Chapter One

“Ach, I’m freezin’. Remind me again why we’re doing this,” Ciarán Kincaid grumbled, dodging yet another low-hanging branch as he and his brother Diarmaid, Laird of Kincaid, pushed their way under the dripping trees in the rain-soaked forest. Their ride from castle Kincaid at dawn that morning had brought them miles from home, in abysmal Scottish Highland weather, and they were both drenched and cold.

“Ye shouldnae complain, Brother!” Diarmaid glanced at Ciarán sideways. Then he added grimly, “Maddison hasnae been right since we freed her from Murphy Lennox’s dungeons. We have tae dae somethin’ tae bring our sister back tae her old self.”

“But this, Diarmaid? A magic sword? I still cannae believe ye’re serious about this. ’Tis an old wives’ tale, surely, and a waste o’ time. I mean, there’s nae even a track tae follow.”

His brother stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “Maybe so, but if there’s even just a slim chance tae help our sister, I’ll crawl across the mountains on me hands and knees,” he said fiercely. “And I expect ye tae dae the same.”

“Dinnae try tae suggest I wouldnae,” Ciarán defended himself as they resumed walking. “But as I’ve said from the start, I have grave doubts that this is the best way tae go about helping her. I ken I agreed tae all this, but I have tae admit, it feels foolish.”

“D’ye think I dinnae feel like an idiot as well? Traipsin’ through a bloody wood, miles from home, lookin’ fer some sort o’ witch, and a blade supposed tae have healin’ powers?” his brother replied irritably, forcing his way onward through the thick undergrowth after having tied their horses to some trees in a nearby clearing to rest and drink. With every step, their boots squelched noisily on the soft, wet forest floor.

“She’s nae a witch, so when we find her, if we find her, for the Wee Man’s sake, dinnae call her that! She’s likely tae laugh at us and send us on another wild goose chase, if ye dae.” Ciarán warned. “She’s a respected cailleach, a wise woman.”

“I ken that, ye fool! I dinnae believe much in witches or magical blades either, but I’m willin’ tae dae anything tae help Maddison, however farfetched it sounds. I just cannae stand tae think of her like she is now, a shadow of hersel’ after that bastard Murphy Lennox snatched her in the middle of the night and kept her locked up fer a whole year! A wee girl like that, the cruelty of it!”

“Aye, she disnae sleep nor eat, she’s wastin’ away, and even Lillie cannae comfort her enough tae bring her out o’ it, although it seemed to helpin’ at the start. And tae think yer wife suffered the same fate with Keir MacNeil and understands more than most what Maddison went through,” Ciarán observed, bitterness in his voice. “It seems our troubles are nae over yet.”

“Dinnae forget, Maddison didnae ken our parents and brother had been killed too, the night Lennox’s men took her. She’s only been back home a month, and she’s mournin’ for Faither, Maither and Rónán as well as tryin’ tae get over her ordeal,” Diarmaid pointed out, dashing the water drops that fell from the trees onto his face and shoulders away with an impatient hand. “I wish I could have killed that brute Lennox mesel’, but Odhrán got in there first.”

“Aye, ’tis hard tae imagine anyone killin’ his own faither, I never thought tae see such a thing right in front of me eyes. Odhrán must have hated him as much as we did,” Ciarán said in tones of disbelief.

“But this sickness she has, ’tis nae something that we can cure. Nor any healer, so desperate measures are needed’. Thus, we find ourselves in this bloody wood, searchin’ for a supposedly magical sword that can heal all ills. So kindly quit yer moanin’, will ye?” the laird told him with some force.

“Dae ye really think this cailleach has the powers tae help her?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Diarmaid said, stopping by the trunk of a large tree and peering ahead into the wet gloom, the whole scene radiating a misty, other-worldly look. “Is that a cottage up ahead, or am I seein’ things?”

Ciarán halted behind him, squinting, trying to make out what lay ahead of them. “It looks like a clearin’, and, aye, I think I see the outline of a cottage.” Indeed, the larger trees had begun to thin out slightly, and he realized they were standing at the edge of a small clearing.

“Come on,” Diarmaid urged as they warily stepped out into the open space. Immediately, they felt the heavy rain upon them, now that they had forsaken the mild protection of the overhead canopy. It took only a few strides of their long legs to carry them across the muddy expanse to a small cottage whose thatched roof was so low, parts of it actually brushed the ground, with a sunken door of scarred timber and two small windows of oilcloth.

A wisp of gray smoke twisted up from the chimney at the gable end, dispersing in the gray overhead. An overflowing rain barrel and a chopping block stood outside. The sound of pigs and at least one cow could be heard from a small wooden outbuilding at the rear. It all looked peaceful enough, a familiar domestic scene, but Ciarán glanced left and right out of habit to ensure there was no danger within sight.

His heart thumped in his chest as he and Diarmaid approached the front door of the decrepit dwelling. But before they could knock, the door swung open by itself, and they found themselves facing an ancient, bent crone dressed all in black. If she was not actually a witch, she could certainly pass for one in Ciarán’s view.

“If ye’re so set on being non-believers, dinnae take another step,” the crone told them, her voice a scratchy cackle, “’Tis best if ye go now.” She began to shut the door. Despite his disappointment, Ciarán’s anxiety rose.

“Nae, Madam, please, dinnae dae that,” he blurted out, while Diarmaid strode forward and put his hand on the door, preventing her from closing it.

“We must speak with ye,” his brother said in a commanding tone. “’Tis a matter of great importance.”

The old woman looked at them sharply, with sunken black eyes. “Aye, I ken, but nae important enough fer ye tae believe I have powers that can help yer sister, eh? Ye think I’m just a silly old woman, and I’m nae inclined tae help ye, so be off with ye, the pair of ye.” She pushed the door again.

“Madam, please, we beg ye, hear us out before ye send us away. Ye say we dinnae believe in ye, but we’ve come so far tae see ye, that we must believe in a way, eh? ’Tis just we’ve never met anyone with yer powers before, so we dare nae hope ye can help us,” Ciarán pleaded respectfully, going right up to the door and looking her straight in the eyes. “Please, just hear us out.”

“Aye, I’ll make it worth yer while,” Diarmaid put in, but the woman sneered at him.

“I need naething ye can give me, Laird o’ Kincaid,” she said, the uncanny way she appeared to know who they were setting the hairs on Ciarán’s neck bristling. “So dinnae think tae sweeten me with yer bribes. Yer braither here has the right idea, showin’ a little respect for his elder and better.” She nodded at Ciarán and gave him a toothless smile. Somehow, for the smile was strangely chilling, he managed to return the gesture. “All right, ye can come in.” Finally, she stepped away from the door and admitted them into her hovel.

The two huge warriors stepped into the single room, and Ciarán felt like a giant in a doll’s house. He and Diarmaid had to duck beneath the low, smoke-blackened rafters, to avoid banging their heads or colliding with the assortment of bales of greenery, various vegetables, and the drying carcasses of small animals and birds, as well as pots and pans of all shapes and sizes hanging there. The smell was thick and rank, and it tickled the inside of his nose. He tried not to breathe.

“We’ve come—” Diarmaid began, but the crone cut him off as she crossed to the hearth, where a peat fire was blazing, making the room overly hot.

“Wheesht yer noise,” she told him with a stern look, placing a kettle over the flames on a hook. “We’ll have a dish ’o tea before we talk.” Despite his trepidation, Ciarán had to smile to see the look on Diarmaid’s face at being thus admonished. The Laird of Kincaid was not used to being spoken to in such a forthright manner.

“Sit ye down, the both of ye. Ye’re makin’ the place look untidy,” she told them with an amused cackle at her own wit, gesturing with her head at an old, battered settle. Ciarán and Diarmaid turned to do as she bade them, only to notice for the first time that the settle in question was in fact occupied by an enormous black hound. The beast was stretched out along the whole seat and appeared to be fast asleep.

“Ach, the auld thing,” the woman muttered, startling both men when she suddenly cried sharply, “Grim! Get up and move yer carcase!” The dog jumped and snorted, coming awake. It raised it huge head and looked balefully at the visitors, who took a step back. “’Tis all right, he’ll nae hurt ye. Nae unless I say so,” she added with another unnerving cackle.

“Here, Grim, here’s a nice wee bone fer ye.” At the sound of the word “bone,” the dog’s lithe, black form slithered from the settle. It placed its paws, the size of dinner plates, Ciarán estimated, foursquare on the dirt floor and shook itself vigorously, ending with a loud sneeze. Then it ambled over to its mistress and, with the politeness of a well-bred lady, took the proffered bone before settling down contentedly before the hearth to chew on it. “Ach, ye wouldnae think it tae look at him, but he’s as gentle as a lamb.”

“He is indeed a fine-looking hound,” Ciarán said, eyeing Grim’s massive form doubtfully. “He’s as big as a full-grown deer.”

“Aye, bred tae hunt wolves,” the woman said, bringing three beakers of tea with her when she finally came to join them, handing the brothers one each before seating herself comfortably opposite them in an old chair. “And ye get a few of them around here, I can tell ye, two-legged ones mostly.” She cackled again, and Ciarán’s unease grew.

She flashed him her toothless smile again and added, “They think they can take advantage of an auld woman living alone out here in the forest. But Grim soon teaches ’em how wrong they are.” She laughed like a creaking barn door, sending an involuntary shiver up Ciarán’s spine.

Wheesht, man, what’s wrong with ye? Ye’re nae a bairn, tae be so afraid o’ this auld one! He glanced over at his brother, who, like himself, stood not an inch less than six feet three in his stockinged feet and was a veteran of many fierce battles. He took strength from seeing that he appeared similarly cowed by this diminutive woman of the woods and her giant dog.

“We—” Diarmaid began again.

“Aye, I ken. Ye’ve come tae find the Blade of Osheen,” the crone said matter-of-factly. “Ye wish tae cure yer sister of her melancholy.”

Ciarán and Diarmaid stared at her, then at each other, their jaws falling slightly open. Again, the hairs on the back of Ciarán’s neck prickled.

“How d’ye ken us and what we’ve come fer?” he asked somewhat nervously, half afraid to drink the tea she had given them. There could be anything in it.

“How else am I tae prove tae two unbelievers that I have powers, eh?” she asked drily. “Grim heard ye comin’, and he told me, and I looked intae the fire and saw ye. And I kent who ye are, and why ye’ve come tae see me,” she told them, as if what she was saying was as ordinary as remarking what dire weather it was. A deep feeling of unease settled in Ciarán’s bones even as his wet clothing began steaming in the over-heated room.

“Then, can ye help us? D’ye have this Sword of Osheen?” Diarmaid asked hesitantly. Ciarán could hear the note of hope in his brother’s voice.

“Aye, I can help ye. I’m bound tae help ye,” she added mysteriously, glancing at Ciarán in a way that unnerved him further. “But I dinnae have the blade mesel’.”

“Then can ye tell us how tae get it?” he asked, his unease mixed with wavering hope.

She nodded. “Aye, I can, but first I must warn ye about this sorcerous blade ye seek. What d’ye ken of it?”

“All we ken is that ’tis said it can cure sickness,” Diarmaid said.

“Aye, that’s right, it can. And aye, it can cure yer sister. But I warn ye, the magic it holds is dark. It should be used only once.”

“How do we use it? Tae cure Maddison, I mean?” Ciarán asked, leaning forward, turning the beaker of tea between his fingers.

“Ye have tae make a wee cut in the skin just above her heart, and the darkness there will be healed. But I’ll tell ye again, ’tis a very powerful blade, and a lot of people forget themselves once they have it. There’s many folks who’ve possessed it and tried tae misuse it fer their own gain. All of them are dead.”

A shiver passed through Ciarán at her grave warning. “We have nae intention of misusing it. We only want it tae heal Maddison.”

The crone nodded at him. “Aye, I ken, but I must warn ye of the terrible dangers at play with powerful forces such as this.”

“We take note of yer warning, Madam. Can ye tell us how we can find the sword?” Diarmaid asked with some urgency, clearly wanting to be gone from such eerie company.

“Aye, but ye must both swear tae follow me instructions, or it could be death fer ye.”

The brothers looked at each other for a moment before saying in unison, “We swear on our souls.”

“All right then,” she said, nodding. “Ye’ll have tae search fer it, mind ye.”

“We intend tae,” Diarmaid told her firmly.

“Aye, we’ll find it all right,” Ciarán seconded.

But the crone shook her head. “Nay, nae him,” she said, pointing at Diarmaid before gazing piercingly at Ciarán. “’Tis ye who must go, and ye must go alone.”

Ciarán stared at her, mystified. “What? But why?”

“’Tis yer destiny,” she told him, once again making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. He looked at Diarmaid, who shrugged.

“Very well, if ye say I must dae it alone, then I will,” Ciarán told her emphatically. “I dinnae care, as long as I find the blade and Maddison can be cured. But d’ye have any idea where I should start me search?”

“Ye’re a good lad,” the old woman said, smiling at him. “Aye, I dae. Now, the last I heard, t’was rumored the sword is in a wee village called Brockside, nae so far away from here. That’s where ye should start.”

“Thank ye kindly, Madam,” Ciarán said, grateful for the information but equally grateful to be leaving. Not wishing to offend, he drank his tea in one go, which turned out to be delicious and strangely invigorating. He watched as Diarmaid did the same, clearly also not wishing to offend their hostess. They both placed their beakers carefully on the low table before them.

“Aye, thank ye. We’re very grateful fer yer help. Will ye nae let us recompense ye fer yer time and trouble?” Diarmaid asked as they both stood up carefully to avoid banging their heads. But the old woman shook her head, a flash of annoyance in her hooded eyes.

“I telled ye, I want naething’ ye’ve got,” she said to him sharply. Then she looked at Ciarán. “But I want ye tae promise me, lad, that when ye’ve found the blade and cured yer sister, ye’ll bring it tae me. I intend tae destroy it once and for all. Far too many souls have lost themselves because of its evil influence.”

“Agreed,” Ciarán said without hesitation. He would just as soon not hang on to such a malign object. “I’ll happily bring it back tae ye.”

“Aye, we swear tae return it tae ye as soon as Maddison’s better,” Diarmaid promised.

The brothers moved towards the door, and the crone got up to see them out. The huge dog was still chewing contentedly on its bone by the fire as they left and did not even lift its head as they existed the cottage back into the gloomy wet afternoon.

“Me name’s Selma,” the crone called after them as they made their way across the puddle-filled, muddy clearing, seeking the partial shelter of the forest. “Dinnae forget, Ciarán, tae return the blade tae me when ye’re done with it.” With that she shut the door.

“How the hell does she ken me name?” Ciarán asked Diarmaid with a shudder that was nothing to do with the dank weather.

“Dinnae ask me,” his brother replied tersely, his face pale in the gloom. Ciarán could see that he too had been spooked by Selma’s uncanny powers.

“I suppose we have tae believe in the powers the sword is supposed to have now,” he said, as they began their journey back through the stretch of forest to the place where they had left their horses.

“Mmm,” was all Diarmaid would say on the matter, and Ciarán did not blame him for his reticence. Their meeting with the cailleach was simply too strange to dwell upon. So, he turned his mind to the village of Brockside and how to find its location, so that he could get there as quickly as possible.

Chapter Two

These days Tegan MacFarlane avoided approaching her childhood home from the front. Instead, she chose to turn off the main way and guide her horse down the twisting track that led by degrees down the thickly wooded hill, to eventually emerge at the rear of the MacFarlane’ Keep.

After ten minutes of slow riding below the canopy of fragrant pines, she reached the small plateau that hung about sixty or so feet above the back of the extensive, granite-built house and surrounding buildings and grounds, giving her a full view of the roofs, courtyards, garden, and stables below.

It all looked so painfully familiar, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the young woman standing on the stone steps by a set of green-painted rear doors, beneath a wooden porch. In her mid-twenties, she was tall and slender, with long, straight brown hair that was caught at her fair brow by a simple golden circlet and provided a bright contrast with the bright mustard color of her dress. In her arms she was cradling an infant wrapped in a woolen shawl.

Tegan smiled and put two fingers to her lips, letting out a shrill whistle that made her horse whicker. The woman below looked up, her face splitting into a huge smile when she caught sight of Tegan.

“Sister! There ye are. We’ve been waitin’ fer ye,” she called, rocking the child gently from side to side. “Come and meet yer new niece!”

“I’m comin’,” Tegan called, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and excitement. “I cannae wait tae see her.” She clicked her tongue, and the horse proceeded to carry her down the remaining stretch of track until its hooves left the soft earth and clip clopped onto the cobblestones of the courtyard.

Tegan quickly dismounted, throwing the reins over the saddle and letting the horse wander off to nibble at the juicy grass growing between the cobblestones. Her sister had come down the steps to meet her, and Tegan hurried towards her and the new arrival.

“Och, Ailis, she’s beautiful,” she said cooing over the tiny, pink-cheeked baby, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to protect her at all costs. “She’s so tiny!”

“Aye, that’s often the case with babies, so I’m told,” Ailis joked before adding, “but this one’s very tiny because she came a wee bit early, she was in such a hurry to be in the world. See how strong she is!” Ailis smiled to see her daughter clutch Tegan’s outstretched finger in her miniature fist and promptly try to stick it into the tiny rosebud of her lips.

“Och, she’s perfect,” Tegan was saying when she suddenly noticed what her niece was about to do and rapidly tugged her finger away. “Nay, little one! That wouldnae taste good,” Tegan said, unable to wipe the grin off her face. But Sorcha refused to release her finger, merely gazing up at her aunt with swimming blue eyes the color of a summer sky. The child appeared full of wonder. “Look, she’s smilin’ at me,” Tegan said, delighted by the baby’s toothless smile. She silently vowed to do her best to make Sorcha’s life a happy one.

“I hate tae spoil things fer ye, Tegan, but that’s likely just wind,” Ailis said then, laughing and jerking her from her thoughts.

Tegan put on a mock frown. “Nay,” she retorted, not taking her eyes from her niece as the pair played a gentle game of tug-o-war with her finger, “she kens her Auntie Tegan right enough, dinnae ye, me bonny wee Sorcha?” As if in reply, the baby gave a gurgling chuckle, and her little pink face seemed to light up. “Ye see? Ach, ye have me wrapped around yer finger already, child,” Tegan added, once more almost overwhelmed by the love she felt for Sorcha.

“Let’s go inside,” Ailis said, leading the way up the steps and into the back regions of the house where they had grown up. They came into a warm, spacious parlor. Ailis sat on the large, old settle near the hearth, arranging her skirts and balancing the tightly wrapped package that was baby Sorcha on her lap.

“Brrr, ’tis nae so warm in here,” Tegan observed, pulling off her hide gloves and tossing them down onto a chair before going straight to the fireplace. “Ye need another couple of logs on the fire, Ailis, ye havetae keep yerself and the baby warm, ye ken?” She picked up a few of the small logs stacked by the hearth and added them to the fire before poking the low-burning embers into life. Then, she sat down in the chair opposite her sister and looked at her keenly.

“I’m all right,” Ailis assured her, “just tired after the birth, is all. But Meg’s been feedin’ me up, making me drink that awful beef tea and swallow raw eggs, tae build me up, she says,” she added, referring to their old, faithful cook and housekeeper.

“Well, just ye make sure ye do as she says. She kens what she’s talkin’ about, having raised five bairns herself. Ye cannae take any chances… nae after…” Her voice trailed off as Ailis suddenly grew paler still.

“I ken, Tegan.” She held Sorcha close to her breast. “After losin’ the first babe, this one’s even more precious tae me. I’ve nae intention of losin’ her too.”

“Aye, she’s precious all right. But so are ye tae me, Ailis. Losin’ a babe takes it out of ye, may the wee one’s soul rest in peace, but havin’ a babe does too, so promise tae mind Meg’s words.” Tegan had been desperately worried to see how last year’s miscarriage and the pregnancy with Sorcha had taken their toll on her beautiful, poised sister.

Ailis smiled at her weakly. “I promise.” She sighed, staring dotingly down at her daughter, who gurgled as she gripped her mother’s little finger and sucked on it with gusto. “Aye, it was a rough pregnancy, all right,” Ailis went on. “For certain, I was sick more often than I was well. There were some days when I felt so weak I thought I’d lose her too. But it was all worth it to have Sorcha here safely, and I have every intention of getting me strength back so I can give her all the love and care she needs. And now ye’re here, I’m truly happy.” She beamed at Tegan.

“Och, ye ken I love tae see ye happy, Ailis,” Tegan replied, her gaze fixing on little Sorcha’s face before she added, “and now there’s this little one tae think about as well. Here,” she said, approaching her sister with her arms outstretched. “Let me hold her.”

Chuckling, Ailis handed the bundle over into Tegan’s hands. Hiding her nervousness at handling her niece for the first time, Tegan sat down once more, laying the baby down in her lap so they were face to face. They beamed at each other, but she noticed Ailis was staring at her with concern in her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, marveling again at the strength of Sorcha’s grip.

“Yer face. Ye have a nasty gash on yer cheek. How did ye get that, Tegan? Fighting, I suppose,” Ailis said, sounding worried. “Have ye had it seen tae?”

“Dinnae fuss, Ailis. ’Tis naught but a scratch. Of course, it was from a fight,” she said.

“But why d’ye always have tae be fightin’? Ye ken ye’ll have a scar there too now, eh?” She inclined her head at Tegan, still eyeing the wound beneath her eye.

“Are ye pullin’ me leg, Ailis? I’m a warrior. I’m a trained soldier fer the clan. That’s me job. I’m gonnae get the odd scar.” She brushed her hand ruefully across the gash on her cheek. “Sheep rustlers. One tried tae have a go at me with his dirk, so I had tae break his arm before he was carted off tae face the Laird’s justice.”

“Well, it looks sore. Ye should let me tend tae it,” Ailis told her, moving to rise.

“Nay, stay where ye are!” Tegan cried, putting up a hand. “Dinnae dare move. I’ve told ye, ’tis naething,” she added dismissively, wanting Ailis to relax.

Ailis sank back into the settle. “Well, I dinnae like tae nag ye, Tegan, and I ken ye’re a trained warrior—”

“One o’ the best in the Sutherland—” Tegan filled in with obvious pride, crossing her leather clad legs.

Ailis nodded. “Granted, one o’ the best in the whole of Sutherland, to be sure. I can put up with ye dressing like a man, and I ken ’tis too late fer the rest of yer poor benighted body, but can ye at least try tae nae get anymore scars on yer face? How am I supposed tae find ye a man tae marry if ye carry on this way?”

Tegan burst out laughing, knowing full well her sister was teasing her. “Very funny, as usual. Except that would mean ye’d have tae keep lookin’ fer that man fer yer whole life, because nay such man exists!”

“Well, if ye keep getting’ yer face all bashed up and wearing men’s clothes, he certainly willnae.”

Tegan snorted with laughter. “I cannae argue with ye there, Sister. But ye ken well why I have tae dress like a man—because nae one, neither man, woman, child, nor beast, will take a warrior wearing women’s clothes seriously. Wheesht! Can ye see me ridin’ across the moors, chasing some brigand, in me best ball gown?”

They both dissolved into giggles then, but they unfortunately soon died away when Logan Ross suddenly enter the parlor.

“Husband,” Ailis said, plastering what Tegan could tell was a false smile on her lips. “What a nice surprise.”

Logan scoffed. “Nae from me point of view,” he said, scowling at Tegan. “Why is she here?” he demanded.

Tegan hated to see Ailis trembling as she replied, “Tegan is me sister, all the family I have left—” she began.

“All the family ye have left?!” Logan hissed. “I’m yer bloody family, woman! I’m yer husband. Ye’ve nae need fer a sister, especially nae one lookin’ like a man.” He paused to sneer at Tegan.

“Dinnae speak tae her like that, Ross,” Tegan said warningly, getting up and putting herself between him and Ailis.

“How dare ye tell me what tae dae in me own house,” Logan hissed. “And ye havenae answered me question. What are ye doing here?”

“I’ve come tae see the babe, of course,” Tegan said, just as Sorcha began fretting.

“Shush, now, hinny, nae need tae cry,” her mother soothed her, to no avail.

“Will ye shut the brat up, woman? All it does is cry. How is a man supposed tae live this way? Now, if ye’d given me a son… well, a son should have a fine pair o’ lungs. But another lassie? What good is a lassie tae me? A man like me needs a fine, strong son.”

Sorcha seemed to understand and yelled even harder, as if the very sound of his voice upset her. Tegan could understand why. Her hand itched to fly to her dirk and slit the man’s gullet. But she knew she could not.

“I said shut her up, will ye?!” Logan yelled at Ailis, who looked at him helplessly, her eyes shining with tears.

“Ach, I’m goin’ tae me study, fer some peace and quiet,” he spat and slammed out of the room.

“Shut the door, why dinnae ye?” Tegan could not resist shouting after him.

“Ach, dinnae dae that, Tegan, please!” Ailis begged her, wringing her hands and staring at the door anxiously, as if Logan would come barging back through it at any moment. Ye just make it harder fer me.”

“I’m sorry, Ailis, I dinnae mean tae. He’s just such a—” However, her sister did not seem to hear her and continued speaking almost distractedly.

“But I have tae admit that lately he’s been worse than ever. He always seems tae be in a bad temper.”

“Oh, what a surprise!” Tegan said drily.

“Aye, ’tis because he’s searching fer a sword or something like that, some enchanted blade of sorts. He claims tae need it desperately—he wouldnae say why—but he’s had nae luck findin’ it thus far. And every day, he gets angrier about it.”

“He’s an idiot,” Tegan said with small laugh as an idea took root in her mind. “What grown man believes in such things?”

“Me husband, for certain. ’Tis all he talks of.” Ailis sighed.

“Och, well, ’tis an auld wives’ tale, nae doubt. Now, I’ll order us up some tea and shortbread, shall I? Ye put yer feet up fer a wee while, and I’ll go and get Meg tae dae the honors.”

“Och, would ye? I’d love that,” Ailis said gratefully, stretching her feet out towards the fire.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Tegan told her, going out to the kitchen, placing her order with Meg and then taking the kitchen backstairs, making for Logan’s study. She had an idea. She could use this obsession of Logan’s with this mysterious blade to her and Ailis’s advantage.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend? *

0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit