“Shh,” Mirin said, stroking Frae’s hair. “Remember the rules?” She took Frae’s hand and drew her from the bed. Mirin had laid Frae’s enchanted plaid on the bench, and the sword was already belted to her waist, as if she had been ready for this night.

Frae waited as her mother knotted the plaid over her chest, to protect her heart.

Without a word, Mirin led her into the common room, to the corner by the hearth, where the fire flickered. Frae sat first, and then her mother unsheathed the sword and settled in front of her like a shield. This is nothing more than a dream, Frae thought, leaning into Mirin’s back. But over her mother’s shoulder, she could dimly see the chamber, the shadows and the firelight that fought each other. The violent sounds grew louder, closer, and Frae began to cry.

“We are safe here, Frae,” Mirin said, but her voice was hoarse, and there was fear buried within it. “Don’t cry, my love. We are strong; we are brave. And this will be over soon.”

Frae wanted to believe her. But her thoughts became a roar, and all she could think was, This is just a dream. Wake up! Wake up . . .

The back door blew open.

The Breccan warriors spilled into the house like a flood, their blue plaids the color of the sky just before dawn. Frae clung to Mirin and watched as they searched the house. They took note of Frae and her mother in the corner, the sword in Mirin’s hands, but the Breccans didn’t approach them.

Frae recognized Captain Torin stepping into the house, blood streaming down his face. One of the Breccans held a dirk to his throat.

This was bad. This was very bad, Frae thought, and she whimpered and buried her face in Mirin’s hair.

It suddenly grew quiet and still in the house, as if ice had formed. Frae lifted her head to see what had inspired this strange reverence.

A tall man stood in the chamber. He was dressed like the other Breccans, but there was something different about him. His face was softer, kinder. His hair was red like fire. Like copper. Like her own, Frae realized, and grabbed the end of her braid. His hands were bound behind him, and Frae wondered what he had done to become a prisoner of his own kind.

The man stared at Mirin, anguished.

Frae could hear her mother’s breath catch. The sword clattered from her hands, and Frae tugged on Mirin’s chemise, thinking she shouldn’t have dropped it.

“Mum!” Frae whispered, tremulous.

But she sensed her mother was far away as she stared at the Breccan and the Breccan stared at her.

“Mirin,” the man said. Her name was sweet in his voice, as if he had spoken it many times before, as a whisper, as a prayer. “Mirin.”

Frae was astounded. Her mother knew him?