Chapter 2

E meric Mackintosh walked alongside his horse, holding the reins loosely in his hand. It had been a long journey and they'd both earned a rest. His legs were aching, his backside was sore from long hours in the saddle, and he was looking forward to putting his feet up, sipping a mug of ale, and catching up on the family news.

How long had it been? A year? More? He found that the longer he was away, the harder it was to return. He could tell himself that it was his duties to the Order of the Osprey that kept him away, but that wasn't the whole truth. He didn't like coming home. There were too many memories.

For the last few hours, he'd been passing through the prosperous lands of the MacDonalds, his family's closest neighbors. Here, the roads were well maintained and the hills were dotted with fat sheep wandering around like wooly clouds.

But up ahead, the land began to rise, the soil becoming thin and poor, with boulders and great granite outcrops sticking out of the ground like the land's bones.

That was Mackintosh territory. Though not as fertile or pleasing to the eye, there was a rugged beauty to it if you knew where to look. But it was harsh too, a capricious mistress who could turn on you in the blink of an eye, leaving ruined harvests and the risk of starvation in her wake, as Emeric knew all too well.

Plover, Emeric's horse, suddenly swung over to the side of the road, nearly yanking Emeric off his feet in the process, and began tearing up chunks of the thick late-summer grass.

Emeric tugged on the reins. "Plover, ye greedy old sod! Canna ye wait until we reach the stables?"

He shifted his bow and quiver higher on his shoulder, took a firm hold of the reins, and pulled the horse back. But Plover only snorted and continued to pull at grass, as if to mock Emeric's efforts. Emeric rolled his eyes, but let the horse continue.

"Fine, have it yer way," he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. He glanced up at the sky. The sun was still high overhead, but there was a chill in the wind that hadn't been there earlier.

Emeric pulled his cloak tighter around him. "Storm's coming," he muttered to himself.

He felt a twinge of unease. Growing up in the harsh lands of the Mackintosh, where you were continually at the mercy of the weather, the landscape, and the vagaries of fate, he had learned to become acutely attuned to changes in the weather.

His sword-brothers in the Order of the Osprey would poke fun at him if they heard his words. After all, this was no time for dire portents, was it? It was a time for celebrating. After years of trying, the Order of the Osprey had finally broken the Disinherited, their ancient enemy. Leif Snarlsson, Alice and Alfred Brewer and Lord Henry Eberwyn, some of the Disinherited's most dangerous commanders, had finally been brought to justice. And he and his sword-brothers could finally, finally, relax.

He patted the purse tied to his belt, reassured by the clink of coins from within. It was his pay from working for the Order, everything he'd managed to save over the past year. He only hoped it would be enough. No matter how hard the Mackintosh worked, no matter how long they toiled and how hard they strove against the inhospitable land of their home, things never seemed to get any easier.

He sighed and turned back to his horse. "All right, ye greedy beast," he said. "Time to be going."

He was just about to put his foot in the stirrup and mount when something up ahead caught his eye. A figure stood by the side of the road, one he was sure hadn't been there a moment ago.

Hairs on the back of his neck rising, he dropped the reins and began walking carefully towards the figure, his boots making no sound on the soft ground. As he drew near, he felt his shoulders relax and the breath he'd been holding leave him in a whoosh. It wasn't an enemy. It was just an old woman.

She stood at the roadside, back straight despite her years, supported by a cane that was gnarled like the wind-beaten oaks that dotted these lands. A cloak of faded gray cloth wrapped around her thick-set body, its hood drawn up to shield her features from the sun's glare. A basket hung from her arm, its contents hidden beneath a thick piece of cloth.

"Lost, old mother?" Emeric called out when he was within earshot. His voice echoed in the still air .

The woman turned her head to look at him. "Nay, lad," she responded in a cheerful voice. "I am right where I need to be."

"Can I help ye with something then?" he asked, coming abreast of her.

The old woman pondered his question for a moment. She had a face as creased as tanned leather and dark eyes that twinkled with intelligence. Her iron-gray hair was scraped back into a bun. "Aye," she finally said, tapping the side of her nose. "Mayhap, ye can. I'm looking for a man named Emeric Mackintosh. Do ye know where I might find him?"

Emeric blinked, surprise rippling through him. "That would be me," he confessed cautiously, studying the woman more closely. "What business do ye have with me?"

The old woman broke into a wide, mischievous smile, her eyes crinkling deeply at the corners. "At last!" she said. "I've been watching for ye."

"Watching for me?" Emeric repeated skeptically, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. It was an automatic response, drummed into him after years of training and battles. The woman gave no sign of being armed or dangerous, but something about her raised his hackles. He got the feeling she'd known who he was all along.

"Oh, aye," she affirmed, her voice carrying an oddly soothing lilt. She did not seem at all perturbed by his hand on the sword or the bow and quiver over his shoulder.

"Why?" he asked, his voice sounding harsher than he intended. "Who are ye?"

"Dinna ye know?"

"Should I? "

The woman chuckled, a sound akin to dry leaves rustling in an autumn breeze. She looked up at him and she was so short she had to crane her neck back to do so. "My name is Irene. Irene MacAskill."

Emeric froze. Irene MacAskill? No. Surely not. The name was as known to him as his own. He had heard the stories of this woman since the moment he'd joined the Order of the Osprey. She wasn't an old woman at all, the stories said, but one of the Seelie Fae.

The Fae were rarely seen among humans, and those who did cross their paths spoke of bewildering encounters filled with riddles and cryptic warnings. The last thing he wanted was to become involved with them.

"Irene MacAskill," he said slowly, each syllable thick in his throat. "I've heard tales about ye."

She chuckled again, a sound full of warm mirth. "Aye, I'd imagine ye have. But ye shouldnae believe everything ye hear." She winked at him. "I'm not as bad as the tales suggest, I promise ye."

Three of his sword-brothers—Kai, Conall and Oskar—had all met this woman, and after that encounter their lives had been turned upside down. Emeric didn't want that. He'd had his fill of turmoil and upheaval. All he wanted was a quiet life—for a time at least. Was that too much to ask?

"I dinna know why ye are here, Irene," he said. "But I dinna want any trouble."

Irene chuckled, the sound reminiscent of water flowing over pebbles in a brook. "Trouble is rarely a matter of want, young Emeric," she replied. "Often, it is a matter of need. "

His temper flared, but he bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue. Arguing with Fae was like arguing with the wind—pointless and frustrating. He took a deep breath, forcing the ire from his voice before he spoke again.

"I am not interested in whatever riddles ye have for me."

"Ye may not be interested, Emeric Mackintosh," she said. "But ye may not have the luxury of choice."

Emeric gave a frustrated huff. "And why is that?"

She cocked her head at him. "Why did ye join the Order of the Osprey in the first place?"

The question caught him off guard. He'd been sent by his father to foster with the Sutherlands. They had introduced him to the Order and joining them had meant he had regular pay to send home to his family. It was as simple as that.

And yet, his reasoning sounded hollow in his own ears. It wasn't as simple as that, and he knew it. In fact, it was far, far more complicated. It was tied up with things he did not want to think about, much less discuss with one of the Fae.

"I...I—" Emeric stuttered. "I wanted to provide for my family." His words felt stilted and weak, a feeble defense.

Irene MacAskill gave a small nod, as if confirming something she already knew. "A noble cause, Emeric Mackintosh," she said, her voice carrying a note of approval. "But remember, the most challenging battles are not always fought on hardened fields. Sometimes, they are waged within a man himself. And the battle continues inside ye."

What was that supposed to mean? Was this the cryptic nonsense that his sword-brothers had warned him about?

With a weary sigh, Emeric ran a hand through his hair, brushing back the sandy-colored strands. A flicker of annoyance lit in his stomach, warming his chest. He never did have much patience for such twisty talk.

"I dinna understand yer riddles, Irene," he said. "Speak plainly. What business do ye have with me?"

Irene raised an eyebrow. "Always the direct approach, eh?"

She stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Despite her small stature, she had an air of power around her that made Emeric want to step back. He forced himself to hold his ground.

"Ye joined the Order because ye were drawn to, as all who join the Order are. There are some born into this world that destiny swirls around, like a rock in a river. Such ones have important parts to play in the unfolding of history. Ye are such a one, Emeric Mackintosh. Ye can say ye joined the Order merely to support yer family, but ye and I both know it was more than that. Ye have always been a restless soul have ye not? Always looking for something ye canna quite find?"

Emeric swallowed hard. He took a moment to process her words. Aye, he had always felt restless, as if some unseen force leashed him and tugged him towards a purpose he could not quite figure out. But destiny? That was a heavy word, one that he wasn't sure he was ready to carry.

Emeric ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. This was not how he had expected his day to go. "Irene," he said. "Did ye forget the bit where I asked ye to speak plainly?"

She laughed, a sound full of child-like joy. "Emeric Mackintosh," she chortled, the corners of her eyes crinkling in mirth. "Ye are a man of earth and stone, that's for sure! Fine, I'll speak plainly." She cocked her head at him. "There is a choice coming yer way, a choice that will force ye to question everything ye think ye want. It will be a choice that will force ye to heal the division in yer heart, to decide, finally, who ye are and who ye want to be."

Emeric looked at her, brow creased in confusion. "What choice? What division?"

"Ye are a man of two hearts, Emeric Mackintosh. One that longs for the thrill of the battle, the brotherhood of the Order, and the honor it brings. The other yearns for peace, quiet, for a life away from the clash of swords and the cries of the dying. Ye think ye can keep these hearts separate, live two lives in one. But ye canna. One will come who will show ye that."

"Who?" Emeric demanded. The wind seemed to carry his words away, scattering them across the landscape.

Irene's expression was unreadable. "That," she said softly, "is for ye to discover."

She turned and he watched her walk away, her figure becoming small in the distance until she disappeared amongst the heather.

Emeric shook himself. The clouds had rolled in and the day had turned cold and blustery, just like his mood. Muttering under his breath, he retrieved Plover's reins, climbed into the saddle, and kicked him into a gallop.

Aye, there was a storm coming all right.