Tales of the Executioners

Chapter 7: Jamie - Blood of Betrayal, Part 7

But he wasn't. As each year passed, it became clearer and clearer that he was right. Not that Caitrin had been wrong about everything. The yoke they wore was less of servitude and more of companionship, as if their debt was to keep the old man company.

"Is that so bad, lad?" Eagan would ask, a twinkle in his eyes.

Jamie's answer was always the same. "'Tis your choice of companions that makes it so."

During those years, Jamie was not always idle. He spoke to Caitrin more than once, grilled her on what had happened and how. He even pressed questions on Androu and Eagan, though their answers were confusing. Rechert and the human servants had foggy memories, but as Jamie learned to practice his own magic, he could slip into their minds and see that there were indeed missing parts, stolen details, hidden as if someone had snuck in and concealed them on purpose.

"What happened to Margaret, Rechert?"

The old man scratched his head. "She died o'fever while ye were gone."

Jamie pressed through his thoughts, saw Margaret in bed, but the picture seemed wrong. There was no background, nothing around the edges like there was in other memories, nothing connected to it, as if the image of her death had been set out all alone, a painting hung on the wall by itself.

"When did she die?"

Rechert frowned. "'Twas June, I think."

"And what happened ta my father?"

"Yer fatherThe English. They hung 'im as a traitor."

"Did ye see it?"

"I dinnaeI dinnae remember."

How could he not remember such a thing? Had it even happened?

Early winter nights let Jamie wander into the village. There he found the proof that his father had indeed been hung. Men had come, asking questions about the laird, about his son. They'd gotten no help, or at least none from the minds that Jamie touched.

"I never knew who tipped 'em off," the inn keeper said conversationally. "I mean someone had ta have done it. They dinnae just pick lairds at random, then pay someone ta travel all the way here ta check up on 'em. They'd have ta have some idea that ye were fightin' with the rebels. I just dinnae know who woulda told 'em."

"Aye, it wasn't us," said another. "We would no more have betrayed 'im than we would our own kin."

"I just cannae think who woulda done such a terrible thing."

They might not know, but Jamie did.

Androu.

His brother-in-law denied it, and Eagan smoothed it over by saying that Jamie had probably been recognized somewhere. "Ye fought battles with 'em, lad. No doubt someone saw ye, and knew what family ye belonged ta. Not hard ta guess that if the son is a rebel, the father must be too. The apple dinnae fall far from the tree."

It was a weak theory, and one Jamie scarce believed. Androu had benefited too greatly for him to be innocent.

But Eagan repeated the idea over and over, as if repetition would make it so. He would always end it with the wise saying, "The apple dinnae fall far from the tree, as they say."

It was a saying that was daily proven false by Androu's own children. More like Caitrin than their treacherous, ambitious father, they grew to decent young men. When they were old enough they'd had the situation explained to them, and been given the choice they'd one day face. The eldest chose to remain mortal, took a wife, and gave the family a new generation of children, while the youngest, Simon, insisted he wished to be as they were.

When he poured out his decision, Jamie leaned back in his chair to survey the young man. "Are ye sure that is what ye want? Ta be like this, forever?"

"Why not? Ya and Ma, and Da, and Eagan, ya've never aged, yer never sick."

"Nor can we venture out in daylight. Such a curse makes living among others difficult."

"But it hasn't," Simon objected.

"Aye, it has. Or it would if not fer Eagan's magic. He can make the mortals think and remember what he wishes them too, a skill he has handed down. Without that, the humans would notice we do not age, that we do not leave the safety of shadows."

"Would not such a gift pass down ta me as well?"

"I ken not, only that once ye do this, ye cannae take it back."

"Why would I wish ta? What could be better than living here forever with ye, and Ma, and Da and-"

Jamie jabbed the poker into the fire. "Nay, lad. This place is cursed, and we are cursed. Touched by the fae, 'tis true, but stained with the blood of betrayal. The flagons are slick with it, though ye cannae see it. If ye are smart ye will get thee gone, and start a wholesome life somewhere else. Besides." He sat the poker aside. "If ye do this, ye will owe a debt that lasts many years."

The boy dropped to his knees. "I ken that, uncle, and would choose ye ta owe such a debt to. Please. Make me as ye are."

Jamie reached for him, then caught himself. "Nay, lad. I cannot. Fer until the debt is paid, all that we pass the magic ta owe the debt ta Eagan; that is how I came to be in his servitude. Ye must wait until he releases us."

As luck would have it, Simon did not have to wait long. It was Hogmanay, 1668, when Eagan called them all together. They sat around the table before the fire, an imitation of their mortal days when they'd eaten great meals and drank stout by the mugful. Jamie's eyes wandered to Androu, seated in the chair his father had once occupied. At the thought, he felt the anger rise, and murderous thoughts played through his mind. It was in the middle of one such fantasy that Eagan stood up.

"Though in some ways I hate ta say it, 'tis been a long enough haul fer ye, and yer debt has been paid. Ye can stay or go as ye please. Fer myself, I plan ta head further afield. I have enjoyed my time here, and though I ken ye might be willin' ter shelter me indefinitely, I feel the call of my ancestral home and plan ta spend some time there afore venturing out again."