LEAVING DUN MOR at dawn gave Ruadri time to reach the agreed-on meeting place an hour before Bhaltair Flen and his companion arrived. The shaman found a sunlit rock on which to perch and watch the road leading from the small village where the druids had spent the night.

The spot proved popular. Birds fluttered in the pines and birches around him, scolding him with their piping voices. Their noise roused a sleepy white and brown hare hiding in the snow-patched dried grass, which went still at the sight of the shaman before bounding away.

He plucked a stalk of white heather from a patch near his boot and lifted it to his nose. According to Pritani legend, the rare color only grew where blood had not been shed. Tying it to a sword hilt was supposed to shield a warrior in battle.

Covering the world in white heather would not protect him, but he was not a warrior. He was a traitor.

Galan, the druid who had early on separated him from the other boys, had kept the truth from him for many years. In the beginning the spells and potions he’d taught him had been simply to treat injuries and sicknesses. Because Galan stood much taller and wider than the other druids Ruadri felt a kind of kinship with him.

That changed after Ruadri had been chosen by the moon battle spirit.

Galan began taking him into the mountains every sevenday to train as a warrior apart from the other boys. The first time had been the worst day of Ruadri’s young life.

“I am a healer,” he protested after the druid commanded him to battle bare-handed seven tribal warriors wielding blades and cudgels. “I dinnae wish to cause harm.”

“Aye, but ’tis for you to prevent it.” Galan signaled the men, who came rushing at Ruadri. “Now fight for your life.”

He assumed the druid was jesting, and cast a sleeping spell that caused the tribesmen to drop in their tracks.

“You cannae put an entire army to bed, lad, and you maynae have time to cast the full spell.” Galan looked down at the slumbering men before he raised his hand, and another seven emerged from the trees. “Now use your battle spirit to repel them.”

Ruadri had broken into a cold sweat. He knew exactly what his power could do. “No. I willnae.”

The druid murmured under his breath, and suddenly Ruadri had no voice. Galan then gestured to the men, who spread out in a circle around the shaman. Then he pointed at Ruadri.

“Kill him.”

Ruadri stared at his trainer, aghast at his order. Without his voice he couldn’t use magic, and he carried no weapons. As the men closed in on him, Ruadri resigned himself to death.

White light filled his eyes as his arms blazed with the power of his battle spirit, which awoke and took over his will. A moment later it lifted his arms and slammed them together.

The skinwork on his forearms turned white-blue and joined to become a full sphere, which pulled in all the night from around them, making the air itself go dark. Blazing white light then shot out from the sphere in all directions, hitting the face of every warrior.

Each man dropped his weapons and fell to his knees to wail and claw at his eyes.

The light vanished, and Ruadri stared at Galan. He felt the spell silencing him dissipate.

“What did you do to me?” he demanded.

“Naught. The moon cannae be slain. ’Tis beyond this world, and owns you as much as the Pritani do.” The druid pulled back the hood he’d used to cover his own face, and his dark eyes looked pitiless. “You will fight, lad, by blade or by spirit. ’Tis your choice.”

There had been no choice, of course. The seven men he’d blinded never regained their sight. With shame and fury Ruadri had taken up the blade and learned to fight as well as any other Skaraven. He’d hated it, but he soon became one of the finest swordsmen among the clan.

When the Skaraven grew close to finishing their training Galan had come for Ruadri again. This time he took him to the sacred grove, where he spell-bound him and branded him with permanent body wards.

Then came the last, terrible truth.

“Why do you torture me?” Ruadri asked once the ritual was finished.

“You are my son,” Galan said as he smeared a healing salve over his burned flesh. “’Twas decided by the conclave that a druid sire one of the Skaraven, to train the boy in our ways. For my size they chose me to mate with the largest and strongest female among the Pritani. We found love in our duty, but the work of delivering you killed her.”

Ruadri had never wanted to use his moon power before that moment, but now he felt grateful that the druid had restrained him. “Why would you need a druid among the clan?”

“To prevent disaster,” Galan said flatly. “The elders knew that the Skaraven would be unrivaled warriors. ’Twas feared that someday they might defy their masters and turn on the innocent. If that happened, every tribe in the land would fall beneath their swords.”

That thought had never occurred to him, but then he didn’t have a spider’s web for a mind. “You’re mad. My brothers would never–”

“They arenae your brothers,” Galan said softly. “You are druid kind, Ruadri. You owe your loyalty to us. ’Tis now your sacred duty to stand watch over these killers. If the Skaraven choose to rebel, you shall inform us. If there isnae time, you shall stop them.”

Ruadri hated Galan’s callous scheme, and now knowing they were blood-kin made him feel sick. But as repulsive as the druid’s aims were, he knew better than Galan just how dangerous the Skaraven were. The clan could very well turn on the innocent, and there would be little the Pritani could do to stop them.

“I trust my clan,” he said finally. “They willnae betray the tribes.”

“I dinnae care what you think.” He drew a blade and held it under Ruadri’s chin. “Swear to me that you shall serve as Watcher, my son, or I’ll end you here and–”

“Then do it,” Ruadri said through his teeth. “You may be my sire, but I’m no’ a traitor.”

Galan leaned closer. “When you are dead, I shall go to the training camp and poison their food and water. No one will ken why they suffer, until ’tis too late to save them.”

It was almost worth it to die so that he might reincarnate and return to slit his sire’s throat. His life no longer mattered to him, not after learning he had been born to betray. Yet to know that his death would send his brothers to theirs would torment him for eternity.

“If I am granted one request, I shall be your Watcher.” He met his father’s gaze, and for the first time realized they had the same eyes. “Never do I want to lay eyes on you again.”

“So, we share my fondest wish since the moment of your birth.” Galan gave him a cold smile. “Agreed. Report every new moon to Bhaltair Flen.” He released the spell bindings and walked out of the grove.

In that, the druid had kept his word. After that night Ruadri had never again seen his sire.

The sound of ponies drew him back to the present, and he crushed the white heather in his fist as he saw the druids approaching. Standing and walking down to the village road gave him time to clear his thoughts, although when Bhaltair hailed him he felt the ink on his arms move.

Ruadri clenched his fists and drew in a deep breath before he greeted the old man as civilly as he could. “Fair day, Master Flen.”

“’Tis good to see you, Ruadri lad,” Bhaltair said. The old man waited for his young companion to dismount and accepted her help climbing down from his mount. “We’ve much to discuss. Forgive me, this is Oriana Embry, my new acolyte. My dear one, this is the Skaraven Shaman, Ruadri.”

The lass bobbed nervously. “’Tis a pleasure, Shaman.” She looked fearfully at the old druid. “Might I water the horses, Master?”

“Aye, do.” As she led them off, Bhaltair hobbled over to the rock, and sat down with a wince. “The journey has bedeviled my bad leg, but it cannae be helped. How fares the clan since your return to your stronghold?”

Ruadri tonelessly informed him of their restoration of Dun Mor, and Brennus’s rescue of Althea Jarden. “The chieftain plans to return to the famhairean’s encampment and free the other four females, if they still live. We are purchasing what we may, but we need a hundred battle-trained horses, food, tools, and more clothing enough for the clan.”

“Suggest to your chieftain that he call on Clan McAra in the midlands,” Bhaltair advised. “They breed the finest mounts in the highlands, and their tribe never paid the debt they owed the Skaraven. For the rest I’ve arranged caches to be left for you at these spots on your borders.” He took out a scroll and unrolled it to show him the marked areas. “Will your clan confront the famhairean?”

“We go to take back the females,” Ruadri said. “Naught more.” He took the scroll and tucked it under his chest strap.

“They havenae stopped killing. They murdered my oldest friend, Gwyn Embry,” Bhaltair said and nodded toward Oriana. “Her grandfather. Nor did he go quickly. They stole him from his settlement and tortured him for days.”

Ruadri frowned. “How did the granddaughter escape?”

“The tribe wasnae attacked, but they have taken refuge in the lowlands. Oriana came to me.” The old man went still. “By the Gods. They took Gwyn from his settlement but killed only him.”

“Every druid settlement the famhairean found they always destroyed, just after they slew the entire tribe. They didnae take your friend by chance. They wished to find you through him.” He nodded at the young druidess, who was leading the horses back to them. “Do you reckon they followed her?”

“No. She used the groves. Say naught of this.” Bhaltair mopped some sweat from his brow and forced a smile for Oriana. “My dear one, would you take our mounts across the road to that meadow there? We’ll let them graze a wee bit before we ride back.”

The young druidess gave Ruadri another timid look before she guided the ponies away.

Once the lass was out of earshot, Bhaltair said, “’Tis why they tormented poor Gwyn so long and brutally. To punish me.”

“They desire more than mere grief from you, Master Flen.” The shaman almost felt sorry for the old man. “’Twas your magic that defeated and imprisoned them. If your friend had told them how to find you, you and your people would be now dead. He suffered because he kept his silence. Unhappily, others maynae do the same.”

“I must go into hiding with my tribe,” the old druid said and peered around them. “’Tis but two leagues to the nearest grove. I shall take Oriana there so we may return to my settlement at once.” He paused before he said carefully, “Shaman, you ken that we shall never be safe again until the quislings and the giants are defeated. No mortal or druid shall.”

“Mayhap we should move the Dawn Fire to the Skaraven stronghold, Master.” Oriana stood not a yard away, her small hands folded in front of her. “They’re the mightiest of warriors, and can well protect us.”

Ruadri said “We cannae” at the same time Bhaltair said “No, lass.”

The druidess’s eyes gleamed with tears. “’Tis hopeless, then, for the famhairean will find the tribe, just as they did my grandfather. Master, please, can you no’ persuade the shaman to help us?”

“’Tis one place they can never enter,” Ruadri said, although his idea soured his belly and spread a bitter taste on his tongue. “My sire, Galan, once dwelled in the eastern woodlands. His tribe may yet still.”

“Aye, they do,” the old druid said. “What of it?”

“When Galan was teaching me to cast protective spells over land, he said that his tribe thwarted attack by warding the land from underground with spell stones. They left only one way to enter and leave the woodlands safely.”

Bhaltair thought for a moment. “I remember him teaching you. ’Twas a water trick, by walking in where no man would walk.”

“Through a crooked river to the west, where the white water begins. The rapids and waterfall there are but an illusion.” He pushed the memory of his sire out of his mind. “When you take your tribe in, they shall know you to be a friend of their blood-kin and give you sanctuary.”

“Oriana, fetch our mounts.” The old druid rose and swayed for a moment before he planted his cane. To Ruadri he said, “I’ll return here once I’ve settled my tribe and the lass with your sire’s kin. No, dinnae argue it. I’ve vowed to put things right with the Skaraven.” He sniffed. “I may be old, and hobbled, but I’m no’ ready for the well. Nor will I hide from the famhairean.”

Ruadri accompanied him to the pony, and tactfully helped Bhaltair mount. “Think on it again, Master Flen. I cannae promise my clan shall stay here. After we return Althea and the others to the future, the Skaraven may leave Caledonia forever.”

“’Tis called Scotland now, lad,” Bhaltair reminded him. “We’ll see what we see when we see it. Until then, keep watch, and meet me here in sevenday. We cannae wait for the next new moon.”