Chapter 2

"This is bloody idiotic!" Oskar Galbraith growled. "He's playing us for fools! We should leave now or we'll lose the light!"

His two friends, Emeric and Magnus, listened to his tirade patiently. Neither replied, which only annoyed him all the more. In frustration, Oskar threw up his hands and continued pacing the courtyard of the tiny manor house in which they'd taken shelter.

Above, the winter sky had turned leaden, threatening the first of the season's snow, and the last thing they needed was to get stuck here. Couldn't his friends see that? Couldn't they see that their mission was hanging by a thread?

"I dinna think he's playing us for anything," Emeric replied calmly, brushing a strand of sandy-colored hair out of his face. "His leg is clearly broken."

"So what if it is?" Oskar snapped. "We'll tie him to the saddle if we have to. His trial is fast approaching in case ye've forgotten!"

"We havenae forgotten, my friend," Magnus rumbled in his deep voice. "Nor have we forgotten the mission Kai charged us with. And if ye remember, he told us to get him to his trial safely and in one piece. Moving him now would risk his life."

"So?" Oskar said again. Fury ripped through him, hot and biting. Why were they taking that bastard's side? Had they forgotten what he'd done? "He's going to hang anyway. Who cares if he endures a little pain on the journey? It's no more than he deserves!"

"That isnae for us to decide," Emeric said. "That's up to the king."

Oskar ground his jaw. He could feel time slipping away with every heartbeat, and with it, their chance for justice. Five days they'd been on the road. Five days without mishap until this afternoon. Oskar was sure he'd tied the bonds securely, so how had the prisoner gotten free? How had he managed his escape attempt?

No matter. As soon as they got him to Edinburgh and handed him over to the king's men, Oskar's duty would be fulfilled, and it wouldn't be his problem anymore. He would have kept his oath and completed his mission. After that, he would have the satisfaction of seeing the prisoner face justice. After everything the man had done, all the people he'd hurt, it would be a satisfying conclusion.

One that was being threatened by his sword-brothers' hesitation. Couldn't they see that this was all part of the prisoner's plan? That he was just stalling them?

"Look," he said, spreading his hands and trying to sound reasonable, even though he was so angry he wanted to pull out his sword and start chopping things with it. "If we leave now we can be in Arling by sundown. I'm sure there's a healer there that can take a look at his injury."

But Emeric was shaking his head. "Arling is a long way. It looks like a bad break to me and if the bone punctures the skin he could bleed out before we could stop it. We weren't tasked with delivering a corpse to Edinburgh."

Why did he have to sound so bloody calm and reasonable? Although he loved Emeric like a brother, sometimes Oskar could happily throttle him. He took a deep breath and turned to Magnus. "Looks like ye have the deciding vote. What will it be?"

The giant, dark-haired warrior reached up to rub his stubbled chin and then glanced at the sky. It was late afternoon and they'd been on the road since before first light. "I agree with Emeric," he said at last. "We'll wait until his injury has been treated and then be on our way. After everything we went through to capture him, I wouldnae want to be responsible for preventing him from facing justice."

Oskar clenched his jaw. Justice? Dying in a ditch somewhere, alone and forgotten would be justice for that man!

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat. Oskar spun, drawing his sword in a flash and dropping into a fighting stance, but it was only Lord Eberwyn, whose manor house they'd taken shelter in.

"I've sent for the healer as ye requested," he said. Lord Eberwyn was short and unobtrusive, with a bald head and protruding eyes. He didn't look like he could even hold a sword, much less swing one. Who would have thought he'd once been one of the Order of the Osprey's most formidable agents? Now retired, he still aided the Order whenever he could—such as letting Oskar and his friends take shelter in his manor house after the debacle today.

Oskar sheathed his sword. "Which way will the healer be coming from?"

"Along the west road," Lord Eberwyn replied, pointing. "From Abbotsfield down in the valley."

"Fine!" Oskar retorted, stalking across the courtyard to where their horses were tied up.

"Where are ye going?" Emeric shouted.

"To fetch this healer. If ye are so intent on this, then we better bloody-well speed it up, hadnae we?"

Without waiting for an answer, he untied his horse, swung up into the saddle of the black gelding, and pulled him around to face the gates.

"Yah!"

He set his heels to the horse's flanks and sent him galloping through the entrance. Behind, he heard Magnus and Emeric shouting his name, but he didn't slow. Urgency pounded through him almost as hot as his anger. He would complete his mission. He would keep his oath. He would get that bastard to Edinburgh to face trial if it was the last thing he did.

Lord Eberwyn's manor house sat at the junction of three roads, one that ran back north the way they'd come from Dun Saith, one east towards Edinburgh, and one to the west that cut along the upland escarpment on which Eberwyn's lands lay. Oskar turned his horse along the western road, which was little more than a dirt track used by villagers coming and going from Abbotsfield.

The day was cold and blustery, with a piercing wind that sent Oskar's auburn hair blowing around his head. He squinted into the wind and slowed his horse to a canter. Despite his urgency, it wouldn't do to exhaust the beast or risk throwing a shoe on the rutted, half-frozen path.

He had no idea how far Abbotsfield was, but he kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, looking for anyone that might be the healer Eberwyn had sent for. He saw nobody. A hawk rode the thermals in lazy spirals high above, a few pheasants called their barking call from the heather nearby, but other than that, it was just him and his mount.

So he was mightily surprised when someone suddenly stepped into his path. He had only an instant to register the squat, cloak-wrapped figure, standing in the middle of the track, and managed to yank the horse roughly aside. The horse whinnied and mud flew up from beneath his hooves as Oskar reined in, twisting in his saddle to look back.

The figure still stood in the center of the road, watching him calmly, as though nothing had happened.

"What, by all that's holy?"

Throwing the reins over the horse's head, he slid from the saddle and advanced on the figure. "What did ye think ye were doing?" he bellowed. "I could have killed ye!"

The figure pulled back the hood of the cloak to reveal a short, rotund old woman looking up at him with an expression of mild surprise on her wrinkled face. "Oh, I dinna think so, lad. Ye are a far better horseman than that."

"Is that so?" he retorted. "And how would ye know what kind of horseman I am? Ye should look where ye are going, woman!"

His outburst had no effect on her. She smiled up at him with a kindly expression, like a grandmother patiently waiting out a grandchild's tantrum. Oskar shifted his weight, then ran a hand through his hair.

"Er...are ye all right? I didnae hurt ye, did I?"

"Nay, my boy. I'm just fine."

"Oh." He looked around. There was nobody else in sight. "Are ye the healer from Abbotsfield?"

She shook her head. "Nay, lad. I'm not the one ye are looking for."

"Then I'll be on my way."

He took a step, but the old woman grabbed his arm. Her skin was warm and as dry as old parchment. "Are ye in such a hurry?"

He glanced at her hand around his forearm and then up at her face. He couldn't put an age to her. Old, that was all he could tell. Old beyond years. Her face was a map of creases and wrinkles, a bun of iron-gray at the back of her head, and her eyes were like polished black gemstones staring out at him.

"Aye, I'm in a hurry," he said, pulling his arm free. "So If ye dinna mind—"

"My, my, what causes such impatience?" she asked, a puzzled frown marring her wrinkled features.

"What business is that of yers? Kindly step aside. I'm late already."

He turned to walk away, but she was suddenly right in front of him. He hadn't seen her move. He didn't recognize the colors of the plaid she wore swathed around her broad frame so he couldn't identify her clan. Not that it mattered, of course. This close to Edinburgh, the old clan lines began to dissolve anyway and it had become a hotchpotch of peoples from all over Alba and beyond.

He schooled his features to the best expression of patience he could muster. "Look, is there something I can help ye with? Are ye from Abbotsfield? I'm heading that way if ye would like a ride."

Her face broke into a broad, child-like smile, revealing a row of surprisingly perfect teeth. "That's mighty kind of ye, my boy, but I'm not going that way. In fact, I'm not going anywhere. I'm right where I need to be."

Right where she needed to be? Out here on her own? Was the old woman brain-addled?

He sighed. "Why dinna ye come along with me?" he said, trying for a gentle tone of voice that he was not entirely sure he succeeded with. "I'll get ye up on my horse and we'll be on our way."

She cocked her head at him. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because ye canna stay out here alone!"

"Why not?"

He frowned, his patience slipping. "Because it isnae safe, I canna leave ye to the mercy of the elements or worse."

"Ah, there it is!" she said, breaking into another smile. "That core of nobility ye try so hard to hide. But ye canna hide it from me, Oskar Galbraith, no matter how much ye try."

Oskar blinked at her, surprised. "How do ye know my name?"

She rolled her eyes as if he'd said something stupid. "Because I've been waiting for ye, that's why!"

"Waiting for me? But ye said ye aren't the healer."

"I'm not. At least, not in the sense ye mean." She stepped closer and gazed up at him. Her eyes were so dark they were like depthless pools. A shiver of unease went through Oskar. She suddenly didn't seem like a dotty old woman any more.

"Who are ye?" he whispered.

"My name is Irene," she replied. "Irene MacAskill."

He gasped and staggered back.

"Ah!" she said, curling an amused eyebrow. "I see ye've heard of me."

Heard of her? Oh yes, he'd heard of her. Both his commander, Kai Stewart, and his sword-brother, Conall Sinclair, had met this woman and they'd told Oskar all about her. They'd met her in similar circumstances to the ones he found himself in—alone and miles from any help—and after they'd met her, their lives had been turned upside down.

He licked his lips nervously. His hand twitched towards his sword hilt, but he knew that drawing it would do no good. Kai and Conall had also told him this woman's real nature. She might like to appear like a doddering oldster, but she was most definitely not. A word whispered through his mind like a warning.

Fae.

"What do ye want with me?" he asked hoarsely.

She stepped closer and it took all of his courage not to back away. He was Oskar Galbraith, master-swordsman and elite warrior of the Order of the Osprey, curse it! He'd be damned if he would let himself be intimidated by a tiny old woman, Fae or no!

"I?" she said. "I want nothing from ye, Oskar Galbraith. But I have something to offer ye."

He narrowed his eyes, suspicion gnawing at him. "What could ye possibly have to offer me? And why should I trust a Fae?"

She didn't answer his question. "I have watched ye from afar," Irene said softly. "Yer bravery, yer skill with the sword, yer unwavering loyalty to yer comrades. Ye have served the Balance well. And yet, it hasnae brought ye what ye seek, has it?"

"What do ye know of what I seek?"

Irene tilted her head, her expression filled with understanding. "I know that ye yearn for something ye canna find. What ye seek canna be found in battles and bloodshed." She stepped closer still. "But now ye have a chance, my boy. Someone will come who will show ye the way to what ye truly seek, if ye have the courage to open yer eyes and confront it."

"What do ye mean?" Her words unsettled him, caught him off balance, and he resorted to his usual angry defense. "Yer words make no sense, woman!"

Irene chuckled softly, her eyes gleaming in the afternoon light. "Ah, the impatience of youth. Always questioning, never willing to listen." She reached out and gently placed her hand on Oskar's arm.

Oskar tried to pull away, but her grip tightened ever so slightly. He could feel a strange energy emanating from her touch.

"Oskar Galbraith," she said. "Ye are on the precipice of a choice that will shape yer destiny. Ye have dedicated yer life to being a warrior, but now perhaps it is time for a different battle, one harder than any ye've yet faced."

"I don't need yer cryptic riddles," he declared, his voice tinged with frustration. "Now kindly unhand me and let me be on my way."

She released his arm, stepping back with a strange smile on her face. "Very well, my boy. Ye choose. But know this—the road ye enter may lead to darkness or greatness. Choose wisely."

Growling under his breath, he turned his back on the strange old woman and strode over to the horse. If she thought he was going to listen to her nonsense, she had another think coming. He knew who he was. He knew the path he'd chosen. He didn't need some interfering old crone telling him otherwise.

He reached the horse, placed one hand on the saddle ready to mount, but then whirled around.

"What choice? What do ye mean?"

But Irene was gone. He turned in all directions, scanning the landscape for any sign of her but there was only himself, the horse and the brown, wintry countryside.

What? How—?

The wind whistled through the empty expanse, carrying with it a sense of eerie foreboding. Enough. Whatever the old woman had wanted, it wasn't his problem. Let his commanders worry about dealing with the Fae.

Grimly, he climbed into the saddle, pulled his horse around, and sent him trotting towards Abbotsfield.