Page 16 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)

“MacColla headed west.” Anticipation hummed in Nicholas Purdon’s voice. “My men tracked them through the passes, but lost the trail near the eastern shore of Loch Awe.”

“Aye.” Campbell nodded, speaking his thoughts aloud. “He’d head to water.”

“My thoughts precisely.” Purdon leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied. He stroked the limp brown hair at the crown of his head, brow furrowed in the way of men much impressed with their own wisdom.

Campbell eyed him, sitting to his left at Inveraray’s dining table. He couldn’t fault the man; Purdon had indeed done a fine job. But he had yet to bring MacColla down.

The major thought he’d succeeded, but he had much to learn. And he was wise to be looking to the Campbell for his tutelage.

Campbell spared a glance at the witch seated at the far end of the table. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows over her sharp features. He’d thought to ignore her, and Purdon wisely followed his lead.

“You did well.” Campbell raised his glass to the major.

Purdon gave a quick, gratified smile and said, “It should be a simple enough endeavor. There are but a handful of castles to search along the loch.”

“Make no mistake, Purdon. You did a fine job, but your work’s not yet complete.

” Campbell sipped his brandy, deep in thought.

“You’d be wise not to underestimate my enemy.

MacColla is a savage, well accustomed to dirt for a pillow.

I’d not put it past him to choose a canopy of leaves to a roof over his head. ”

“But he travels with two women. Surely they’d not bear up for long under those conditions.”

“Indeed.” Campbell picked a crust of bread from the plate before him and began to toy with it. “I can’t imagine the man will linger in one place for long.”

Two women , he thought. Would the one they’d called forth be able to survive such circumstances?

“Witch,” he called to the far end of the table. “The woman you summoned, where does she come from?”

“I know not,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact.

Campbell exchanged an irritated glance with the major. “You know not,” he said flatly.

Finola shrugged and, giving her full attention to the plate before her, took a delicate spoonful of stew and began to chew slowly. Swallowing, she returned her gaze to the men. A placid, inquiring look was on her face, as if she had no idea what the problem might be.

“Are you quite done?” Campbell snarled.

“You forget your intent,” Finola said calmly.

“Your desire was to kill MacColla. Not this woman.” She tilted her head.

“When your foe wields a sword, is it the sword that you fight? Though a blade can cut the life from you, the blade is not your enemy. The one whose hand holds the weapon. He is your only enemy. To lose sight of this is to lose the battle.”

“Do you threaten me, woman?” Campbell’s fury boiled high in his chest. Witchcraft.

A sport for women and fools. He’d chosen this path in error.

This Finola was a weapon indeed, but one with no aim.

The powers of black magic seemed haphazard, like a top set to spinning.

Once put in motion, there was no way to control its course, its intent.

“I ask you a question and you give me nonsense in return.”

“To put a fine point on it,” Purdon spoke up in tones meant to soothe, “where does MacColla ride? Does he sail for Ireland? North to the Highlands? Or first south to Kintyre?”

Finola merely giggled, a disturbingly feminine cascade of notes from high to low.

“Where is he?” Campbell shouted, slamming his hand on the table. “How powerful can your witchcraft be if you’re unable to answer simple questions?”

He gestured broadly to the table, the walls. “I’ve fed you. You have water. Candles give fire all around. What more can you need? Cast your runes, read leaves, toss bones. I care not what you do—”

“You presume too much,” she snapped, her giggling eclipsed by a severity that sent a chill through the room. Her eyes were dagger-sharp on the two men. “You cannot expect me to scry here .” Finola looked around her in disgust.

“Oh I expect it of you.” Campbell’s voice was cool like glass. “You told me you were the most powerful witch in all Scotland. Now prove your worth.”

They locked gazes for a long moment.

“To dare the fates so is a fool’s gambit.” Finola reached into her robe and pulled out a small suede pouch. She carefully tugged at the thong tying it and removed a palm-sized bundle wrapped in dark velvet.

“What is that?” Campbell asked sharply. He shoved his chair back from the table and strode to her.

His patience wore thin. She spoke of fates and portents, and yet her magic had wrought nothing but uncertainty. Though her tricks roused his curiosity, he’d soon pursue ventures bearing more empirical evidence of success. Swords, not scrying stones.

Sucking at her teeth, Finola slowly unfolded the fabric. “’Tis a keek-stane ,” she told him, her voice distant. She smoothed the velvet into a square, gently cradling the ball-shaped object into its folds. “For the scrying of visions.”

Campbell leaned in to see more clearly. The ambient candlelight seemed dimmer somehow, insufficient to light this object. Squinting, he realized it was glass, the back of it painted black.

It wasn’t completely rounded, as he’d thought at first. The front of the keek-stane was concave, and marred by a deep crack. The flaw was a black so dark, it seemed to deny the light.

Finola stroked the face of it, traced her fingers around its edge. She panted a few short breaths, and then a keening so high and so sharp screeched from her, the men clapped their hands to their ears.

Her shriek stopped suddenly. Rolling her eyes back into her head, the witch began to chant,

Two sights that I might see , Alasdair MacColla, come to me. An da shealladh, That I might see, Alasdair MacColla Ciotach MacDomhnaill, Come to me. An da shealladh, Two sights soar free, Alasdair MacColla mhic Gilleasbuig MacDomhnaill, Appear to me.

Opening her eyes, Finola exhaled an impossibly long breath.

She leaned close to her keek-stane , clutched it between her palms. She gasped.

“What?” Campbell cried. He saw nothing but black on the face of her scrying stone. “What do you see, witch?”

Finola eased her eyes shut once more, slowly removing her hands from the glass. Tenderly, she kissed each palm.

“Beware, Campbell.” She looked up at the men standing agitated beside her. “The tides have turned. I can no longer see if the woman brings MacColla’s downfall—or your own.”

He recoiled. Long had he suspected her witchery to be folly. But this was too much. He’d seen naught but blackness in her fool stone, and he knew now he’d been right to withhold his complete trust.

“What does that mean?” Campbell shouted, and swung his arm back to dash his cup against the hearth. “How could this foreigner, this woman , be a danger to me ?”

Ignoring Campbell, she turned a hard eye to Purdon, who was visibly taken aback. “You too have much to fear.”

Campbell fought to keep his hands from the witch’s neck. How was he to know if she played him false? “How dare you address my man and not me? You are both in my employ. You will speak straight, woman, and speak straight to me .”

“I know not what the vision says about you, Campbell.” Finola was maddeningly placid. It smoothed the lines from her face and made her pale skin seem waxen in the candlelight. “Simply that your course is no longer a wise one.”

“Then I am done with you. Done with your . . . black magic,” he sputtered. “I see no use in it. Your talents are merely attempts to harness smoke. You speak the truth of reflections cast in muddy waters.”

Campbell stormed away from her. He paused at the foot of the stairs and spun back to her. “You’ve been paid. Leave now. Your work is done.”

“You neglect me at your peril.” Finola’s tone was like black ice on a darkened lake, its glassy surface giving lie to the roiling waters beneath.

“So be it, witch.”