AS HE ROSE from his silk-strewn bed Daimh Haral felt again the weight of his years. Old age pains had begun attacking the joints of his knees and shoulders, which had grown so stiff now he often had to partake of more poppy juice than was wise. As he glanced down at the white satin of his pillow, he saw a cluster of thin, silver and red hairs that had fallen out of his scalp. At this rate he would be bald within the year. With an angry jerk he covered the self-indulgence of his bed linens with a plain, woven coverlet and hobbled out into his front room.

A hiss greeted him from the large, rope-bound basket by the hearth, which tipped side to side as its occupant stretched.

“Wanting your breakfast, Anoup?” Daimh murmured as he went into the cold pantry and retrieved one of the dead mice he stored there. He carried it to the basket, releasing the ties and removing the lid. With a grin he dangled the rodent by the tail over the opening.

Anoup reared its large head, flicking the air with its forked tongue. Daimh had paid dearly to have the viper smuggled from Francia to Scotland, but its venom had proven invaluable for certain rituals. He also considered the snake as the best of companions, as it was silent, mostly docile and needed to be fed only once every few weeks.

Dark striations on its umber scales twisted as it reached for the mouse. Daimh amused himself by shifting the small carcass just out of the viper’s reach, until it hissed a warning.

“Very well, have it.” He dropped the mouse on the snake’s head, and chuckled as Anoup struck and injected its venom. “Good lad.”

He made sure to cover and secure the basket before putting his kettle to boil on the fire and returning to his room to dress. Living among another druid tribe had been a trial, but he had successfully concealed from them his ongoing work with exotic magics. Summoning dark forces had to be done away from the settlement, of course, but he had long ago created protected niches where he could cast as he pleased. The many attempts he had made to discover the reason for his single enormous failing, however, had yet to bear results. He could not permit his body to die before he found the answer, either.

Under no circumstances could Daimh disincarnate and return to the well of stars. He would spend eternity in the kind of torment that made what he himself had done to his blood kin look like a thoughtful kindness.

Daimh changed out of his nightshirt, despairing as he looked down at the densely-inked cyphers now fading on his age-spotted flesh and withering muscle. He had devoted himself to the study of ancient magics, and collected scrolls written by the remetch en Kermet, the People of the Black Land. From them he had distilled the designs of his skinwork, which he’d inked on himself in secret. The hundreds of centuries their priests had devoted to their all-consuming cult of the dead had produced a wealth of powerful magics and spells. Each time he used one of their rituals he felt the brush of energy so archaic and colossal it staggered him. To be the master of such power would enable him to rule over druid kind for all eternity.

First he had to defeat Death itself.

He slowly pulled on a clean robe, and took from his belt a vial of poppy juice to mix into his morning brew. His hand quivered until he clutched it tightly around the slender stone ampoule. Then came a jag of power from his house wards as they reacted to the presence of two approaching druids. Quickly he uncorked the vial, swallowed the bitter contents and then smoothed down his thinning hair. The smile he forced onto his mouth he had practiced for years. It aped a natural good humor that completely deceived his fellow druids. They would pick up nothing more from him, thanks to the arcane symbols inked on his body.

Daimh quickly dispelled the house wards, opened his door, and hailed the two druids. “Fair morning, Master Flen. Ovate Lusk, you’re near full-grown now. Come in, come in.”

He hustled the grave-faced men into his cottage, chattering as he did about the fine spring they were having and the promise of bountiful crops for the settlement. As expected his false cheer deepened the other men’s gloom, from which he took some silent satisfaction.

“Sit, sit.” He fussed over them, bringing them mugs of brew as he nattered on about coming rituals and gatherings for which he cared nothing. “But enough of my gossip,” he said when the ovate began to fidget. “What brings you to me this fine day?”

The old druid’s expression was that of a man kicked in the belly. “Daimh, we wouldnae disturb you with this, but as the last of the Harals, ’tis only right that you hear what we have learned.”

He swallowed a sour laugh. He was the reason he was the last of the Harals. Slowly, he let his smile fade. “’Tis a daily struggle to go on, but I do my best, to honor my blood kin. What have you to tell me?”

The younger druid told him of the breach of the protective barrier on Everbay, and the two intruders discovered as the cause. One, thought to be the twin brother of a member of the McDonnel clan, had been pursuing a young female through the boundary.

“The lass is unknown to us,” Cailean added once he finished the tale. “But she has the look of your tribe.”

“May the gods have answered my entreaties.” A Haral, yet alive. The dark gods had indeed shown him favor. Daimh tucked his hands in his sleeves before he clenched them to stop their shaking. “Describe her to me, please, Brother.”

“She is tall, slender, and long-limbed,” the younger man said. “Her hair is a fiery brown, and her eyes blue-violet in color. She runs like a deer.”

Now it came clear to him why the Anubis ritual had never bestowed on him physical immortality. He had made a terrible mistake with the sacrifice, but that could be corrected.

“Could she be your kin?” Cailean asked, dragging him from his brooding thoughts.

Now he would have to choose his words carefully, for both druids would sense a lie. “I cannae tell you, but I would be very glad to meet the lass in person.”

“We shall travel to the island with Laird McDonnel and his lady wife at week’s end,” Bhaltair said gently. “As you ken the island better than any, we would ask you to join us.”

Daimh let tears of relief fill his eyes. “Oh, Brother. If only you ken what this means to me.” He drew a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “Forgive me, Brothers. I am growing old, and to return to the place where every one of my family were butchered…’twill require much preparation of the spirit.”

The two druids exchanged a look before Bhaltair nodded. “Only ken that we must keep this journey a secret from all others. ’Tis much unknown about what we will find there.”

He didn’t have to feign his happy smile this time. “Believe me, Brother, such secrets I can keep, very well.”