The Riddle Walker: Weaving of Time, #2

By Alydia Rackham

Because of a small, careless action in the medieval past, the Allied Forces may not win World War 2 after all.

Bhaird, second son of a Scottish lord, is heartbroken when his father is killed in a hunting accident, and the three MacDonald brothers are divided to rule their inheritances. While his brothers are given pieces of Scotland, Bhaird, bitter and angry, must cross the sea to Ireland. Oleron decides to come along on the journey. But as the brothers set sail, the sea churns and takes their ships under...
And when they surface, the brothers find themselves in the far future. In the midst of the second World War.

 

"The Riddle Walker" is the second book in Alydia Rackham's thrilling "Weaving of Time" trilogy. If you enjoy a race against the clock, visiting pivotal moments in history, the struggle against temptation and wickedness, and the ultimate strength of goodness, you will love this tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Jun 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224513741

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

Prologue

The young man glanced in the dull, curved mirror. He frowned. It was covered with dust. Reaching out a leather-gloved hand, he swiped at the circular surface, clearing it so that it reflected better. Bending closer, he studied his face. It was young, white, carven, princely, and hard. He had sharp, aquiline eyebrows, his mouth was set and grave, his cheekbones high and defined, and his straight, brown hair hung down to his collar. He fingered a strand of his hair that was now bearing a bit of gray, which was slightly annoying. The same hand strayed to his right eye and gently pressed against the soft skin beneath it. He was already losing his sight there—and gaining it at the same time. His mouth twitched. He still was not used to this appearance, but it did not disconcert him. Quite the opposite. He had made this transition thousands of times, and he never grew tired of regaining strong muscle and sinew, and a staggeringly handsome face.

He pulled a long, woolen riding cloak off of a wooden hook beside the mirror and slung it around his shoulders. He glanced down as he clasped it, striding down the dark, stone hallway and then kicking the door open. The door banged against the outside wall. Sunshine showered over him and warmed the top of his head. His clothes ruffled as a crisp, moist wind blew down off the hillside. The twittering of birds filled the air. He glanced up and behind him at the four gray towers of the castle, reaching high into the brilliant blue skies, each bearing a vibrant banner.

Three men waited for him in the gravel yard, each atop a muscular, sleek black horse. One was the lord of this castle, a robust, red-headed, bearded man named Lord Ackhenhaill. The other was his firstborn son, Brody, a young, lean, blonde man who thought of nothing but hunting. The third was their guest, a dark-haired, good-hearted, battle-scarred Lord Alasdair MacDomnhaill, ruler of Tioramir and half of Scotland. The young man clasping his cloak concealed his smile. This was the man who would be receiving the bulk of his attention.

Good morning, my son, Lord Ackhenhaill called merrily. The young man forced himself to acknowledge Ackhenhaill, reminding himself that the lord was talking to him, as his second son.

Good morning, the young man answered briskly.

How did you sleep? Brody asked.

Tolerably, the young man replied, turning toward the servant who was bringing out his stallion. The young man snatched the reins from the servant, restraining himself from striking him in the face. The cowering stableman hurried away as the young man mounted.

It is such a glorious day, Ackhenhaill took a deep breath as he cast his gaze across the sweeping emerald hills and blooming hedges.

It is indeed, finally, Brody agreed. Our horses haven’t had proper exercise since the rains.

Shall we stretch their legs? Alasdair suggested. The young man watched him carefully, observing the white dustings in his beard.

Are you certain you are up to it, my lord? the young man asked, arching an eyebrow.

Haha! Ackhenhaill crowed. Up to it? Oh, I assure you, there is no bolder rider in all of Scotland!

The young man turned and grinned broadly at the bright-eyed, firm-jawed Alasdair.

Then I shall enjoy the challenge of keeping up with you, my lord!

Chapter One

"A Death and an Oath"

Western Scotland, 1335

The candles had nearly burned themselves down. No one had bothered to replace them for hours, and so their light grew dimmer and paler, the shadows creeping out from the edges of the stone room and steadily venturing toward the center, where the MacDonald laird now lay. He was swathed in crimson sheets, guarded by wooden angels that formed the posts of his canopied bed. 

The flickering light deepened the colors of the wood and the bedclothes, touching the faces of the angels so that they almost animated with sympathy. The laird himself remained motionless, his face drawn with grim effort, as if resisting a tide. He was not an old man. He should not be there on his deathbed, unable to move. He knew this, and in his heart, he railed against it. But no more so than his three sons.

From oldest to youngest, they stood by their father's bedside: Dunmor, Bhaird and Oleron. All wore elegant black, remaining motionless, hanging on their father's every shallow breath.

Bhaird, the middle son, stiffly glanced at his older brother. Dunmor's proud head bowed gravely, his curly, auburn locks obscuring his solemn eyes. The battle scar on his cheek seemed accentuated in this light, and in that small place on his jaw, his skin glinted where his close beard would not grow. 

Bhaird turned a similar glance to his right, where Oleron stood. Oleron's clean-shaven, pale, cultured visage showed he was visibly pained; deeply grieved. His sapphire eyes glimmered with tears, and his well-bred jaw tightened. Bhaird risked a breath, returning his gaze to his father. None of them had spoken all day. And he knew that all day, they had each been remembering the day before.

THE DAY BEFORE HAD dawned brilliantly. Bhaird was already up before the cock crew, had dressed in simple riding clothes and boots, and run a brush through his hair. He strode to his bedroom window and pushed open the shutters, letting in the scent of lush moorland and the soft light of the spring sunshine. He had been looking forward to this day. Spring had officially arrived, and upon this day, every year since they had been able, he and his brothers had gone hunting for hart. His face clouded for a moment as he remembered that their father would not be accompanying them—-he was away to a neighboring family clan, once again attempting to find a wife for Dunmor.

Bhaird snorted as he snatched his belt and turned toward his door. Dunmor would never settle for someone his father picked out. After all, what did an old man know about beautiful young ladies?

He flung the door open and trotted down the stairs as he fastened his belt, whistling as he went. His feet hit the corridor floor and he strolled easily down it, opening shutters to the morning whenever he saw them.

Movement caught his eye ahead of him and he quit whistling. A willowy lady rustled along before him, her long, waving auburn hair hanging down almost to her knees, her emerald skirts brushing her ankles. She turned and saw him. Her dark, long-lashed eyes warmed and her lovely face beamed.

Good morning, Bhaird, Her comely mouth smiled wryly. I can always tell it's you before I even turn around.

Oh, whatever do you mean, Lady Elinor? he asked nonchalantly, coming up to her and offering her his arm. She took it and he clasped her hand in his, tucking her arm under his and pressing her hand naturally against his chest, as he always did. She glanced teasingly up at him.

You're loud, she answered.

Ha! He pretended to be offended. Perhaps I am, in comparison to my deathly-silent brothers.

Yes, Oleron especially is very quiet, Elinor admitted. "Which is considered a virtue this early in the morning."

Bhaird just laughed again. Though his wit was usually sharp as a blade, he could never outfox Elinor in a battle of banter. He remembered the day Oleron had arrived with her; Bhaird had liked her instantly. However, with a deep, settled knowledge that he did not like to think about, he had realized that he himself had no chance with her. That had been confirmed upon Elinor and Oleron's marriage.

For three years so far Elinor had showered the whole house with warmth and happiness. They had not had a lady in the household since Lady Kiera, the brothers' mother had died, and Elinor's presence did wonders for Tioramir. The place looked hospitable again—-like a home—-rather than some sort of cave, the appearance it had taken on when only men dwelt there. She cared for all four men, helping run the household and the kitchen, and often surprising them with the skills that she possessed in horsemanship and storytelling.

I must admit, though, Elinor commented as the two of them headed down the spiraling stairs. You are louder this morning than usual. What are you so happy about?

Bhaird grinned.

My silent brothers and I are going deer hunting today, he answered.

Oh, yes. Oleron told me about that, Elinor recalled. Where will you go?

Just within the castle's lands, he answered. The serfs find it sporting to watch.

Elinor frowned delicately.

That reminds me; I'm due to go down to the village today.

This was the part of Elinor that both confused and intrigued Bhaird. Elinor had brought with her more than just a sunny disposition and a new decor to the castle. She had also implemented what could be called reforms. She required that everyone—-lord or slave—-bathe at least twice a week, wash his hair, wash his face daily, and scrub his teeth with odd, small brushes that she had made out of finely-cleaned horsehair. She also made weekly trips herself down to the village of Tioramir to teach the serfs' children to read. Some of these actions would be questionable, others intolerable, if Oleron did not always support her whole-heartedly, and if they all did not love her as much as they did.

Bhaird did not get the chance to comment on her last recollection, for they now entered the smaller of the two dining rooms—-the one meant only for the family. There were four windows on the western wall, allowing morning light into the tall, stone room without scorching anyone. Dunmor and Oleron sat waiting for them, a break fast of bread, butter, cheese, apples and blackberries spread out on the long table. Elinor lit up when she saw Oleron and let go of Bhaird. Oleron grinned at her.

Good morning, Ellie, he greeted her.

Good morning, she replied, kissing him lightly and seating herself next to him. Bhaird avoided watching this affectionate exchange, then moved around the table to sit by Dunmor.

Good morning, Dunmor, Elinor said brightly, settling her skirts. The eldest smiled warmly at her.

Hello, Elinor. I hope you slept well?

Oh, indeed, she nodded. Dunmor seemed satisfied.

Let's eat, Bhaird cut in impatiently, reaching for his bread and butter. It's high time we were on the hunt.

LEAN FORWARD MORE WHEN you jump those hedges, Bhaird! Oleron shouted over the dull pounding of hooves against the peat.

Be quiet and mind your own horse, Bhaird answered back, resettling himself in his saddle after that last jump.

Fine, but if you go tipping off again—-

"Listen, someone who can't even shoot straight shouldn't be telling me—"

There he is! Dunmor cut them off and pulled his horse's head hard so that he sliced sideways, toward the river. The three men rode abreast, Dunmor slightly out front. They all rode dark stallions whose manes and tails flung out behind them in the fresh wind. Bhaird’s horse’s name was Falcon. His father had given him to him years ago, and Bhaird had broken him. Of all the horses in the stable, Falcon listened to Bhaird best.

The cool air also lashed the hair and clothes of the men as they tore across the moor, leaping over stone walls and heather toward the woods.

Far ahead of them, flitting like some member of the fairy-folk, dashed a sleek hart, his antlers now the only part of him visible over the brush. Ducking his head to avoid low branches, Bhaird darted into the trees behind Dunmor, hearing Oleron follow on his tail. Bhaird instantly had to check Falcon’s speed, for the footing here was treacherous, and a wild rosebush could fell a beast as easily as a snare. Fortunately, the hart had also realized this, and had slowed a bit as well. Dunmor, masterfully letting go of the reins and steering with his knees, brought his bow around front and slid an arrow from its quiver.

A branch reached out and slapped Bhaird across the face. He frowned fiercely as he felt its sting, but quickly refocused on his brother. Ahead of them lay a small clearing. When the deer leaped into it, and was illuminated by the sunlight, Dunmor would shoot.

Dunmor put the arrow to the string and pulled back. Bhaird sucked in his breath. Once again, his older brother would have the glory of bringing down the—-

The bellow of a horn split the air. Oleron's horse stopped instantly. Bhaird had to rein back and Falcon neighed in protest. Dunmor, momentarily flustered, took a moment before he leaned back in his saddle and called: Ho! Reluctantly, his stallion slowed to a halt. The deer darted away and was lost in the tangle. The horn sounded again. Bhaird glanced over at Oleron. He had gone pale. Oleron glanced at his brothers.

That is not good. That's—-

Right, Dunmor nodded crisply, putting away his weapons. We had best head back.

Instantly, Oleron turned his mount and pelted out of the woods. Dunmor spurred his horse past Bhaird's and followed their youngest brother. Bhaird glanced reluctantly back at the waving branches where the hart had vanished, then, his jaw tightening in disappointment, turned and galloped out of the forest as well.

They made straight for the huts and smoking chimneys of the village, both Oleron and Dunmor disregarding any preparation before leaping the hedges. Bhaird trailed behind, not willing to risk Falcon’s knees, for he was older than the other two. They reluctantly slowed as they entered the walls of the village, for people were hurrying to and fro on their daily errands. Their hooves clattered on the hardened earth as they trotted through. Peasants leaped out of their path, and Bhaird was glad for it; if something was wrong, they would only get in the way.

Oleron!

A cry came from somewhere ahead of them, and Oleron's head jerked. Elinor came racing toward them, her hair windblown, one hand hiking up her skirts, the other clasping a piece of parchment. Oleron slid off the horse without thinking and ran to her. Bhaird blinked, and his heart gave a pang. Elinor was crying. Oleron grabbed her and she fell against him.

Oleron, it's your father.

Bhaird went stiff. Peripherally, he saw Dunmor do the same. Elinor took a gasping breath and her face twisted.

Something happened while he was out riding with Lord Ackhenhaill. Ackhenhaill lost sight of him in the woods, and when he... Ackhenhaill...found him, Alasdair's horse was gone and he was lying unconscious in the rocks...

Shh, Oleron pressed her to him, trying to comfort, but his face showed his terror.

It's too much the same... Elinor whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. It can't happen to you, too...

Dunmor jumped off his horse. His boots crunched on the gravel.

May I see the message? he asked huskily. Bhaird still could not move. Elinor nodded, biting her lip, and handed him the parchment, which by now was rather wrinkled. Dunmor smoothed it out with his gloved hands and read it carefully. His rugged brow furrowed darkly and he swallowed.

Well... He cleared his throat. They should be bringing him soon. They set out right after they sent the messenger.

They shouldn't have moved him, Oleron, Elinor murmured, shaking her head. You never move someone who has hit his head or his back...

Oleron did not reply. He just wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead.   Come, he said quietly, took her hand and lead her to the horse. He got on first, then helped her mount behind him. He turned grimly to his brothers.

Let us meet them on the road to see that they carry him carefully.

They had done so. But all of the careful bearing in the world had not seemed to help. Thus, the three young men had stood restlessly beside their father all the rest of the day, all night, and all of the following day. And now all four of them could sense that, despite their best efforts, the end was drawing near.

Dunmor...

The sons jerked. Their father had spoken. Dunmor quickly knelt down by the bedside and leaned earnestly toward his father.

Yes, I am here, sir, he assured him, taking his father's right hand in both of his. Alasdair turned his battle-scarred, bearded visage toward his eldest and managed a slight smile.

My son... He spoke as if breathing were difficult. You are now the lord of Tioramir, and the largest portion of my realm.

Tears sprang to Dunmor's eyes.

Please, Father, do not speak that way—-

Do not interrupt me, Son, Alasdair closed his eyes and took another ragged breath. He opened his eyes and looked steadfastly at Dunmor. Do you swear to rule with honor and fidelity, with every action paying homage to your fathers and the God of Heaven?

Dunmor's visage, as war-scarred as his father's, but warmer and sadder, clouded with grief.

Yes, Father, he said surely, but his voice was not steady. Alasdair glanced past Dunmor. Bhaird took a small breath and his muscles readied to take Dunmor's place beside his father.

Oleron, Alasdair said. Bhaird stopped, disconcerted. He turned quickly to his younger brother. Oleron, just as surprised, blinked several times before moving forward. Bhaird stepped back, out of the way, fighting the feeling of offense that rose within him. Dunmor moved to back away as well, but Oleron rested a firm hand on his older brother's broad shoulder, knelt down close beside him and clasped both Dunmor and Alasdair's hands in his.

Yes, Father? Oleron searched the older man's face. The old man smiled, reached up with his left hand and put it to the side of Oleron's face.

My dear son... Alasdair sighed. You, who have your mother's eyes...I am proudest of you.

Dunmor cast his gaze downward. Bhaird just stood. Oleron's brow furrowed.

We have all striven to please you, my lord, he insisted. Alasdair's smile remained and he closed his eyes.

Yes, I know. But you have changed——changed in such a way that you have taught me many things. And you chose a wife! A wife that has brought so much happiness to all of us.

Oleron's expression softened and he did not argue. Bhaird could see that Dunmor was pained by their father's comment, and only remained kneeling there because of the calm touch of Oleron's hand.

My precious, third son... Alasdair whispered to Oleron. You shall receive the western islands in my possession—-Islay, Iona, Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhailre—-the ones you and I used to sail through when you were a lad. Alasdair's eyes caught a glint of fire. Once you are established there, it should be easy work to take the other islands. Then you can truly enjoy them instead of worrying about your borders.

I shall enjoy them by remembering when we were there together, Oleron responded quietly.

Yes, yes, of course, Alasdair resigned, dropping his hand, his breaths beginning to rattle. I need no oath from you. I know you shall accomplish what is honorable. Bhaird, come here.

Stiffly, Bhaird knelt down, thinking that there was no room at the bedside. But then Oleron let go of his father and Dunmor's hands and opened his side to Bhaird. Bhaird edged in and Oleron put one arm softly around Bhaird's shoulders and one around Dunmor's. Alasdair's eyes became more intense this time and he regarded Bhaird from the depths of seriousness.

I bequeath to you, second son, a realm I have never seen. It is far away, across the sea, across the bridge that Finn MacCool built.

Bhaird's brow furrowed and he leaned closer.

As you may know, my son, there is a land across the sea called Erin, Alasdair continued with difficulty. There is a castle there in the county called Antrim, and its surrounding lands are vast. But there has not been one of the MacDomnhaill there for decades...I fear that all order has fallen to ruin. Alasdair spoke urgently. I know that you will find a way to restore MacDonald rule to that savage place. Do you swear to rule with honor and fidelity, with every action paying homage to your fathers and the God of Heaven?

Bhaird could not speak for a long moment. Then finally, he nodded.

Yes, my lord. I do. 

Alasdair let out a long, relieved sigh and smiled.

You all have been good to your father. You have served me faithfully. He reached up a shaking hand again and touched Oleron's cheek. His brow furrowed strangely. I love you—-do you know that? It is I who am honored to have had you with me... He lowered his hand and it settled on the bed sheets. His eyes beamed on Oleron. And then he was gone. Bhaird blinked. Nothing dramatic had happened—-the light had simply extinguished behind his father's eyes. Alasdair's body went still and silent.

No one moved for a moment, and then Oleron made a strangling sound as if he had been struck. Dunmor shot to his feet and froze, his shoulders tightening, his brow twisting. Oleron covered his face with one hand and leaned down onto the bed. Bhaird backed away, shrugging off Oleron's arm, stood and marched out of the room, leaving the door swinging open behind him. 

Bhaird? Bhaird!

He recognized Dunmor's voice through the blur in his mind but he did not stop pacing back and forth across the flagstones of the small, dimly-lit dining hall. Footsteps sounded hollowly in the corridor outside and then Dunmor appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.

Bhaird, why did you leave? Dunmor asked raggedly.

What do you mean? Bhaird snarled, stalking relentlessly, his head down. We've been in that blasted room for two days now. The stale air was driving me mad.

Dunmor seemed at a loss.

Oleron...Oleron thinks you are angry at him, he finally told him.

Bhaird said nothing, just sharply kicked a dry piece of bread that the dogs had not found. Dunmor took a few steps into the room.

Are you? Dunmor asked cautiously.

Bhaird whirled, shooting his brother a steely look before returning his attention to his rapidly moving feet.

Should I be?

No, Dunmor responded quietly.

Really? Bhaird snapped with biting sarcasm. And why not?

He has done nothing to injure you, Dunmor gravely answered. Bhaird lifted his head and pointed viciously at Dunmor.

Exactly! The speed of his pacing increased, but now he directed his tirade at his brother. "He has done nothing! How many times has he gone to battle for Father's causes? How many times has he captained ships for him? How many times has he met with enemies to see whether wars would begin or end?"

Dunmor came silently closer and leaned sideways against the table, but Bhaird did not slow. His volume rose as his voice grew unsteady.

How many times did he take archery lessons? How many hours did he ride with him? How many often did he try so hard to please him that he ended up bruised or bleeding? Bhaird gestured vehemently. "Oleron has done nothing! Not compared to you or me! He stopped in front of Dunmor, his hands clenching into fists as he shouted. Dunmor, I could have died for him! And Oleron always sat back here at Tioramir in Father's throne, eating grapes and whatever else and running gold through his fingers! All he did was flatter and contrive and...and get married—- Bhaird choked on that last bit, then let out a pained, shocked laugh, slapping his hands to his head. And so, naturally, Father decides that Oleron is the one who inherits Islay and Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhailne and Iona while I get some obscure piece of land across the ocean overrun by pirates and Gaels! And Oleron took no oath!" He flung his arm out in a despairing gesture, his voice at the edge of his control. He was shaking terribly. He turned his back on Dunmor and braced himself against the wall with his right arm, hanging his head. He swiped at his face. Dunmor approached him softly and stood near.

That isn't what is troubling you, is it, little brother? he asked softly. Bhaird's brow tightened angrily and he lowered his head further.

What's troubling you, Dunmor sighed.Is that you think Oleron was the only one that he loved. 

Bhaird could not speak for a long moment. Then, he finally managed.

Well? Is that not what it sounded like? he said through clenched teeth. Then he heard someone shift his weight near the doorway.

Bhaird stood upright quickly and turned around. Oleron was standing on the threshold, arms loosely at his sides, his face blank. Bhaird, trapped, felt a twinge of nausea, wondering how long his brother had been standing there. Oleron saw the turbulence on his brother's faces, for his expression of grief deepened. He shrugged helplessly and swallowed. He tried several times to speak, then shrugged again.

I... He stopped a moment, for his voice was too unsteady. He took a sharp breath. I'm sorry, he said simply. He stood for just another moment, then closed his hands into loose fists and cast his gaze at the ground. Hesitantly, he turned, as if waiting to be called back. Hearing nothing, he strode off down the hall. As his footsteps died away, Dunmor glanced at Bhaird, painfully chagrined. Bhaird said nothing in reply. Their hearts were too torn for them to move. Thus, they simply stood, their shoulders touching, as the single bell in the tower rang, signaling the death of the great MacDonald lord.

Elinor lay in bed, staring straight up, watching the patterns that the twin candle flames cast on the red velvet canopy above her. The fire in the fireplace had smoldered down to embers, and the wide room, filled with comfortable furniture and pillows, seemed colder this evening. She shifted achingly and adjusted the covers so they were up around her shoulders. It was past midnight, she knew. But ever since she married, she could not sleep unless Oleron was by her side; especially when she knew he was in so much pain.

The latch on the door across from the bed quietly worked. She sat up, brushing a strand of long hair behind her ear. The wooden door creaked softly open and she recognized Oleron's form within the shadows as he eased into the bedroom. She saw him lift his gaze and catch sight of her.

I didn't mean to wake you, he whispered apologetically.

I wasn't asleep, she assured him. He turned and shut the door, but his movements were limp and his shoulders sagged. Elinor felt herself tremble.

What happened?

He just stood, halfway turned, his hand on the latch. Elinor went cold. She threw off her blankets, stepped down onto the floor and padded softly toward him, her long nightgown whispering on the stones. She stood near him and urgently searched his dimly-lit face.

Oh, no, she murmured, her lip trembling. He...He didn't...

Oleron bit his lip, then shook his head dumbly, leaning back against the door. Elinor could not speak for a long moment.

Oh, my sweetheart! she finally gasped, reaching toward him. The effort was almost too much, but he accepted her brokenly, letting her wrap an arm around his neck and pull him to her. With quivering arms, he embraced her at last, then began to cry. She felt his hot tears against her neck and snuggled him tighter, stroking the back of his head.

For an interminable time, the two remained there, rocking slightly back and forth. Then Elinor gently backed up, sliding her hands down his arms, and took his hands. She led him gently to the bed and urged him to sit on the edge. She then knelt, her hair spilling in a waterfall down her side, and slowly pulled off his boots.

Lie down. She touched his shoulder gently and he did as she asked, easing down onto his side. It was then she could see his tear-streaked face, and her heart broke.

Move over a little, she urged, trying to control her emotion, and he absently did so. She pulled the covers out from under his legs and draped them over him, then climbed in and lay on her side as well, her back to him. Without speaking, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in so she could feel his heartbeat against her back, the warmth of his arms all around her and his breath against her hair. She rested her hands over his, gently playing with his gold wedding band. Elinor could feel and hear him still crying almost silently, and she was so close that his sorrow swept over her until she could sense it in her muscles. Soon, burning tears of her own slid down her nose and face and she nuzzled closer to him. She did not speak, knowing that if he wished to talk, he would begin it.

My brothers are angry with me. His voice sounded so weak she barely recognized it. Her brow furrowed.

Why?

He took an unsteady breath.

Father bequeathed me several valuable islands in the west; his favorite islands. And he told me he loved me. His voice softened. He only told me.

Elinor swallowed, bewildered.

You mean...he did not say that he loved Dunmor and Bhaird?

Oleron was silent for a long time.

No.

I know he did love them, though, Elinor said quickly. I could tell that he did, every day.

I know, Oleron agreed wearily. But upon his deathbed...is not the time for a man to single out his favorite. It tends to...stick in a person's mind.

Elinor groaned and closed her eyes briefly.

Yes, you're right. But I don't see why they should be angry at you. She fleetingly adjusted the bed covers. You have nothing against them, do you?

I love my brothers, Elinor, Oleron whispered, as if it was difficult. They have no idea how much I love them.

I know that, too, she assured him. They were silent for a few minutes, allowing their tears to dwindle. Elinor took a deep breath.

I love you, Oleron, and I would never want to be anywhere without you, she began, her hand closing around the sheet. But this is what is terribly frustrating for me about being here. When something like this happens, asking for a doctor is like delivering a death sentence. They don't even wash their instruments! Back home, we could have taken your father to the hospital, and they might have been able to do a surgery to repair his lungs or his back...But here; here, you can't do anything but wait to see if a man's own strength is enough to bring him through.

She shifted slightly. I've thought about it before once or twice, in the middle of the night, and it scares me, Oleron. What if something were to happen to you—-or me, or anyone—-what would we do? What would we do if someone got cut or got sick or fell off his horse or slipped on the ice?

Instantly, she felt Oleron's arms tighten around her.

Don't say things like that, Ellie, please, he murmured earnestly. His voice stiffened. What would I do if that happened to you? 

Realizing immediately that she had erred, and had instead increased is anxiety, she twisted