Read Chapter 38: The Hunter's Choice

The mist clung to the glen like a ghost that refused to leave, and Callum MacRae stood at its edge, watching the smoke rise from the chimneys of his village below. Five months had passed since Culloden, five months since the redcoats had marched through these hills with fire and sword, five months since he had last seen Duncan's face through the bars of a cattle pen that the English called a prison.

The village was still there. That was something. The British had not burned it, had not scattered the families to the wind as they had done to so many other clans. Instead they had quartered a garrison in the Laird's old house, and the Union flag hung limp above the door where the MacRae standard had flown for three hundred years.

Callum's hand went to his belt, where his father's knife hung in its worn leather sheath. He had retrieved it from the chaos of the retreat, found it among the dead and dying on that bloody moor, and he had carried it ever since. The Royal pardon was still hidden in the handle, the paper grown soft and fragile from weeks of being pressed against his skin. Fourteen days, the document had said. Fourteen days to surrender and receive amnesty.

That was a hundred and fifty days ago.

But there was another way. There was always another way, if a man was willing to walk it.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps on wet heather. He did not turn. He knew the step as well as he knew his own heartbeat.

"You have been standing here since before dawn," Eilidh said. "The men are asking questions. The women are asking more."

"Let them ask."

"They are afraid, Callum. We have been hiding in this glen for months. The food is running low. The children have forgotten what it feels like to run in the open without fear."

He turned to face her. She looked older than the woman who had stood beside him on the night before Culloden, older and harder, but her eyes still held that same fierce light that had made him follow her into hell and back.

"The English have offered terms," he said.

Eilidh's face went still. "What terms?"

"Amnesty for those who surrendered before the end of the uprising. The Duke has published a list. Any man who lays down his arms and swears loyalty to the Crown will be allowed to return to his home."

"And you believe this?"

"I believe that the Duke would rather have farmers than martyrs. The rebellion is over, Eilidh. We both know it. The clans are broken, the chiefs are in exile or in chains, and the Highland way of life is being stripped away acre by acre. But my people—our people—they are still alive. And they are starving in these hills."

Eilidh was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was careful, measured. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that I have the pardon. The real one, from the King's own hand, not the Duke's proclamation. I have kept it all these months, hoping that some miracle would change our circumstances, that France would send an army or the clans would rise again. But there is no army coming. There is no miracle."

He pulled the knife from his belt and worked the handle open with practiced fingers. The paper inside was yellowed now, creased and worn, but the seal was still intact—the Great Seal of the Kingdom, pressed into crimson wax that had not faded.

"The pardon is worded for me alone," he said. "But it sets a precedent. If I surrender under its terms, if I bend the knee and accept the King's mercy, then the Duke cannot justify hanging the others who surrendered at Culloden. The list he has published names every man who fought that day. If I am pardoned, all of them must be pardoned."

"You would surrender yourself to Cumberland."

"I would walk into that village and present myself to the garrison commander. I would tell him that Callum MacRae, rebel and traitor, has come to accept the King's mercy. And I would ask, in turn, that the men of this glen and their families be allowed to return to their homes."

"And if they refuse? If the Duke's hatred of you is greater than his respect for the law?"

"Then I will die." He said it simply, without drama. "But I will die trying to save them. That is what my father would have done. That is what the Laird would have done."

Eilidh came to him then, took his face in her hands, and looked into his eyes. "And what about Duncan?"

The name struck him like a blow. He had not spoken it aloud in weeks, had not allowed himself to think of it, because thinking of Duncan meant thinking of the cell in Inverness, the chains, the knowledge that his brother was suffering because of choices Callum had made.

"The pardon names me alone. But Duncan was captured, not surrendered. The terms are different for him."

"Then they will hang him."

"Perhaps." Callum's voice cracked. "But they will hang him anyway if I do nothing. At least this way, I can save the others. I can save Annabel and her children. I can save your mother, who has not left this glen since her husband died. I can save the boys who followed us into battle, the ones who will grow into men who remember what it was to fight for Scotland."

"You will sacrifice your brother to save them."

"I will try to save them all." He gently pulled her hands from his face and pressed them to his chest. "But I cannot save my brother by sitting in this glen while our people starve. I cannot save him by pretending the rebellion can still win. The only way I can help Duncan now is to put myself in the Duke's power and hope that mercy is contagious."

"And if it is not?"

"Then I would rather die as a man who tried than live as a man who watched."

They stood in the mist together, the village below them, the English flag hanging heavy in the still air. The months had been long, the losses bitter, the hope thin and wearing thinner with each passing week. But there was still something in Eilidh's eyes that had not gone out, and Callum realized that this was what he was fighting for now—not a crown, not a Stuart king, but the fire in this woman's eyes and the spark in every other heart that refused to be quenched.

"When do you go?" she asked.

"Today. Now. The longer I wait, the more time the Duke has to grow suspicious."

"I am coming with you."

"No."

"I said—"

"And I say no." His voice was gentle but firm. "You are the one they trust, Eilidh. You led them through the retreat. You kept them alive. If I fall, they will need you to guide them through whatever comes after. This is my task. I will do it alone."

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She nodded, once, and that nod carried more weight than any oath.

Callum turned and began to walk down the hill toward the village, toward the flag, toward whatever fate waited in the hands of his enemies.

---

The garrison commander was a young captain by the name of Ballantyne, a man with eight years of service and no taste for cruelty. He examined the pardon with careful eyes, turning it over in his hands as if he expected it to explode.

"This is genuine," he said finally. "The seal is the King's own. But the terms have expired."

"The terms were for surrender within fourteen days of the action at Culloden. I acknowledge that I did not surrender. I am here now, voluntarily, to accept the King's mercy and to ask that the same mercy be extended to those who fought under my command."

Ballantyne looked at him with something almost like respect. "You are Callum MacRae."

"I am."

"The Duke has offered a reward for your capture. A substantial one."

"I expected nothing less. Will you take me to him?"

"There is no need. The Duke is not in the Highlands. He departed for London a month ago, satisfied that the rebellion was crushed." The captain set the pardon down. "I have the authority to act in his name, but this is a matter of State. I will write to London and seek instruction."

"And while you wait for instruction, my people will continue to starve."

Ballantyne was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "The men who surrendered at Culloden are still being held. There has been talk of transportation to the colonies. If I send word that you have surrendered freely, under the King's pardon, it may strengthen their case for release."

"It may," Callum agreed. "Or it may mean nothing."

"It may mean a great deal." The captain stood and came around the desk, extending his hand. "I give you my word that I will relay the terms of your surrender to London with all speed. And I will do what I can for your people in the meantime. That is the best I can offer."

Callum looked at the offered hand for a long time. In another world, in another time, he might have refused it. He might have spit in this man's face as he had spit in the Duke's, might have walked back into the mist and died a rebel rather than live a traitor.

But the world had changed, and he had changed with it. The rebellion was over. The Cause was lost. What remained was the harder task: living, and protecting those who depended on him.

He took the captain's hand.

"I accept your terms," he said. "And I ask one thing more."

"Name it."

"There is a man imprisoned in Inverness. Duncan MacRae. My brother. He was captured at Culloden, but he was not a soldier. He was a messenger, forced into service by circumstance. If there is any mercy to be had, I would ask for it to find him too."

Ballantyne's face grew troubled. "Your brother is still alive. I know this because I have seen his name on the prison rolls. But the Duke has marked him for trial."

Callum's heart clenched. "When?"

"The winter assizes. Three months from now." The captain met his eyes. "I cannot promise you mercy for your brother. But I can tell you that your surrender may weigh in his favor. Men who accept the King's pardon often find that the King is more amenable to their petitions."

It was not hope. It was less than hope. But it was something—a thread, thin as silk, that might yet hold against the weight of the world.

---

The mist was rolling in again as Callum walked back up the hill, but this time he did not walk alone. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the village stirring—doors opening, shutters being thrown wide, voices calling from house to house as word spread that the hills were safe again, that the MacRae had surrendered himself to save them.

He did not know if the British would keep their word. He did not know if he would live to see the spring, or if Duncan would ever walk free. But he knew that he had done what he could, and that was all any man could do.

At the crest of the hill, Eilidh was waiting. She did not speak. She simply took his hand, and together they watched the village below fill with the survivors of the rebellion, the families trickling out of the glen to reclaim their homes, their land, their lives.

And for a moment, just a moment, Callum could almost believe that the dream was not dead at all. It was hidden, like a seed in winter soil, waiting for the thaw.

He touched his father's knife at his belt.

Then he turned and walked into the mist, Eilidh beside him, toward whatever future the dawn might bring.