Page 2 of Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

Shalimar ambled forward, no hint of her injury visible in her gait. “The horse is healed.”

“Aye, but be careful. She’s not meant to run on slick trails that are weakened by the burrows of moles and rabbits and badgers. Race her only where the earth is firm.”

Megan, always impetuous, couldn’t help her wayward tongue. “But you limp, sir,” she said, motioning to his bad leg. “Why do you not heal yourself as you have the mare?”

“Ah yes, that.” He thought for a second, those intense eyes studying her as if she were a mystery. “My injury is old. From my youth, before I knew how to heal. And it matters not. ’Tis a reminder to me that I am mortal and that there is suffering in the world.”

“So you choose to be a cripple?” she asked aghast.

“ ’Tis my fate.” He threw her a crooked grin. “Now, be off. ’Tis nearly dark and the baron is not pleased.”

She wanted to know more of this man, this would-be magician. “Please, come with me,” she begged. “My father would want to thank you for helping me and my horse. He’d surely offer you a hot trencher of brawn or eel and a cup of wine along with the safety of the castle for the night.”

The man’s smile was odd. “Nay, child. I prefer the solitude of the forest.” At that moment, the owl hooted again and the wizard—for that’s what she believed him to be—glanced skyward. Rain ran down his face, but he didn’t notice. “Hush, Owain, be patient,” he said. The owl ignored him, letting loose another soft call, and the man grinned widely, showing off white teeth beneath a nose that wasn’t quite straight. “He’s a stubborn fellow, that one.”

“You know my name,” Megan said as he handed her Shalimar’s reins, “but I know not yours.”

“ ’Tis better if you don’t.”

“Are you an enemy of Dwyrain?”

He hesitated and his eyes looked over her shoulder, to a distance that was of his own making. “Nay, child—now, be gone.”

As if rooted to the ground, she didn’t move—just stared, fascinated, into his eyes. “You speak with animals.”

“I only see into their minds.”

“Can you see into mine as well?” she asked.

“Perhaps.” His sigh was as soft as the wind. “Is that what you’d like?”

“Nay—aye—I know not.”

“Sometimes it is best if we know not what others think.”

Shivering, Megan shook her head. “Tell me.”

Eyeing her but a moment, he said, “So be it.” He removed one glove and took her hand in his. She expected his fingers to be frigid as the sea, but a warmth traveled from his palm to hers. “I see not into your mind, but to the years of your life not yet lived.”

“You see ahead in time—you foretell what will be?”

“Aye. ’Tis my curse. Would you like to know of your unborn years?”

She could barely breathe and a part of her wanted to flee, to be rid of this odd forest-man with his gentle voice and knowing eyes, and yet she couldn’t let go, for she trusted him. The warmth of his hand, his soothing voice, his trustworthy eyes. Nodding, she braced herself and wished she could stop her quaking, for surely he could feel the trembling that had suddenly afflicted her. “Tell me,” she said, her words rushed.

“Aye, then.” Closing his eyes, he held her fingers between his two hands. “There will be trouble at Dwyrain,” he said, his voice sounding as if it had traveled a great distance through a long, narrow cavern. “Sickness. Deceit. Betrayal.”

“No.”

“The blame will be placed on you.”

She recoiled, but he held her hand firmly.

“You will marry in the next few years at the bidding of your father, but the marriage will be cursed—”

“No, I’ll not listen—” she said, but stood transfixed, unable to move.

“Your family and castle will be destroyed.”