A veiled sun filtered through the windows at Caerloch Castle in the Scottish Highlands, the daylight glimmering silver on the weapons hanging on the walls. Outside the Great Hall's doors, servants could be heard walking back and forth, sometimes greeting each other, but the sound was dim within where Lady Nuith and Lord Erland sat with Nuith's half-brother, Drummond. 

 "Now that spring has come again, what is your plan?" Lady Nuith asked wearily. 

Drummond sipped from his cup of imported wine. "I wish to take a band of thirty men to Caerdun." 

Lord Erland lifted a dark eyebrow. "That is a far distance for this soon in the year. That's McCladden territory."

"I ken." Drummond swore softly in Gàidhlig before continuing in Danish. "But where else could they be hiding her? We searched all the other castles and strongholds in the Lowlands during the last year. Unless she truly died like they swore she did, she must be hiding somewhere. And the Highland chiefs had nothing to do wi' the uprising." 

"She is very much alive," Nuith commented bitterly. "I would know if that child were dead."

Neither of the other two replied to that. 

"But why had you not checked it before? Surely it would be the most secure place to hide her," Erland pressed. 

"Simply because of the fact it is too obvious. That is the strongest, most defensible place in McCladden territory, and where—so they said in An Dùn—the McCladdens returned after the treaty was made. We searched all other places in the lower Lowlands, and surely they would not keep her so close to their Saxon enemies in the south. Therefore, she must be hiding in Caerdun." Drummond set his empty cup on the table and gestured for the manservant waiting in the shadows to refill it. "I am also thinking that Donald and his sons are hiding there, and possibly a few other chieftains who hae been missing. If anything, I might find some clue as to where they are, if they be no' there."

"Will they not consider it a threat, to approach such a place with that many men? It has been a thin peace since you searched last summer." Erland did not seem convinced. 

"Threat or not, we must have her," Nuith snapped, weariness now fled from her voice. She could hear the words of past failure in her mind. "Drummond did not keep his promise, and neither did the Scots when forced to surrender. We demanded proof of her death in the treaty, but they denied us with some flimsy excuse. As long as she lives, we will never be safe from future uprisings. And our sweet Henrik deserves to live a life without fear, unlike the life we have had to endure for far too long." She turned to her husband with pleading eyes. "Is it not worth it for him?"

Erland wisely said nothing, nodding his head instead. 

"I know I failed where McCladden and the princess were concerned," Drummond said at last. "But I at least killed Rhiada like I should hae done years ago. I will take care no' to incite a rebellion, but I will no' hesitate to use force when necessary." Looking directly at his sister, he added, "It is clear that to go softly allows them time to plan against us. If I hae the chance, I will kill her myself and nae risk another escape attempt." He rose to his feet and drank the last of the wine. "I will leave by next morn." 

"Not sooner?" Nuith asked, disappointment in her voice. 

"I need time to gather men and horses. It is a long ride, a two—perhaps three—day journey depending on how badly the melting snows have swollen the rivers. We will need supplies to last us; the land offers little so soon in spring and we will hae nae time to hunt. Are ye satisfied wi' this?"

Nuith nodded sullenly. "Take care," she said, her skirt rustling as she stood. "I have few men I can trust, and I cannot risk sending out my personal guard for a task that should have been done long ago."

Drummond looked her straight in the face, his voice emotionless. "I promise ye, it will be done." Then he turned and left, leaving the servant to take his empty cup and pitcher of wine away.

~~~

A cold, wet something landed in Fiona's face, startling her from a deep sleep to abrupt wakefulness.

She sat up with a jerk, fuming like a kettle boiling over, blinking rapidly to get the water out of her eyes.

Once she could see, she stared in bewilderment at Malcolm, who stood at the foot of her bed, laughing so hard he was not making any sound. In his hand was the cup he had used to hurl the chilling water into her face.

"Malcolm, what do ye think ye're doin' in here?" she demanded as she fairly leapt from her bed onto the floor, ignoring the fact she was still in her night shift.

"Ye wouldnae wake up!" He was still laughing, tears running down his face. "Besides, ye looked so ridiculous when—" He broke off in another series of chortles.

"I donnae care! Ye hae absolutely nae right to be in here, Malcolm McCladden, nae without warning! Now get yerself out before I tell yer mother."

"She said to wake ye up in the first place, so I donnae think tha' is gang to do much." Another voice broke in.

Fiona whirled around to see Angus in the doorway, leaning against the door post, calmly watching the entire spectacle. "Wh-wha'?" she stammered in surprise, her cheeks burning.

"Aye, she said tha' we had best spend as much time together as we could since the embassy from Cymru arrives this evening or tomorrow or whenever they come, and then there will be too much gang on fer us to be free to do whatever we want. But come, Malcolm," he called to his brother. "We had better get breakfast so Fiona can change into something a wee bit more suitable for the horse-runs." He cast a teasing smile at Fiona before leaving, Malcolm following him, still chuckling.

Fiona waited until they had left to heave a groan and run her fingers through her hair. She had definitely not missed their pranks. Besides which, she was no longer the fourteen-year-old they could jest with in this way, even though she was glad they seemed as open and friendly as they had before. She was sixteen now, almost a full-grown woman, and most lasses were married or at least betrothed by her age.

Fiona pulled her hair into a messy plait with a sigh. Annag would certainly hear about this.

~~~

She found the brothers in the Feast Hall. Malcolm polished off another oatcake with his porridge while Angus talked to him, discussing potential lodging arrangements for when the Cymreig hosts would come. He finished speaking when Fiona reached them, sitting down beside them to eat her own breakfast.

"Wha' kept ye?" Malcolm asked through a mouthful of food.

"I had to get dressed, dunderheid. I cannae jist slip on a kilt, breeks, and plaid and belt it. I am too old fer wearing those clothes anymore."

"Och, then right glad I am tha' I donnae hae to wear dresses," he responded, licking the oat crumbs off his fingers.

Fiona glanced at Angus, who was busy inspecting the tip of his dirk. He caught her gaze, and the corners of his lips quirked upwards.

"I suppose ye ne'er grew out of tha' old habit, did ye?" she questioned, remembering how he would always check the sharpness of his weapons, something of an obsession for him. But both of them knew the deeper reason why: a fanatic desire to protect and preserve those he loved from harm and death since he had lost the brother he had loved the most.

"Nae, I didnae. But 'tis only been thirteen months."

Before she could reply, Malcolm shot off the bench, headed towards a maidservant bearing a platter of fresh bannocks. He returned after exchanging some words with her, leaving her confused and blushing, and him with the plate in his hands. He plopped triumphantly back down on the bench, a bannock already headed towards his mouth.

"Wha' did ye do to tha' poor lass?" Angus sputtered.

Fiona tried not to choke on her porridge by laughing at Malcolm's expression of feigned innocence.

"I jist told her our princess here was muckle hungry and wanted more bannock?"

Fiona snorted, swallowing hard and laughing through her nose instead. When she could speak, she cried, "Malcolm! I hae ne'er eaten so much at one meal, let alone at breakfast."

He shrugged good-naturedly and grinned. "Well, they were no' meant fer ye anyway."

"Ye shouldnae hae deceived her—tha' was no' kind," Fiona pressed, scraping the last of the porridge out of her bowl.

"Our princess is right, Malcolm. If ye do such a thing again, I'm gang to tell Mother," Angus added. "Anyway, are ye all ready to gae now?" he continued, changing the subject while standing up and stretching.

Malcolm nodded, tucking the last remaining bannock into his sporran. Fiona placed the final spoonful of porridge in her mouth and rose as well, taking her bowl and spoon to the kitchens to be cleaned by someone else.

Then she followed the two brothers out into the lovely spring morning. The sun shone gold upon the world, bringing colour to the dull grey castle stone. The breeze was warm and welcoming, carrying with it the enlivening scent of resurrecting life.

Fiona paused halfway through the courtyard, inhaling deeply and squinting against the bright sun. The courtyard itself was relatively empty at this hour, though she knew it would bustle again once the Cymry arrived. Guardsmen stood over the gate, sharing a jest; she could hear faint echoes of their laughter from where she stood. Some commotion escaped the kitchens, whose entrance was open to welcome the fresh air; perhaps someone was burning oatcakes by accident.

"Fiona!" Malcolm's voice rang out from the depths of the stables.

"Coming!" she cried, striding quickly across the remaining cobblestones. Stepping inside the stables, she could see Angus and Malcolm finish saddling three horses in the dim light before they led them outside. They handed her the reins to one of the mares as all three mounted. She had no horse of her own, not since Sgàil, the horse her brother had given her, had been lost at the end of the last war. Fiona did not know whether Sgàil had been killed or taken by another, but she had bonded with no horse in the same way since. Besides, the danger of being discovered by the Danes or their sympathisers was too great for her to leave Caerdun's walls unaccompanied, and few men could be spared for that. But today—today she could ride, and with her dear friends no less!

Angus looked at them both with a smile lighting up his face. "Ready?" he asked softly, his voice edged in excitement.

Malcolm, always the dramatic one, grabbed an imaginary claymore out of an invisible sheath, raised it above his head, and cried, "Ride out!"

Fiona said nothing, returning grin for grin in answer, the joy of being together with them and doing the things she had missed over the past year leaving her elated.

Without another moment lost, Angus dug his heels into his horse's flanks, old faithful Branwen, spurring his steed onward, the other two following in like suit.

The moors opened wide to them, the braes shining vibrantly green under the golden sun's glow. The wind gusted welcomingly, showering its warm kisses upon them as the brilliance of the speed at which they rode brought blood rushing to their faces, splashing their cheeks rosy red.

They rode until they were out of sight of Caerdun before slowing. They stood together on the crest of the brae, panting from the exhilaration of the ride.

"Sa, tha' was a fine thing." Malcolm spoke first, a wide grin gracing his youthful, freckled face.

"Who says we cannae do it again?" Fiona shot back before urging her mare forward, the others hurrying to catch up with her lead.

A surge of utter joy rose up within her as the emerald moors flew past them, a feeling she had rarely had since she was a child—before the War. She thrust away the dark memories that sprang to mind at the reminder of her past. Today was glorious, and she was not going to let anything—or anyone—ruin it.

She glanced at the dark-haired rider beside her, his face concentrating on the land rolling before him. For a moment, Angus met her eyes and flashed a smile before spurring his horse onwards.

"Aiee! Wait up!" she cried out, laughing, before trying her best to catch up to him, leaving Malcolm lagging behind.

At last, they stopped and dismounted, letting their horses free as the three sat down in the heather, listening to the whisperings of the pleasant breeze blowing about the grasses.

Fiona gazed at the azure sky with the white clouds floating lazily across it, her arms crossed underneath her head as she lay on the heather. Malcolm sat beside her and munched on the oaten bannock he had saved from breakfast. Angus sat on her other side, leaning back on one arm and silently admiring the landscape, beautiful in its leafless desolation. Clumps of cheery, yellow gorse flowers contrasted with the green, an early herald to the full birth of blossoming spring.

"Why can it no' always be like this? So peaceful and without worry of the future?" Fiona murmured to no one in particular after several moments of content silence had passed.

"'Twas like this once—before the Danes came," Angus replied softly, looking at her.

"Aye, or so they say," Malcolm added, putting the last bite of bannock in his mouth. "We all ken I was much too young to ken tha' the world had changed."

"But can it be like it was again?" Fiona's voice sounded almost helpless in its pleading. After all, was that not why the Scots had gone to Cymru in the first place? Or perhaps this taste of freedom without fear of the future reminded her of a childhood long forgotten, when she had been too young to know of the darkness in the world. She wished to have that innocence and confidence to dream again, but perhaps that was not possible. Perhaps the knowledge that something could always go wrong—that there was evil in the world, that wicked men struggled for dominance—would always haunt any attempt to remain fearless of the future.

Angus turned and lay down also, his hands clasped over his chest as he watched the sky with her. "I believe it can. We hae no' lost Scotland yet. We hae something to build a new country on. We jist need to drive out the Danes."

"Aye, but can it be done?" she questioned. Surely he knew as well as she did that it would take far more than simply sweeping the enemy into the sea. But that in and of itself would be its own challenge without trying to heal the nation's wounds and unify the separated clans of the Lowlands and Highlands.

"I donnae ken..." Angus' voice trailed off. "Sometimes I think we can, while other times I am no' so sure. Do we hae the strength to overthrow the Danes and drive them out and keep them out?"

"We did once," she whispered, turning to look at him. No matter how much time had passed, she still felt a ghost of the shame she had long endured knowing it was her father's decisions that had doomed them all.

He gazed at her for a long time before answering, his eyes dark with despair. The soft breeze brushed back the dark locks over his temple, revealing the silver scar from his first battle. "I believe we can heal the broken pieces of this country—surely ye are proof of tha', Fiona. The question is, how can we reach the Highlanders when the Danes lie in between?"

"We hae the Cymry, do we no'?" The hope that had filled her heart the day before melted away, fear taking its place. Were their numbers still too few?

"True, but still I wonder." He turned away and continued, "If we cannae defeat them now, I doubt we will ever be able to. And even if we do drive out the Danes, will it be enough to keep them out? At least fer our lifetime, if nae fer those tha' will come after us?" Angus sighed heavily and said no more.

Neither Fiona nor Malcolm spoke; none of them had answers to that which only time itself could reveal.

"Tell me more about Cymru," Fiona said after several moments of silence had passed.

"Och, much like Scotland, but wi' mountains everywhere," Malcolm commented while chewing on a blade of grass.

"We hae mountains here too, but they're in the Highlands," she supplied, sitting up.

"Well, it was beautiful, but no' as beautiful as here," Angus replied, sitting up as well and gazing around them as if the rolling hillside beneath the spring sun could never cease to enthral him.

"What makes ye say tha'?" Fiona turned to him, brushing aside the crimson curls that the sudden breeze blew into her face.

He shrugged. "Maybe because one's own home is always dearer to him than any other land, beautiful though it may be. Besides, Mother and ye were here."

"In other words," Malcolm piped up, the blade of grass on his lips bouncing with every syllable he spoke, "he was homesick."

"Och, ye were too!" his brother retorted, a wave of scarlet tainting his otherwise pale face.

"Aiee! Can I nae hae a few moments in yer company without ye both arguing?" Fiona sputtered, getting to her feet.

"Nae, we were born to argue. 'Tis our fate," Malcolm said grandly, brushing the strands of broken grass off his kilt.

"Ye sound like Rhiada now," she commented, watching him with amusement.

"Aye, his country has about as many harpers as we hae sheep." He shook his red locks in mock pity. "'Tis nae wonder Rhiada came to Scotland—probably to escape all the competition."

"I highly doubt it," Angus muttered dryly.

"Right, are we gang to get back before midday or wha'? We might miss luncheon, and I ken Malcolm will regret tha'," Fiona added, a grin spreading across her face.

"Last one back will serve at table!" Malcolm shouted before running to his horse, swinging up into the saddle in one movement and riding off, the other two following in quick pursuit.

~~~

Fiona and the McCladden brothers arrived back at Caerdun Castle just in time for luncheon, much to Malcolm's delight.

The fluffy white clouds now hid the sun from view at times as they crested the last hill that separated them from the fortress yonder, the brightness of day now vanishing.

As they clattered over the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, they realised they were not the only ones to arrive.

The whole place was filled with men and horses, some of them Scots, but most of them were in tunics and breeks, not the kilt and plaid of Scotland. They jabbered to one another in a deep, guttural language that was quite different from the Scots' Gàidhlig Fiona was accustomed to hearing. And yet their language, which she supposed to be Cymraeg, still sounded beautiful in its own way.

"Is this all the greatest part of the Cymreig host?" she asked Angus as they entered, surprised at the sudden crowd in the normally empty courtyard. There were perhaps some twenty or so standing there; with any luck, this was merely an advance party. If the Scots in all their many hundred clansmen were too few against the Danes, then this would never be enough.

"Nae, of course no'!" he hastily reassured her with a chuckle. "'Tis but the leaders and some of our close friends in the whole war host. Jist like we hae our High Chieftains wi' chieftains under them who have their own units in the army, so hae they. Nae," he added, "the others will stay at other places, such as An Dùn, until we send out the Crann Tara. If anything, this is the smallest band; unless I am wrong, 'tis only the king and his choice warriors."

"The king? The king himself is here?" Fiona gasped, her head feeling light. The king himself had come? And here she surely looked a sight, with horsehair and bits of grass still sticking to her dress, and her hair in disarray from the wind. How must she appear to those who had travelled far from their own lands to fight in her name? Certainly nothing like a princess.

"Aye, the king. Who else did ye expect to lead them?"

"I thought maybe it would be one of their High Chieftains, no' necessarily their king." The words tumbled from her mouth as she sought to discreetly tidy her clothing while seated on her horse. "Who will look after his kingdom in his absence?"

"One of his councillors that he trusts. Donnae worry about everything, Fiona, there is enough to be concerned about already." Angus grinned good-naturedly at her, as if he had noticed her discomfort and wished to reassure her. "Come on. Ye will meet him later, I am sure." He swung his leg over the saddle and jumped down, leading his horse into the stables, Fiona and Malcolm following.

Once the horses were safely in their stalls, the three of them returned to the grey afternoon and the many men and youths milling about the courtyard.

Malcolm suddenly yelped like an excited puppy and disappeared among the bustle.

"Where is he off to?" Fiona raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I thought nothing could distract him from luncheon, but I suppose I was wrong."

Angus threw his head back and laughed. "Och well, he is probably looking fer his friends. Speaking of which—" He left her without finishing his thought, likewise vanishing from her sight.

Fiona shook her head and pushed her way through the midst of strangers, trying to follow him. She soon found him speaking hurriedly to a lad she guessed to be Angus' age, who was dark and wiry as were most of the Cymreig brotherhood.

The two youths were chattering as she approached, but the lad Angus was speaking to in their strange tongue stopped abruptly at the sight of her, the words dying on his lips.

Angus turned to see what he was gaping at and smiled at Fiona.

His friend told him something, his soft, hazel eyes never leaving Fiona's face.

Angus' cheeks burned bright red, and he spoke to Fiona in a stiff, guarded voice. "Dafydd here says tha' ye are beautiful."

Her cheeks grew hot, for it was not every day that strangers greeted her in such a manner, but she managed a polite nod nonetheless. "Tell Dafydd"—she struggled over the strange pronunciation—"tha' I thank him."

Angus turned to Dafydd, and another strand of incomprehensible words flowed from his mouth as easily as if he was speaking in Scots' Gàidhlig.

Then Dafydd asked a question to which Angus responded just as quickly, though something in the dry lilt of his voice told Fiona that he was making some sort of jest while trying to be serious.

"Wha' did he ask?" Fiona interrupted, her curiosity overcoming her shyness.

Angus turned to her and blinked as if he had forgotten she was still there. "He asked who ye were."

"And wha' did ye tell him?" She could not keep a smile off her face, bracing herself for the possible jest and wondering what in the world it had to do with her.

"I told him tha' ye are a nasty, mean old ogre in disguise as a beautiful young woman who devours children at night when everyone else is sleeping."

Fiona's mouth dropped open. She expected Malcolm might say something like that, not Angus. "Ye did wha'?" Angus seldom teased her like this... Had he really changed that much? Could she even trust him as she used to?

Dafydd looked from her to his companion, an innocent question written plainly on his face.

Angus' eyes twinkled in mischief, but he did not answer her. He turned to Dafydd instead and spoke to him. It must have been amusing, for the Cymreig lad started laughing, a merry—almost musical—sound.

They said some more words to each other before they exchanged what she guessed to be a brief farewell, as Dafydd took the reins of his horse and began to lead it to the stables, where several other Cymreig men were headed with their mounts.

"Did ye really tell Dafydd tha'?" Fiona asked in a soft voice, the laughter gone, replaced with humiliation.

Angus turned to her and flung his arm across her shoulders, walking with her to one of the main entrances to the castle. "Och, Fiona. Did ye think I would really do such a thing?"

She looked up at him and saw that he was not jesting anymore, for his deep blue eyes were serious. "I donnae ken. But I wanted to ken fer certain." She leaned into him as a chill breath of wind whistled through the courtyard, as if to remind them that winter had not passed entirely from the earth.

"Aye, and there is nothing wrong wi' tha'—" He added something else under his breath, too soft for her to hear.

Fiona glanced up to ask him what it was and stopped. There, amidst the tightest grouping of their Cymreig visitors speaking with Donald McCladden, stood a young man who carried the spitting image of Rhiada. A great white bird, its head hidden in a leather hood, sat on the man's gloved fist, its tethers held in his other hand. Little bells attached to the bird's feet jingled as the man's hand moved slightly while talking.

"Rhiada?" she asked in a bewildered whisper to Angus, who had followed her gaze.

"Nae, 'tis his son, Cynfael. He is their king."

Fiona's eyes widened in astonishment. "Their king?" she squeaked. "Since when..."

"Aye. Did Rhiada never tell ye about his past?"

"He did once, when we first met, but I remember it little."

"He married Cariad, the daughter and only child of the Cymreig king, Brenin. He had a son, Cynfael." Angus paused, letting his words sink in.

"Aye, I remember him speaking of his son once or twice, but I never thought...I never assumed his son would be king."

"Aye, he was the only bloodheir, so naturally he would be king. When we arrived in Cymru, King Brenin had died only a few months prior and Cynfael was now ruler. We were jist as surprised as ye when we saw him in the throne room. I donnae think Rhiada thought his son would succeed the throne so soon when he initially told us to gae to Cymru and seek their alliance."

Fiona turned and looked at the young man more closely. How similar he looked to the harper she had known! The same dark, shoulder-length hair and pronounced cheekbones, the dark eyes that Rhiada must have had once, and the beginnings of a beard on his chin. "Cynfael ap Rhiada...he looks much like his father."

"Aye, and he has also inherited the bardic talent. He prizes his bogwood harp above even his sword." Angus chuckled softly. "Though, I think ye'll find most of the Cymreig treasure their stories and songs as highly as their loved ones."

Perhaps she had only imagined the sudden warmth in his voice as he said this, but she could not have imagined the tightening of his arm across her shoulders. Fiona looked away as a blush heated her cheeks. "Do ye think they will sing some of their songs fer us?" she asked, attempting to speak of something else. "I would like to hear them."

"Och, I'm sure. And ye can meet Cynfael later once Father finishes speaking wi' him. Come, we must eat before Malcolm and all his friendly host devour it all." Angus took his arm off her shoulders and extended his hand to her instead.

Fiona took it gladly.