Free Once a Warrior by Karyn Monk Page A

knowingly against the folds of his chalky flesh, indicating an active mind lived within that extraordinarily aged body.
    “There are things that happen which are beyond our control,” said Malcolm. “If some wish to call that fate, so be it.”
    “But there are also things that happen because we allow them to, aren’t there, MacFane?” Alpin demanded. “Things that are within our control?”
    “Of course. Much of a man’s actions determines his future.”
    Alpin’s sparkling eyes narrowed. “Or chains him to the past.” He waved his hand and chuckled again, breaking the stillness of the moment. “How do you like your room, MacFane? Is that desk large enough to accommodate your unusual size?”
    Malcolm cast an uninterested glance at the desk. “I am sure it is more than—”
    He frowned.
    Upon the desk sat a statue, which he did not recall having seen earlier. It was the head of a young woman, reverently sculpted in luminous gray rock. Her features were delicate, almost childlike, yet Malcolm knew she was no child. Her eyes were large, her cheeks high, her nose small and straight. Her lips were soft, even in stone, and her chin was thrust slightly forward, a pose of defiance, or perhaps playfulness, suggesting she had found the task of sitting for the sculptor rather silly. He felt a strange, instant affinity toward her, as if she were an old friend, yet Malcolm knew he could not possibly know her. Long curls were etched around her face and over her shoulders. He found himself contemplating her hair’s color and weight, and wondering what it would be like to plunge his hand into that silky mass, were it not stone.
    “Who is this?” he demanded.
    “That is Ariella,” Alpin replied quietly. “MacKendrick’s daughter.”
    “Our laird had that statue sculpted just over a year ago,” said Gordon. “It was one of his favorite possessions.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought it was stolen during the attack,” he remarked, looking pointedly at Alpin.
    Ariella. The girl he was supposed to marry. The girl who had expected him to come with his great army, certain he would rescue her and her clan from their brutal assault. How long had she waited for him, Malcolm wondered, before setting her room afire? Five minutes? Ten? How long had she stood at her window and desperately searched the horizon for some sign of the Black Wolf? An hour? No, not an hour, he realized grimly. The attackers’ leader had murdered her father and threatened to slaughter her clansmen one by one until she submitted to him. This woman before him would not have waited an hour to kill herself.
    She would have done it immediately, praying her death might spare just one life.
    He had thought himself steeled to the torment of guilt. He had endured so much of it for so long, he had believed nothing could make him suffer more when it came to his failings. But as he stared at this beautiful girl who had burned to death for her clan, a surge of self-loathing engulfed him, robbing him of his ability to speak. Even worse was the knowledge that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. If he had arrived before the raid to accept their offer, the MacKendricks would have simply laughed and turned him away.
    Just as they were tempted to do today.
    Everyone was watching him, wondering at his thoughts. It was clear they did not believe there was anything he could do for them. They had expected a powerful warrior and an army. Instead, all they had gotten was him. He knew he could not turn this gentle clan of poets and jugglers into an army. But at the very least he could improve their fortifications. No one would ever find this holding so easy to attack again. He owed MacKendrick and his daughter that much, at least.
    “Come,” he said suddenly, ignoring the throbbing in his back and leg as he limped to the door. “I wish to make a tour of the outer wall.”
                      
    Yellow light flickered from the