“Ye decided Hamish’s birthright was available because claimin’ it was convenient with the truth concealed,” Alasdair said. “And ye decided Isobel was an obstacle.” He looked at Malcolm feelinga sick sense of loathing roil through his gut. “And ye have been decidin’ all of this, quietly, for years, while sittin’ at me table and callin’ yerself me clansman.”
“I was never yer man,” Malcolm said sharply and suddenly. “I sat in yer house because I had nowhere else to go. And I served ye because it was the only move available to me. I smiled at yer grandmother and doted on yer sister, but I was never, nae for one day, loyal to ye.”
“I ken that now,” Alasdair said quietly.
“Do ye? Because ye didnae ken it yesterday. Ye didnae ken it last week or last year or any of the ten years before that. Ye sat at that table and called me loyal, and ye never once looked closely enough to see what was underneath.” Malcolm’s voice was loud now, and his hands were up at his sides. “Yer father was the same. So certain of his own goodness. So certain that takin’ me in made him merciful. He never asked what me faither had done or why I came to him. He just took me in and called himself a good man and never looked at the whole of anythin’.”
“Me faither was a good man,” Alasdair said defensively.
“Yer faither was a man who never looked hard enough at what it cost other people to make him feel good about himself.” Malcolm stepped forward. “Same as ye.”
Alasdair did not move.
“Come on then,” Malcolm said, voice rising higher. “Come on. Say it. Say ye’ve been a good Laird. Say ye’ve been fair. Pretend that ye’ve given everyone what they were owed…”
“I never claimed to be without fault,” Alasdair interrupted. “But ye daenae get to burn me home and put yer hands on me Lady and call it an accountin’.”
“Then what do ye call it?” Malcolm was shouting now, fully shouting. The thirty years of careful management were gone entirely. “What do ye call what was done to me family? What do ye call what yer faither did to mine? Where is the accountin’ for that? Who answers for that?”
“Me faither answered for what he did,” Alasdair said. “By law. Rightly. And yer father answered for what he did, too. And now ye will answer for what ye did. By me.” He looked at Malcolm steadily. “That is the reckonin’.”
Malcolm panted heavily. His hands trembled. He looked at Alasdair with his eyes bright and his jaw clenched. Then some of the wildness left him, leaving behind what Alasdair recognized in men who had finally reached the end of something they had been chasing for a very long time.
“And so ye decided to take it,” Alasdair said.
“I had a right to take it.”
“Ye had nay right to any of it,” Alasdair said. “And somewhere underneath everythin’ ye have always ken that. And I think that is why ye are so tired.”
Malcolm stood very still. He breathed, once, and something in him settled in the way a man settles who has finally put something heavy down, even if the putting down is not on his own terms.
“Aye,” Malcolm said quietly. “I’m tired.”
Alasdair looked at him for a moment and said nothing more.
He put his hand on his sword.
Malcolm moved first. He came fast, faster than Alasdair had expected for a man who had been standing still. He drove his shoulder into Alasdair’s chest before the sword was fully drawn. They went sideways into the heather together. Malcolm’s hands went to Alasdair’s throat, but Alasdair got his forearm up and broke the grip. He drove his knee up and rolled to the side. He hopped to his feet and drew his dirk.
Malcolm was already on his feet. He had his own dirk out, held low, the way he held it in sparring. His breathing was heavy, his eyes bright, and there was nothing left of the council adviser or the careful, measured friend on his face.
“Ye daenae have to do this,” Alasdair said.
“Aye, I do. We both know that ye will not let me leave this field without a fight.” Malcolm came again, fast and low, and Alasdair stepped aside. He caught Malcolm’s wrist and twisted. The dirk came loose and fell into the heather. Malcolm swung his free hand and caught Alasdair across the jaw. The two men went down.
The two individuals grappled in the darkness, with the damp heather beneath them. Malcolm demonstrated considerable strength and urgency, leveraging his familiarity with Alasdair's movements accrued over thirty years of observation. For a brief period, the outcome remained uncertain.
Then it was not.
Alasdair got his forearm across Malcolm’s chest and pinned him. Just as he had done in so many previous battles, Alasdair brought the sword to his opponent’s throat, and Malcolm went still.
They were both breathing hard. The stars winked overhead.
“Daenae,” Malcolm said. The fight had gone out of him entirely, all at once, like a fire dying. “Daenae.”
“Ye ken I have to.”
Malcolm lay still and looked up at Alasdair’s face. He said nothing for a moment. Then he whispered, “Aye. I ken it.”