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CHAPTER 4

Fergus stepped out of his cave and leaned upon his staff. It was a golden day, bright with summer, but with a fresh breeze blowing from the mountains. Time for harvest, time for hunting...time for the restless yearning to grip a young man's heart. Alistair stood at the edge of the clearing, one arm leaning on an overhanging branch as he stared into the valley below. He had put on flesh in these past months, Fergus noted with satisfaction. Through constant exercise he had regained his strength and his eyes were clear and focused.

"You'll be leavin' soon," Fergus said.

Alistair turned with a start. "How d'ye do that?" he demanded crossly. "I never hear ye come or go."

"I canna tell ye all my secrets. Ye must leave me some mystery and magic." He brought out the last word with a twist of his lips.

"Oh, you've plenty of that to spare," Alistair said. "How did you know I was thinking of leaving?"

Fergus shrugged. "I could say I divined it by my arts, but the truth is, 'tis writ upon your face. And you're right. 'Tis time ye were away. And if you're worried for me, don't be. I've weathered many a winter here before."

He lowered himself carefully to the flat rock, sighing as the sunlight warmed his bones. "This is not the place for you," he said with some regret. "I'd hoped—but there's no arguing with what's meant to be."

"But where can I go?" Alistair asked. "Have ye forgotten I'm a banished man?"

"Kirallen doesna own the world, just one small piece within his borders. Ride north or west or east..."

"East of the sun and west of the moon?" Alistair asked with a scornful curl to his lip. "Is that where I shall find her?"

There was no need to ask whom he meant. Since Beltane Eve, Alistair had spoken only once of the woman of his vision, giving Fergus only the barest outline of their meeting by the forest pool. When Fergus wondered if she might be real, Alistair laughed and changed the subject. And when Fergus suggested that Alistair go forth and look for her, the younger man had grown quickly angry and refused to hear another word on the subject. Yet his very silence was more eloquent than words. Whatever had happened that night, Fergus had no doubt it had shaken Alistair to the depths of his soul.

"There's no knowing which way your path will take ye," he said at last, choosing his words carefully. "But whatever ye need, ye will not find it here."

Alistair sat down beside the old taibhsear and brushed the white-gold hair back from his face. "I don't know what to say," he began hesitantly. "What thanks can I give for all you've done for me—"

"Well, since ye ask, I'll tell ye." Fergus put his hand on Alistair's and looked into the crystal-gray eyes. "Live," he said quietly. "That's what ye can do."

Alistair had come a long way from the sick and broken man who had come to him four months ago. He no longer spoke of suicide, though Fergus suspected he still thought of it at times. But the times were becoming far less frequent. For that, Fergus gave silent thanks to Alistair's woman of the forest. Whoever—or whatever—she might be, she had shaken him out of his preoccupation with Ian's Kirallen's death.

Yet Alistair's vision at the waterfall had left Fergus deeply puzzled. He had run through the business with the bullock more for Alistair's peace of mind than from any expectation of a vision. It wasn't magic, it was just plain common sense, as any hedgepriest would agree. Get the man to tell him what the trouble was, give him every reason to forgive himself. Then send him through a ritual designed to bring on clarity of thought.

But they had both gotten more than Fergus bargained for. Alistair had been granted an immrama, a true vision, one that Fergus did not fully understand. There was no denying Alistair had brought something back with him from the waterfall, the shadows that followed him on dusky wings. There was more than guilt and grief at work here.

Something had happened to Alistair on that January morning when he had lost not only his closest friend, but eight men under his command. If part of Alistair's soul had indeed gone with them to the grave, it was a situation fraught with danger. He alone could find the missing part of himself, and he would not find it here. Perhaps the woman was the key—if she truly lived. But there was no telling if she existed on this plane at all or was as insubstantial as the dark tower Alistair had seen.

Sighing, Fergus recalled himself to the present. "If there is one thing I have learned, lad, 'tis that wherever ye go, your fate is sure to find you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Alistair said, and though the words were spoken lightly, Fergus saw the sudden tension in the younger man's form.

A cloud passed across the sun and the wind turned chill. From the distance came the harsh cawing of a bird.

"The corbies," Fergus said. "Aye, I hear them, too. But ye canna hide from them forever."

Alistair picked up a bit of dried heather at his feet and tossed it high into the air. Fergus watched the breeze catch it and bear it toward the valley.

"West it is," Alistair said, then laughed. "If Ian could only see me now! He used to say I couldn't put on my boots without first setting out the options and drawing up a plan. How he would enjoy this!"

His laughter died and he turned away quickly, blinking hard. It was a good sign, Fergus thought, that Alistair could speak of Ian like this, let out his grief for his friend.

"Perhaps ye had to plan so carefully because he never did," Fergus suggested gently. "And now ye have your own path to follow."

"Aye, but... Fergus, I am sorry. I ken ye hoped..."

"The fault was mine, not yours, for trying to twist ye into something ye were never meant to be. And I have not quite given up hoping yet."

Fergus tried to speak cheerfully, but this morning he felt very old and weary. If the one he waited for did not come soon, it would be too late. He would die without passing on the knowledge that had come down to him in a line unbroken for a thousand years.