FROM THE KEEL-shaped ridges of the Black Cuillin mountains, Evander Talorc strode down toward a broad glen. Before standing first watch at the loch he had gone to the castle’s dovecote to send a messenger bird to the druid settlement. The reply had come just before he’d been relieved by the day sentry.

Come to the fairy pool by the old bridge.

He felt no qualms over sending for the druids without consulting the laird. As Dun Aran’s seneschal Evander’s first responsibility was to the castle and its safety. The female Lachlan had brought back had attacked the laird, which made her no friend of the McDonnel clan. If the fire-tossing harpy did not belong to the druids, they could facking well keep her until they found her people.

If they would not, well, then, she was mortal, and the loch very cold and deep.

The thought of drowning her did give Evander pause. For all that he despised women, he’d never murder one. When had his temper grown so brutish?

Quick to anger, and slow to joy. A man better suited to killing than loving. That was what Baeral had said to him the day before they were supposed to wed. That the whore had given herself to his chieftain’s brother that night, and run away to the lowlands with him had made Evander glad, for at least she did it without his name. When the Talorc had forbidden Evander to pursue them or take vengeance, he’d simply laughed. Well rid of Baeral he had been, he assured his leader.

Well rid, but never to forget. The slut had gone to her grave so long ago that surely naught remained of her but dust—and still Evander burned with unspent fury over her betrayal.

A flash of movement and dun-colored fur on the other side of the glen caught his eye. Evander lifted his spear, feeling its weight in his hand. He sighted along the shaft, his cheek next to the mark he’d carved so that all would know who made the kill. Quickly, he spun with the weapon and flung it. The whistling of the shaft through the air made the hare try to hop away. But the shaft skewered it through the neck in mid-air, and it fell dead in the grass.

Evander collected the carcass and tied it to his belt. Mistress Talley would welcome the meat for her morning pottage, and making the kill soothed his pride. Few clansmen still hunted with spears, and none could have hit the hare at such a distance.

Halfway across the glen he came to a small, narrow spring fed by a waterfall. The villagers who dwelled by the island’s shore called such places fairy pools, and still left pagan offerings at them for luck, love, and fertility. Several garlands of woven wildflowers had been hung on the rocks at the edge of the water, along with a crude cloth poppet that had been stuffed until its belly bulged.

He picked up the doll, which some female had left doubtless in hopes of conceiving. Tossing it in the water wouldn’t drown its maker, but gave him a small measure of satisfaction.

“Have you some pressing need, Seneschal?” a mellow voice asked.

Evander turned with his dagger in hand to see the slender, graceful form of Ovate Cailean Lusk walking out of the trees. The druid looked no older than sixteen, but his youthful appearance had nothing to do with his genuine age. While druids lived mortal lives, when they died their souls reincarnated in the next newborn among their kind. Cailean had already lived many lives. Evander had known him for nigh on six centuries.

The ovate, however, was not the druid Evander wanted to see. Evander lowered his blade.

“I sent word for Bhaltair Flen to attend me. He understands the strain of my duty.” And he had complained to him more than once about Lachlan’s regular disregard for the security of Dun Aran.

“My master couldnae leave his work. I am sent in his place.” Cailean halted at the edge of the spring and glanced down at the poppet slowly sinking to the bottom. “’Twas no’ a kindness to do that.” He stretched out his hand, murmured some words, and the doll rose from the water to plop on his palm. “Children are a gift,” he said quietly, smoothing a thumb over the round of the belly.

Evander scowled at the young man. “What would an ovate ken of it?”

The druid smiled a little sadly. “More than one might think.” He placed it atop a sunny stone to dry before his large, serene blue eyes met Evander’s gaze. “How may I assist you?”

Druids always made it sound as if they served the clan, when the truth of it was the McDonnels did all the work. “Very well. We’ve one of your females at the castle. The clan would be obliged if you’d come and take her away.”

Cailean’s smooth brows rose. “None of our druidesses have been sent to you, Seneschal. What is her name?”

Evander clenched his jaw. “I dinnae ken it. She came to meddle with us at the oak grove in Carstairs Valley, where the tribe’s old stones stand.”

The druid’s eyelids closed as he went still, so that all that moved were the folds of his robe. When he looked at Evander again the dreamy look had vanished from his eyes.

“Take me to her, please.”

Cailean remained silent on the walk up into the ridges. When they reached the castle Evander took him in through a little-used side entry and through a back hall that led to the base of the laird’s tower. Halfway up the steps, Raen Aber appeared, stopped, and crossed his huge arms.

“Fair day to you, Master Aber,” the druid said politely.

“And you, Ovate Lusk.” The bodyguard eyed Cailean before he regarded Evander. “You’ve been busy.”

One day, Evander thought, he and Aber would fight, and he’d teach him just what he could do with a spear. “The ovate has come to see the female,” he told Raen flatly. “Step aside.”

“I’m told she may be druid kind,” the boy said, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I wish only to speak with her a moment, so that I may learn her name, and why she came to you.”

The shaggy dark head shook. “She’s no’ to be disturbed. Laird’s orders.” When Evander tried to push past him he shifted to block his path. “Remember that beating you gave the lass? I hit much harder, and no’ from behind.”

Cailean turned to gape at Evander. “You struck this woman?”

“She was attacking the laird, and she can throw fire from her hands.” Evander flung a hand at Raen. “And this one, his own bodyguard, stood there and did naught to stop her.”

“She’s a woman, Evander,” Raen bellowed. “Did your da never teach you that we’re supposed to protect them?”

“What was I to do?” he shouted back. “Let her burn off his facking face?”

The druid’s gaze bounced between them for a moment, and then grew shuttered. “I think ’tis better I go now. ’Tis likely the female isnae druid kind. Beg your pardon for the trouble, Master Aber. Master Talorc.” He nodded to Evander, and before he could stop him hurried back down the steps.

Since indulging his temper would only end in a fight he might not win, Evander tried reason. “That wench cannae stay here. She’s an outsider. She’s mortal.”

“Aye, and she can burn up six undead with a gesture. If the laird doesnae want the lass, I may wed her myself.” The big man turned and went back upstairs.

Back down in the great hall Neacal Uthar hailed Evander with a loud “good” and a whimpered “morning” before he propped his head between his hands. “Come and break your fast, Seneschal. Meg’s making a cannel brew and oat cakes.”

Evander sat at the trestle table and watched the tower entry. “Where is the laird?”

“Sleeping in the stables, according to Meg.” The bald chieftain cracked open one eye. “That young wand-waver ran out of here at a fast trot. Makes a man wonder what the floor-dusters are plotting now. Might it involve our bastart-burner?”

Even with a sore head Neac saw more than most.

“Cailean claimed she wasnae druid kind,” Evander said. “What else could she be but one of theirs? Do you ken a mortal wench with hands of fire?”

“Why do you care what she is? ’Tis the laird’s problem.” The chieftain sat up as the chatelaine arrived with a tray of cakes and tea. “Ah, here’s a fine lady with real magic.” He winced as she thumped it down in front of him. “If only you’d wield it a wee bit quieter, lass.”

“Ye drink too much whiskey, ye wake with a pounding pate. After a thousand years ye’d think a man could learn that. Sip the brew slow, or ye’ll puke again. And as for ye, Seneschal.” Meg poured a mug for Evander and added a dollop of honey to it. “Mayhap this will sweeten yer temper, ye black-hearted woman-beater.”

He rose to his feet to tower over the chatelaine. “I didnae beat her.”

Meg looked up at him, sniffed loudly, and retreated from the hall, her back stiff with disapproval. As soon as she disappeared into the kitchens Evander sat back down and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“Well done, lad,” Neac said. “She’ll be spitting in your meals until Lammas.” The chieftain drew out a flask, and added a generous measure of whiskey to Evander’s brew. “Come now. ’Tis almost certain the wench’ll run off herself. She nearly got out last night while we were toasting our victory. I had to distract her with talk so the laird and Raen could snatch her back.”

Now Evander felt even angrier. “Why did you stop her?”

Neac shrugged. “The laird wants her, and no’ just for those torch-hands of hers. She’s as comely as a princess. She has claim on him now, too, and I’ve never ken a McDonnel to ignore a life debt. The druids are proof of that, or we’d no’ be here in the Black Cuillin.”

The potent, cloying taste of the spicy brew made Evander grimace, but he drank it down while he listened to the chieftain’s idle speculations. As more Uthars joined them Neac turned his attention to his tribesmen, and what weapons and armor they had that were in need of repair after the battle with the undead.

Evander slipped away unnoticed, and spent some time pacing the long curtain wall walk between the promontory towers. Once he felt he had his temper properly confined, he headed for the stables.

He found Lachlan in a stall with one of the clan’s muscular, gray Eriskay pack ponies. He and a mortal stable hand were examining a gash on the mare’s right flank. He gritted his teeth as he tried to be polite.

“My lord, a word?”

“Wash it gently, and then use that honey and stanch weed salve,” the laird told the mortal. “She’s no’ to be taken out again until she heals.” Lachlan regarded Evander. “Walk with me.”

Evander accompanied the laird out of the stables and down to the loch, where they halted at a spot between two massive tribe stones by the hot spring vent. Standing in the place where their first lives had ended never seemed to disturb Lachlan. He often came to the spot to sit and look out over the dark waters that held so many secrets. Remembering his own brutal death was all that came to Evander here. Although he didn’t often agree with the laird, Evander respected the big man.

“I’ve always wondered,” Evander said, “how does a war master like you come to ken so much about healing?”

“As a boy that war master tended to the herds by day,” Lachlan said, “and mother and sister by night.” Lachlan searched the horizon. “My father had no patience for it, but white plague is maddening. The fevers and coughing never end. By the time they bring up dark blood you’re all but half-dead yourself.” Absently he ran his fingers along the swirls of the serpent carving in the tribe stone. “Have your word, Seneschal.”

“I shouldnae have struck the woman. It grieves you that I did, and for that I am sorry.” He watched the laird’s expression. “But she can start fires with her hands. That alone makes her dangerous. I am charged with protecting Dun Aran, not only for you, my lord, but for the clan. If she were to set fire to the castle, while everyone was abed…cannae you see? She has to go, and go now.”

“If she were a man with the same power, would you wish her gone?” Lachlan held up his hand before Evander could reply. “The truth.”

Evander narrowed his eyes, but it was a time for truth. “No, my lord.” Insulting the wench would only annoy the laird, so he spoke of what he knew. “Men have discipline, and self-control. We ken our duty and keep our oaths. We are trained for battle. A man could be trusted.”

“Women are no’ all trollops, Evander,” Lachlan told him. “When the lass was lost and terrified and alone, she protected me instead of herself. Without a reason in the world to, for she kens naught of me or the clan. If that matters no’ to you, then think on how she killed six undead—by herself—with a single blow. What McDonnel can say the same? No’ me or you.”

“Then you mean to let her stay.”

The prospect made Evander’s hands fist.

“We’ll keep her close, and learn what we can of her and her power,” the laird said, and glanced back at the stronghold. “But if she truly wishes to go, I dinnae think any of us can stop her.”

Evander would have to find another way to be rid of the wench. “As you say, my lord.”