Free Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) by Ann Marston Page B

their shoulders. I saw a lot of different tartans as we rode, varying from predominantly red, through brown, yellow, black and green. Eventually, the tartans the people wore began to show predominantly blues and greens, much like Cullin’s tartan, and Cullin announced we were now on Broche Rhuidh land.
    It was still nearly a sevenday before we reached Glenborden where the Clanhold stood. I got my first view of it as we topped a small rise in the glen and stood looking down the vast sweep of the broad, green valley. I reined the sorrel to a sudden stop and simply sat there and stared, my mind gone suddenly blank.
    I had been expecting a manor house similar to Mendor’s Landholding in Falinor, I suppose, large and solid but not overly imposing. The Clanhold of Broche Rhuidh was large and solid, but there the resemblance to Mendor’s house stopped. Broche Rhuidh was stone-built, rising gracefully from the top of a small shoulder of the mountain. Behind it, the sheer face of the granite crag towered high enough to scrape the belly of the clear sky. The living rock of the cliff itself formed the back wall of the Clanhold. Crenellated towers stood at each corner behind battlements fashioned of the same rock, but the massive gates stood flung wide in the warm late morning sunshine. Behind the walls, the Clanhold itself stood huge and graceful, solidly rooted in the mountain.
    I looked at Cullin, aware that my mouth hung open. “You didn’t tell me Broche Rhuidh was a palace,” I said faintly.
    Cullin looked at the Clanhold judiciously, then at me. “Aye, well, I suppose it’s big enough,” he said. “And it’s comfortable. Cold in winter, though.” He urged the stallion forward, leaving me still gaping on the brow of the hill.
    I kicked the sorrel into a canter to catch up. “Cullin?”
    He turned, grinning at me over his shoulder.
    “Cullin, is your father a king?” I pulled the sorrel up even with the bay stallion and reached out to touch Cullin’s arm.
    Cullin laughed. “A king?” he repeated. “Hellas, no. But I must have mentioned he was Clan Laird.”
    “Aye, you did,” I said, looking at the awe inspiring structure ahead of us. “But you didn’t tell me what it meant.”
    He grinned. “In Isgard, the title would be prince, I think,” he said. “There are no kings in Tyra.”
    “A prince,” I repeated faintly. “That makes me—”
    “A young lord,” he said matter-of-factly. “Merely the son of a younger son. If we hurry, we’ll be in time for the noon meal.”
    I followed him, still slightly stunned, remembering those fantasies of my childhood. In my imagination, the father who came to rescue me was always nobly born, sometimes even a prince. But those were daydreams. At least, I thought they were mere daydreams. “A young lord,” I muttered to myself. “Hellas-birthing. A young lord....”
    They came out to the courtyard to meet us as we rode in. I recognized them from Cullin’s descriptions as they stood on the wide, stone steps leading up to the broad, carved doors. The tall, straight man with red hair fading to grey was Medroch, Cullin’s father, the Clan Laird. Beside him stood another man, his hair the colour of polished oak. Cullin’s brother Rhodri was not quite as tall as their father, but he had a good expanse of shoulder narrowing to lean, muscular hips. The woman at his side, slightly plump and smiling, was Rhodri’s wife Linnet. Three boys, ranging in age from twelve to sixteen stood on the step behind her—Rhodri’s sons, Brychan, Landen and Tavis.
    Slightly apart from them was another woman, tall, slender and beautiful, her hair the red-gold of a sweet maple leaf in the autumn sun. She held a young girl of about three by the hand, her other hand on the shoulder of another girl of about six who stood in front of her. She had to be Cullin’s wife Gwynna. The children were Elin and Wynn. Both the girls had hair like freshly minted copper coins, and stood gravely regarding