draco had joined for other reasons.
For a long while now, the Moor had sought oblivion, violence, and destruction. The wait at Dunnottar made Draco restless and irritable. Just two days earlier, he’d gotten into a fist fight in the mess hall with one of Cassian’s men. Draco was a leashed wolf.
Draco spoke little of the woman he’d once loved. All Cassian knew was that she’d met a violent end, and Draco was part of the war band that wreaked vengeance upon their enemies afterward. The raid was vicious and bloody—and Draco had been a different man ever since. His moods were more mercurial these days, and his behavior more brooding and reckless.
Cassian suspected Draco had done things that haunted him still.
Looking away from his friends, Cassian’s gaze fixed on his clasped hands upon the table before him. It almost looked as if he was praying. However, none of them followed the Christian God, but Mithras, the Great Bull-slayer. Cassian prayed morning and night to Mithras in the hope that the Lord of Light might guide his way.
VI
THE BELTAINE BANQUET
“LOOK AT YE, lass.” Donnan De Keith greeted his younger daughter with a wide smile. “I’ve rarely seen such a bonny sight.”
“Da, ye are embarrassing me.” Aila ducked her head as warmth rose to her cheeks. She wasn’t used to being the center of attention, and for a few moments regretted letting Lady Gavina fuss over her all afternoon.
“Stand up straight, Aila,” her mother chastised. “Do that lovely kirtle and surcoat proud. Lady Gavina has shown ye a great kindness … I hope ye thanked her properly?”
“Of course I have, Ma.” Aila squared her shoulders, even though her embarrassment morphed into irritation. She hated it when her mother spoke to her as if she were twelve. Smoothing out the skirt of the surcoat she wore over a crimson kirtle, she marveled at the fineness of the silk. She’d never worn anything so lovely.