“Nils! Tavish!”
Aidan burst into the shadowed hall, thundering names and frowning darker than ever. With the castle already settled for the night, scarcely a torch remained lit, but he made for one of the few, grabbing it from its wall bracket and raising it high. Even so, he could barely see beyond the flame’s wavering, smoky glare.
A fury on him like never before, he stormed past sleeping, snoring men, not stopping until he reached the middle of the hall. If he stomped on someone, woe be to them for being in his way. But all was silent save his men’s assorted night noises and a few muffled but telltale rustlings and moans floating out from the darkened window alcoves.
“Hellfire everlasting!” he roared when no one stirred.
The fools carousing in the window embrasures had surely heard him.
Blessedly, the castle dogs did. Their sudden barking and his own shouts soon had men jumping from their pallets, pea sacks and ale cups flying everywhere. Throughout the hall, his warriors scrambled to their feet, grabbing swords and blinking through the shadows, their sleep-bogged eyes searching for the source of such clamor.
Satisfied, he thrust the flaring torch into the hands of a spluttering, half-naked kinsman, then leapt up onto a trestle bench, scanning the darkness for the two men he needed most.
“Tavish! Nils!” He jammed fisted hands on his hips as he looked round, trying to penetrate the gloom. “You!” He wheeled toward the torch-holder. “See that every torch is relit. Each candle, all the wall sconces. I need to see faces!”
The guilt that would show him whose head needed lopping.
But as the man hastened to do his bidding, the only souls to peer back at him were gaping and confused. Men startled from deep, innocent sleep. Nary a one looked blameworthy. They all merely gawped at him as if he’d sprouted horns and a tail.
And lost his wits in the bargain.
“Where is Tavish?” He glared back at them, not caring what they thought. “Nils?”
“I am here.” Tavish emerged from one of the window alcoves, his voice raised above the dogs’ frantic barking. “Where I e’er sleep,” he added, starting forward.
Aidan scowled at him, not missing the lout’s disheveled state, or Sinead’s bright head gleaming in the depths of the embrasure, her naked breasts and a length of bare leg revealed by the newly blazing torches.
“If you were sleeping, I am a mewling bairn!” Aidan jumped down from the trestle bench at his friend’s approach. “Where is Nils?” He grabbed Tavish’s arm, gripping tight. “Kira’s been poisoned with monkshood!”
Tavish’s swagger vanished immediately. “Good gods!” He stared at Aidan, eyes wide. “Monkshood? You’re sure?”
“She lies abed still as the grave and with the damnable herb on her breath.” Letting go of Tavish’s arm, he glanced round. “Where is Nils?” he repeated, seeing the healer nowhere. “He’ll have a cure.”
“But who would-”
“Devil if I know! Only that someone served her tainted wine.” Aidan swept his gawking men with another glare. “I must find Nils before I-”
“If the culprit were here, your bellowing would’ve put him to flight already.” Tavish tugged at his tunic, smoothed his rumpled plaid. “I heard your shouts before you reached the hall. Sinead-”
“How long has she been with you?” A dark suspicion whipped through Aidan’s mind. “Did she carry wine abovestairs?”
Tavish’s eyes rounded. “Come, man, you cannae think she had ought to do with it?”
Aidan dragged a hand through his hair. “I dinnae know what to think. But I will hear where she was. From you or the wench herself, if need be.”
“If you think to put a scare in her, you won’t be, dressed as you are,” Tavish declared, his gaze flicking the length of him.
The nearly bare length of him, not that he cared.
A hastily donned plaid and well-honed steel were more than enough. His bare hands would do the job, once he knew who bore the blame.
Male or female.
Putting his hands on his hips, Aidan gave Tavish a look that said so. “Where was she?”
“With me,” Tavish owned, his gaze unwavering. “As were Maili and Evanna.”
“All at once?” Aidan’s brows flew upward.
Tavish shrugged. “Until a short while ago, aye. Only Sinead remained with me after-”
“Enough.” Aidan raised a stilling hand. “Where did the other two go?”
“Who knows?” Tavish rubbed his beard, considering. “They are lustful wenches. I saw Maili and Evanna with Mundy earlier, but I think they went to the kitchens to see to laundering Kendrew’s bloodied linens. Nils should be there, too. He was after fetching a bite to eat, having watched over Kendrew all night. He-”
“Now you tell me!” Aidan spun on his heel, racing for the screens passage to the kitchens before his friend could finish. “Find the birthing sisters and send them abovestairs!” he called over his shoulder as he ran. “Tell them what happened.”
He’d assume they had no hand in poisoning Kira’s wine.
Unfortunately, when he barreled into the kitchens, skidding to a halt on the slick, stone-laid floor, he once again encountered a scene of innocence. Panting, he dragged a hand across his brow, immediately dismissing the two wee spit laddies sleeping on pallets before the double-arched hearth. Cook stood beside them, calmly stirring a fine-smelling mutton stew in his great iron cook pot, while a tired-looking graybeard scrubbed the wooden surface of the bread table, quietly conversing with a second equally ancient man who sat nearby, plucking feathers from a plump hen.
None of them looked like evildoers.
“Where is Nils?” he boomed, regardless.
Cook wheeled around, his stew ladle flying from his fingers. “You’ll curdle my stew with your yelling,” he scolded, casting him an indignant glare as he stooped to swipe the spoon off the floor.
Stalking forward, Aidan snatched the spoon from him and tossed it aside. “More than stew will go bad if I do not soon find Nils or learn who sent tainted wine to my bedchamber!”
“Tainted wine?” Cook hitched up his belt, his considerable girth jigging even as his eyes widened. “Ne’er would I send fouled spirits to you. To anyone.”
Aidan glowered at him. “It would seem no one has, yet my lady lies abed near death! I’ll have the heads of any bungling fools who-”
“Heigh-ho, lad! What are you shouting about?” Nils strode out of the murk of a hidden corner. Maili the laundress trailed after him, her tumbled flaxen curls and loose bodice leaving no doubt as to what had been going on in the deep shadows of Wrath’s kitchens.
“He’d accuse us of serving bad wine.” Cook snatched up his stew ladle a second time.
“No’ bad wine, tainted wine.” Aidan ignored him, whirling to Nils. “Someone laced the wine with monkshood and my lady drank it.”
The healer’s bluster evaporated. “That’s not possible. Only I have access to my herb stores.” As if to prove it, he jangled a ring of keys at his belt. “I mixed Kendrew’s sleeping draught myself. Here in the kitchens, I did, as aye. Then I locked away my medicines in yon strongbox.”
“No one but Nils has touched those herbs.” Cook pointed his spoon in the strongbox’s direction.
Aidan glanced at the large, dome-topped coffer. Not one, but two heavy locks held it secure.
As long as Nils’ keys remained in his possession.
The healer was fond of women. By his own accounts, he’d been fleeced more than once by light-fingered lassies, taking advantage of his need for a snooze after pleasure.
Aidan looked at Maili, not surprised that she hadn’t bothered to re-lace her gown. Of Wrath’s three laundresses, she loved her craft best, baring her flesh often and freely. She enjoyed using her charms to win favors and trinkets from the most jaded, hardened men.
Nils was anything but callous. Beneath his Nordic bluster, the healer was a lamb.
Maili….
Aidan narrowed his eyes at her, thinking. He wasn’t overly fond of the lass, but he was sure she craved her comforts too much to risk losing her position at Wrath.
Cook stepped forward, his bearded chin jutting. “I say the lady simply guzzled too much wine. Aye, I doubt the wine was bad at all.”
Aidan frowned. “I smelled the monkshood on Kira’s breath, even stronger in the wine.”
“How much did she drink?” Nils’ brow crinkled, his face as dark as Aidan’s own.
“I cannae say. There was a half-full cup on the table.”
Nils drew a sharp breath. “A sip would be enough.”
“Enough for what?” Aidan didn’t really want to know.
“If she’s had more than a pinch….” Nils shook his head, not needing to say more.
Aidan grabbed his arm, propelling him out the door. “Come!” He was running now. “Her heartbeat is steady and she yet breathes. Make haste so you can help her!”
“Would that I could!” Nils threw him a grim look as they dashed for the stairs. “There isn’t a cure for monkshood.”
Words filtered through the blackness enveloping Kira. Unlikely words like monks and hoods. Then Ameri-cains and tour buses. Grumblings about lairdly duty and love. Gaelic mumblings that sounded like low, softly muttered prayers, then sharp, furious bursts of anger. Heated words she couldn’t decipher, only the outrage behind them. She also caught the clucking of tongues, hurrying footsteps, and the banging of doors. Sometimes, she was certain, the soothing patter of rain. It was a strange mishmash that made no sense, sounds flaring briefly in the darkness only to blur and dim as quickly.
Images came and went, too.
Frightful things, mostly. A gnarled hand plucking what looked to be fat garden slugs from an earthen jar, then dangling the icky beasties above her, only to have a larger, stronger hand sweep into view, knocking the slugs from curled, ancient fingers. Two sets of bright, beady eyes peering at her through the mist, a glimpse of grizzled gray hair, or the weaving flame of a candle held too close to her face.
A bold swirl of plaid and a glint of raven-black hair, proud, wide-set shoulders, and the silvery flash of a flourished sword, the bright red jewel in its pommel shining like a sunburst.
And then there was the cold.
Never had she felt so frozen. Buried under an icy avalanche of snow. A heavy, weighty drift of the white stuff that seemed to come and go, chilling her to the bone, then easing slightly, only to freeze her anew before she could gather strength to crack her leaden eyelids to see where all the snow had come from.
Or to find out if she’d been thrust forward in time again and had accidentally landed inside a giant hotel ice machine. The kind that always seemed to be right outside her hotel room door and that made weird popping and grrr’ing noises all night. Not to mention the clatter and commotion when someone just had to fetch a bucket of ice in the middle of the night.
Such had always been her luck when she’d chanced to travel.
Thinking about it now, though, made her laugh.
Or rather, she would if she could.
Too bad for her, her mouth felt drier than a dustbin and her tongue had turned to sandpaper.
Just as annoying, she still couldn’t seem to open her eyes.
“Sir!” cackled a high-pitched voice just above her ear, “I do believe she’s trying to speak.”
“No, you fool,” chimed a second voice, “‘tis laughing she is!”
“Gods be praised!” A third voice filled the room, this one deep, rich, and very Scottish. The joy in it touched her to the soul. “Kee-rah! Sweet lass, speak to me!”
She couldn’t do that, so she blinked. Especially when her eyes began to water and burn, hot tears damping her lashes and trickling down her cheeks.
Bedwells didn’t cry, ever.
But apparently she was, because not one, but two pairs of knotty old hands were suddenly dabbing cloths at her cheeks. Gentle old hands, so caring, she swallowed against the emotion welling in her throat. Unfortunately, dry as her mouth was, her swallow caused an odd rasping sound, ghastly even to her own ears.
So awful it was almost a croak.
No, it was worse.
Kira grimaced. That, she could do.
“You she-biddies are hurting her!” A second male voice boomed, some distant corner of her mind recognizing it as belonging to Nils the Viking. “I told you she didn’t need bleeding.”
“Pah!” One of the old women sniffed. “You said she might survive the monkshood if she didn’t catch a fever. Her own chilled pea sacks prevented that, but who’s to say our leeches didn’t draw off whate’er other evils might’ve been in her?”
“The only evil in her was the poison she drank!” a third manly voice declared.
Mundy, the great black-bearded Irishman, if Kira wasn’t mistaken.
But poison? She started to ask about that, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
As if sensing her discomfort, one of the knotty hands returned, this time to dab a cool wet cloth at her lips.
“Aye, ‘tis the leeching that saved her,” the owner of the knotty hand insisted. “That, and the powder of newt we sprinkled on the hearth fire. Everyone knows powdered newt fumes cleanse the air of bad vapors.”
“Hah!” Nils the Viking snorted. “Newt fumes do naught but make good men sneeze.”
Knotty Hand teetered. “Be that why you haven’t done?”
“Cease! All of you.” Aidan’s voice came again, sweet as a dream. “Away with you, the lot of you. I’ll watch o’er her alone now. It’s clear she’ll soon be waking.” Then, in a sterner, don’t-argue-with-me tone, “I’ll no’ have her frightened if she opens her eyes to see so many ugly faces peering at her. And, Tavish! Take Ferlie with you. I willnae have her upset by his whining.”
“And your bellowing? Ferlie’s whimpers and groans are nowise as loud. She’s fond of the old beast and might be pleased to know he’s pined for her,” another deep male voice countered.
Tavish’s own. Her champion the day she’d found herself perched atop Aidan’s gateway arch.
She smiled, remembering, but moving her mouth made her lips crack. Even worse, she suspected they were bleeding. “Owww…” she moaned before she could stop herself.
“See?” Aidan roared, bellowing indeed. “You’re upsetting her! Now begone, all of you!”
A great ruckus followed. The departure, Kira assumed, of those souls at Wrath who’d cared to look in on her. From the number of trudging feet and muttered complaints as Aidan ushered them from the room, it must’ve been a goodly number.
But only one mattered so much to her that she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him how glad she was that he was there. How her heart had nearly burst when she’d heard his voice.
His beautiful, melt-her-at-ten-paces Scottish burr.
Listening to him now, she judged he was close.
Possibly on his knees by her bedside. Hoping it, she tried to lift her arm and reach for him, feeling a great need to touch him. But her arm refused to move. Her fingers still tingled a bit. In fact, she’d done a lot of tingling if she remembered rightly.
Just not the good kind.
Far from it, every inch of her throbbed and ached with mind-numbing intensity. A nightmarish stiffness worse than the time she’d tried to cram a year’s worth of gym work-outs into two days. She’d ended up nearly creeping around her apartment on all fours, finding it too painful to stand and even worse to move.
She felt that bad now.
Having enough of it, she struggled to open her eyes, then tried even harder to raise herself on an elbow. Instead, all she managed was heaving a great, trembling sigh.
Aidan leaned close and kissed her cheek. “Hush, sweet, and lie still,” he said, smoothing the hair from her brow. “You’ll feel better once we get some broth into you.”
Broth?
She tried to smile again. She knew he didn’t mean chicken noodle soup, but as long as it was hot broth, she’d feel better indeed. Even lukewarm would do. Her feet felt like a block of ice and the tips of her fingers were numb with cold.
“I-I’m f-freezing,” she rasped, her teeth chattering.
“You won’t be for long.” He put a hand to her forehead and she could see his relief through her lashes. “There isn’t a fever and if you’re awake now, there’s no longer a need to keep you mounded with these chilled pea sacks.”
Her lips twitched. So that was why she’d felt buried under an avalanche. It was funny, really. But what she needed was water, not frozen peas.
“I’m thirsty, please.” Her voice was thick again, hoarse and unintelligible.
She tried to will him to understand, but the concentration only made her head throb harder.
“Sakes, but you gave me a fright.” He shoved a hand through his hair, looking almost as haggard as she felt.
Then, leaping to his feet, he threw back the covers and began removing the ice bags. He pitched them into a large wooden tub nearby, another cut-in-half, wine barrel-y bathing contraption, this one apparently empty.
What really caught her eye was the flashy sword propped against a chair near the barrel. Much longer and definitely more magnificent than his usual one, its blade reflected the flames of the hearth fire. The whole length of its steel gleamed and sparkled like a well-polished mirror. An elaborately scrolled inscription was inlaid along the blade’s fuller, the blood-channel running down from the hilt. She couldn’t make out the letters. The inscription just made the sword look special.
Magical or enchanted.
Much like she imagined King Arthur and his knights would’ve carried.
She squinted, trying to see it better. The cross-guard looked rather straight and plain, and the hilt was leather-wrapped and worn. As if it’d been used often, and hard. Her breath caught when she focused on the sword’s pommel. That was the real attention-getter.
Hers anyway.
A circular, wheel pommel, its centerpiece was an enormous blood-red gemstone. Polished smooth and brilliant, dazzling rays of bright, ruby-colored light streamed in every direction from its jeweled surface, the radiant bands dancing crazily on the room’s whitewashed walls and ceiling.
It was definitely the sunburst blade.
The one she’d seen whipping through the blackness as she’d slept.
She moistened her lips, her heart pounding. Her eyes fluttered completely open.
“I saw that sword.” She peered at it now, looking from the blade to Aidan. “You swung it – I saw you in my dreams.”
“I raised it, aye.” He spoke after a hesitation. “Once.”
She blinked, remembering the blade’s great sweeping arc through the quiet and darkness. A flashing, lightning-quick arc, the memory of it brought a horrible thought.
“You weren’t trying to put me out of my misery, were you?”
Aidan felt his jaw slip. “I was trying to save you.” He stared down at her, the neck opening of his tunic suddenly so tight he could scarce breathe. “That sword has been in my family for centuries. Some claim it brings us good fortune. I thought its presence might-”
“Help me?” She pushed up on her elbows, her gaze flitting to the sword again. “Like a good luck talisman or something?”
Aidan nodded. “Many clans have the like,” he admitted, hoping that would suffice.
He wasn’t about to tell her how he’d dropped to his knees and raised the sword to the Old Ones, vowing on the blood-red pommel stone that he’d grant Kira any wish if only they’d intervene and spare her life.
He knew well what her greatest wish might be and even if the Ancients smote him for it, now that she was back amongst the living, he’d prefer not to tempt fate any further.
It was one thing to hear about Ameri-cains and their flying machines and tour buses, and something else entirely to be surrounded by such impossibilities.
Pushing them from his mind, he poured her a small bit of water. “Drink this.” He slipped his hand behind her head, steadying her as he held the cup to her lips. “You need to replenish yourself.”
She took a few sips and fell back against the pillows. “I must’ve been in pretty bad shape if you thought only a magic sword could cure me.”
“It isn’t a magic sword, but a family sword. In these hills, we see strength in blood ties. The continuity of our clans.” Aidan tossed aside the last of the pea sacks. “I wanted to share that strength with you, that was all.”
She still looked skeptical. “There isn’t any mumbo-jumbo running down the sword’s blade?” She slanted another glance at it. “Those cryptic letters aren’t a charm or a hex or anything?”
“Nae, sweet.” Aidan shook his head. “The inscription reads ‘Invincible,’” he told her, speaking true. “It is the blade’s name. Family tradition says it came to us from one of the great Somerled’s sons, though we cannae say which. The red of the gemstone is supposed to be his blood, frozen forever inside the pommel stone. That, however, is questionable.”
“Who knows….” She trailed off, her attention on the sword.
“It doesn’t matter.” He reached for her hand, not liking the shadows beneath her eyes. “Only that you are well now.”
Her gaze returned to his. “How long did I sleep? One night? Two?”
“Four.” Letting go of her hand, he took a large plaid from the end of the bed and swirled it over her, taking care to smooth it into place. “Tonight would have been the fifth.” He touched her cheek, not wanting to frighten her. “You will be fine, Kee-rah. Dinnae you worry.”
But she did.
Especially since learning he’d tried some quirky medieval voo-doo to save her. No matter what he cared to call it, that’s what it had been.
Frozen ancestral blood, indeed.
Not that such a notion was any wackier than time travel. Or ghosts. She certainly knew both existed. She also knew someone must’ve tried to poison her.
Or him.
She glanced at the water cup, grateful when he picked it up immediately, once more helping her to drink. Before he could take it away, she lifted a shaky hand and grasped his wrist. “The wine I drank,” she began, needed another sip to finish, “it was laced with something, right?”
He nodded. “It was a careless mistake, Kee-rah.” He was trying to shield her, but the twitch in his jaw gave him away. “Nils mixed a sleeping draught for Kendrew and someone mistook it for simple wine.”
“You aren’t fooling me.” She struggled to a sitting position, every inch of her screaming protest. Thankfully, determination made her strong. “Someone here tried to kill me. Or you.”
“It willnae happen again.” He folded his arms, no longer denying it. “I’ll no’ have you worrying.”
She blew out a breath, puffing her bangs off her forehead. “I’ve been doing that ever since I remembered reading about your cousin locking you in your own dungeon to die.”
“Lass….” Aidan ached to chase the clouds from her eyes, banish her fears. “You mustn’t fash yourself.”
In truth, her worries couldn’t compare to the concerns splitting him. The guilt weighting his shoulders, tearing him up inside. No matter how he turned it, he’d failed her. Conan Dearg wallowed in Wrath’s deepest, darkest pit. Every man within Aidan’s own walls feared, respected, and, he hoped, loved him. Yet someone he knew, someone close to him, had tried to take Kira’s life.
And he’d been unable to prevent it.
Indeed, while she’d sipped the tainted wine, he’d stood laughing in his hall, looking on as his men gallivanted about, making merry with her pea sacks.
Thinking all was well with his world.
It was inexcusable. A mistake he couldn’t allow to happen again.
He drew a deep breath, hoping to convince her it wouldn’t. “I’ve ordered my cousin placed in a different part of the dungeon. He’s in a larger, more comfortable cell, but there’s an oubliette running through its middle. He-”
She blinked. “A what?”
“An oubliette is a bottle dungeon.” Aidan began to pace again. “There’s a narrow crack in the cell floor just wide enough for a man to fall through. When he does, the chute opening expands into a small round space only large enough to crouch in. There’s no escape unless someone is hauled out by a rope.”
“That doesn’t change the history books.”
Aidan glanced at her, annoyed that she kept harping on that string, but pleased to hear her voice sounding stronger. He paused at the table to pour himself a measure of ale, downing it in one quick swallow.
“What it changes is that my cousin may well be tempted to use the oubliette to end his misery. He’s a vain man, fond of his appearance and comforts. He’ll weary of confinement. The lack of baths and a comb for his hair. If he managed to sweet talk his way out of the dungeon to climb up onto the gateway arch the night Kendrew claims to have seen him, or if he persuaded someone to taint your wine, he’ll have no further chances to do so. He-”
“How do you know?”
Aidan halted, closing his eyes. “Because I will do all in my power to keep you safe.”
But as soon as the words left his tongue, his stomach clenched and he fisted his hands.
Truth was, he didn’t know.
Not when someone at Wrath conspired with his cousin.
He could only hope.
He started pacing again, well aware that Conan Dearg had been known to wriggle through crevices too tight for a mouse. The bastard had more charm than a whore had favors. But no matter what Kira’s history books might say, Aidan wouldn’t allow her to become one of Conan Dearg’s victims.
Even if keeping her safe meant putting certain plans into action.
Things he’d discussed earlier with Tavish and hoped would ne’er be necessary.
He closed his eyes again and ran a hand down over his face, forcing himself not to worry about that road until it loomed up before him, leaving him no choice.
After a moment, he drew another deep, lung-filling breath and put back his shoulders. Then he schooled his face into his best expression of lairdly confidence before he strode back across the room, ready to ply his lady with sweet words and kisses until Cook finally sent up a kitchen laddie with her long overdue broth.
But when he reached the bed, he saw that she’d fallen asleep again.
A restful sleep this time, praise the gods.
Sweet color tinged her cheeks, and for the first time in days her breathing sounded soft and easy. No longer labored and harsh.
Leaning down, he smoothed his knuckles along the side of her face. His heart catching, he kissed her brow. He burned to stretch out beside her, gathering her close and holding her against him all the night through. But she deserved her rest and he needed a distraction.
Something to take his mind off that road he did not want to journey down.
It’d been bad enough discussing such eventualities with Tavish.
Frowning at the memory, he made certain Kira was comfortable, then went straight to the table, meaning to help himself to another generous cup of ale and then settle in his chair for the night.
He’d spent the last four nights in its cold embrace. One more wouldn’t make that much difference.
But when he reached for the ale jug, he noticed something amiss. There was a new parchment sheet resting atop Kira’s stack of scribbled notes.
A parchment he was certain hadn’t been there before.
Nor were the boldly inked words slashed across it anything like Kira’s.
They were hateful, fate-changing words.
Looking at them, his eyes narrowed. He snatched up the parchment and held it closer to the flame of a candle, just to be certain. Unfortunately, he’d not been mistaken. The words didn’t change and the threat remained the same. Next time it would not be monkshood in Kira’s wine but cold steel in her back.
“Nae, it will be neither.” Aidan stared at the words until his blood iced.
A surprising calm settling on him, he walked across the room and dropped the parchment into the hearth fire. He looked on as it curled and blackened, disappearing as surely as its meaningless threat. Whoever had penned and delivered it, wouldn’t be able to reach Kira where he meant to take her.
Perhaps she’d been right all along and they were meant to be together in her time, not his.
How he fared there, mattered not.
Only her safekeeping.
Quickly, before any niggling doubts could assail him, he dusted his hands and settled himself in his chair. There’d be much to do on the morrow and a good night’s sleep would serve him well. With Tavish’s help, the upcoming feast night would likely be their best opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
His mind set, he curled his fingers around the hilt of his family’s precious sword, wondering if fate had caused him to prop the well-loved brand against his chair. Or if he’d brought them to this pass by vowing on the sword’s ancient, bloodred pommel stone.
Either way, he wouldn’t fail.
Not with Kira as the prize.