Page 6

The Chevron Hills, Four Months Later

Fergus lowered himself carefully to the flat stone outside his cave. The day was scented with new grass and heather, blossoms and fresh breezes. Spring at last, he thought, turning his face up to the sunlight. Just when I had begun to doubt it would ever come again... He chanted softly:

Greetings to ye, Sun of the Season,

As ye travel the skies on high,

With your strong step on the wings of the heights

Ye are a happy mother to the stars.

At the sound of footsteps Fergus looked up to see Alistair Kirallen walk over the crest of the hill, a shaggy bull trotting docilely beside him. The familiar weight of helpless pity settled over Fergus as he watched the younger man approach. Alistair's eyes were shadowed, his expression grim, and he kept his gaze fixed on the ground, oblivious to fragrant sunlit landscape through which he walked.

Taibhsear, they called Fergus in the true tongue, vision seeker, bridge between this world and the next. In his day Fergus had been called upon by lords and lairds and even, once, a king. If they had not been pleased by his advice, at least they had admitted its worth. But what good was all his vaunted wisdom now?

When Alistair arrived, Fergus was certain he would recover swiftly from his illness and accept the new life that had been offered to him. But Alistair did not recover swiftly. He lingered on the edge of life and death for weeks, the fever stripping flesh from bone until there was almost nothing left.

Worst of all was the damage to Alistair's spirit. He did not speak of finding Lord Darnley any more, and though he listened politely, 'twas clear he had no interest in all Fergus longed to teach him.

No matter how often Fergus might tell himself that Alistair was getting better, he knew it wasn't so. Alistair's spirit was dying, right here before the taibhsear's eyes. If things continued as they were, Alistair would be dead by autumn.

But Fergus had not yet given up. There was one more thing to try, and today, Beltain, was the day to try it. Whether it would work or not, Fergus simply did not know, but he was well aware that this was his last gamble, and he wagered for Alistair's life.

"Good morning," he called, and Alistair looked up, startled.

"And to you," he answered courteously. "Here is the bullock you asked for."

"A fine one he is, too," Fergus said approvingly, standing and looking the animal over.

When Alistair leaned his elbows on the beast's back, the sunlight fell full upon his face, stripped down to bone and flesh. His eyes held a bitter humor, the closest Fergus had seen him come to laughter since he arrived.

"Well, this is a fine thing," Alistair said with a hard edge to his voice. "Here I come, seeking the wisdom of the ages, and ye have me reiving cattle!"

Fergus met his eyes with a bland smile. "So ye object to reivin' cattle, do ye? Well, if ye ask me, 'tis a step up for a banished man."

CHAPTER 2

She was a witch.

Brodie Maxwell sat on one corner of the bed and watched blearily as his wife approached, a cup held carefully before her. A witch. It explained everything.

"Drink it," he ordered.

Deirdre Maxwell glanced from the cup in her hand to her husband's face. "Sure, I didn't get it for myself. 'Tis the mulled ale you asked for."

"You've put something in it," Brodie said with drunken certainty as he rose unsteadily to his feet, one hand moving to the dagger at his belt.

"Of course I haven't!"

Her eyes met his, dark brows slightly raised, the very picture of innocent surprise. Clever witch. That's what she was. What she'd been from the first, when she enspelled him on the windswept cliffs of Donegal four years ago.

She had made him promises. Oh, not in words, for she had barely spoken to him during their brief courtship. But her eyes—so blue, so clear and yet so distant—her eyes had held depth upon depth of mystery and promise. Her mouth had curved in a secret smile that hinted of ecstasy to come.

Lies, it had been, all lies. She had given him nothing but her body, unwillingly at that. From their joyless mating he'd gotten but one puling girl-child and nothing since.

Who knew what black arts she had used to win him. Had been using since to shrivel his manhood. What potions she'd been slipping into his ale.

The dagger flashed and the point just touched the white skin of her throat.