FIONA awoke to the skirling of pipes. She sat up in surprise, her heart stirring with long-forgotten emotion; she must still be dreaming. It had been years since she had awakened to that sound. How she had missed it!

Throwing back the covers of her warm bed, she gasped as her bare feet met the icy stone floor. She stepped gingerly to the window, trying to discern who was playing. It must be very early in the morning, for the eastern sky paled towards dawn and fog lay in a thick curtain upon the ground, hiding all below. Still, she could not espy who was playing the lilting music.

Someone rapped on the door, startling her. A man's voice, muffled by the wood and strangely accented, called out, "Fiona! Get dressed quickly and meet me in the Great Hall." His words were followed by footsteps shuffling away, echoed by the thump of a wooden staff hitting the stone floor. It could be no other than Rhiada. No other man would dare come near her rooms, let alone one with a staff and a voice like his.

There was no use trying to understand what it was all about, for thinking would take far too long, and Rhiada seemed to think his plan was a matter of urgency.
Pushing away her sleep-befuddled confusion, Fiona dressed hurriedly. She tied off the loose plait she pulled her hair into, pausing to glance at her distorted reflection in the piece of polished bronze hanging on the wall. She looked presentable enough, she mused. Not that Rhiada would notice, anyway.

Closing the door behind her, she walked swiftly through the empty corridors, lit torches leading the way. The air was chill and damp, as always in draughty Caerloch, and she clenched her hands tight to keep from shivering.

The large, oaken doors of the Great Hall greeted her, and she glanced down the hallway before pushing against the heavy frame. The hinges, stiff with cold, squealed like a pig about to be slaughtered. Fiona froze where she stood, straining her ears to hear any sound that might indicate someone coming to inspect the cause of the sudden noise.

But she only heard Rhiada's voice saying gently, "There's nothing to fear. No one is awake yet except the servants. Come, there are several things that we need to talk about."

Fiona closed the door with more care than she had used to open it, before walking across the darkened hall.

Rhiada sat on one of the lower steps of the dais, no longer cloaked but dressed in the usual woollen tunic and breeks worn by those who were not Scots. Nonetheless, his boots were still caked in dried mud as if he never cleaned them. She wondered, with a smile, whether Lady Nuith would approve of such dirt upon her dais.

The early morning light shone cold and grey through the tall, narrow windows, a strange, uncertain gleam resting upon the ornaments of war and of the hunt hung upon the walls. The polished blades of swords, spears, as well as the metal inlaid on shields glittered in the pale dawn, sending a shiver down Fiona's spine.

No fire burned in the vast hearth, no heat to drive out the damp nor provide a warm, comforting light. The two long tables and benches running along either side of the wall cast elongated shadows on the floor, seeming more monstrous than they truly were. Fiona felt small and insignificant in this room, whose arched ceiling extended far above her head. Her footsteps, quiet though they were, echoed eerily in the waiting silence.

She had rarely been to this hall. Her father had never sent for her, and after her brother died, she had no reason to come of her own will. Lady Nuith likewise rarely called her here, and she had always taken her meals in her own room. To come now, at such an hour, for a reason yet unknown, and after she and Rhiada had whispered of rebellion last night.... This place seemed far more foreboding than she remembered.

When she reached the dais at last, Rhiada motioned her to sit next to him and she complied, staring at the strange bag he had slung over his shoulder. Was that the covered harp she had guessed it to be last night? Was she to receive her first lesson now, before breakfast?

As if in answer to her unspoken questions, he opened the bag and pulled out the most beautiful harp Fiona had ever seen. Interlacing carvings embellished the polished wood, and the strings glimmered in the faint light as Rhiada positioned it against his left shoulder and plucked a few notes.

The delicate sound reverberated throughout the hall, mesmerised awe and wonder filling Fiona's mind with images of sunlight on bubbling burns, touching budding leaves with gold. But Rhiada did not play anything more, only laid his hands on the strings to still them. The thoughts of cheery sun and the freshness of spring faded away, the dimness of the hall taking its place as reality returned to her.

Rhiada put the instrument back in its protective covering, much to Fiona's surprise. Did he not mean to teach her after all? "I suppose there are a few questions ye wish to ask me?"

"Aye." Fiona nodded, that strange clashing of hope and fear stirring again in her breast.

"Well then, ask away. We hae time before the others awaken," he replied with a smile. The light coming from the windows illuminated the dark hollows in his face where his eyes had once been, and Fiona looked away, the sight still eerily uncomfortable.

"First," she began, "who was the piper I heard this morn?"

"He is one of the few loyal to the true heir of Scotland. He came wi' me to Caerloch as my guide, as I cannae see the way myself." Rhiada chuckled slightly, but Fiona did not find it amusing to jest about the loss of one's eyesight. "I asked him to play the pipes this morning," Rhiada continued, "hopefully to awaken ye."

"I thank ye, Rhiada; 'tis long since I heard them last." The wistfulness in her voice fled at her next words. "But surely ye hae endangered his life!" Her voice rose higher and faster as fear overtook rationale. Her hands trembled wildly in her lap as her thoughts spun out of control. "If Lady Nuith finds out what he has done, she willnae let him gae unpunished. And she will trace him to us and then 'twill all come to naught, and she will kill me anyway!"

"Nae, nae, Fiona; calm yerself. He came wi' me to Caerloch as I cannae ride very well, being blind. I couldnae come by myself to this place, else Laird Erland and Lady Nuith would ne'er believe me when I offered to simply teach ye the harp." He gestured something like a shrug with his hands. "'Twas the only way I could get past the guards to ye. Besides, he is here to see the way the land lies, to find out the Danish plans if he can."

Fiona sighed, her fears not quite put to rest. "Well then, wha' is his name?"

"Cameron MacClaerthun."

"I donnae ken his name."

"Didnae think ye would." Rhiada smirked. "But perhaps it shall become important soon. Who kens wha' the future holds."

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, resounding with an echoing bang.

Fiona jumped and turned towards the entrance to see Lady Nuith enter as any stately queen of old. Fiona attempted to avert her gaze, fear and disgust creating a bitter taste in her mouth at the sight of that woman, but Lady Nuith was the sort of person who demanded one's attention. Not because she was especially tall or beautiful—for she was not much taller than Fiona herself, and her face was rather ordinary—but everything about her bespoke command and control. The tightly plaited crown of hair, the close-fitted bodice, the hands clasped in front of her as she walked, each brisk step brought her ever closer to the Scottish princess.

Unable to look entirely away, Fiona focused her attention on the shimmering gold thread on Nuith's luscious, crimson skirt that swished with every movement, afraid to look up into a face that had only ever gazed on her own with deep, intense hatred.

Coming to an abrupt halt before them, Lady Nuith questioned in that clipped voice of hers, "Well, harper, has that child learned anything yet?"

Fiona tensed when she heard the epithet Lady Nuith called her. Since her brother—and likewise her childhood—had been lost in the War, Fiona could claim that title no longer. But when her father had married the Danish woman who now stood before her, such a nickname had followed Fiona's steps, ever reminding her of what she had lost and filling her with shame. She was no child, not anymore.

Rhiada replied after a moment, his controlled, melodic voice soothing her, and she relaxed even if she did not completely let down her guard. "Nae, I hae only just begun to instruct her on the various details of the harp. It takes a wee bit of time to learn this instrument."

"Well then, it cannot take too long. We shall be entertaining some important guests in about a month and I intend to have that child play for them."

"We shall see if she can play then. If no', I can play in her stead. And one more thing, m'lady." He leaned forward, seeming to stare at her from empty eye sockets. "Fiona McCurragh is nae a child."

Fiona gasped, shocked at his daring. She glanced hurriedly at Lady Nuith, gauging her response.

Nuith, who had turned to leave, checked when she heard the Scottish princess's full name. The silence seemed as sharp as a knife blade. Then: "She is a child and will forever remain so," she snapped.

"M'lady, she is fourteen and hardly a child anymore, considering all that she's gang through. Besides, I think ye could show a wee bit more respect towards her. Is she no' the heir to the throne?" His question, though put so innocently, countered like another knife thrown in the dark.

A period of silence followed his words, cutting deeper than the previous one, as if the breath had been knocked out of all of them. Fiona stared at both the harper and the lady in turn, too surprised at Rhiada's boldness to say anything. She half-expected Lady Nuith to order his execution immediately.

But the lady only fabricated a smile upon her face and spoke through clenched teeth, the words somehow more terrifying with the hateful grin she wore. "She is a child and no longer the heir to the throne, nor will she ever be." Spinning on her heel, she left, the echo of her footsteps booming in the quiet remaining in her wake.

Fiona's heart jumped into her throat at those words. What did Nuith mean by that? Did she finally mean to end her life? Was this a warning? She turned to speak to Rhiada, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.

When he spoke, there was an undertone of warning in his soft, solemn voice. "I said those things fer a reason, Fiona. We'll meet after breakfast in yer room, if there is nothing else fer ye to do." He rose to his feet and exited the chilly Great Hall, his harp bag slung over his shoulder, his staff reverberating much like Lady Nuith's step had done.

Fiona hesitated to follow him. He had dared to challenge Lady Nuith and defend her honour, aye, but what were his true motives? Did he want Nuith to kill them all before their attempt at freedom had a chance to become more than an idea? Had he lost his mind?

She swallowed, her heart slowly resuming its normal course, but her thoughts were still in turmoil.

Angus had been shocked to discover she was still alive. Rhiada...Rhiada seemed to know much about her, but from all events it seemed he couldn't decide whether to risk everything in the name of bravado or not do more than whisper about the future.

She did not have much of a choice. Expose him to Lady Nuith and face imminent murder from her greatest enemy, or trust someone from her past and hope to survive. In spite of everything, she would rather take her chances with him—what few they were.

Fiona opened the door to her quarters to see Rhiada sitting in the corner again, his hood drawn over his scarred face and his harp resting beside him, no longer in its covering. The cold hearth and the grey light looming through the rain-stained windows were not very cheering.

Without a word, she stepped up to the harper and stood still, waiting.

"Och, Fiona," he murmured without changing his position. "We donnae hae much time."

"Wha' do ye mean?" she questioned, drawing up a stool in front of him, the small flower of hope wilting away under the burning sun of fear. Surely there had never been much time left for her, and even less now after what Rhiada had said, but all the same, she had wished the harper to carry good news. Why else had he said those things?

Rhiada sat up straight, leaning against the back of the chair. His voice was quiet. Worried. "I thought we would hae more time than this, but 'twould seem we only hae until next month."

"More time than wha'? I donnae understand wha' ye're saying." It was hard to keep the panic out of her voice.

Rhiada sighed. "We need to get ye to the Lowlands," he whispered. "And we must do it soon, much sooner than we anticipated."

"Why so much sooner?" Fiona whispered back in surprise. What had changed from last night? Was it his words to Lady Nuith? Had she threatened him?

"Because we need to establish ye upon the throne and bring Scotland back together. Ye remember what I said yesterday, do ye no'?"

"Aye, I do." Her words belied the despondency in her voice. She hesitated before continuing, a pause broken only by the soft rain hitting the window glass. "Rhiada, I donnae mean to be disrespectful to ye, but are ye very certain tha' this is wha' the chieftains want? Ye and I both ken about the War."

"Aye, Fiona, I ken. Sad business, to be sure, about the Danes. But the chieftains indeed wish to undo the evils done so long ago, to finish what yer father should hae done."

She did not answer right away, bitter memories coming unbidden to mind. The War had been six years ago, but she still remembered her brother leaving as keenly as if it had been yesterday. Memories of his goodbye often haunted her in her sleep, or whenever she thought of the War or the time before her captivity in the tower.

"Douglas never came back," Fiona whispered, the dull pain once more beginning to throb against the emptiness in her chest.

"Nae, he didnae," Rhiada answered sadly. "Almost none of the warriors who left to fight in that war returned at all."

"Why did the Lowlanders no' send their men to help us fight against our enemies?" Fiona demanded, not really expecting an answer, for it was more a rhetorical question than anything else.

"If ye really want to ken, ye can ask Angus McCladden himself."

She sighed in frustration. The chieftain's son from the other morning. That was not quite the answer she had been hoping for. She had hoped to escape further communication with the lad who was little more than a stranger, but it seemed unavoidable. Rhiada seemed to think their acquaintance important, and from a political standpoint, it made sense. He was the son of the High Chieftain, she the heir to the throne. But he had seemed so intense yesterday! Shifting from teasing to brooding seriousness, the changes unpredictable—for all those things, she did not trust him.

"Rhiada, why come here at all?" she asked, hoping to change the uncomfortable subject. "Ye speak often of yer own country and yet ye serve the lords of another."

He smiled sadly. "I hae few ties left to Cymru. My family was slaughtered during a Saxon raid. I survived, being elsewhere when they came, and joined King Brenin ap Brynnmor's teulu. I wed his daughter and hae a son by her, but that was before my sight was stolen. He is a wee bit older than ye, but I hae nae seen him in three years."

"Do ye nae miss them?" Fiona asked, knowing she would give almost anything to be reunited with her family again, were they still alive. And yet Rhiada chose this life? What compelled him so?

"Aye, I do. But my loyalty belongs to Scotland. I hae an oath to fulfil, and until I am freed from that oath, I cannae gae home. And my king kens this."

"What oath?" Her father and her brother had never mentioned such to her before. What man would sacrifice all for something that was not even his?

"To protect yer throne. When I heard the news that yer father had passed beyond the sunset, I said farewell and journeyed to the Lowlands. And now, I am here."

Fiona was silent, listening to the rain as Rhiada took out his harp and tuned the strings. Humility swept over her like waves lapping against the shore, shame that she had doubted his integrity after he had sworn to protect her. Oath or no oath, this man from the past was willing to risk his life to save hers while Lady Nuith would risk her life only to end Fiona's. Surely this, if nothing else, was proof enough to trust him.

Rhiada cleared his throat, breaking into her thoughts. "Come, princess, I must teach ye the harp. We must no' give Lady Nuith reasons to think I am here fer any other purpose."

The wind blew cold through the open window, but Fiona hardly concerned herself with it. The fresh breeze was better than the stuffy air otherwise present in Caerloch.

She was alone in her room, for Rhiada had left some time ago. She knew she should be working on becoming better acquainted with the harp's different strings and their various pitches, but she had no desire to play the instrument at present. Her thoughts refused to be at rest.

Rhiada seemed to genuinely want to keep her alive at all costs and bring her safely to the Lowlands, without appearing to act from any evil motive of his own. She could not remember him very well from the past, having only seen him once when he entertained them all at a feast. Her father had spoken of him on a few occasions and his words had only been of the highest praise, a rarity with Daibhidh McCurragh. Daibhidh must have trusted him very much, enough to give him the task of protecting the throne. Though exactly why he trusted him, she did not know. It wasn't common for mere messengers to be assigned such responsibility, unless Rhiada had been more than just a messenger.

Another chilling gust interrupted her thoughts and she closed the window, the latch falling to with a sharp click. Turning, she went to the harp with a sigh and sat down, plucking the individual strings at different intervals just as Rhiada had taught her. It required much patience, a virtue that Fiona had not been born with. Yet the three years spent in captivity, hidden away from the rest of the world, had begun to teach her the meaning of perseverance, even if it was a hard lesson to learn.

She could afford to wait a little longer, but not for too long.

Lady Nuith wanted her dead.