Dolag sat on the short stool, rocking her sturdy body for several moments as she glanced about her, considering her options. "I have a keek-stane I've nay used in recent years."
"Have you a reason?"
"It never felt like 'twas truly mine, though I purchased it from a traveling merchant. He said 'twas from the continent."
"Mayhap 'twas meant for me."
Dolag nodded. "'Haps."
Her hope and anticipation growing, Wilona sat forward. "Can I see it?"
Dolag pushed herself to her feet, shuffled to the cupboard, and pulled open a drawer. She rummaged through some items at the back, then withdrew a small object. As she brought it forward, the beauty of the wee carved mahogany chest fascinated Wilona. Intricate trees and animals decorated the sides. Dolag placed it on a short table near Wilona, slid the lid toward the right, then opened it. She pushed the small box closer to Wilona, allowing her to see inside. A flat, round black stone rested upon wine-colored velvet material.
"'Tis obsidian," Dolag said.
"May I hold it?"
"Aye."
Hesitating for a moment, Wilona realized this particular object could alter the course of her life and the lives of others. It could give her powers she had only dreamed of. She picked up the stone from its plush bed and cradled it reverently in her gloved hand. 'Twas about five inches wide, and the surface had been polished to a slick finish. When she gazed into the stone, it appeared to be a dark mirror with a gold sheen where she saw her own reflection.
"How do I use it?"
"Go into a quiet room by yourself and light a candle. Stare into the stone as you think of the person or place you wish to see."
"Perfect." She wanted to observe those murderers often so she would know best how to make their lives torturous.
Wilona placed the keek-stane on the velvet padding, then Dolag closed the lid and handed her the box. Feeling much satisfaction, Wilona handed over the sack of coins, then slid the wooden case into the pouch at her waist. She would need to be careful with it as she rode.
"I'm most pleased with my purchase, Dolag. I shall go home now and put it all to good use."
∞∞∞
"Riders approaching!" the guard in the stone gatehouse at Caithmore Castle shouted.
In the bailey, Gavin turned from talking to Torr and Brodie. "How many, Alan?" He glanced around at his own clansmen and their allies from the MacElrath and MacCain clans, wearing plaid and leather armor. They all had heard the announcement and prepared for battle—unsheathing swords and dirks and grabbing targes.
They had been expecting retaliation for several days. But the MacRaes hadn't yet attacked, giving Gavin and his friends time to send for reinforcements. Now, they had around a hundred and fifty armed warriors.
"I only see a half dozen!" Alan informed him.
"Half dozen?" Gavin muttered, surprised at the small number. "Are you certain?"
"Aye. I have counted six. One appears to be a woman."
Gavin's father, Chief Lunn MacTavish, bypassed him and his two friends, his long grayish-black hair flying back in the wind. "'Tis a trick, lad. The rest of their soldiers may be hiding in the bracken."
"Aye." Gavin followed his father up the steps of the gatehouse and peered out over the high curtain wall. A small party rode across the moor. One person near the front wore black skirts.
"Lady Wilona MacRae," his father growled.
At this news, Gavin's face tightened, and the stitches that closed his long sword wound pulled like a needle pricking his skin anew. "The harridan." He had met her once, years ago, and held no fondness for her. Of course, he could understand her rage over her son's death, but the knave had attacked Gavin first. And Gavin had a right to defend himself. "Why would she come here with so few guards? She must know we could crush them."
His father shook his head. "The wench is crafty and nay to be trusted."
At fifty yards away, the MacRaes paused, then Wilona rode forward with one guard beside her.
"She is brave; I'll give her that," Gavin grumbled.
