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"The world changes, lad, whether we will it or no'," he said softly. "Perhaps 'tis meant that it should end with me."

"Can I do aught for you before I go?"

"Nay." He smiled and laid a hand on Alistair's brow in blessing. "Go néirí do thuras leat," he said. "May the one who watches over all speed your journey. And wherever ye go, Alistair, remember ye are always in my prayers."

CHAPTER 5

The hall at Cranston Keep was a small place, usually dark and cheerless. Tonight it blazed with torch and candle while many voices echoed from the bare stone walls. Knights and squires, men-at-arms, and hired soldiers sat at trestles or walked about the hall. It was a crowd such as Deirdre Maxwell had never seen in all her time in Scotland.

Brodie strode among his men, stopping here and there to talk to the small groups that had gathered. He was in a good humor tonight, for which all the gods be thanked. Tomorrow the men would march forth to meet Johnson and settle for good and all the disputed lands between their borders. The talk of battle was thirsty work.

Deirdre cast a practiced eye over the hall. Varlets scurried about, bearing trays of mugs and pitchers of ale, all of which were disappearing as fast as they could bring them. She turned back to the kitchens to order another cask be opened. As she left the hall, she heard the voices roar out a startled greeting. Another one, she thought with a sigh, and where were they to put him? Well, he'd just have to crowd in somehow with the others in the hall.

Alistair smiled as Kinnon Maxwell came forward and took his hand.

"Alistair, where have ye been, man? There have been the strangest tales told about ye lately—"

"Aye, I imagine that there have," Alistair answered with a grin. "And with luck, maybe half of them are true."

Kinnon laughed a little nervously, toying with the fringes of his beard. "Later on, when we've the time, perhaps you'll tell me the truth of it."

"I'll do my best," Alistair promised. "But I've heard tales as well. Is it true Brodie needs men against Johnson?"

"Oh, aye, as ye can see," Kinnon said, gesturing about the crowded hall. "Why, is your sword for hire?"

"That it is."

"Well, that's a bit of luck for us! Sit down and eat—ye look as if ye could use a good hot meal." His small dark eyes moved over Alistair in a quick, assessing glance, taking in the patched cloak and plain leather tunic, devoid of identifying colors. His face was filled with questions, which Alistair supposed was only natural, but good manners kept him from voicing them.

"Alistair! Alistair Kirallen, is that really you?"

Kinnon's sister, Jennie, ran lightly through the hall. Alistair smiled and caught her hands. "Why Jennie, lass, you're just as fair as ever!"

She dimpled, her brown eyes dancing. "Och, go on, and me a mother three times over!"

"Impossible!" Alistair exclaimed. "Ye look just the same as the day we danced at Ian's wedding."

"Such blether!" Jennie said with an unconvincing frown. "But, oh, 'tis good to see ye, Alistair."

It was good to see Jennie and Kinnon as well. Though the Kirallens and Maxwells had never been more than lukewarm allies, Alistair had visited this place many times before. The last occasion had been four or five years ago, with Ian. They had stayed a night, and then, their business done, had ridden back to Ravenspur.

Now everything was different. Alistair wouldn't be given the second finest guest chamber on this visit. He wouldn't be offered a place at the high table. And when he left, he wouldn't be going back to Ravenspur.

He was a banished man, an outlaw, cut off from home and kin forever. His mind had known that all along, but the agonizing burden of guilt he carried had blocked out every other pain. If he thought of it at all, it was with a bitter sense of justice. What right had he to warmth or happiness when his foster brother and the men whose safety was his responsibility, all lay moldering in cold clay? But tonight his sight had cleared and he saw that in the madness of his grief, he had thrown away everything that still had meaning for him.

He braced himself against the shattering wave of homesickness that threatened to overwhelm him. His choices had been made and there was no turning back. All he could do was go on, living one day to the next, taking each moment as it came.

"Tell me about these bairns of yours," he said to Jennie, trying hard to return her smile, then broke off as a crash resounded through the hall.

A tray of wooden mazers lay scattered on the stone floor in a puddle of spilled ale. Above stood a woman, her face bone white beneath her coif. The smile faded from Alistair's lips as their eyes met.

It was her. Oh, it couldn't be, not here and now, and yet it was. "I am but a mortal woman," she had said, but he hadn't quite believed her. It seemed completely incongruous to see such a woman in Maxwell's dingy hall, dressed in the common clothing that ordinary women wore. But it was her. He knew her with a flash of certainty too deep to doubt.

Yet a moment later he did doubt it, for this woman was very different than the young lass he had met on Beltane Eve. She looked at least ten years older—close to his own age, thirty, he guessed. Her gown was a hideous high-necked thing that hung loosely on her gaunt frame. A plain linen coif covered every bit of her hair and framed a face too pale and thin for beauty. Her cheeks were sharp, her mouth a taut thin line, so different from the full and lovely lips he had touched so briefly with his own.

But her eyes—ah, once he looked into her eyes he knew her once again. Even at this distance he could see them shining like sapphires. And beneath that ugly coif was hair as black as midnight. But who was she? A servant? Impossible! This was some sort of trick, or a disguise...the whole thing made no sense. His heart began to pound and shake within his breast as they faced each other across the crowded hall.

"Clumsy bitch!"