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“Did you truly see the God of Death’s hell hounds?” he asked, trying not to think that he had missed her as well.
“I cannot say whether they were or were not the God of Death’s hell hounds. They were white and their eyes might have glared red from the fire’s light. It is difficult to say for certain.”
“Brock told all that you addressed the God of Death directly. I believe you said something like Death will not take us! No surrender! We refuse him! Begone and take my command to Arawn!”
She saw no point in telling him that the voice in her head had told her to argue with Death. She did not think it would help the situation.
“If it was Arawn we faced, then I thought it best to fight. If not, at least my words might frighten them away.” A thought came to her. “Is there no one near who may have white hounds?”
“Lord Walter, Clan Macaulay,” Varrick said, having already considered that. “I spoke with him when the white hounds were first spotted. He assured me his hounds had not gotten loose. I know of no other clans with such hounds.”
“It does prove a dilemma.”
“As does you not obeying me.”
“This incident has taught me a lesson and I will not do something so foolish again. I know I gave you my word the last time and I broke it, though not intentionally. I ask that you trust my word when I tell you I will never do something so foolish again.”
Varrick did not need her word; he felt her sincerity. It weaved around and through him, hugging him gently and he wondered what magic she weaved.
“I will accept your word but know if you fail to keep your word to me again, you will suffer a punishment,” he warned.
A bit fearful of what the punishment might be but more curious than anything, she asked, “What punishment would that be?”
“It would depend on the reason for your disobedience.”
Her curiosity still not satisfied, she asked, “So, if I went into the forest myself, what would be my punishment?”
“I would beat you senseless!” he threatened.
Her eyes went wide, his anger was so intense, then she felt it… his heartbeat. It pounded wildly as if in fear and that was what caused his response, fear. He feared for her safety.
She spoke gently. “You would never beat me, never raise a hand to me, never hurt me.”
“You are so sure?” he snapped, annoyed she was right. He would not raise a hand to her, no matter how angry he got, he would never strike her.
“Aye, I am sure. You do put fear in me sometimes, but I believe it is because I can feel when you are angry and how it grows in intensity until you finally erupt and roar with it. It overpowers the senses.”
“I forbid you to use your witchcraft on me!” he ordered, surprised that she would even admit that she did.
“It is not witchcraft. It is simply something I sense,” she said.
“You are forbidden to sense it,” he demanded.
She was about to tell him it did not work that way, that she could not stop it if she wanted to but thought it wiser to simply say, “Aye, my lord.”
“Speak of this to no one,” he ordered.
She did not need to sense anything to understand his order. After today’s incident in the woods all would believe her a powerful witch, but if they knew she sensed what he felt they would believe her an evil witch. And that frightened her.
Another thing that troubled her was that the voice had warned her to argue with Death and, in doing so, was it a warning that the God of Death had taken up residence in the woods?
* * *
The next morningBrock stood before Lord Varrick and a crowded Great Hall to receive his punishment.
“Do with me as you will, my lord,” Brock said boldly. “I was proud to have witnessed the power of the witch, a power that will save our clan.”
Varrick did not take kindly to the cheer that rang out for Brock and he let his displeasure be known, rising with such force out of his chair at the dais and pounding his fist on the table that many drew back in fright even though they sat a distance away.
