HOBBLING OUT OF the sacred oak grove meant traversing deep drifts, something Bhaltair Flen accepted as the price of mid-winter traveling. He’d spent the last week searching remote druid settlements in hopes of finding Diarmid Teine, the one druid he believed could cast some light on his dilemma. Perpetuating the myth that he had been murdered by his former acolyte, Oriana Embry, also required Bhaltair to journey in secret. Though the perpetual use of a body altering-ward didn’t tax him as it might a novice, it had other drawbacks.

“Gods above,” he muttered, tripping on the hem of the garments again. Impersonating a traveling herbalist had seemed an apt choice, but now… He stopped and shook out the skirts as though he might throttle them. “Never again shall I scold a female for her lack of speed.”

He didn’t mind the druidess guise as much as the need to sustain it. If Oriana discovered he yet lived she would renew her efforts to end him. With the powers she had demonstrated, far greater than any acolyte should possess, another confrontation might require him to end her. Because she had practiced dark magic she would not ascend to the well of stars. He would then have the death of her soul on his conscience—and that he could not bear.

As soon as Bhaltair approached the Stone Hew tribe’s new settlement he expected defenders with gleaming scythes to surround him. Too many famhairean attacks of late on mortal and druid kind had made their usually peaceful people terribly apprehensive. Yet all that appeared on the path were two young lads, each carrying small slings.

“Fair morning, Sister,” one of them greeted Bhaltair, his cheeks dimpling. “Have you lost your path?”

“In this weather, wee brother? ’Twould be foolish.” Bhaltair tugged back his hood so they could see his false features, those of a healthy young druidess. The spell that protected his true form also altered his voice to match his feminine façade. “I’ve journeyed in hopes of speaking with Diarmid Teine. Does he yet dwell here as headman?”

Both lads exchanged a long, silent look that belied their young years.

“I may wait here if you dinnae wish grant me passage,” Bhaltair said. “Only ken I may freeze in my boots and block the trail until spring.”

“We ken you wear enchantment,” the second young druid advised him dryly. “Show your true face.”

That meant they definitely weren’t two young lads. “Mayhap we should all show ourselves,” Bhaltair suggested.

The air shimmered around the boys, who grew much taller and broader. Their young faces wrinkled as their hair streaked with silver and white, and their ancient eyes glittered with wisdom and experience. The slings they held stretched into lethal-looking scythes that bore the marks of much use.

Bhaltair recognized both as Diarmid’s senior tribesmen, and murmured a spell to momentarily reveal his own true face.

“Master Flen,” the older one said, his thick eyebrows arching. He stepped forward, frowning. “By the Gods, you yet live. Word came you’d been killed during the McAra attack.”

“Word I hope kept believed, Brother,” he told the druid as he put his female guise back into place. “’Tis urgent that I speak alone with your headman. Permit me see him now, for time isnae our ally.”

The druids accompanied him into the settlement, which had been so heavily fortified with defense spells the very air shimmered with magic. Wary eyes followed him and his escort, and several druids emerged from their dwellings with scythes held ready. It saddened him to see his people this frightened, but also reassured him. It took much to stir druid kind to this state of guarded readiness, but they would fight to protect their tribe.

The defenders ushered him into one of the smaller cottages, where Diarmid sat breaking his fast. The headman stood and frowned at Bhaltair.

“Why come you here, Sister?”

“Would you stand sentry for us?” Bhaltair asked the druids, who nodded and stepped outside. Only then did he dispel the body ward. “I trust your defenders, but none must ken that I yet breathe.”

“Bhaltair, thank the Gods.” The headman came around the table to embrace him. “Why this ruse, my brother? The conclave held mourning for you.”

“My troubles of late cast long shadows.” He glanced down at the druidess garments he wore. “Until ’tis finished I’m but a humble traveling herbalist. Come and sit with me, that I may explain.”

Diarmid fetched him a warming brew, and then listened as Bhaltair recounted his dealings with Gwyn’s granddaughter. He held nothing back, even when it cast him a fool. From the night she came bearing the news of his old friend’s death to the day she’d left him for dead at the McAra’s, Oriana had deceived him entirely. Indeed, if not for the Skaraven, his friends among the Sky Thatch tribe, and Perrin Thomas’s gift of foresight, he would likely be abiding in the well of stars now. It also pained him to reveal that Oriana had become Barra Omey’s puppet, and now practiced her dark magic to aid in her schemes.

Diarmid listened without comment until Bhaltair had finished, and then reached across the table to touch his hand.

“Dinnae blame yourself, Brother. Since birth that lass has been troubled. Gwyn and I oft spoke of it when alone, and well out of her hearing. She ever paid close attention to any voice, of course.” He saw Bhaltair’s expression. “Oriana has a talent for mimicry. She can make herself speak as anyone she’s heard. She often used her gift to play cruel tricks on the other novices.”

That, Bhaltair realized with a jolt, explained how she had been able to convince him that she could channel her grandfather’s spirit from the well of stars. She’d simply imitated Gwyn’s voice. Doubtless she had done the same with Brennus Skaraven at the Aviemore Inn, using her gift to make the chieftain believe that Bhaltair had lured him into a trap.

“Did either of you ken how she fell under the sway of Barra Omey?” he asked Diarmid.

“That cursed bone-conjurer never once came to our settlement, if ’tis what you suspect. I’d have had her seized and taken directly to the conclave for justice. Nor did Oriana ever leave our lands.” He winced. “’Twas likely done in some secret fashion.”

“You cannae be held at fault,” Bhaltair assured him. “No one guessed that Barra yet lived. I myself reckoned her long banished to the grove of stars.”

“No, ’tis no’ that…only something I’ve put off,” Diarmid admitted. “Mayhap I might have spared you, had I done my duty to Gwyn. I did send word for you to several settlements, but you ever left before my scrolls arrived. Of late I’ve been much occupied with keeping safe the tribe, finding this place and preparing for winter.”

Bhaltair frowned. “I dinnae ken your meaning.”

“A moment.” The headman walked into the next room, and returned with a wrapped, tied bundle. “Gwyn tasked me with this just before they killed him.” He removed the bindings to reveal a carved wooden box with three intricately-worked leaves on the lid. “He kept it hidden in my dwelling for months, and bid me bring it to you should he disincarnate.”

The carving Bhaltair recognized as his old friend’s handiwork. “Why?”

“I cannae tell you.” Diarmid touched the lid. “’Twillnae open for me.”

Bhaltair peered closer at the carvings, and saw his own name inscribed along the edge of one leaf. Yet when he held the box between his hands he felt no enchantment.

“’Tis a puzzle box,” Bhaltair said with a sad smile. He smoothed his fingers over the lid as he cast his mind back to the precocious lad he’d met all those incarnations ago. “Gwyn favored such riddles.”

“I ever envied his touch with wood,” the headman told him, and glanced out the window before he rose. “’Tis beginning to snow again. I’ll prepare a chamber for you to spend the night.”

Bhaltair nodded absently, and once Diarmid had left summoned his power to pit against the box. He stopped almost at once, realizing that Gwyn may have bespelled the contents to disintegrate under such an assault.

“’Tis Bhaltair Flen,” he said out loud, wondering if the box might open to the sound of his voice. The lid remained firmly shut. Given Oriana’s talent for mimicry, that seemed a prudent precaution.

He set down the box and studied it. Gwyn’s carvings held no spell stones or crystals, and the sides appeared solid, suggesting he’d not fitted sliding, locking panels to be moved. The leaves didn’t look especially life-like, each identical except for their position on the lid. Like Diarmid, Bhaltair had also admired Gwyn’s talent in carving. Either his friend had been rushed, or they weren’t leaves at all.

Bhaltair studied the lid again, noticing the lines bisecting each leaf. He reached out to trace them with his fingertips, and felt one of the leaves shift. When he pushed on it more firmly, the leaf turned slightly.

The carvings were meant to be moved in another arrangement, Bhaltair guessed, and turned the box around at different angles before he saw it. Gently he turned each leaf’s pointed end toward the center of the lid, until they formed the three-sided triquetra.

As he moved the last leaf into place the lid made a popping sound, and sprang open.

Inside Bhaltair saw a bound scroll. He slid off the cord and unrolled the surprisingly long parchment. He stretched it out on the table and read what it contained.

* * *

My dear old friend,

I ken that I now look down upon you from the well of stars, but dinnae mourn me. In whatever manner I came to depart the mortal realm, ’twas with relief. With my death I’ve been released anew from a terrible burden, one that I’ve carried in every life since the first you and I shared. I’ve tried to evade it to no avail for nigh on a thousand years. As such I’ve decided this shall be my final incarnation. When I journey to the well of stars, I shall remain there for eternity.

’Tis the only manner by which I may escape Barra Omey.

* * *

Horror filled Bhaltair to see her wretched name written in his old friend’s script. How had he known the bone-conjurer?

* * *

Somehow the lass persuaded herself to believe no’ only that she loved me, but that I felt the same in return. I didnae ken this until you and I parted. Young as she was, she yet ran away from her tribe and followed me back to my settlement. There she declared herself to me, and claimed we’d been fated to become soul-mated.

’Twas girlish nonsense, but I thought to be kind and said naught while I arranged to have her returned to her people. In the end she had to be dragged, writhing and screaming, to the portal. The last words she shrieked sounded to me as a curse of sorts. She vowed she would never again rest until we could be mated.

Bhaltair, ’twas Barra Omey who made that vow—and kept it.

* * *

Gwyn detailed the bone conjurer’s relentless pursuit of him through his first life, and every incarnation afterward. At first Barra simply plagued him by returning to his settlement again and again, until Gwyn had been obliged to speak to her tribe’s headman. For a brief time, Barra had been kept away, but she escaped and disappeared. Gwyn forgot about her until the day of his mating ceremony, when the druidess he loved fell suddenly ill and died shortly after their bonding ceremony. Barra stole into his cottage that night to offer him comfort. When he again refused her, she predicted that any female he chose over her would suffer the same fate.

Bhaltair shook his head. Gwyn had been a gentle soul, and unwilling to condemn the druidess for what to him seemed nothing more than misdirected love. He took it upon himself to leave his tribe and become a traveler for the remainder of his incarnation. When he had returned to the mortal realm for his second life, however, Barra soon found and pursued him again. He tried every method to dissuade her, from body wards to disguise himself to withdrawing to live a hermit’s existence, but nothing kept the druidess away for long.

* * *

I reckon my inability to give Barra what she wished damaged her in each life. She took up bone-conjuring, she once told me, to learn the means by which we could share an eternity in the mortal realm. I didnae ken her meaning until she came to me on my deathbed in that life. She waited until I disincarnated, and then attempted to bring my soul back into my body. Thanks to my power I had the strength to resist her magic, but that she would do again and again in other lives. Sometimes she didnae wait for my natural death, but would kill me herself.

* * *

Bhaltair gasped and covered his mouth with a trembling hand.

* * *

I reckoned that turning to dark magic would prevent her from reincarnating, but she ever returns to the mortal realm. I ken not how, but she’s defeated her own death for more than five centuries now. She’s also become the most powerful bone conjurer among druid kind.

* * *

Bhaltair had to stop and rub the tears from his blurry eyes. His chest ached as he mourned his friend’s secret agony. That Gwyn had never told him made him feel wretched, for he would not have rested until he’d found a way to end Barra’s tormenting of the kindly druid.

* * *

By the time I reached this incarnation I suspected that naught would stop her until she made me her revenant. Yet for the first time Barra didnae come to me, and I wondered if the Gods had been merciful. I grew happier, and mated with a lovely druidess. I had a family, feeling free now to live as others did. Then my daughter gave birth to Oriana, my only grandchild. The wee lass would stare at me whenever I came close, and wail if I didnae take her into my arms. I doted on the bairn, and her love for me grew so that she would crawl out from her parents’ cottage to my own. I would wake to find her curled up beside me, her little hands clutching at me.

Of late the lass willnae leave my side. When she looks upon me now I see in her eyes no’ the love of a granddaughter, but the feverish lust that only one other has ever felt for me. Bhaltair, dinnae reckon me mad, but I believe the bone conjurer now possesses Oriana. Thus, I must call upon you, my old friend. You must determine if Barra yet lives inside my granddaughter. If I’m right, and she does, you must use your powers to remove her from the poor lass’s body. You of all druids will ken how to imprison Barra’s soul in some manner from which she can never escape.

For all that we have meant to each other as brothers, please, I beg you do this for me.

* * *

Gwyn Embry

* * *

With shaking hands Bhaltair rolled up the scroll and replaced it in the puzzle box, locking down the lid. He had no doubt Gwyn had written the truth. It also explained how such an ancient druidess could hold such power over Oriana. He’d seen with his own eyes the power his former acolyte wielded. A young druidess with only the gift of mimicry could not have cast such spells.

He could not permit Barra to go on possessing the lass. In order to contain her soul and prevent her from taking another innocent, he would have to force her into the confines of an enchantment she could not escape.

His own words whispered in his mind: No one guessed that Barra yet lived. I myself reckoned her long banished to the grove of stars.

Druid kind that had turned to dark magic could not ascend to the well of stars, and thus were denied reincarnation. After death they remained in the grove, the place between the mortal realm and the afterlife. Created by the Gods for souls to meet before journeying on together, it also served as a place to confine those unworthy of rebirth. No one knew exactly what happened to the dark souls once they reached the grove, but none had ever escaped it.

Bhaltair tapped his fingers on the box. He would need a sacred grove portal and a very specific spell to send the bone conjurer there once he pried her soul from Oriana…

Bhaltair went still.

“By the Gods,” he said lowly as the notion expanded in his thoughts. He closed his eyes. “And no’ only the bone conjurer.”