The further north they trekked, nature became wilder and more vibrant. Fillan, who did not remember having lived close to the Highlands, discovered breathtaking landscapes as if for the first time. Hillsides bordered plains of emerald, and mountains with groves intertwined and stretched as far as the eye could see. They sometimes rose so high that their unreachable peaks were surrounded by clouds. In other places they surrounded lochs whose still waters reflected the gray of the sky.
Their journey to Scone lasted two weeks and took place uneventfully, the English not having ventured so far. Sören had ordered them to set off as soon as they had landed in the port of Burnisland, after crossing the Firth of Forth. He wanted to widen the distance, again and again.
A heavy and monotonous rain covered each day, though Fillan eventually adjusted to the rhythm of travel. He was also happy to find that since Bealltainn, no one called him a ‘kid’ anymore or nicknamed him ‘the maggot.’
The deluge stopped as soon as they arrived at Scone, as though it were welcoming them, and Fillan was surprised by what awaited them at the end of their long journey.
“An abbey?” he asked, when they stopped in front of a building attached to a church.
“Don’t worry,” the Norwegian laughed, “there are no plans to let them take you into the orders.”
They dismounted as a procession of monks filed through the main entrance. Upon spotting someone, Sören abandoned them.
“Where is he going?” inquired Fillan.
“It’s going to suck,” Edan answered simply.
“Eh? Why?”
The leader of the mercenaries rushed straight at a monk to take him aside and strike up a conversation. It only took a few seconds for him to start visibly arguing.
“That’s why!”
“Who is that?”
“He’s Father Thomas de Balmerino,” Moira replied. “He is the head of this abbey, and he’s the one who made us do this entire journey from Berwick.”
The man dressed in his cowl listened to Sören’s yelling with the greatest of calm. The afternoon sun made the top of his tonsure shine.
“He’s from the Brotherhood?”
“You could even say that he is the brains of it in Scotland,” explained Fergus. “With all this mission’s problems, it’s no wonder Sören has a few choice words to say to him.”
“What can he possibly want from me?”
“We don’t know,” replied the bald man.
He’d answered too quickly for it to be the truth.
“Come on, we’ve arrived at our destination: I have the right to know!” complained Fillan.
Edan was energetically picking his nose, Fergus decided suddenly to tune his lute and Moira adjusted the bit of her horse. Only Kyle returned his gaze, pinching her lips, as if dying to tell him what she knew.
“Why don’t you tell me anything?” he practically yelled.
“Because we don’t know anything,” replied the druid without even looking at him.
“You all suck!” he spat, turning on his heels.
Deep down, he felt hurt. During the last few weeks, he had gotten the impression of being part of their gang, of having managed to integrate, but some barriers apparently remained.
He did not see Kyle, who attempted to join him, nor Moira who held her back. He contented himself with walking away to do a tour around the abbey.
He knew he had lost his temper too quickly. The secrets and the misunderstandings were a large part of it, but there was something else.
It was this place.
Over the past few weeks, he had seen and passed through many places, but this was the first time he felt so out of place. The impressive architecture of the building, the stained-glass windows, the monks who swung their rosaries with each of their steps—all this reminded him of only one thing: he had killed in cold blood.
Fillan had never been religious, but he knew one thing, which Alastair had reminded him of from the first moments after he took him in: killing was a sin. He now felt like an intruder, imagining that everyone looked at him as if they knew.
His conscience kept nagging at him.
“You arrived a few days early!” shouted a voice behind him, which he immediately recognized.
“Deorsa,” he said by way of greeting.
“What a horrible face you’re pulling! What were you thinking about?”
Fillan fell silent, leaving it to the spy to make the conversation.
“Could it be because of the little outburst I just heard?”
“I’m sick of not knowing what I’m doing here.”
“A little birdy tells me,” continued the spy, ignoring him, “that you killed a man in Leith. Is it true, this time? Yes, I see it in your face. No, it wasn’t any of the group who told me about it. I figured it out by myself, thanks to the description of the murderer circulating. Let’s just say that in wanting to make you unrecognizable to the Lann Fala with this scar, I’m afraid Sören has made your face more… memorable.”
“And Cornavii…?”
“Doesn’t seem to have made the connection, fortunately. But he will perhaps remember that he met a kid at Cranshaws matching the same description, if ever this one reached his ears. Anyway, it goes without saying that killing this man was unwise.”
“Shut up!” shouted Fillan, starting to raise his fist.
“Such anger! Who’d have believed that you were cut from the same cloth as Sören?”
“Deorsa!” growled a voice. “Don’t you have anything better to do than annoying that boy? Perhaps ensuring that we have all the information we need and that you didn’t miss anything?”
Fillan turned to look at who had come to save the spy’s nose from getting fractured. It was a gigantic man in his thirties, taller than even Sören. His thick muscles protruded from his tartan, and he had the build of a giant. Behind his head, long brown hair was bound up above the handle of a claymore.* Everything pointed to him being a native of the Highlands.
“No information ever escapes me, William,” Deorsa retorted, narrowing his eyes before walking away.
Fillan then found himself alone with the mountain of muscles.
“He can be really hateful sometimes. Hello to you, Fillan.”
“Definitely. But everyone knows me even before they meet me; I don’t know anyone.”
“Forgive me, my name is William Wallace,” said the Highlander, squeezing his forearm vigorously.
“Are you also part of the Brotherhood?”
“It’s been a few years, yes.”
They began to walk, continuing the tour around the abbey that Fillan had started.
“I don’t even know what we’re really talking about,” he continued, annoyed. “No one’s told me anything since I left Berwick. All I know is it’s your Brotherhood of Assassins who dealt with the Guild, and that you wanted to get us back, my sister and me.”
“I’m sincerely sorry about her.”
Fillan eyed Wallace from the corner of his eye. Underneath his rock-like build and his rough-hewn features, his face was adorned with a real pain, the kind that only those who have been through a similar ordeal can spot.
“I understand your frustration. I’ve been there, too. Discretion, secrets, riddles: all this is part of the Brotherhood’s methods. It’s their only way to survive.”
“So, you’re an… Assassin?”
The colossus nodded.
“I joined the Brotherhood thanks to Sören. After the death of my father, he was the one who took me in and raised me, so to say. He didn’t explain anything to you?”
“He’s not a very talkative person.”
“I know that well! He always kept a close bond with the Brotherhood, even after leaving it. But his independence matters more than anything to him. Knowing him, he must have felt that it was not his place to reveal anything to you. We’ve asked for a lot of patience, and I can only imagine how hard it must have been, given all the hardships that you faced before you got here. But the answers will come. We’ll hold a meeting with the other members, and we will explain everything to you. Absolutely everything.”
“You’re going to want me to join your organization,” guessed the young man.
“You are smart. I expected no less from you, with what Alastair told me about your character.”
“Did you know my master?” gasped Fillan, astonishment stretching his features.
“Many of us knew him. Alastair has always been one of our collaborators, even though he never joined the Brotherhood. It is not for nothing that we entrusted you both to him after the disappearance of your clan. His loss will leave a great void. He was an exceptional person.”
Fillan knew how true that was.
As they continued on their way, they found themselves facing a large, flat stone that rested on two feet of granite. Two monks guaranteed that the rock was perfectly aligned and in no danger of falling with infinite precautions.
“It’s the Stone of Destiny,” William explained, observing the questioning look of the teenager, who had stopped.
“What’s so special about this pebble?”
“Don’t repeat that too loudly or, despite their vows, these monks will come and kick your ass.”
“Legend says that it was the Tuatha Dé Danann who brought it when they came from Ireland, it and four other stones. Does the Tuatha Dé Dannan mean anything to you?”
“Vaguely,” replied Fillan, pulling the pendant out. “Kyle gave this to me before my first real fight.”
“Ogme, I see,” the warrior said, smiling. “You’re lucky that Kyle likes you; she is an incredible young woman.”
Fillan blushed, sensing that there were surely implications in those words.
“Anyway, the stone was said to have powers. When the Gaels, the first men, progressed through the country, the gods returned to Sidh and left it behind. Our ancestors seized it and established the tradition of coronation. Every man called to be King of Scotland, the guardian of the country, must stand guard over it on the day of his enthronement. It would even appear that the stone has the ability to speak.”
Seeing how William venerated the badly cut pendant Fillan wore, he suspected that this rock would be of capital importance to Kyle.
A fine drizzle began to fall, and the pleasant smell of damp grass and wet stone seeped into the air. Their task accomplished, the monks bowed while pronouncing the same sentence several times.
“What are they saying?” asked Fillan, who didn’t understand their words.
“Lia Fàil is the Gaelic name for the Stone of Destiny. It is also called the Stone of Fal.”
It took Fillan a few seconds to make the connection, then he opened his mouth wide.
“Does it have anything to do with the Children of Fal?” he asked.
“Tonight, we’ll explain everything to you,” William answered with a benevolent smile.
He refrained from retorting that he wanted to know everything, now. After all, he wasn’t entirely sure he was a Child of Fal, whatever that meant.
* A claymore is a very large, broad-bladed sword that is usually used with two hands. While the full-size version did not appear until the late fourteenth century, smaller versions (also known as hand-and-a-half swords) were used by the Highlander Scottish warriors from the end of the thirteenth century.