MORNING SIFTED THIN light through the Great Wood, dappling Taran as he followed the track of small boots from Dun Mor’s labyrinthine entry. They led directly to a clearing containing stacks of felled timbers, where two figures came together. He concealed himself behind a large oak and listened.

“Hey, Manath,” Rowan said to the clan’s woodsman. “The chieftain said you might need a hand with splitting those ash logs. Are they for the new flooring in the kitchens, or are you just preparing to build a really big fire?”

“’Tis for the floor, my lady,” the clansman answered, sounding somewhat perplexed. “But the work, ’tis no’ easy.”

“If you guys had already invented log splitters, it would be,” she told him. “But these still look pretty green, so some wedges and a couple of hammers should crack them in no time. Mind if I show you how I do it?”

Moving through the brush as silently as he could, Taran finally found a spot where he could look down on the pair. Rowan had just taken off her fur cloak, revealing the odd garments from her time that she wore. He’d grown accustomed to seeing her wear his, which she had left behind in the stables. Her long, dark braid swung over her shoulder as she bent to take her tools from a satchel. Manath stood well back from her, his expression both wary and doubtful.

Seeing her made Taran’s heart pound hard and fast in his chest, and for a moment he had to avert his gaze. Since she’d left to live in the stronghold he’d been in a state of perpetual, wretched longing. He remained ever-vigilant for her, as if some part of him expected her to return any moment. When he could no longer abide waiting he’d begun spending more time in the stronghold, just to be near her. He took pains not to let her see him. More than one night he’d relieved the sentry near her chamber so he might stand outside it and simply listen to her soft breathing as she slept.

Brennus had caught him surreptitiously watching Rowan at the morning meal yesterday, and later had taken him aside to speak with him about the dark lass.

“She sees clearly the dangers of remaining,” the chieftain told him. “Yet she would risk it, and I couldnae deny her. She reminded me that we’ve all the right to choose our path.”

One knot in his chest loosened, while another snarled. “Aye, so ’twould seem.”

“I dinnae ken what you said or did to change her mood, but the lass works as hard as any of our brothers,” the chieftain told him. “The men no longer shy from her presence, and Bridei begins to ask for Rowan to aid him now. ’Tis as if she’s become another wench.”

“I’m glad of it,” Taran said, keeping his expression remote. “Rowan’s strong, and shall well serve the clan.”

“If ’tis truth, then why do you skulk about after her?” Brennus asked flatly. “Both Cadeyrn and Ruadri tell me they’ve spied you thus, and now I find your eyes on her. What about the lady plagues you?”

“Naught.” He knew he had to tell the chieftain something to appease him. “I’ve worried her temper might cause trouble. She’s a penchant for fits of anger.”

“No’ since she returned to the stronghold. The lass barely utters a word unneeded.” Brennus’s black eyes narrowed. “Odd, that.”

“I’d thank you to forget I spoke ill of her,” Taran told him.

The chieftain’s suspicious expression faded. “Aye. Althea seems glad she’s grown so obliging. She said to Ruadri ’tis as if some evil enchantment lost its grip on her.” He clapped Taran on the shoulder. “Your methods work as magic on wenches as well as horses.”

It had been that last comment that echoed in Taran’s head all night, and now followed him as he shadowed Rowan. Her accusation about his control of her by voice had been true, but using persuasion had always been his gift. With a handful of words, he could convince the most reluctant Skaraven to confide in him.

His battle spirit gave him power over all horses, and the ability to ride and fight as if part of his mount. The old Pritani legends had it that choosing the centaur meant spending a lifetime devoted to the herd, which Taran had gladly accepted. He’d always felt closer to animals than his own kind. But his power manifested through thought and touch, not voice.

A sharp cracking sound drew his attention back to the clearing, where Rowan straightened over an ash log that had fallen neatly split.

“There you go,” Rowan told Manath, gesturing to the halved wood. “Have you thought about using some slate under the cookstoves? Stone works better near the fire, obviously, but it can reflect the heat, too, and help shorten the cooking time.”

Near the fire.

Her words throbbed in Taran’s head, and darkness cloaked him as he heard them again in another’s voice.

“Come near the fire and warm yourself, Tarn,” a dark-haired druidess said as she knelt to add more wood to the blaze. “’Tis growing cold now.”

Taran glanced around the wide, open glen surrounding them. Tall carved stones formed a ring a short distance away, and a light frost spangled the grasses. A lean horse wearing but a blanket and a rope bridle nudged his hand, and he released it and watched it graze.

“’Twill snow soon, I reckon,” the young druidess said and glanced up at him, her pale green eyes solemn. “We might shelter with the Dawn Fire tribe. ’Tis said they welcome outcasts, and their settlement lay but a few leagues beyond the hills.”

She had a full, curved form, and beneath her robe her belly swelled with child. Yet Taran knew she was Rowan, just as Rowena had been.

“I should take you back before you’re missed, Wren,” he told her, and crouched down to take her hands in his. It didn’t shock him to see how old and twisted his fingers looked against her young skin. Touching her gave him such pleasure that he closed his eyes for a moment. “Your tribe willnae accept your leaving.”

“I offered them reason, and they refused to heed me. ’Tis no’ their concern.” Wren touched his cheek, spreading her gentle warmth across his wrinkled skin. “I’m yours, Tarn. I felt it the moment we touched. Now that we’ve mated, I shall always be yours.” She brought his hand to the curve of her belly, and he felt a small thump beneath his palm. “Your daughter agrees.”

Memories came to him of the many nights they’d met in secret. The passion that they shared for each other would not be denied. During a spring evening they’d conceived this child, and he would never regret that.

“I’d name her Rowan, if that ’twould please you.”

The druidess wrinkled her nose. “After the berries? But they’re so bitter.”

“Yet they’re beautiful and strong. They endure snow and cold and never falter. I shall ask our lass to carry the name on through her bloodline.” He caressed the outline of a tiny foot. “’Twill help me find you again when I return from the well. I searched so long for you in this incarnation that I’d near given up hope.”

“’Tis the way of the Gods and their jests. You’ll always find me, my love.” She glanced up at the stars and smiled, but then she shot to her feet. “The tribe’s defenders. No.”

Taran turned to see a group of druids marching across the glen. Each carried a torch and a scythe, and were led by a tall, silver-haired druid wearing a ferocious scowl.

“Take my mount and ride. Seek the Dawn Fire,” Taran urged her. When she shook her head, he turned her to face him. “Our child mustnae come to harm. Your sire–”

“–must accept my choice,” she told him firmly. “You’re my husband, and my daughter’s sire. He cannae deny us.”

The druids fanned out, surrounding the fire and them, while Wren’s sire came closer and scowled as he surveyed them both.

“In time I may overlook your defiance, Wren,” her father said, his deep voice haughty. “I accepted that you would bear this child without naming the sire. Now I see why you wouldnae.” He met Taran’s gaze. “What you’ve done, you bastart, ’tis unforgivable. When I bring you to justice I shall beg them permit me open your veins with my dullest blade.”

As headman of Wren’s tribe her father had grown powerful and very proud. Where another sire might have consented to the unlikely match, he saw it as insult. Nothing Taran could say would persuade him otherwise.

“You shallnae harm him,” Wrens said as the defenders closed in on them. She made a beseeching gesture. “We’re mated now, Sire.”

“Not before he made you his hoor.” Her father’s face grew mottled with rage, and he snatched a scythe from one of the defenders. “I willnae wait to drag you before the conclave, Ovate Carden.”

As the druid swung the scythe at Taran’s neck Wren screamed. The sound wounded him so deeply that he barely felt the blade cut through his neck.

The Great Wood surrounded him an instant later, and he looked down to see Rowan and Manath hammering at another wedge-studded log. He reached for his throat, almost startled to find it unmarked, and drew his hand away wet with sweat.

That name Wren’s father had called him—Ovate Carden—could not be his. He had not been an old, lecherous druid bent on corrupting a young innocent. None of what he’d seen in the vision could have happened. Two different Pritani tribes had come together to breed the Skaraven, and he was Skaraven. None of them possessed druid blood…

Taran’s eyes looked in the direction of the stronghold. None of them were druid kind except Ruadri, who had been sired in secret by Galan, one of their druid trainers. Taran’s hands fisted.

Mayhap no’ only the shaman.

Fury and disgust poured through Taran as he stalked through the woods away from the clearing. The clan believed Brennus despised the tree-knowers more than any Skaraven, but Taran’s hatred ran much deeper. He’d never forgive their kind for what they had done to him and his brothers during their mortal lives. He could not possibly share their bloodline.

Though he intended to go to the stables and work off his fury, his boots took him in a different direction. The river by the stronghold had frozen enough for him to cross it in three strides. From the other side he made his way to the sacred oak grove.

No Skaraven except Ruadri could open the well-hidden portal.

This would prove him right. When he touched the icy ground in the center of the stones it would sense his Pritani blood and remain closed. He stood over it, his chest heaving with his anger before he went down on one knee and slapped his hand against the ground.

A round, swirling abyss appeared beneath his palm.