The Witch and The Thief

26

"Enough," Lachlan barked, his chest heaving with angry breaths. "You win, but only because you'll continue pestering me until I give an answer you deem satisfactory. I'll tell you, but first, answer me this."

Triumph flared to life within the depths of Rhys's eyes as he held utterly still and waited.

"How long have you known who your family is, where you were born, or how you arrived at Millstone?"

"'Tisn't the same," Rhys scowled.

"Of course, it is. You were brought to Millstone at nine years old, Rhys, not four like me. You have memories from your life before your family died from the black death—I've had nothing." Lachlan's voice broke on the last three words. He let go of Rhys and turned away to stare at the stars winking at him through the treetops, "When you see your reflection, do you know whether you resemble your mother? Father? Your younger brother?"

"Both my brother and I favored my father in looks... though I remember being told as a wee lad, I've my mother's eyes."

"And does seeing their likeness in your face bring you pain or comfort?"

There was a brief moment of silence before Rhys nodded. "I see what you be meaning."

"Up until recently," Lachlan continued as though his friend hadn't spoken, "the most noticeable part of me declaring my identity as a Shadowblade, also served as a terrible reminder of what I never had, of the life taken from me the night I was left at Millstone."

Rhys studied him for a moment. "So, what changed then, Lackyboy?"

Raking a hand through his hair, Lachlan quietly admitted, "A mix of things." He turned to look Rhys in the eye. "For the first time in my life, I have something, someone, worth protecting and fighting for... with Maera, I have found my purpose in existing."

"And so, you be ready to accept you're a Shadowblade, and all that entails?"

Lachlan nodded, "Aye."

"'Tis about time."

"Why d'you say that?"

Rhys scoffed and playfully punched Lachlan in the shoulder, "Because I be agreeing with Lucida. That old viper has planned something foul for you on the morrow, and I'll be damned if the minstrels sing about Lachlan Shadowblade getting his arse handed to him by Drummond the Wrinkled because you were still running from your past."

"Drummond the Wrinkled?"

"Be that the part you heard and none of the rest?" Rhys snorted as he slung his arm around Lachlan's shoulders. "Did you not see how weathered and haggard he looked? His wrinkles had wrinkles."

Lachlan chuckled and followed Rhys inside the cottage, but stopped short upon seeing Maera. His lungs struggled to breathe, his heart kicked violently against his ribs, and a million butterflies took flight in his gut.

She wore a gown the color of burnished gold that hugged and accentuated her curves in all the right places, then fell to the floor in voluminous skirts. Delicate floral embroidery adorned the wide-scooped neckline, spilling onto the shoulders, and then trailed down to encircle the cuffs of both wrist-length sleeves.

Her chestnut-colored hair hung over her left shoulder in an intricate plait interwoven with glittering golden ribbons, and a wreath of violet thistle and heather crowned her head.

Rhys let out a low whistle and closed Lachlan's mouth for him. He grinned at Maera and winked at Lucida before turning to Lachlan and ushering him back outside, muttering he couldn't allow his best friend to get married smelling of horses. Lucida tossed him a bundle of clothing and grinned when he caught it.