The moon-drenched visions broke when the arena door swung open with a bang.
A tall, armored man stepped forward. His boots crushed the sand, and the light gleamed on his steel breastplate. Woad was imprinted on the backs of his hands, on the cords of his neck and the shaved portions of his head. His face was stern until he smiled. And when he raised his arms, the clan cheered.
Adaira could feel the roar reverberate through the wood under her feet. She exhaled, watching as the man lowered his arms. The clan fell quiet again in response, and he swiftly forgot about the crowd when he looked to the balcony. Adaira felt his eyes trace her face as he stepped closer, then stopped in the center of the arena.
“Laird Innes,” the man said, his voice raspy, as if he had spent years shouting. “Lady Cora.” He bowed to them both, holding the stance until Innes spoke.
“Begin the culling, Godfrey.”
He straightened, the corners of his lips tilting in a crooked smile. He turned to address the crowd next as he walked around the perimeter of the ring. “The dungeons have overflowed this past moon. Every cell has been filled, awaiting this night. Every sword has struck a whetstone, every axe has been sharpened until it shines. Tonight, however, is one that is wholly devoted to Lady Cora, who has returned home to us after many long years away.”
Adaira stiffened. “Who is this man?” she asked Innes in a whisper.
“The Keeper of the Dungeons,” Innes replied.
“And why is this night devoted to me?”
The laird made no response, keeping her gaze on Godfrey as he came to a stop in the arena. Adaira was about to ask again, more sharply, when the dungeon keeper continued.
“On this full moon, I bring you one you’ve seen fight before. You know him well, although both his name and honor have been stripped from him. I bring you Oathbreaker!”
Sounds of dissent sprouted in the crowd. Adaira frowned, leaning forward as a tall man was escorted into the arena. He wore a ratty tunic and boots, and his pale knees and forearms were stained with grime. A leather breastplate freckled with old blood was buckled over his chest. A full helm shielded his face, and his wrists were shackled behind his back until he was brought to a halt, standing to the left of Godfrey. One of the guards unfettered the prisoner, freeing him from the irons, and what looked to be a dull, mundane sword was set into his hands.
Adaira stared at the one called Oathbreaker, surprised by how still and quiet he stood, like a mountain in the sand. There was no way to tell his age, or even to catch a glimpse of his expression. But he seemed hewn from stone, and she had the prickling sensation that he was staring at her through the slits in his helm.
“Next,” Godfrey continued in a booming voice, “I bring you one who has never stepped foot in this arena before. A young man who had days of great purpose before him until he committed an irrevocable sin.”
Adaira was frozen in her chair as the second prisoner was brought forward. He also wore a tattered tunic, soft hide boots, and a leather breastplate that looked as if someone had died wearing it. But his head was free of a helm, to show his face to the crowd.
He was young. Younger than her by a few years. His grimy face was creased in fear, and he seemed to be frantically looking for someone in the crowd.
“I bring you William Dun,” Godfrey announced. “Who murdered a shepherd to steal his resources as well as his flock. And we know what we do to those who kill and take what doesn’t belong to them!”
The crowd hissed and booed.
“Please, Laird,” William begged, falling to his knees. “Have mercy! It wasn’t my—”
Godfrey nodded to one of the guards, who swiftly gagged William with a strip of dirty plaid. Adaira winced as she watched. The young man’s voice melted away; she couldn’t hear his agony over the roar of the spectators and the wool of the gag, and one of the guards slid a dented helm over his head.
“He’s not permitted to speak?” Adaira asked Innes, alarmed.
Innes took a sip of her wine. Her eyes were on the arena, but she said, “Do you remember the other day? When you and I stood in the shepherd’s croft, beholding a murdered man? I asked Rab to follow the trail the flock had left, to find the culprit.”
“Yes, I remember,” Adaira said, but she went cold at the sound of Rab’s name.
“All evidence led to this boy’s croft. His mother claimed that he came home with blood on his boots, and that she saw him hide the stolen sheep with their own flock.”
“And so you decided to hold no trial for him?” Adaira murmured, unable to hide her disgust. “Because of information Rab gathered?”