CAERLOCH rose dark and ominous against the stormy horizon as Fiona and Sgàil drew near. The growing winds and the pounding hooves beneath Fiona did nothing to soothe the questions in her mind. The grey clouds loomed threateningly above the bleak and imposing towers that sprawled around the thick castle walls. Guards paced on the battlements, their black armour dim spots against the paler stone. But they did not take special notice of the red-haired princess approaching the gates; perhaps Lady Nuith had not realised Fiona's long absence after all.

As Fiona crossed the bridge running over the deep and muddy moat, the guards slowly raised up the creaking iron portcullis, permitting her to pass without asking questions. She exhaled softly, some of the worry sliding off her shoulders and remaining outside the castle walls. Perhaps it would be all right.

But then the dim daylight caught on the crimson raven emblem on the guards' shields, drawing Fiona's gaze and sending a familiar fear whispering across her skin.

Whether Lady Nuith knew of that afternoon's happenings or not, it did not lessen the danger the princess was in.

Fiona spurred Sgàil onward, shutting away the image of those bloody ravens as she glanced up out of habit at the dark murder holes in the stone arch above her head. While grim reminders of Caerloch's double function as both a residence and a defensible fortress, she never knew when something might be hurled through those holes intended for her. She did not think Lady Nuith would stoop so low as to have her murdered in such a way, but she did not know how or when Nuith would dispose of her. That fear of the unknown constantly wormed its way into her thoughts whenever she was enclosed behind the walls of Caerloch; it was only on the moors that Fiona felt truly free. And who knew how long those tastes of freedom would last.

A cold gust howled across the courtyard and Fiona shivered as she dismounted; she had forgotten to bring her cloak. A scowling stable hand came forward and led her horse away without saying a word to her. Fiona was used to being ignored and took no notice.

The courtyard was mostly empty, save for a group of white doves pecking at some grain left on the ground for them. Thin tendrils of smoke drifted up from the open windows of the kitchens, which were below ground, but that was the only sign of life. Even the blacksmith's forge remained oddly silent, and Fiona shivered again, though this time not because of the wind.

Whether Lady Nuith was waiting for her or not, Fiona walked across the echoing courtyard and entered the foot of the tower, the remaining daylight vanishing behind the closed door. It was dim inside, the only light coming from the small slits in the wall meant for archers. There were no windows on the ground floor, and the torches in their respective brackets were not lit. It all gave a horrible, oppressive feeling, and Fiona ran up the spiralling stairs as if she could escape it if she went fast enough.

Inhaling deeply to better prepare herself for whatever encounter with Nuith awaited her, Fiona entered her apartments, stepping into a small, narrow corridor. The torch on the wall was not lit here either, and a cold draft came through unseen cracks in the stone.

The princess hesitated.

Lady Nuith rarely came here, preferring instead for Fiona to go to her. But an air of waiting hung about the whole place, as if something were about to happen. It was not just in the empty courtyard, but in the unlit torches, the dark hallways, and the onerous silence.

What was going on?

Without further hesitation, Fiona opened another door to her chambers, a much broader room with oaken panelling along the walls and high windows that revealed the fading light outside. There was not much else save her bed, a sturdy chest that contained her clothing and other belongings, and a few chairs. A fire burned in the small fireplace in one wall, lighting and warming up the room as the evening chill approached and filling the place with the welcome scent of apple logs.

Fiona blinked in surprise. The Danish woman was not waiting for her. Her shoulders loosened with the breath she had not known she had been holding, the tension fading away.

But the relief did not last long.

Stepping farther into the room, the floor creaking slightly beneath her step, she saw someone sitting in the gloom by the window.

"Fiona?" It was a male voice, not a young one, and certainly not one she recognized.

Her heart leapt into her throat, nearly choking her with panic. Had Lady Nuith sent an assassin to kill her? But then, he would have already struck and not simply sat there and asked her name. Unless it was all a trick. None of it made sense.

Fiona stepped closer, gripping her dirk so tightly she feared she might break the handle. She wished then that she had her sword with her, not left behind in its hiding place, but a sword would do little good in combat this close.

The man remained seated, as if waiting for her. Dried mud caked his boots and the hem of his cloak, as if he had journeyed far. She could not see his face, which was mostly obscured by the hood of his large cloak, but she noticed that he bore no weapon. Unless it was the strangely shaped bundle beside him. No, that looked like a harp within its carrying cloth; no blade was shaped like that.

Faint memories came to Fiona's mind, a character who was only a shadow in her mind, a ghost from the days before the War.

"Rhiada?" she asked, daring to speak and yet not letting down her guard. Her hand still clenched the dirk at her side.

The individual in question smiled and flung back his hood, hair the colour of a raven's wing falling to his shoulders, though grey laced a beard she did not remember him having before. The flamelight danced across his face, harshened by exposure to the elements, shadowing empty sockets where his eyes should be.

Fiona stared in horror at his face, biting back the exclamation that screamed to escape her throat.

"Aye, Fiona McCurragh, 'tis the same." He spoke her tongue well, though with an accented lightness that almost seemed harsh despite his warm voice.

"What happened to yer eyes?" she forced out at last in a hollow whisper, not wanting to offend, but unable to repress the longing to know.

Rhiada hesitated. "Ye would no' remember; it was so long ago. But in the days before the War, I was a messenger between yer father and the king of my country, Cymru. Yer father hoped they would ally against the Danes, should they ever invade Scotland. When on a mission in the Highlands, I was caught and blinded as a spy. I was fortunate to be left alive at all."

"I am sorry," Fiona murmured at last, not knowing what else to say. She pulled up a stool and sat down by him, unsure whether she should stare at the fire or at Rhiada's mutilated face. Of course, he would not know either way, but she found it rather disconcerting to look at.

Smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt, she gazed into the depths of the fire, the flickering light gentler to her eyes than Rhiada's scars. "Why did ye come back to Scotland? My father has been dead fer three years and his second wife has long since remarried. There is nothing left fer ye here, unless ye would play the part of a traitor to my father's cause." Her words were morose on her tongue.

"Wheesht, Fiona!" Rhiada cried. "Donnae assume evil of every stranger who seeks food and shelter beneath yer roof." He shifted his position on the hard wooden chair before he leaned back and continued in a lower tone. "Fiona McCurragh. First of all, I am to teach ye the harp, and aye, I hae Lady Nuith's permission. In return, ye will play fer them and earn more worth in their eyes than jist being their prisoner."

Fiona swallowed, confused by the sudden turn of events. Rhiada was almost a stranger to her; what did he mean by this, to be her teacher? "Lady Nuith wishes me to become a harper?" She looked from the fire to his face, searching for any sign of dishonesty and finding none.

"'Tis an honour to be one, especially in a king's court. In my country, harpers—good harpers—are in high demand." He sighed and said something in his own native Cymraeg tongue. "Lady Nuith cares little whether ye play well or no', but the guise of a teacher is the only way I can speak to ye. Ye might even take a fancy to it; 'tis a beautiful instrument." He smiled, a strange sight on the face of one so disfigured. "But I hae my own reasons fer wanting to speak wi' ye." He leaned closer to Fiona. "I hae been recently down south in the Lowlands. They are talking of rejoining the throne of the Highlands and reuniting together to be Scotland once again."

Fiona stared at him, hope and disbelief mingling in a shockwave that left her stunned in its wake. Surely it could not be mere coincidence that she had run into the son of Chieftain McCladden that very day! "W-wha'?" she stammered. "How is tha' even possible? They swore never again to reunite under the throne after wha' my father did! Why are they changing their minds now?"

"Aye, I didnae believe it when I first heard about it either. But they are serious about this, though they hesitate. They donnae believe that any of the McCurraghs are still alive."

Fiona started, her foot scuffling against the floor. No, it could not be mere coincidence after all. That meeting had been intentional. There was no other explanation—there could be no other explanation. The only question was whether it was all some great, evil trickery....

"Ah!" Rhiada exclaimed. Perhaps he had heard the scuffle. "Something has happened. Tell me."

"Sometimes Lady Nuith permits me to ride out on the moors since I promise only ever to go to one burn, far from human habitation. My brother—ye may remember him—taught me first how to use a sword there."

"Sa ha, I remember him. But come, what happened?"

"I stumbled upon a lad, whom I found out later to be Angus McCladden."

The briefest of smiles passed across the harper's face, though perhaps it was only her imagination and the uncertain light of the fire. "I ken the lad and his family."

Fiona waited for him to say more, watching him closely for any tell-tale sign of deception, but he was silent. "Angus asked me who I was and I told him the truth, and wha' had happened since the War."

"Excellent," Rhiada said under his breath, but she still heard him. "Fiona," he began again, a strange edge of excitement in his voice. "The sooner Scotland kens that ye are alive, the sooner Scotland will be one country again and ye will be queen, ruling o'er yer father's throne."

Fiona's eyes widened in surprise. Her heart skipped a beat; surely she was dreaming! Either this was an elaborate, wicked scheme to harm her worse than the Danes could or an unbelievable reality—the former seemed more likely. "Wha' do ye mean?"

"I told ye that Scotland wants to become one again; Donald McCladden was the one who spoke up fer all those in the Lowlands. And, more importantly, they want ye, if ye're still alive, to be placed back on the throne that is rightfully yers. They willnae hae their country ruled by a Dane. However, I'm a-thinking that it will take more than the lad's word of seeing ye fer them to believe ye are still alive." He leaned back in his chair. "Aye. We'll hae to smuggle ye down there."

"But how? And when?" Panic crept into her voice as an overwhelming wave of new changes and possibilities swept over her, dragging her along with its heavy surge.

"Och, Fiona! All things in their due time." He rose to his feet. "I will speak wi' ye on the morrow. A servant should be bringing ye supper soon; 'tis getting late," he added as he made his way to the door with the help of his carved wooden stick.

"Rhiada?" Fiona questioned before he left, her voice under control once more.

"Aye, Fiona?" He turned towards her, his empty sockets black holes in the dimness.

"Forgive me fer saying this, but how do I ken if I can trust ye?" She paused. These were difficult words to say, exposing her vulnerability to someone little better than a complete stranger, even if she had known him in the past. "I ken my father did, but wi' all the mistrust of the Danes and traitorous Scots, I am afraid to trust anyone anymore—let alone a forgotten acquaintance from my past. How did ye even remember me?"

He approached her, his soft footsteps matched with the gentle thump of his walking stick. He reached out with his hand, floundering for a moment before resting it on her shoulder, as he was a head taller than her. "I saw ye many years ago when I still had my sight. Ye were but a wee lass then. Yer brother always spoke of ye fondly and was always asking King Daibhidh to be excused from council meetings so he could be wi' ye." His hand left her shoulder and grasped her hair gently. His voice whispered, as if to no one in particular, "Still a flaming gold?"

Fiona fumbled for a response, wondering what this had to do with answering her questions.

"Aye, I remember," he continued nonetheless. "Flaming hair and shining golden-green eyes; one of the bonniest lasses in Scotland." He sighed softly. "Of course, that was before it all happened." He was silent for several minutes, as if his empty eyes could see the past as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. "Fiona, I cannae convince ye to trust me. Nae sound argument would ever succeed in doing that fer anyone, nae matter how sceptical they might be. But I will ask ye to trust me, if only to escape certain inescapable death if ye stay. How much ye trust me is another question. I never failed yer father, and I will most certainly no' fail ye. Ye hae my word: I willnae let harm come to ye if I can help it."

"Fer that I thank ye," Fiona murmured back, despite the uncertainty in her heart. She did not feel afraid of him—that was the odd thing—but she remained as fearful of the future as ever.

Hope, as fleeting and faroff as it was, had arisen out of the darkness, but she was too timid yet to take ahold of it.

A knock sounded on the door before a servant girl entered, bringing Fiona a bowl of stew. She left it in the princess's hands without a word, her footsteps fading away in the silence.

"Now get some rest," Rhiada said once he was certain the servant was out of hearing. "Things always seem clearer in the morning." Then he was gone, and only the crackling of the wood on the hearth disturbed the silence.

That night, Fiona's dreams were filled with rain-stained hills awash with morning fog. Scarred harpers whispered in her ear of fates yet unrealized. Dark-haired lads mirrored her fear in their blue eyes. And hope rose like a golden sunrise, chasing away the anxiety of deathly shadows—hope for a future that might still be hers.

If she could stay alive long enough to see it.