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CHAPTER 1

The Chevron Hills, One Year Later

Alistair's first thought when he woke was: God be thanked, I am back Scotland. His second was: Darnley is still alive.

The ground was cold beneath him, the wind chill, yet he was sweating. When he opened his eyes, faint morning light stabbed into his throbbing head and every muscle ached as he sat up. The sky was gray and the damp air smelled like snow.

Painfully, he got to his feet. As far as the eye could see there was naught but empty moor. But Scottish moor, he reminded himself. Last night he'd crossed the border and if he had been feeling a bit better, he would have fallen to the earth and kissed the ground.

He looked about, trying to fathom exactly where he was. He'd left Leicester behind two days ago and headed straight north, which should put him . . . square in the middle of nowhere. With a fever upon him, a snowstorm on the way, and almost nothing left of his provisions.

Good planning, Alistair, he told himself as he moved stiffly to saddle his horse. Brilliant. As fine an effort as ye've managed this past year. Only this one will likely kill you.

And would that be such a bad thing? a voice asked in his mind. Why not just give it up? Everything ye tried has failed... why not end it here and now? Just lie down, go back to sleep, and let God do the rest.

He slumped against his horse, fighting the temptation to give in and take the coward's way. Who would ever know? the voice asked reasonably. No one but yourself.

"Sod it," he said thickly, pulling himself into the saddle. Once mounted, he tried to get his bearings, but nothing looked familiar and the sun was invisible behind the clouds. Finally he let the stallion have his head.

He rode half in a dream, alternately chilled and burning, and it was hours later that he raised his head and saw the hills rising to the east. Two hills, jagged, with a narrow pass between them. There was something familiar about this landscape . . . When he realized where he was, he laughed harshly. Turn west, ride hard, and nightfall would find him back at Ravenspur. The one place he could not go.

He stared up at the hills again, his eyes lingering on the narrow passage between. There, just at the top of that rise, stood a cave. Fergus' cave. If Fergus was still alive.

There had been a time when Alistair visited the old man often, but years had passed since he'd ventured up this path. He wondered if Fergus had heard what had happened to him, then knew it didn't matter. Fergus might dwell on the edge of Kirallen's domain, but he was a taibhsear, a holy man, owing allegiance to no one but his gods. Surely he would not deny Alistair shelter for the night.

He jerked the reins and started up the rocky slope. Before they had gone half a mile, the first cold snowflake touched Alistair's hot cheek.

Afterward, Alistair could never quite remember how he'd come to Fergus' cave. Once the snow began to fall in earnest, there was nothing to his memories but swirling whiteness and deadly cold, until at last he pushed aside the stiffened hide covering the cave's entrance and stumbled inside.

Fergus was sitting by the fire, white head bent as he studied the parchment spread open across his lap. He looked up at Alistair's entrance, surprised but not alarmed. "Peace be upon ye, traveler," he said courteously. "Be welcome here."

Alistair dragged back his hood and the taibhsear got nimbly to his feet. "Why, it's Alistair," he said, a smile creasing his weathered face.

"Fergus," Alistair croaked. "Can ye give me shelter?"

"Well, let me see," Fergus said. "I'm expecting the King of France with half his court . . . but I suppose I could squeeze ye in somehow."

Alistair managed a faint smile as he sank down by the fire. "Good."

Fergus touched his knuckles to Alistair's brow. "Now that's a fine fever you're carrying. Let's get ye out of those wet things."

Alistair laid his head on his bent knees. "Just let me rest a bit."

With surprising strength Fergus gripped his shoulders and pulled him upright. "Up, now, there's a lad. Just lift your arms..."

A short time later Alistair was covered warmly, propped against a rolled sheepskin with a steaming mug in his hands. He drank the brew down, grimacing at the bitterness, but by the time Fergus returned from stabling the horse, Alistair was warm and the pounding in his head had subsided to a dull ache.

"So where did ye blow in from?" Fergus asked casually, shaking the snow from his cloak and spreading it to dry.

"London."

"Been doing a bit of traveling, have ye? Seein' all the sights?"

"I went to London to kill John Darnley," Alistair answered shortly.

"Did ye now?" Fergus did not seem the least surprised by this statement. "And is he dead?"

"Nay."