September 1895, Scotland
Shadows fell on the expansive flatlands in front of the castle. Dug into the largest of the mountains, the castle had a clear view of the valley. It was a stronghold in its day. A great battle had laid waste to the outer bailey wall leaving sections of the battlements in crumbles on the ground. Most of the towers between battlements remained standing, giving James a clear view of any approaching visitors.
Incantations had been cast upon the entire valley. They were far more complex than anything even his mother could comprehend. When he’d asked who had created this place, she’d ignored his question. They had been here once before when he was much younger, but he remembered very little of his previous visit.
The sun ignited the peaks in a blaze of orange light as it descended behind the mountains. James could see their horses grazing beside the stable in the distance. Incantations prohibited anyone to transport or even approach on horseback; on foot was the only way one could get close. The hills stretched around the valley like an incomplete wreath with one section at the far end open to allow passage. The long shadows from the hills made it difficult to see anything at their bases at sunset, which despite the enchantments worried his mother.
The wind was strong as it blew across the tower but it was not the biting air that would be coming down from the north in the next few weeks. James wrapped twine around one end of a piece of black cloth and fastened it to a rotting pole he had found in the stable. He propped up the pole with several stones he found strewn about the top of the tower. His makeshift flag flapped loudly in the wind as he descended the stone spiral stairs.
James crossed the outer bailey, careful to avoid the rubble of the spilled walls behind him. He crossed under the arched second portcullis, imagining what the battle had been like. A glint of metal caught his eye on the ground.
A silver handle stretched up to a flat-bladed axe. James found it difficult to pry the axe out of the ground and, not surprisingly, was unsuccessful at raising it with magic. Eventually he was able to dig out the handle with the knife he always carried on his belt.
The axe was almost too heavy for James to lift. His determination was steadfast, and he managed to crouch under the handle and lift it with his legs. He couldn’t imagine a man swinging a weapon like this very effectively during a battle. He lumbered his way inside the keep, carrying the oversize weapon on his shoulder. The light from the fire in the hall’s fireplace danced across the stone floors. Several large wooden tables, which were in surprisingly good repair, stood inside the hall. James dropped the axe on one of the tables with a bang, half expecting the table to collapse under the weight.
“Mother?”
His voice echoed in the hall. Their belongings were laid out on the table closest to the fireplace. She had managed to gather several large piles of firewood while he was off wandering the castle. A metal pot was slung over the lug pole and the liquid inside was just beginning to steam. James felt guilty that she had done so much without his help. He knew he took advantage of her guilt. He knew she felt that his struggle with his father’s death and his insistence in accepting blame cast an unfair burden on him. Unfair for a boy of thirteen. Or any child for that matter.
James wondered if his father would be disappointed in him for making his mother get them settled in by herself. He was tired of running from place to place. Tired of not having any friends and tired of not having any freedom. He thought exploring while his mother set up their beds was a small price to pay for this burden he’d been born with. A small part of him knew he was wrong. She was his mother and she was just as alone as he was. Knowing all this, sometimes he simply needed to escape, to do anything that had nothing to do with the damned prophecy. He just wanted to be a kid-even though that age had passed years ago. He was a man now, a man without a father, which meant it was up to him to take care of his mother, not up to her to take care of him. Things would change. He would change.
He called out her name again and again. She did not reply. He assumed she’d gone looking for their next meal. Precisely what he should have been doing instead of wandering about. He heard the roll of thunder outside that always preceded a late summer storm in the highlands. Lightning flashes lit the cracks in the large wooden door at the entrance to the great hall. As the rain fell, James began to worry. Between the lightning and the firelight his eyes were having difficulty focusing. He decided he must look for his mother.
James lifted the bolt securing the door and pulled. It groaned on its hinges. The rain outside was coming down in sheets. He couldn’t see past the steps that spilled onto the courtyard. Lightning flashed and for a moment, the courtyard was lit, revealing three black figures huddled under the arch of the second portcullis that he’d passed through earlier. He closed the door behind him so he wasn’t backlit by the fire from inside.
Quickly, James pressed his body against the stone wall of the keep. He waited, knife drawn. Lightning flashed again. They were gone. Could he have imagined them? Rain-soaked and cold, James held his ground and waited for another flash. It came a moment later. Three successive flashes revealed a lone figure in black moving his way across the courtyard toward the door. He knew by the shape that it was not his mother.
Darkness swallowed the person as the lightning stopped. James tried to track where the figure would be based on his speed. He strained his eyes to see. Another flash, this one further off, provided enough light for James to see that the cloaked figure had reached the bottom step. He could hear heavy boots making their way up to the door. The figure lifted the bolt and stepped inside, allowing the firelight to spill out onto the steps. He didn’t turn his head to indicate he knew James was there, just within arm’s reach. The door remained open after the man stepped through. James crouched and slowly moved toward the door.
He stepped inside, knife in hand, low on bent legs, ready to spring at the intruder. The firelight glistened in the puddles the man had left in his wake on the stone floor. James could see the black silhouette standing in front of the fire. Slowly and silently, James made his way around the perimeter of the room where the shadows from stone columns kept the light at bay. He stopped when he reached the wall with the recessed fireplace. He could not make out the man’s face. He watched and waited.
The man appeared to be warming his hands by the fire. He said a word too quiet to hear and a gust of wind swirled around him, rustling his cloak until it was dry. The man lowered his hood. James immediately recognized him from the council temple. It was David Ogilvy-or the man who’d claimed to be David Ogilvy.
The man rubbed his hands together and lifted them to his mouth as if to blow warm air into them.
“Summer draws to an end, I’m afraid,” he said, still looking into the fire. James froze, holding his breath.
“You need not be afraid, James, son of James. I am not thy enemy.”
He turned toward James, lifted his hand, and swept it across the back wall, igniting torches that were mounted by metal brackets.
“There, that’s better,” The man said, smiling. “Come, we have much to discuss.”
“Where is my mother?” James asked, planted in place, knife still at the ready.
“She will be along shortly, I assure you. She is tending to our horses.”
“Our?”
“Surely you remember my wife, Tabitha?”
“David Ogilvy is dead. Lady Tabitha told me so. Who are you?”
“My tale is one that cannot be told while standing with weapons drawn. I will tell you all that I can, as I have told your mother, but you must first trust that no harm will come to you.”
“If you are who you say you are, then you know I cannot,” James replied.
“Your mother has taught you well, young James.”
“It was my father who taught me to trust no one.”
The man’s head hung in despair. After a moment he lifted his gaze again to James’s eyes.
“James, I am sorry about your father. He and I were good friends for our parts. I made him a promise once, and I intend to keep it.”
“And what promise was that? You left him. You left your own wife for over ten years. How do you expect to gain the trust of anyone after being away for all that time? You are a coward who hid in the shadows and now you expect to be welcomed back as if you’d never left? You will find no forgiveness here, traitor.”
“I’ve forgiven him,” Tabitha Ogilvy said, stepping into the great hall.
“We must hear him out, James,” his mother said, following Tabitha through the door and closing it behind them.
James looked into his mother’s eyes and then into the eyes of Tabitha Ogilvy. James took a deep breath and sheathed his blade.
“Very well, let us hear your tale Mr. Ogilvy.”