“Now. Tell me what you see, warrior. Tell me, and I will interpret it for you.”
“Light. I see blinding light, yet it does not hurt my eyes.”
“What color is the light?”
“Can you not see it yourself, drùidh? It’s white. I can feel the heat, but I don’t feel burned. And yellow. I see yellow sparks.”
“And what is the yellow light doing?”
“It’s dancing through the white light in dizzying circles, as if searching for something.”
“What else do you see?”
“There is green also, chasing the yellow light.”
Daar swept the staff into an arc farther afield, then stopped, bracing himself for the jolt of energy he knew was coming. The light intensified, swirling the colors into a blinding rainbow. The staff jerked, tugging at their hands as the new energy hit with the force of a tornado.
The warrior was not prepared. He staggered back against the assault but did not let go of his powerful grip.
“Holy hell. What’s happening, drùidh? There’s a great blackness swirling through the light now, driving against the yellow sparks. The yellow light is disappearing.”
“And the green, warrior? What is the green doing?”
“Chasing the blackness. But when it reaches it, nothing is there.”
Daar released his grip on the staff and stepped back. The wind stilled, and the mist immediately returned, as did the roar of the falls.
Morgan turned to face him, still clutching the once again normal-sized cane in his hand. Pale and shaken, Morgan threw the now silent piece of wood to the ground.
“Few mortal men have experienced what you just did, warrior. What think you of my gift?”
“It told me nothing, old man. I saw only colors.”
“It told you everything, Morgan. You just had a glimpse of the energies roaming this valley. The emotions.”
“Emotions?”
“Aye. Did the green light not feel familiar to you? Was it not the same shade of green in the MacKeage plaid you wear?”
“If the green light represents me, then who is the yellow?”
Daar grinned. “Someone you have yet to meet.”
“The ribbon planter? Is that the yellow light?”
Daar widened his grin. “Possibly.”
Morgan frowned at his answer. “And the black?”
“Ah, the black. That is another life force. Something visiting your valley.”
“Something? Or someone?”
Daar shrugged and bent to pick up his cane. “Evil usually takes a human form when it wishes to plague humans.”
“So the black represents evil, then? And it’s coming?”
“Nay, warrior. It’s already here. And so is something good. Don’t forget the yellow light, Morgan. That covered your valley as well.”
“But I couldn’t catch it, either.”
“Because you became more busy chasing the black.”
Morgan’s sigh blew over Daar with enough force to make him take a step back. Morgan MacKeage looked ready to explode in a fit of frustration. Good. There was certainly no lack of passion now.
Daar held up his hand to stop Morgan’s outburst. “Talk to your brother,” he quickly suggested. “Ask Greylen’s permission to claim this valley as your own. Then build your home here. He’ll not deny your request.”
That suggestion took the bluster from the warrior’s expression. “A home? You think I should build a house here?”
“This is a good place to raise a family,” Daar said, then added speculatively, “I’m guessing you’ve got two months at least, judging by the strength of the lights we saw, before you must truly become involved in this mystery. You should be able to have a house up in that time. And then your claim will be unmistakable. It will put an end to the threat of a park in this gorge.”
Morgan’s face reddened. “I’m not having a family,” he muttered. “So I don’t need a house.”
Well now, Daar thought. He wasn’t having children, huh? That was news. Very disturbing news, considering the strength of the passion Daar had seen in the lights just now.
Not that he intended to tell Morgan that. No, some things were better left discovered on their own.
Such as the gender of unborn children, to name one.
“But why?” Daar asked. “Every warrior wants sons.”
Morgan rubbed the back of his neck with one large hand. “I’m not a warrior anymore, drùidh, thanks to you. I’m just a man who shouldn’t even exist now. I’m nothing.”
“That’s not true. You are alive, Morgan MacKeage, whether you wish to be or not. You are a landowner and a member of this community now. You run a ski resort with your clan.”
Morgan actually laughed at that. “I sit people’s asses onto a ski lift by day and spend every winter driving a machine up and down the mountain, grooming perfectly good snow. You call that noble work?”
“And fishing and hunting is?”
Morgan actually growled. “I feed you, old man.”
His growl was suddenly answered by another, coming from the mist just below them. Morgan pivoted and drew his sword in one smooth motion.
“You’ll not harm Faol,” Daar said, moving to place his hand over the hilt of the sword. “He’s my pet.”
“A wolf?” Morgan asked, recognizing the Gaelic name for the beast. He tried to peer through the rising mist, then looked briefly at Daar. “You have a wolf for a pet?”
“Aye, it seems I do now. He arrived on my doorstep just last week.”
“There are no wolves in this land.”
Daar shrugged. “Maybe they’re just wise enough not to be seen.”
Faol finally showed himself, stepping silently out of the mist, his head low and his hackles raised. Morgan grabbed Daar by the shoulder and quickly pushed the wizard behind him. Morgan raised his sword again.
The wolf growled.
Daar snorted. “Two warriors, each protecting me from the other. Now, cease,” he said, stepping back between them. He faced Morgan. “Faol can help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Your valley, remember? The lights? The blackness? Faol can help you discover what’s happening.”
Morgan looked incredulous. “He’s a wolf.”
“Aye, warrior, he is that. But, like you, he’s without direction. He’s wanting a good fight to stir his blood.”
Morgan looked over Daar’s head at Faol, then back at the wizard, his eyes narrowed in speculation. “Is he one of your spells, drùidh? Have you conjured the wolf to plague me?”
Daar raised his hand to his heart but cocked his head to keep one guarded eye on the heavens. “May God strike me dead if I’m lying. Faol is as real as the hair on my face. He just showed up at my cabin eight days ago.”
Morgan still looked skeptical. He slowly lowered his sword until the tip touched the ground. With his free hand he ripped one of the trout from his belt and tossed it to the wolf.
Faol stepped forward until he was standing over the fish and growled again.
Morgan snorted. “Some pet.”
Alarmed that Morgan was giving away their breakfast, Daar moved to gather wood for a fire. By God, they would eat now before he fainted. He quickly set several branches into a pile, touched his cane to it, and muttered under his breath.
The wood immediately caught fire.
“I’ll be more civilized if you toss one of those trout to me,” he said then. “Ignore the beast, and whittle some spits to roast our breakfast on. A man could starve to death in your company.”
It took Morgan another good minute to move. Finally, satisfied that Faol was more intent on guarding his trout than on eating the two of them, Morgan sheathed his sword and drew out his dagger. He stripped a maple sapling of its leaves and fashioned two intricate circular spits, skewered the three remaining fish, and walked over to the now crackling fire. Not once throughout his chore did Morgan take his attention off the wolf.
“Will you lend
me your dagger, please?” Daar asked, once the trout were roasting.
Morgan studied the hand held out to him. “What for?” he asked, darting another brief look at Faol.
“I’ve a chore that needs doing while breakfast cooks.”
Obviously reluctant to give up his weapon, considering he was within lunging distance of a wolf, the Highlander hesitated.
“He’s more intent on eating the trout than us,” Daar assured him, still holding out his hand. He grinned at the warrior. “Or is it me you’re afraid of arming?”
He was answered by a green-eyed glare strong enough to turn a man into stone. Daar had a moment’s concern that true passion in this warrior might very well turn out to be a dangerous thing for anyone on the receiving end of it.
Morgan finally handed his dagger to Daar, then quickly drew his sword and laid it across his knees. Faol lifted his head at the motion.
“Have you noticed his eyes?” Daar asked, using the dagger to point at Faol. “And the way he cants his head slightly to the right? Does he not seem familiar to you?”
Morgan’s and Faol’s gazes locked, each seemingly determined to outstare the other.
“No,” Morgan said, not breaking eye contact. “He’s just a wolf.”
Daar sighed and set the sharp blade of the dagger to the small burl in the middle of his cane. Morgan had been only a lad of nine when Duncan MacKeage had died. And nine-year-olds had no time for noticing things like the color of their fathers’ eyes.
“What are you doing?” Morgan asked, his attention suddenly drawn from the wolf when he realized that Daar was using the dagger on his cane.
“I’m thinking you should have some help as you set out on this path you seem determined to travel,” Daar said, prying at the stubborn knot. The cane hissed in protest and started to vibrate.
“I want nothing to do with your magic,” Morgan said, quickly moving back to tend the trout. “Keep your precious cane intact. You need its powers more than I do.”
Daar ignored Morgan. His snarling cane was trying to scorch his hand as it twisted and sputtered to avoid the blade of the dagger.
Faol whined and stood up, leaving his trout and backing away toward the woods. Morgan also stood, his sword at the ready in his hand. He, too, began moving toward the safety of the forest.
With the deep roar of a wounded animal, the burl suddenly popped free of the cane and rolled across the forest floor, igniting a path of snapping red flames. Faol yelped and disappeared into the woods. Morgan grabbed Daar around the waist, lifted him off his tree stump, and pulled him into the forest. They stood together behind a giant spruce and watched as the angry knot of wood rolled around in frantic circles, spitting and hissing a rainbow of sparks.
“Are you insane, old man?” Morgan whispered. “You shouldn’t piss off the magic.”
Daar wiggled himself free of Morgan’s grip and walked back to the stump. He picked up his now maimed staff and stroked it gently. “Give me that cord from around your neck,” he told Morgan as he soothed his trembling cane.
“Why?”
Daar looked up. “Because it’s time you let go of that pagan charm. It’s been a worthless crutch and does nothing for you.”
Morgan grasped the stone at his neck. “It’s been with me for years.”
“Old Dorna was not a true witch, Morgan. See her here today, alive and practicing her black magic? The old hag is eight hundred years dead. She preyed on simple-minded men and desperate women for her living. The stone is useless.”
“I am not simple-minded.”
“Nay. But neither are you quite ready to let go of your old beliefs. Have you learned nothing in six years? This thing called science has disproved what Dorna practiced and what you call magic.”
“Then how does science explain you?”
“It can’t. Nor will it ever. Some things must simply be accepted on faith.”
The Highlander did not care for that explanation, if Daar read his expression correctly. Morgan gripped his amulet protectively, then finally tore the cord from around his neck. “Here,” he said, handing it to Daar.
The wizard let the smooth stone slide free and fall to the ground. “Hand me that burl, would you?” he asked, using his cane to point at the now silent knot of cherrywood.
Morgan paled. “You pick it up,” he whispered.
The burl was sitting against a rock, softly humming. With a sigh of impatience, Daar pushed himself off the stump and picked up the burl. He closed one eye and squinted the other to thread the rawhide cord through the burl.
“There’s no hole,” Morgan said, coming up behind him. “You can’t push a soft rope through solid wood.”
The rawhide smoothly slipped through the swirling cherrywood. Daar quickly knotted the cord and turned to Morgan.
The warrior stepped back, holding up his hand. “Keep that thing away from me.”
“It won’t bite,” Daar snapped. “Now, lean over so I can put this around your neck.”
“I said I don’t want your magic.”
“And I’m thinking the time will come when you will need it,” Daar countered. “If not for yourself, think of the valley. And the yellow light. Remember? The blackness was consuming it.”
Daar pointed at Morgan. “And although you may have survived your journey six years ago, there’s no saying you’ll survive this one. You are a fierce warrior, Morgan MacKeage. But hear me well. You are not invincible. The blackness is a powerful life force void of goodness, compassion, or conscience. It will devour anything that gets in its way—you, the yellow light, and eventually this whole valley if it manages to get past you. This small piece of my cane will be your greatest weapon against it.”
It took the warrior some time to digest Daar’s words. Finally, Morgan leaned forward and bowed his head, allowing the wizard to place the cord around his neck. Daar then centered the burl over Morgan’s chest as he straightened.
“If you want this to work, you’re going to have to give it your faith,” Daar told him, stepping back to admire his gift. “And your intelligence. This burl is not strong by itself. You must discover the best way to add to its strength.”
Standing as still as the mountains themselves and holding his breath again, Morgan scowled at him. “How—” He swallowed hard. “How do I do that?”
Daar waved his question away. “You’ll figure it out when the time is right.”
He handed Morgan back his dagger. As if afraid any quick movements would fry him on the spot, the warrior carefully held out his hand and took his weapon, then slowly placed it back in his belt.
“Oh, one more thing, Morgan. You’re not to whisper even a hint of what’s happened here today. Especially not to your brother. Not one word about the unusual state of this gorge, your vision, or my special gift to you,” Daar said, pointing at the burl. “I don’t want Greylen knowing that any part of my old staff still exists, and I surely don’t want him knowing that my new one is gaining strength.”
The first hint that Morgan was beginning to relax appeared when one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “You have no worry I’ll tell anyone about this, old man.”
Daar’s nose suddenly twitched. What was burning? He looked around. The small fires the sparking burl had started were gone. The campfire, however, was burning brightly.
“Dammit! The fish!”
The burl around his neck suddenly forgotten, Morgan rushed to the fire and pulled the trout free of the flame. He held them up and turned to Daar, grinning.
“No worry. They’re only charred on the outside a bit.”
Morgan kicked at the fire with his foot, dousing the flame to leave only the smoldering coals, then placed the trout above the coals to finish cooking more slowly. Daar joined him, and together they sat once again facing the fire.
Morgan looked off into the forest, in the direction Faol had run. “Do you think he’ll return?” he asked.
“Aye. I doubt he went far. He’s probably watching us n
ow.”
Morgan hesitantly lifted his hand to the rawhide cord at his neck and slowly closed his fist over the burl. His eyes widened.
“It’s warm.”
Daar nodded. “Aye. It was angry for being ripped from the collective energy of the staff,” he explained. “But now it is content. If feels your strength, warrior. It will work hard to protect you.”
Faol silently returned to the edge of the clearing, lying down beside his trout. Morgan did not unsheathe his sword this time or pull his dagger from his belt. Instead, both warrior and wolf turned their attention to the burl hanging around Morgan’s neck. Faol watched as Morgan fingered it briefly before he tucked it out of sight beneath his shirt.
Daar smiled. It was good, all that had happened today. Morgan had found his passion for life again in a mystery that promised a battle worth fighting.
Faol had found a new purpose as well.
And Daar’s guilt was somewhat assuaged.
After ten long minutes of waiting, the trout was finally ready to eat. Daar watched as the Scot expertly pulled their breakfast from the spits, and the wizard was reminded of a similar moment nearly eight hundred years ago. There had been another campfire then, with old Laird MacKeage teaching his two young sons how to cook their catch.
What would Duncan MacKeage think of his sons today, of their predicament and their incredible journey? Would he be proud of how they had comported themselves through it all and how they were coping with their new lives now?
Or did Duncan already know?
Daar looked over at Faol. The animal rested much as Morgan did, relaxed but ready to spring into action if need be. For the tenth time in the last eight days, Daar wondered what power had lured a wolf in from the wild to walk among humans. And for the tenth time, he decided he didn’t really care enough to inquire.
Daar finally took his first bite of the delicious trout the warrior handed him, and not a moment too soon. His stomach rumbled with thanks. He leaned back against one of the magically tall pine trees and watched Morgan MacKeage eat his breakfast.
Should he mention the fact that there was a woman involved in this valley mystery? And that she had shiny yellow hair that sparkled with the sensuous promise of passion?
Loving the Highlander Page 2