He nearly broke into a run but then he realized it was Innes.
The laird sat alone, watching the arena with a stoic countenance. Watching him walk across the sand.
Jack’s last hope dwindled as the guards brought him to a halt.
He had no plan. He had no way of escaping this. He went completely numb as his wrists were unshackled. He felt like he had been buried in snow and the cold was finally claiming him. Eating him alive, bone by bone.
Someone set a sword in his hands. He nearly dropped it; he had to force his fingers to close around the scuffed hilt. A man with a booming voice was speaking, and the crowd was cheering, booing.
It was indecipherable noise to Jack when he saw a shadow move on the sand and felt a presence close beside him. He turned his head and saw his father, standing three paces away.
Niall Breccan was tall, just as Jack had always imagined him to be. He was thin, as Jack was himself. His skin was pale, tattooed, and grimy from weeks in the dungeons. He wore a ratty tunic, soft hide boots, and a leather breastplate freckled with old blood. A full helm shielded his face and hair, and a sword waited in his right hand.
Jack continued to study him, this stranger who was his father.
Niall stood unmoving, patiently waiting for the fight to begin. He didn’t notice Jack’s stare, or if he did, he ignored it. He didn’t even seem to be breathing, as though he were already dead.
The crowd roared again. Jack could feel the sound reverberate through his body, and he blinked as sweat began to sting his eyes.
Niall suddenly turned to face him. He raised his sword and took a step closer, preparing to take a cut at Jack. The fight had started, and Jack responded by stepping back, trying to keep a safe distance between them.
“I’m your son!” he shouted at Niall, but between the gag and the roar of the spectators, his voice was overpowered. He tried again, screaming, “I’m your son!”
He dropped the sword and touched his chest. He pointed at Niall before pounding his fist over his heart.
Niall shook his head and took another step closer. “Pick up your sword and fight. Don’t make me chase you around the arena like a coward.”
The words struck Jack like barbs. But he made no motion to retrieve his sword. He stood facing his father, waiting for the impossible to happen.
“Pick up your sword,” Niall said again, his voice a low, agitated grumble beneath his helm.
Jack held up his hands. He wasn’t going to fight. If he did, Niall would kill him even faster.
His father took a vicious swing at him. The steel tip reflected the firelight, the stars that burned above, as it grazed the front of Jack’s breastplate. He scrambled backwards, provoking laughter and amusement from the crowd.
Niall pressed him, swinging again. Jack dodged his sword, having no choice but to run to the other side of the arena.
“Mirin!” he shouted as Niall began to pursue him. He drew his mother’s name up like a shield, let it tear through him. “Mirin!”
Niall wasn’t listening. He tried to give Jack another blow, and Jack had to dodge and run yet again, but his thoughts and his breath fell in tempo with each other.
Mirin.
Frae.
Mirin.
Frae.
Mirin.
Frae.
If this was how Jack died, he hoped his mother and sister never learned of it.
He could hear Niall gaining on him, and Jack continued to run. He would run, around and around this arena, until he could run no longer. He refused to pick up the sword he had abandoned where it still lay, glistening on the sand.
They made five more circuits, the crowd booing in earnest now, before Niall reached out and snagged Jack’s sleeve. He yanked so hard that Jack lost his balance. He sprawled on the ground, the air knocked from his lungs. His chest felt heavy, and he realized it was because Niall was pinning him down with his boot, holding him in place on the sand.
Jack had no breath to give, no voice left to make one final attempt at communicating. He trembled in fear, fear that tasted sour in his mouth. But the names he loved, the names that had fueled him this long, sang through him one more time, steadying his heart.
Mirin.
Frae.
Adaira.
Niall removed his helm and cast it aside, exposing his face. His hair was red as copper. His eyes were blue as midsummer.
Frae. He looked so much like Frae.
Niall raised his sword, aiming for Jack’s throat. A clean, quick death.
And Jack didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to see the ice in Niall’s eyes, the deep lines etched in his brow. The anger and the hardness and the agony.
Jack exhaled.
His heart pounded in his chest.