Once Upon A Highland Legend Read Online Free

side of the worn path bluebells sprang from the ground, swaying gently with the summer breeze.
    Up higher, the hillside felt spongy beneath her boots. These were not your typical mountains, more like elevated plateaus. The name itself, Cairngorms, was a misnomer. Translated from Gaelic, it meant “blue cairn.” However, made primarily of granite, the hills glowed red under the afternoon sun…a bit like the Winter Stone. It was why the old ones had named them the red hills—the Am Monadh Ruadh.
    Stopping in the middle of a blooming field, she paused to take a look around. From here, she could spy the pine forest she’d come through down below. Sad to know that was all that was left of those amazing woodlands. Her stomach grumbled, so she picked a spot near a crumbling cairn, and pulled off her dry sack, then slid down to sit on the mossy ground, resting her back against a large boulder.
    She must have been walking a good two hours or more, and she wasn’t anywhere near where she needed to be. To check the time, she took her cell phone out of her bag. 2:15. Okay, three hours, maybe a little more. She’d lost track. At this point, she’d be pushing it to get back to the meeting point by six, so she texted Kate to let her know her E.T.A. Then she fished her sandwich out of her bag, and along with it the Winter Stone, feeling a bit gleeful to be alone with her newfound treasure at last.
    When she touched the crystal, the striations turned green.
    Curioser and curioser.
    Inspecting it as she finished her sandwich, she grabbed her canteen, took a sip of water, and then tossed everything but the stone aside to take a closer look at her prize…

Chapter Two

     
    The Cairngorms, 878
     
    Callum placed another rock on his father’s burial cairn. The corries were littered with them—some said dropped by Cailleach Bheur herself—faerie tales, like those told by Kenneth MacAilpín. Except that those were harmless, and the lies Kenneth told were not.
    He was angry with his Da for dying—angry with him for leaving him alone with decisions that weren’t his to make.
    MacAilpín’s sons were all treacherous, murdering bastards—but this wasn’t Callum’s fight. Callum had followed his Da into these hills, because…well, that’s what sons were supposed to do. But his father was barely cold in the ground and his uncle was already campaigning to return to Scone with the stone.
    Apparently, loyalty was a dying trait.
    And yet Callum could hardly fault his uncle Brude. In truth, he was wavering as well—more than a wee bit if the truth be known. Sweating under the hot afternoon sun, he placed the last of the cairn stones on his father’s grave and stood with arms akimbo to inspect his handiwork. He had refused the help of his clansmen. This task was his alone. In part because he suspected treachery, but neither did he wish for anyone to witness his grief. It was a terrible thing, gnawing painfully at his guts.
    His father had been the last of his blood. His mother was gone, his brothers as well—both victims of King Giric’s coup—and now his Da was dead as well. There was no one to return to Scone for, no one to stay here for, and by the sins of Sluag, if a mon wasna fighting for his kin, who the hell was he fighting for in the end? The situation soured his mood.
    Even now his kinsmen were down in the vale, arguing over what to do with the Destiny Stone. Half of his clan wanted to return the stone to Scone. The other half were more inclined to never allow it to see the light of day. Brude was the most vocal, wishing to return it, but that came as little surprise, for, like Callum, his uncle had never relished taking on this burden. As far as Callum was concerned, they could smash the stone to bits, return it, or leave it in the belly of the mountain. The rotten thing was cursed anyway.
    But then they knew that, his Da would have said. That’s why they had stolen the bloody thing to begin with, leaving a perfect replica in