BHALTAIR LIMPED THROUGH the snow drifts toward the sacred oak grove outside the conclave’s settlement. He took no joy in it, for the cold numbed his bones and burned in his chest. After spending the night pouring over the archives he drooped with weariness. But it was his guilt that worried and weighed on him more than his heavy travel satchel. Try as he would to meditate away its bite on him, it would not loosen its teeth. Always in the back of his mind nagged the question he could not answer.

Why should Gwyn’s granddaughter wish me dead?

Bhaltair also knew he should have bid his friends at the conclave to fare well before journeying to the midlands. They had not blamed him for being deceived by Oriana Embry. Indeed, they had been gentle and kind with him. But in their eyes he had clearly seen sympathy, of the like shown to the very young, or the very foolish.

During this long and arduous incarnation Bhaltair had inspired much feeling among his brother conclavists, but never pity.

He stopped at the frost-furred stones encircling the grove portal, and tried to clear his thoughts. Any stray notion might tempt the sacred oaks to send him somewhere other than his desired destination. What he could do to save Perrin Thomas from an unwanted mating with Kanyth Skaraven he knew not, for druid magic held no sway over Pritani battle spirits. Still, the weapons master had asked for his help. He could not refuse Brennus’s half-brother without causing offense anew. Yet the last time he’d visited the McAra, he’d unwittingly spilled a secret that had come close to igniting a clan war.

Once the traitors and their murderous famhairean had been defeated, he might go into seclusion. He could spend the rest of his days growing a small thatch of golden mistletoe, or perhaps tend a little orchard. He missed his pear tree. Yet as peaceful as solitude might prove, he’d have no one to teach, or care for, or watch over again. The conclave would replace him with a younger druid who would not have his knowledge or experience in dealing with evil. His name would fade from the memories of his people.

He’d die alone, useless and forgotten.

Bhaltair glanced up at the heavens to beseech the Gods. “Guide me in all ways, that I may do your work.” He took a firmer grip on his pack, and stepped into the stone circle.

As he envisioned the Sky Thatch settlement, the frozen ground beneath his boots vanished, and he fell into the tunnel of spinning oak branches. As he plummeted through the threshing power of the grove, Bhaltair felt it leech away his weariness. The oaks provided healing as well as conveyance, and by the time he stepped out of the circle in the midlands new strength and purpose coursed through him. Scythe-bearing defenders rushed to surround him, and he regarded them with some surprise.

“You yet guard your portal?” Bhaltair asked them.

“Aye, by order of the conclave.” The eldest gestured to the others, who fell back but did not lower their weapons. “What do you here, Master Flen?”

“I travel, lad. ’Tis why we use portals.” Bhaltair frowned. “You’re bade to question an elder who serves on the conclave?”

“I’ll vouch for this old curmudgeon, Brothers,” Fingal Tullach said. The Sky Thatch’s headman came through the other druids to clasp Bhaltair’s hand. Although he appeared hardly more than a lad, his many incarnations made him Bhaltair’s equal. “I’d welcome you back, old foe, but I ken you’ve no’ come for a visit.”

“I’m summoned to the McAra, Fingal.” Bhaltair glanced at the unhappy defenders before he accompanied the headman along the path to the settlement. “Dare I borrow a pony to make the ride, or shall you first search me, and take some property as forfeit?”

“Dinnae mount the horse before ’tis lent,” Fingal advised him, sounding weary. “We’ve had much to manage since you departed, and none of it happy. Do you wish to break your fast with me and Cora?”

Bhaltair could not put off the Skaraven. “No, lad, I’d best get to it.”

As they entered the snow-shrouded druid village Bhaltair saw mortals freely moving among the tribe. Most looked battered, with grievous bruises and burns. Two druidesses tended a flock of children dressed in garments too large. When the mortals noticed them walking into the settlement, they began to dart about and disappear.

The Sky Thatch had long traded with mortals from the surrounding villages, but they had no place living among druid kind. The poor condition and fearful behavior of the strangers helped Bhaltair guess why they’d come to the settlement.

“These folk, they’re survivors of the midland attacks.”

“Aye. More gifts from Hendry and Murdina,” the headman told him as they reached the tribe’s stables. “Twenty-seven over the last weeks, and more expected. They’ve naught left in the world but each other and our compassion.”

Once inside the barn, Bhaltair asked, “Can you feed so many until the snows recede, Brother?”

“Mayhap. I’ve begged aid from the southern tribes. The snows have cut off the roads to the north and east.” Fingal went into a stall, and led out a sturdy brown mare with gentle eyes. “We’ll make do. But ’twill be a very long winter.”

The headman secured Bhaltair’s satchel, helped him into the saddle, and walked with him to the edge of the settlement.

“Give Cora my apologies for hastening away, Fin,” Bhaltair said, but the headman’s attention had shifted to the horizon, where a too-low black cloud billowed. “’Tis another attack?”

“I fear aye,” Fingal said, his brow wrinkled with worry. “And this one close.” With a quick shake of his head, he turned the horse around. “My regrets, Brother,” the headman said as Bhaltair began to protest. “But death walks the midlands, and sets it to burn. I’ll no’ see you go there alone.”

“Fingal, come now,” Bhaltair said, trying to reason with his friend. “I need no escort.”

“Yet you’ll have one,” Fingal said, cutting him off. “I’ll have the men to spare in the morning, when ’twill be light.” He held up his hand to stop more protests. “Easy, Brother, lest you remain my guest on the morrow as well. I may find this mare in need of new shoes.”

Bhaltair sighed and sat back in the saddle. “Dinnae mount the horse before ’tis lent,” he muttered.

“Aye,” Fingal agreed as they entered the barn. “Wise words.”