She didn’t know if she could believe her brother. If that were so, wouldn’t Innes uproot such a weakness? As a laird, she raided and she fought and she imbibed poison and she only relaxed in the presence of those she trusted most, the number of whom could be counted on one hand. She had maintained her rulership year after year through nothing but her own prowess, and no one seemed strong enough to overturn her. No one save for Adaira, should she plunge a dirk into her mother’s side.
Moray was right about one thing: Innes would never suspect such a betrayal. She would never see it coming, and yet every time Adaira imagined what it would feel like to give her mother a mortal wound, to see the light in Innes’s eyes dim as she bled out, she felt a chasm in her chest that devoured all the warmth in her.
She returned her attention to the ring.
If Moray did fall that night, then who would inherit the west when Innes was gone? The clan seemed to be hungry for an answer to that question, as the arena could hardly hold them all. They stood in clusters at the very back, gathered on the stairs, crowded each other on the benches. Even children were present, sitting on their parents’ laps, blinking sleep from their eyes.
The wind began to blow from the east, melting the eddies of mist. The clouds broke overhead, revealing a host of constellations that burned like jewels in the cloak of night. It was just as Innes once said: the clouds always parted for the culling, and a stream of curious moonlight cast the arena in silver.
Godfrey appeared, welcoming the clan with his booming voice and high energy. Adaira wasn’t listening to his introduction, though, because her eyes were on the arena doors. The ones that opened to the dungeon passage.
She reached out and found Jack’s hand. His fingers felt cold as midwinter. Neither of them would be able to sit for this fight, and they remained standing at the balustrade, side by side, mist shining in their hair. Waiting.
The iron-webbed doors creaked open.
Niall arrived first, his shoulders hunched and his feet dragging over the sand. He wore a tunic, a scuffed breastplate, and tattered boots. He was staring at the ground as if he was afraid to look up, to lift his eyes and behold Jack on the balcony. The guards brought him to a rough halt in the center of the ring, where they unshackled his wrists and ankles. Only when they handed him a dented helm and a sword did he glance upwards.
He looked directly at his son.
Adaira felt Jack’s fingers tighten around hers. She knew his heart was racing, that he was struggling to breathe through the worry and the fear. Then Niall bowed his head. Adaira didn’t know what that meant. A sign of resignation, or a vow to fight? She didn’t think Jack knew either, because she felt a tremor run through him.
Niall slid on his helm. His sad countenance and shock of auburn hair were now hidden as he waited for his opponent, sword in hand. Adaira wondered if that was the last time she would ever see his face, living and hale. His eyes gleaming with life.
The doors opened again.
Moray was ushered into the arena. He arrived with his chin tilted upwards in pride, a skewed smile on his face, his blond hair braided away from his eyes. He wore a brand-new breastplate—not a scuff marred the leather—and his boots looked freshly tanned as well. The guards escorted him to the center of the arena, a few paces to the left of Niall, and they unshackled him. They gave Moray a polished helm and a sword whose blade burned brightly, as if it had just come from the forge.
Adaira felt a shadow creep over her.
It was apparent that the dungeon keeper and the guards favored Moray. They had given him the best the armory had to offer, while giving Niall the battered, dull-edged scraps.
This didn’t feel like a fair fight, and she ground her teeth, wondering if she should say something.
Jack must have read her mind, because he squeezed her hand, drawing her attention.
Don’t, his eyes said.
Adaira sighed, but she knew what he had inferred. This fight, whose roots were tangled and deep, far beneath Jack and Adaira, had been destined. They had taken the opportunity during their two dinners to sway or to make amends, but now the outcome was up to the swords, and the men who held them.
She felt someone staring at her.
Adaira’s attention returned to the ring.
Moray was watching her intently, waiting for her sign. The helm was in the crook of his arm, the sword in his right hand. Godfrey was rambling on and on, talking about crimes and punishment and honor and bloodshed, but in that moment it was only Adaira and Moray.
This was the minute that could change everything. A fracture of time that sat like a blade in Adaira’s hands. A snarl in a tapestry, waiting for a tug to unravel it.