AFTER RIDING THROUGH the blizzard and braving it a second time to send a dove through the sacred grove portal, Bhaltair Flen had fallen into a fitful sleep by the Tullachs’ cozy hearth. Cora woke him just before dawn with a bolstering brew and a bowl of porridge laced with cream and honey.

“You shall break your fast before you endeavor to save the world again,” she told him firmly when he tried to refuse her coddling. “’Twill also prevent you fainting from hunger while confronting the forces of darkness in battle.”

“I willnae battle anything this day but my wretched knee, Sister.” He took a sip of the brew and a few spoons from the bowl to please her, and then noticed the shadows under her eyes. “Tell me I didnae keep you from your rest last night.”

“Naught does that these days. I felt something in the wind, just before you arrived. Old magic, of the like I’ve no’ sensed since my novice days. I wouldnae say, but the more I think on it…I cannae be mistaken.” She met his gaze. “’Twas a bone conjuring.”

Bhaltair might have felt the ripple of such a dark, evil spell, had he not been caked in snow and ice at the time. For the final half-league to the settlement he’d been obliged to dismount and lead his pony by the reins through the blinding wind. He’d had to pour his magic into keeping in the proper direction, or he’d yet be out there, trudging in circles. He didn’t wish to think of who had cast such a spell, but there could be only one.

“Barra prevails at last.”

Cora reached to touch his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“If Oriana now raises the dead, then she’s forever cursed by the Gods, and lost to me.” The thought of such evil corrupting a druidess so young made his eyes water. “Forgive me. How I yet care for the lass after all she’s done, I cannae tell you.”

“My dear friend, I live mated to a lad incarnated but seventeen years,” the druidess reminded him. “He ever regards me as beautiful, fascinating and wholly enchanting, when I shall soon celebrate my seventieth year in this life. By the Gods. I’ve boots older than Fingal.” She rubbed her wrinkled cheek. “But we are soul-mated.”

Seeing her faraway look and hearing the tender way she still spoke of Fingal helped to dispel some of Bhaltair’s gloom.

“’Tis a rare and wondrous love that you share,” he said, as he wrapped his hands around the warm cup. “And to have flourished these many incarnations, ’tis a kind of miracle.”

“’Tis nothing of the sort,” Cora said lightly, as she fed a small log into the hearth. She paused and smiled at him over her shoulder. “When we touch, Fingal does as I command.” Bhaltair had taken a sip of his brew, but spewed it with a cough as he nearly choked. She laughed as she stood. “So no’ all the ways of magic are known to conclavists.” After she brought him a small cloth which he used to wipe his mouth, she went back to the fire. “’Tis something we discovered in our first incarnation.” A wry smile spread across her face. “I couldnae think on eternity without it.”

Bhaltair chuckled at the little revelation that explained so much. “Mayhap a conclavist can still learn a thing or two, and feel a bit of a fool.”

“Then you keep good company, old friend, for we’re all made fools by those we love.” She nodded at the bowl in his lap. “Now, eat your porridge.”

Cora’s wry wisdom eased his sorrow enough for him to fill his empty belly. Nothing could be done to mend the cracks in his battered old heart, but purpose still held it together. He suspected the McAra and the Skaraven would save each other, as they had from the days of the first tribes, but he would do whatever he could to aid them. Oriana, his last connection to his old friend Gwyn, followed the dark path now. It would lead her, as it ever did, to a dismal end without hope of reincarnation. He could not turn her back, so he would pray that it would be quick.

As for the traitors and their famhairean, Bhaltair clung to his faith in good prevailing over evil. They would be defeated again by the Skaraven, and this time forever. He could not live in the world believing otherwise.

A short time later Fingal came into the cottage, his cloak heavy with driven snow. “Bhaltair, the clan has arrived.”

He wrapped up warmly before he followed the headman out into the wind. The skies remained dreary and dark, but the snowfall had grown lighter. The blustery air slapped rather than tore at him as well. From the glen the Skaraven led their horses toward the Sky Thatch’s stables, where Fingal had druids waiting to water and warm the mounts.

When he saw Bhaltair, Brennus handed off his reins to another Skaraven and waded through the snow to loom over the two druids.

“We came as you bid,” the chieftain said. “Cadeyrn rode to the hilltop to survey the country. If they’ve come, he should see some sign in the snows.” He regarded Fingal. “I reckon I’ve you to thank, Headman, for clearing enough ice from your stream to provide us passage.”

“I shall relate it to all the brothers and village men who worked through the night to chop out that great hole,” Fingal told him. “Come in the barn. There’s more to discuss with you and your clan.”

Men and horses crowded the inside of the druid stables, but the Sky Thatch defenders worked diligently alongside the Skaraven to tend to the ice-crusted animals. Ruadri and Taran came to flank Brennus, and a curious silence fell over the immortal warriors as they observed and listened.

“As I wrote in my message, Mistress Perrin spoke with me last night of a vision she had. She saw the Skaraven come to this settlement before the storm ended, which you have.” Bhaltair gestured in the direction of the McAra’s castle. “By this hour she also predicted that the famhairean would surround and attack the stronghold, and that the Skaraven would attack them. ’Twill be a fierce battle and the outcome is no’ certain.”

Brennus grunted. “’Tis never certain, vision or no’.”

“Mistress Perrin possesses a rare and powerful foresight, proven many times,” Bhaltair said. “’Tis what my kind call seeing through the eyes of the Gods. Even thus, sometimes even they must blink.”

The chieftain eyed him with his customary suspicion. “Shaman, Horse Master, counsel.”

“However unhappy, Master Flen speaks truth.” Ruadri gave Bhaltair a decidedly cool look. “The lass had lost her gift by the time she arrived at Dun Mor. Yet my lady assured me the forge spirit healed Perrin, and restored her. From the scheme used to attack the midland villages we ourselves predicted this attack. I’m inclined to believe Master Flen and the lady.”

Brennus nodded, and regarded his horse master. “What say you, Tran?”

“’Tis but two things I ken that make famhairean retreat: water or fire.” He paused to let the sound of the wind wailing outside fill the stables. “For water we must wait for the thaw. Yet if Kanyth somehow unleashes the forge on the giants, they shall burn. I’m with Ruadri. Let us make the attack.”

The door to the stable burst open, and a snow-covered warrior strode in leading a horse even more heavily encrusted. He threw off the hooded cloak shrouding him, revealing the shrewd face of the Skaraven war master, Cadeyrn.

“Get him dry and warm,” he told the druid who hurried up to take the mount. To Brennus he said, “’Tis as the tree-knower wrote. From the hill I saw furrows in the snow stretching from the east to gather on all sides of the McAra’s keepe. They’ve sieged the castle.”

“Prepare the mounts to ride,” Brennus called out. He met Bhaltair’s gaze. “You should make ready for mortal wounded.”

“Fingal shall,” he told him. “Mistress Perrin said I must ride with you and the Skaraven clan into battle.” When the chieftain uttered an incredulous laugh, he added, “She said that if I dinnae, the McAra clan shall perish.”