FIONA McCurragh reined in her horse and paused at the top of the rolling hillside, looking out over the treeless glen. A misting rain fell from the clouded heavens, hiding Tor-na-Cruithne in the distance behind a silver veil. The rain was as soft as snow—though not as cold—and the fitful wind tossed Fiona's flaming curls about, carrying with it a hint of the bygone summer.

She fiddled with the bright sword at her waist, her fingers finding their position on the familiar hilt. But she did not pull it out. Not yet.

It was an old habit of hers to wait a few moments before she performed the stunt that her only sibling had once patiently taught her. Ever since he had passed away six years ago, she had relentlessly practised it—practised it to perfection, as if somehow she kept alive the memory of her beloved brother by doing so.

The rising foothills to the southwest lay dark blue and dim, dense drifts of fog hiding their peaks. Her horse, Sgàil, a grey gearran, tossed her silvery mane and gently played with the bit between her teeth. The mare's velvety nostrils twitched at the rain and heather-scent hanging between the heavens and the earth, the air heavy like the sense of fear and danger always lurking within Fiona's breast.

She pursed her lips, looking out at the vast, empty moorland. The ever-present bitterness, the longing for the old days that seemed only to be put at rest when she escaped into this verdant wilderness, threatened to overwhelm her senses before she rode on down into the glen. Even now, she could hear her brother, Douglas, saying, "No' yet, Fiona! If ye let it out now, ye willnae hae any left fer facing yer enemy!" No one had been willing to teach her weaponry as her brother used to.

She smiled grimly, the memory painfully precious, as all memories of her brother were.

Fiona clenched her eyes shut for a brief moment. The mere remembrance of her family's fate brought back so much grief that she hardly dared to think of them, and yet she had nothing else worth thinking of. She alone was left, the sole survivor of the McCurraghs, once the rulers of Scotland. The Danes had destroyed her family, slaying her brother with the sword and her father with grief; her mother, farthest from her mind, had died at Fiona's birth. And soon, unless Fate decreed otherwise, Fiona would join her family beyond the sunset.

Her eyes fluttered open as a warm gust of wind blew into her face, scattering wet droplets of mist on her dampened cheeks. Lady Nuith was only waiting until the right time to seize her crown by disposing of its last living threat—Fiona—thus carrying out in full the treachery begun by the Danes six years ago.

Fiona barely remembered it, barely remembered her father's marriage to the Danish woman, his attempt to bring peace to the war-torn country. She had been so distraught over her brother's death that everything else had only been a tear-stained blur. But she remembered the whispers, the concerned looks, and she remembered her father's death and what followed after.

Three years since then, she had been locked up in the east tower at Caerloch, once the capital of her father's kingdom, save when she was occasionally let out to ride on the moors where no one dwelt. She had no friends, and even the servants that she had known from birth had been sent away or silenced in ways she could only imagine.

Her crown stolen, her family murdered or conveniently dead, her existence forgotten by the Scots once loyal to her, Fiona had little hope of survival. Once Lady Nuith had a child by which to claim the throne instead of the Scottish princess, whom Nuith insisted was not the late king's daughter, it would be over. And since Nuith's marriage to the Danish Lord Erland, it was only a matter of time before the threat became tangible.

Life was never so precious as when one would soon be dead.

Fiona swallowed, banishing the morbid thoughts. She must focus, even as her brother had always said, and not let her bitterness get the better of her. Flipping her thick locks of hair behind her shoulders, Fiona leaned forward on her horse and whispered a few words in the mare's ear. Then she sat up straight and dug her heels into Sgàil's flanks, spurring her forward. Together, they raced onward towards a few scraggly and barren bushes beside a small burn, which still flowed this late in the year.

As they darted across the fading emerald landscape, Fiona unsheathed her sword and, leaning nearly parallel to the racing ground, began to veer to the left. Sgàil, who was familiar with this, swerved to the right as they drew near the small burn.

At the last instant, Fiona straightened, swinging her right leg over her saddle with one fluid motion and diving headlong off her horse. But instead of falling to the ground, she somersaulted through the air and landed on her feet, her sword held firmly high above her. The strange calmness of battle frenzy flooded her veins, every movement seeming clear and yet distant, only her rapid heartbeat disturbing the windswept silence.

She had practised this move countless times, but it was her first attempt while wearing a dress instead of one of her brother's kilts. She was glad she had managed it without falling, not only for her own sake, but also for her brother's, as it was Douglas who had taught it to her. In some unexplainable way, succeeding in doing it right was the only way she could cope with his death, for he had died before he had seen her do it perfectly.

Having caught her breath, she swung her sword behind her smoothly and brought it in front of her in a whistling arc before proceeding with other similar moves that Douglas had taught her at this very burn so long ago. Each stroke, each turn of the blade thrust back the murky fear that edged on her conscience, familiar repetition of practice bringing reality clearer into focus. Perhaps one day, this same swordplay might save her life.

The lass swung her sword around once more—save this time the blow was blocked by something behind her, a metal clang shattering the peace of the moors.

Fiona whirled around in sudden panic, meeting her opponent: a lad roughly her age, with hair as dark as peat and eyes as piercing blue as a cloudless September sky.

He looked at her with something akin to a wry smile. "Excellent," he said, startling the silence. His low, melodic voice had a pleasant ring to it, but still Fiona kept her guard, her eyes wide in terror. Before he could say anything else, she swiftly slid her sword off of his with a harsh grinding noise, stepping back and centering her weight. Heart hammering in her throat, she waited in suppressed terror for his next move.

Had Lady Nuith sent this lad to threaten her into never leaving Caerloch again?

Fiona swallowed against the panic rising within, anticipating this stranger to advance, a quick movement that might end her life forever.

But the lad only slammed his blade home into its scabbard in one fluid motion.

Slowly lowering her sword arm, Fiona likewise sheathed her weapon as they both stared at each other for several moments without speaking.

"Ye almost lopped my head off," she sputtered at last, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Nae, I had nae such intention," he replied soberly. Then he grinned, the swift change seeming like mockery. "Well, ye're a bonnie lass."

The blood rushed to Fiona's face, but she did not smile back. "I thank ye," she returned in a cold tone of voice. She was not used to anyone complimenting her these days, especially complete strangers in the middle of uninhabited moorland.

She scrutinised him more closely as he leaned against a leafless tree on the banks of the gurgling burn. He gazed back at her, his silence almost intimidating, as if he dared her to judge his appearance. His clothing was clean and finely-woven, that of a chieftain's family, not a lower-ranking clansman. And his sword, what little she had seen of it, was a good blade, not a dented relic from the last war, but something to be cherished, the sort handed from father to son. Unless he had stolen it.

Her throat tightened. He seemed young to be an outlaw, but it was possible. If he was so skilled a thief to be well-clad, what sort of threat did he pose to her? Perhaps she should not so quickly have sheathed her sword.

But that was not the only thing that struck her as outlandish. Of all the times that she had ridden upon the uninhabited heaths of the Highlands, this was the first time she had seen another human being. Few other individuals from Caerloch ever came this way.

The grin slowly vanished from the lad's face and he stared, not at her face, but at the plaid which was draped over her left shoulder, as was the custom. Then he said, "I noticed tha' the brooch ye're wearing on yer plaid is that of the McCurraghs' emblem. And I also recall tha' that clan was ended about three years ago, was it no'?" An unspoken challenge rang out in his words, a challenge that sparked in his bright blue eyes.

Fiona glanced down at the silver pin with its small boat delicately carved into the metal, a mark of her clan as much as the tartan pattern woven into her plaid. Her thoughts raced, her mouth dry as she scrambled for an answer.

Wherever this lad came from, he was surely no Dane. None of Lady Nuith's people could speak the Gàdhlig without a trace of accent. If he was a thief, he was still a Scot. Perhaps he still had some shred of honour. At the worst, he would simply turn her in to the Danes for a reward. At best, her name would have no meaning to him—but she doubted that. Any dignity her ancestors might have had was squandered when her father married Lady Nuith, losing all respect in the eyes of the Scots. McCurragh was now a byword, used for speaking of someone who had abandoned honour.

"I am Fiona McCurragh, the last of tha' line," she said at last, a note of despair hanging in her words. "And who might ye be?" she added nervously, her eyes searching to see how he would respond to all she had said.

No emotion crossed his face, whatever he might be thinking inside. He only bowed his head slightly, saying with a note of grandeur, "Angus McCladden, son of Donald McCladden, High Chieftain of the Lowlands."

Fiona's eyes went wide in surprise. So his father had given him that sword after all.... When the War against the Danes ended in failure and succeeded in tearing Scotland apart, the McCladden clan had become the rulers of the Lowlands. Down south, they had managed to keep some semblance of order like there had been before the War, but in the Highlands, the Danes were the rulers and the Scots their subjects—or in some cases, such as hers, their prisoners.

"I heard tha' the line of the McCurraghs was dead," Angus repeated, snapping the lass back to attention. The challenge was still afire in his eyes.

Fiona glanced up quickly. "Nae, nae. The present laird wishes it so."

"Why?" he questioned, the challenge now married with curiosity.

Sgàil trotted up, having attempted to graze despite the bit in her mouth, and nudged Fiona lightly in the shoulder. The princess's gaze flew to the ground, the words sticking bitterly in her throat. "Would ye wish to hae any possible threats to yer throne kept alive?" When Angus did not reply, she continued, "They donnae hae any real claim to the throne as they still lack a born heir. They cannae jist murder me without threat of reprisal from any loyal to the true throne of Scotland. So they keep me in hiding." She swallowed hard against the fears threatening to resurface. "My one solace in my imprisonment is that I may sometimes ride alone out on the moors. Does that satisfy ye?"

He shrugged carelessly, his eyes never leaving her face, seeming to study her closely despite his air of nonchalance. "I suppose so. Yet I still wonder how a lass like ye, wi' yer story, ends up riding in the northern reaches of the Lowlands, especially armed wi' a sword. Lady Nuith and her husband hae their realm in the Highlands, unless places hae changed since my father spoke to me about it."

Fiona was flustered. "They donnae ken I am armed; I keep it hidden in a dry bank a league from the castle.... But the Lowlands? I had nae idea tha' I was this far south." Panic set in the depths of her heart. If Lady Nuith found out....

Angus looked up from his musings. "Aye, ye're in the Lowlands. Is tha' such a bad thing?"

Fiona backed away into her horse, a knot entangling itself in the pit of her stomach. "I must be gang."

"Why?" Angus' dark brows drew together in confusion. Or was it fear? She could not see past any expression he chose to wear.

"If Lady Nuith discovers I hae been down this far south, she willnae hae mercy. And she will ken if I return too late to Caerloch."

"But—" He began to walk towards her, attempting to lay a hand on the mare's bridle.

"I cannae stay longer!" Without another word spoken, she swung herself onto her horse and rode off, her fiery locks of hair streaming out behind her in the autumn wind.

The brown and parched moorlands raced by as the leagues vanished beneath Sgàil's hooves. The sky had swiftly turned to dark grey, and a chill breeze began to rise, harsh and gusting. Fiona paid no heed.

I must get back. I must get back. I must get back.

She did not know for certain what Lady Nuith would do if she discovered Fiona had ridden to the Lowlands—let alone armed and talking to the son of the Danes' most powerful rival in Scotland besides herself. She might excuse the first thing, for Fiona only ever rode to this burn that Douglas had shown her long ago, but as for the second? She had little hope of mercy. It all reeked of rebellion, and Fiona feared what consequences that might incite. But it was not a rebellion, was it? Exchanging a few words with someone who was a complete stranger to her did not exactly mean revolution, did it?

As the leagues sped away, her heart was filled with confusion and mystery. It was not rebellion in any logical sense, but fear did not follow logic, and if Lady Nuith was afraid that Fiona had become too dangerous, the princess's life would be over—with or without another heir.

At the same time, a small shred of hope kindled itself in the depths of her heart. Surely this meeting with the son of McCladden was no accident? Surely there was something more to this whole encounter that was significant, something meaningful, something that would have impact at some point in the future, even if she did not know what it was yet. For, even though her father and brother could never return from the grave, she yearned to no longer remain a slave to Lady Nuith's wishes and in constant danger of being swiftly and silently murdered. Perhaps a rebellion was truly coming, and she would be freed.

Fiona shook her head, blinking against the wind in her face. It would never happen. As Angus had said, the line of the McCurraghs had ended, and she with them. She was not even a figurehead, only a lost princess doomed to fade out of memory. Her people had forgotten about her—such a rebellion would never happen in her lifetime, if it ever did at all.

For after the disaster that had followed the War, no one would attempt to overthrow the Danes now.