Alexander and Nathair didn’t even wait a day before they left, not giving any leeway to Cameron O’Donnel’s foremen to warn him of their coming. They took the back roads, avoiding human and animal traffic where they could.
Gallagher Castle was on a high peak, a statistically logical place for the Laird’s castle to be. The surroundings were mostly rocks and moss, and the whole thing looked like a severe fort from myth. The stone castle almost seemed to grow out of the hill. From here, it seemed as much a part of the craggy landscape as the cliff’s edge.
But the lower into the valley Alexander got, the more things began to change—from moss-green to the green of rain-fed grass, and wild heather as far as the eye could see. They didn’t stop often, and the sights flew by faster than Alexander could imagine.
His people were spread out across the vast Gallagher lands, but they avoided all of the small village clusters for the most part and completely circumvented the one next to the castle. Alexander loved his people, but that didn’t mean he knew how to talk to them.
Besides, they’d just be alarmed to see their Laird ridin’ into town wi’ nae notice whatsoever.
As they climbed new hills and traversed new valleys, Alexander had to admit to himself that it had been a long time since he’d witnessed the beauty of his own land. He spent so much time in his castle, worrying about his people and seeking order, that he sometimes forgot what waited outside.
The disorder of the countryside stressed him, but it filled him with a childish wonder, too, deep in his heart where nobody else could see. The faerie mounds with their stones and flowers, the rushing rivers with their little silver and blue fish. The weeds that looked like the most exquisite blossoms, thistles and dandelions and daisies decorating the landscape.
Mither always loved daisies. Me an’ Catherine used to bring them in big bunches.
Nathair kept pointing out landmarks as they traveled. He tried to interest Alexander in the finer mythology of the Gallagher land. Every few seconds, he said something like, “Look, there’s where Joshua Wainwright got Madame MacCallum wi’ a bairn!” or “There’s the tavern where Mary Reid ran away wi’ that English banker!”
“Ye’re makin’ half o’ these stories up,” Alexander said in disbelief. “In fact, ye’re speakin’ absolute nonsense.”
“I am nae!” Nathair told him, offended. “I’m just tryin’ to introduce Me Laird to his own people and land.”
As much as Alexander would have liked the journey to end as quickly as possible, Aibreann and Ailill were as alive as he and Nathair and required rest from their burdens. While they usually stopped at a tavern or subject’s cottage nightly, they were always off again at first light, no time for gallavanting at all.
On the seventh day of travel, as they approached the outskirts of the O’Donnel farm, Nathair managed to convince him to stop. The sun was beating down unusually fiercely even for July, and their poor horses were clearly thirsting for a drink.
“Here,” Nathair insisted. “We stop here. We’ve nae been to the Loch de Òr since we were lads.”
Alexander gave his friend a skeptical look but eventually agreed. It had been a long time since he’d seen the so-called Loch of Gold, and longer still since he’d been near it, other than in a carriage while speeding past the border.
I have nae been here since me betrothal turned sour. I wonder if it’s still beautiful.
So they dismounted, their bags still on their horses' backs, and led the creatures off the beaten track and over the small hill that hid the vast loch behind it.
Oh me God.
He’d forgotten. He always forgot how beautiful the loch was. It got its name from multiple sources, all of which contributed to the sheen of gold that colored the waters no matter the time of year.
In the autumn, the golden leaves of the surrounding trees were reflected back, but even in winter, it retained its shine. The base of the loch was unusually sandy, with little gold, silver, and bronze fish that swam to and fro in the waters. When the sun hit just right, thanks to the angle of the loch, the light reflected back was otherworldly.
Now, in the height of summer, the trees were a stunning dark green. It added to the effect rather than taking away from it, though. Alexander found himself at peace as he stared into the green loch with its flecks of gold, representing calmness, representing peace.
At least she could nae take this from me.
Nathair was giving him a knowing look from the side of his eye. “Ye quite grand there, Laird?”
Alexander snorted. “Proud o’ yerself, are ye, Chieftain?”
“Och, aye,” Nathair agreed, pulling out some of their provisions and taking a seat on a jutting rock near the water’s edge. “I’m always proud o’ myself when I get a reaction out o’ ye, Stoneface, Laird o’ Statues.”
“Ye’re a menace,” Alexander told him with a smile, hunkering down next to him and accepting the offered bread. “But regardless, I’m glad ye’re me menace.”
Nathair gave him a long look, then patted him on the shoulder. “Dinnae ye worry, Sandy. I will nae tell anyone how soft ye’re gettin’.”
“Much appreciated,” Alexander snorted. “Now shut it so I can eat me luncheon.”
Six hours later, the night was beginning to fall, and Alexander had to admit they were horribly lost. They couldn’t have been more than a few hours out from the farm as they reached the crossroads, but neither had any clue which way to turn.
There was an old stone marker dead in the center, but it was weather-beaten beyond readability. Though it clearly marked out two different directions, the words were entirely obscured, and Alexander couldn’t tell at all which way he was supposed to go.