Demon Sword

CHAPTER ONE

"Run!" Rory bellowed. "Take off that accursed sword, drop your bundle, and run for your life!"

They were all shouting at him to run. Toby stood with his arms folded and stared over their heads, ignoring them. Run away? Absurd! He couldn't leave Meg. Or Hamish. Or even old Father Lachlan. Rory MacDonald could look out for himself, but the others could not be abandoned to the demons. He must stay and fight. It would be two swordsmen against four, and the four were not only mounted but also superhuman. Even so, he could not run away.

Hamish was squealing, shriller than ever. "You told me it was stupid to give your life—"

"This isn't that," he said quickly. This wasn't bravado, show-off Campbell-of-Fillan courage. This was a question of manhood.

"Toby Strangerson!" Meg shouted. "You are being mulish. I hate you when you act stupid!"

The riders had disappeared into a slight dip, but they would still be coming.

Father Lachlan yelled, "Quiet!" and the babble stopped. "You must run, Tobias! It is you they are after. We shall be much safer if we are not with you. We can take cover under the riverbank, and they will go past us. It is our only hope."

"I promised I would look after Meg!"

"And this is the best thing you can do for Meg! I'm sure you can run faster than any of us. Leave the sword and head for the shrine. It is only a mile or so. If you can reach it, you will be safe — or at least safer than you are now. Pray for us to the spirit. Now go!"

"Drop the sword, Strangerson!" Rory snapped.

"No!"

They all started yapping again like a litter of puppies. This time it was Rory MacDonald who shouted them down, flushed with anger, silver eyes blazing. "Is that a demon sword? Is that why you won't be parted from it?"

"Huh? What's a demon sword?"

"No, it isn't!" said Father Lachlan. "It's just a sword. A neighbor gave it to him, after all the trouble started. We'll take care of your sword, my son. You have my word. Now, hurry!"

The riders came into view, much closer, seeming to move faster than before.

"My sword will be of more use against horsemen than yours will, Master Rory," Toby remarked.

"Bonehead! You think demons will let you draw it? They'll turn you to stone."

"Please, Toby!" Meg said. "The mother plover, remember? You must draw the demons away from us. Please? For my sake?"

Oh! Put like that, running away did not seem so unthinkable. Reluctantly, he dragged the scabbard strap from his shoulder. Rory took the sword. The relief from the weight was extraordinary.

Toby turned and began to run.

It felt all wrong. He almost stopped and went back, but then he found his stride and it was too late. Mother plover: draw the danger away from the nestlings. Faking a broken wing would not be required in this case. They knew he couldn't fly.

He was built for sprinting, not for distance. The shrine was a horribly long way off.

The glen ran straight as a pike, narrow and bare. The right side, beyond the Shira, was precipitously steep. This side was gentler. At the limit of sight in the rain a wooded bluff marked the Shrine of Shira — so Father Lachlan and MacDonald had said. That was where the buildings were; the shrine itself was in a cave, a little higher up the hill.

They were assuming that the spirit would grant him asylum—if it didn't object to the demon in his heart as the bogy had done, if it was strong enough to resist Valda and her pack, if Valda and her pack didn't come into range and freeze him first. What was their range? They might be close enough already. The hexer might be just enjoying the chase, knowing that she had her trophy in the game bag.

His feet slapped in the mud of the track. Rain blew in his face. He pushed himself as hard as he dared.

Demon! Demon, I need you now!

His appeal went unanswered. His heart thumped madly, but he did not hear the mysterious dum… dum… he had heard before. No weird light, no superhuman strength to fly him down the road. Demon, demon!

He glanced back. His companions were hurrying to the river. The riders were almost level with them but still coming after him. Hiding from demons was crazy. Valda had brought horses up the Eas a Ghail.

The shrine seemed as distant as ever. His heart was thundering, his lungs bursting. No use keeping anything in reserve — it was win the race or die. His waterlogged plaid weighed more than a cartload of meal. He fumbled with his belt buckle, dropped the load, and raced on, wearing only his bonnet.

There was an isolated croft off to his left. A man stood in the doorway, staring at this strange race disturbing his solitude. Toby wanted to yell at him to hide, to warn him that those were demonic creatures pursuing him, but he lacked the breath.

Where was his demon protector now, the presence that had saved him from the bogy, from Crazy Colin, from Valda in the dungeon? If that had not been a demon, but only a hex, as Father Lachlan suggested, then perhaps Valda had corrected her mistake and removed it.

He glanced over his shoulder. His companions had disappeared, but the pursuers had not tarried to deal with them — all six were still following. That was good! The plover had led the danger away from the nest. He need not be ashamed of his decision, then. But the race was almost over. Valda was in the lead, and she was already passing the sad little bundle of his plaid lying in the track.

He turned his face forward again, blinking through the rain. The shrine was closer, yes. He wasn't going to make it. Even if he reached the bluff, he would still have to run up to the buildings in the grove, and then on to the shrine itself. Hopeless!

His head was about to burst. The world was disappearing behind a black fog. There was a taste of iron in his mouth. He could hear the slapping of his feet and the rough gasps of his breathing… and now he could hear hooves, also. They had him.

He started to look around, missed his footing, sprawled headlong into the mud.

Almost before he landed, his hands came down to push him up again. He raised his head… he froze. Every muscle turned to stone. He lay helpless at the mercy of his pursuers, staring fixedly along the road ahead — a road he was destined never to walk as a free man. The shrine was half a mile away, farther than the moon. Valda had him now… naked and helpless as a newborn babe.

Hooves beat nearer.

And kept coming.

The ground shook, mud splattered all over him. A horse thundered by him, its iron feet missing his hand by inches. Lady Valda, robed and riding sidesaddle, but hunched forward as she pursued a prey that lay unseen behind her.

More tumultuous hoofbeats, mud spraying — one by one, the four hooded demonic creatures followed their mistress. But the last two… their heads were wrong. One was canted forward, chin on chest, and the other flopped horribly to one side, bouncing in time with the horse's stride. And finally went the lady's maid, alone.

They all rode on without a backward glance. They had not turned, had not looked down, had not seen their quarry in plain view beneath them. Valda, the first two demons, then the two corpses, the maid — all went galloping along the highway and dwindled rapidly into the distance. The sound of hooves faded away into the steady hiss of rain and the rustle of wind in the heather. What did they think they were pursuing?

Finding himself no longer petrified, Toby scrambled to his feet. His companions were coming back into sight, climbing the riverbank. He was plastered all over with mud, and he had scraped himself when he fell. His plaid still lay in the road. He pushed himself to a weary trot toward it, so he could take it to the river and make both it and himself respectable before the others reached him.

CHAPTER TWO

He was shocked to see how exhausted they all were. It had been an arduous day and night would come early. The light was already fading.

Hamish had been set to carrying the sword. Not being tall enough to wear it, he held it over his shoulder. He was canted sideways under its weight, but he had a grin to match its size.

"The spirit!" he yelled. "It saved us! This is its territory. Thanks to Father Lachlan!"

"Oh, I doubt if I made any difference," the acolyte said. "I think the spirit understands the problem much better than I do — but it never hurts to ask." He adjusted his glasses and beamed benevolently. "Shira has placed us under its protection. Now we must go and give formal thanks."

Rory's pale eyes shone improbably bright in the twilight. "That's certainly one possible explanation."

"What's the other?" Toby demanded angrily.

"Why ask me? You seem to have contrived another of your astonishing escapes — you tell us."

"I don't know!" Toby glared around at his companions, all suddenly so quiet that he could hear his heart again: Dum… Dum… Balderdash! Everybody's heart beat! Just because he could hear his heart doing its steady slow thump did not mean that his demon had pulled off another rescue. It had been nothing like as loud as he'd heard it in the dungeon or by the hob's grotto. More like Glen Orchy. And he did not recall hearing it like that when he'd been lying naked in the road.

Whatever had saved him — the spirit of Shira or a personal guardian demon — it certainly had shown no interest in maintaining his self-respect.

"Don't look at me like that!" he yelled, girding on his sword again. "I don't know any more than you do, any of you! I certainly didn't do anything, if that's what you're wondering. I just fell flat on my face. Will they be back, Father?"

The acolyte shrugged wearily. "I don't think so. The spirit has shown it can blind the hexer; I am sure she will not dare a direct assault on it. I hope it will enlighten us… Have faith, children! Evil has been balked, that is what matters."

"You're not hurt?" Meg asked. She looked worried, as well she might. She had not run into Toby's arms to welcome him. Why had he expected her to?

"I deserve to be." Certainly his pride was hurt. What must she think of him? Great, clumsy oaf — some protector her father had chosen for her! Demons pursued him and he tripped over his own feet.

Rory snorted. "Let's walk. We need the exercise."

As they set off, Toby said, "Father? What's a demon sword?"

The tubby little man peered at him and then at the hilt behind Toby's shoulder. "A blade that has slain a demon — an incarnate demon, of course. The blow through the husk's heart, you know? The blades are supposed to possess power against demons." He glanced apologetically at Rory. "With all due respect… I don't believe in them."

The rebel shrugged. "One hears stories. I never met one myself."

"Oh, I have met them. Men bring them to the sanctuary and ask the tutelary to authenticate them. They always turn out to be perfectly ordinary blades. The whole notion is pernicious!" The acolyte had abandoned his normal calm and become quite fervent. "This foolish superstition has killed far too many innocent people! A touch of brain fever, a mysterious accident, or just plain spite… someone gets accused of being possessed and is promptly stabbed through the heart so the killer can claim to own a demon sword — which he will sell to you for a price, of course! I see no reason to believe that Master Strangerson's blade is anything out of the ordinary."

"It's a load of scrap iron," Rory agreed solemnly.

The little man pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. "And the whole idea of stabbing demons through the heart is nonsense! It's ridiculous! How can anyone expect them to stand still for that? You take a sword to a demonic creature, and I'll tell you which one of you is going to die!"

"I'd much rather not." If Rory was amused by the acolyte's ardor, he was keeping an admirably straight face.

"Can't you creep up behind them?" Hamish looked so concerned that he must be planning to take up demon-stabbing as a sport.

"Of course not! The demon could hear you thinking!" Father Lachlan wagged a finger at him. "I don't suppose there are a dozen genuine demon swords in all the realms of the Golden Horde, or ever have been! So who can know anything about their supposed powers?"

Abashed, Hamish walked on in silence for a moment, then: "What can you do about demons if you can't impale them?"

"Head to the nearest shrine or sanctuary and pray, of course. Which is exactly what we are doing now."

So Toby's sword was just a sword, and not even much of one. He was not surprised. He had acquired it after he became hexed, so for it to be hexed as well would require an absurd coincidence. The curious fascination the great bull-sticker held for him was not caused by the sword; it came from some perversion in himself.

Swords didn't kill people; swordsmen did.

CHAPTER THREE

Dark was falling by the time the travelers reached the buildings. They were uninviting — old and gloomy, with stone walls and black slate roofs huddled under dripping trees. Some of the roofs had collapsed. The tiny windows were all dark. The overgrown yard looked as if it had been deserted for years, without dogs or chickens, or any signs of life at all.

"Let me see now," Father Lachlan said fussily. "It's been years since I was here, but I doubt if anything's changed. Which one is the keeper's house, do you recall?"

"The one at the end," Rory said curtly.

"Whose are the rest, sir?" Hamish looked worried, very worried.

Rory just growled.

The acolyte said, "They are for pilgrims — doesn't look as if we have any company."

"Understandable!" Rory was glaring around him. "Who would want to visit a sty like this?"

Father Lachlan made a tactful, soothing noise. "I shall go and inform the keeper of our arrival. I fear it is too late for us to visit the spirit tonight." He plodded off through the weeds.

"Let's try this one first!" Rory headed for a cottage with the others at his heels.

Just to get under cover and out of the rain was a huge relief. The prospects were not encouraging otherwise. Only rusty hinges remained to show where the door and shutters had once hung. The interior was dark, but the rebel soon located a lantern with a stub of tallow in it. No other man could possibly have produced dry tinder after such a day, but in seconds he had the lantern lit.

The central hearth had no chimney; rain had been entering through the smoke hole above it, but the roof seemed fairly sound otherwise. Clearly the hut had not been used for months or years, and the last tenants had not cleaned up before they left. The only furniture was a flattened heap of straw that reminded Toby of the dungeon at Lochy Castle. On this dank fall evening the place reeked of rot and neglect.

Rory growled again, louder and fiercer. "It's a disgrace, an absolute outrage!"

"Who is supposed to look after it, sir?" Hamish asked in a very small voice.

"The keeper, of course! The Reverend Murray Campbell. Your dear cousin is a first-class miser. All pilgrims make offerings to the spirit, but most leave money for the upkeep of the shrine, too. He must have a king's ransom buried somewhere, but he won't spend a farthing of it." Rory had dropped his frivolous manner; for once he sounded as if he really cared about something other than his precious rebellion.

"But, sir… doesn't the laird have any say in how the shrine is maintained? Doesn't it reflect on the whole glen?"

"Mind your tongue, lad! Remember who's laird here."

Toby was no Campbell. "Just because a man's an earl doesn't mean he isn't a fool."

Rory swung around violently, his hand snaking to the hilt of his sword.

"Does it?" Toby added, putting his fists on his hips.

Rory seemed to consider a little punitive bloodletting and then decide against it. "I know more fools who aren't earls. I also know that the Campbell has more than once sent workmen to restore this shrine. The keeper scares them away by telling them they are annoying the spirit. I assume he then uses the lumber for firewood, or sells it. Have you any helpful suggestions to offer?"

It was a fair question, more than fair. They were all tired and hungry and short-tempered. "No, sir. And I will apologize to His Lordship… when I meet him."

"You do that!" Rory said, releasing his sword.

Hamish said, "Um?"

"Yes?"

"If the laird were to allow the keeper to charge pilgrims for the use of the repaired cottages, sir?"

Rory stared at him for a moment, and then chuckled. "Ingenious! Suggest that to the earl… when you meet him!"

"Yes, sir." Hamish grinned, but briefly. He was understandably more depressed than any of them by this first sight of his new home. "What about food, and fires, and dry clothes?"

"Ha! What do you think? Pilgrims are supposed to bring their own. You've never met your esteemed cousin?"

"No, sir."

"Ah! Well, Murray can be awkward. He's more or less a hermit. He hates men, and women terrify him. I'm not sure how he reacts to boys. Take that feather out of your cap before he sees it." The rebel had become ominously sympathetic all of a sudden.

"Do I call him 'Father'?"

"If you want. He's not a full acolyte, so you'll be flattering him. You can call the spirit a tutelary, too. Again, that's just a courtesy."

Toby had removed his sword and was stretching his shoulders luxuriously. "What's the difference between a spirit and a tutelary? Strength?"

Rory hesitated. "Strength? No, not at all. Talk with Father Lachlan if you want to discuss theological niceties. You will not go too far wrong if you think of a hob as a child, a spirit as an adolescent, and a tutelary as an adult. It has nothing to do with age, because they are all immortal. Just… experience." There was warning in his eyes.

"Oh — thanks!" Being familiar with the Fillan hob's tantrums, Toby should not have asked such a question here in the precincts of the shrine. Hobs could be touchy and unpredictable, even dangerous. So could adolescents.

Rory turned his attention back to Hamish, who was looking more apprehensive than ever.

"Did you bring any money, laddie?"

"Pa gave me some."

"Hang on to it! Murray has never learned that the stuff can be spent, too. Go and see if any of the other cottages are any more habitable. Brawny laddie, you go find some firewood."

Toby shrugged and followed Hamish out into the rain. He strode over to the cottage that had been named as the keeper's. Finding a miserably small woodpile there, he began stacking logs on his arm.

The door opened and Father Lachlan emerged. He said, "Oh!" Then he said, "No one there, I'm afraid." He had taken a surprisingly long time to hunt for a man in a one-room cottage, and his guilty air showed that he thought that Toby thought that.

Toby said, "Would you mind giving me a hand, Father?"

He held out both arms so the acolyte could load logs on them.

"No fire lit, but the house is inhabited. I was trying to establish how long the keeper has been gone. One always worries that he might have fallen sick or had an accident."

One always thought, Toby thought, that the spirit would take care of the keeper. He couldn't think of anything tactful to say, so he said nothing. He assumed that acolytes were capable of being nosy, like anyone else. Father Lachlan had likely just been measuring the staleness of crusts and estimating the thickness of dust.

Bearing a good third of the woodpile, Toby returned to the cottage. Hamish and Meg were sweeping the floor with handfuls of broom, while Rory knelt at the hearth, nurturing a seedling of fire. He glanced up, apparently back in his usual irreverent good humor.

"Any signs of the holy Murray?"

"No fire lit," Father Lachlan said. "From the warmth of the fireplace, he must have been here last night. He may have gone down to the loch for supplies."

"Then we shouldn't expect him back tonight. Can we raid his larder?" Rory bent to blow on his fledgling blaze.

"Larder? I saw no larder! Fasting purifies the soul." The acolyte beamed cheerfully over his spectacles.

"My tastes run more to cannibalism. Shall we draw lots?"

A shadow darkened the doorway. "Oh it's you, is it?" roared a new voice. "I might have guessed."

Everyone jumped, except Rory, who rose, beaming amiably. "All good spirits be with you, Father Murray."

"Trouble! You always bring trouble." The newcomer lumbered forward into the pale flicker of the lantern. He leaned on a thick, gnarled staff, moving as if his joints hurt. He was old and gaunt, even skinnier than Hamish — it must run in the family. His faded, waterlogged plaid revealed arms and legs like twigs. His face was a craggy construction, all nose and high cheekbones and protruding jaw, its weathered texture visible through wispy white whiskers. Streaks of silver hair had escaped from under his bonnet, plastered to his face by the wet.

Hamish's mouth had fallen open and his eyes showed white all around the irises.

"Trouble is the lot of us mortals, is it not?" Clearly, Rory was intent on being insufferably angelic. "You know the Reverend Father Lachlan of Glasgow, of course. You will also recall that my name is Rory of Glen—"

"Your name is Trouble!"

"Thank you. Rory of Trouble, I must remember that. I am also happy to present—"

"Who are you fleeing from this time?" The old man's voice creaked like Iain Campbell's mill. "I saw you running to hide down by the road. Who was that after you? Where are they? English, I'll be bound, ready to hang you at last. Outlaw!"

Rory sighed. "I am so sorry to disappoint you, Father. Yes, we were pursued. No, they were not Sassenachs. Most of them were not mortal. They were demons, led by a notorious hexer."

The keeper thumped his staff on the muck-littered floor. "Balderdash!"

"Father Lachlan?"

"I'm afraid he speaks the truth, Father."

Obviously Father Murray's worst suspicions had fallen short of the mark. For a moment he just chewed, his craggy face writhing as if about to fall apart from sheer outrage.

"Shira itself diverted them and thus gave us refuge," Rory said sweetly. "I suggest you check with it before you order us out of here. Now, may I present—"

"Where's your gear, huh? No victuals, no bedding? I suppose you expect me to provide those? You think you'll empty my larder and burn up all my firewood to dry yourselves? I'm an old man to be chopping firewood while young ne'er-do-wells take whatever they fancy without thought of payment…"

The angrier he grew, the wider became Rory's smile.

"Firewood shall be no problem, Father." He waved a languid hand in Toby's direction. "The boy there will chop all you need. Food, yes, we shall be happy to take advantage of your renowned Glen Shira hospitality, and money we do have — this time." He jingled his pouch. "We shall amply replace what we eat. Now, I am trying to introduce you to your kinsman, Master Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum."

The fearsome old man rounded on Hamish, who backed away a pace and said, "Cousin?" in a thin whisper.

"Kinsman?" the keeper barked. "Not close! Neal Teacher's youngest? Very distant kin! What're you doing running with these rebel dogs, boy?"

Hamish shot an agonized glance at Rory, then at Toby. "I had to leave the glen for a while… Father."

"Fleeing from demons?"

"Er… Well, no. From the Sassenachs, sir."

"Ha!" Murray Keeper glared triumphantly at Rory. "Now we draw closer to the truth?"

"I am always truthful, Father! Last but most certainly not least…" Rory held out a hand to Meg.

As she stepped forward to the lantern, the old man recoiled with a startled cry. "A woman!" His expression of horror suggested that this was the worst news yet.

"Correct! And none other than the famous Lady Esther, youngest daughter of the Lord Provost of Lossiemouth, whose fabled beauty is the toast of Scotland. She takes after him, as you can see. My lady, may I present Murray Campbell, keeper of the Shira shrine? Do not be daunted by his rough exterior, for it conceals a natural shyness and… Oh, he's gone! Hurrying off to prepare a feast for you, I expect."

CHAPTER FOUR

With Rory barking orders, the pilgrims located another habitable cottage and set fires in both to warm them. They swept the floors and plugged the windows with makeshift basketwork shutters of ferns and branches. Rory repeatedly denounced the hermit as a slatternly miser; Father Lachlan's efforts to defend him were notably half-hearted. The only furnishings they could find were a few rotted heaps of ferns, which nobody fancied. Rory himself went off to confront the old man; angry shouts echoed through the glade. He returned with a tight jaw and a threadbare blanket for Meg.

Leaving her to manage as best she could, the men resorted to the other cottage to toast themselves and wring out their plaids. No matter that the blaze Rory had built would have roasted a team of oxen, those bulky wool garments would never be dry that night.

Toby smeared Granny Nan's salve on his various scrapes. His back, Rory informed him acidly, was one enormous bruise from the broadsword's bouncing. He could have guessed that.

Four bare men knelt around the fire, smelling strongly of wet. In the golden firelight, Father Lachlan was soft and pleated, Hamish lean as a board. Rory was all taut muscle, but the reddish hair on his chest failed to conceal a purple bruise there. He scowled when he saw Toby admiring it. Rain beat down on the trees and dripped steadily into a lake of mud in one corner. Someone yawned. Then they all did.

"Don't go to sleep yet," Rory said. "Aren't you hungry?"

Hamish brightened. "The keeper will feed us?"

"He said he would. I showed him gold and he twitched like a dowser's twig." Rory sighed and glanced sideways at Father Lachlan. "Don't judge all holy men by Murray, lads. Father Lachlan is more typical."

The acolyte sighed. "But no more worthy. He has dedicated his life to serving the spirit. Loneliness is a burden."

"He was probably nuttier than a squirrel's hole when he started!" Rory heaved himself upright. "What harm does a keeper like that do to an immortal? What twisted ways of thinking does he teach it? What dubious ethics? Tell me that!"

"The spirit has known scores of keepers and will know plenty more."

Rory did not pursue the argument. "Let's get dressed. Then we'll collect Lady Esther and go see what our host has prepared."

The others rose also and began to drape themselves in wet plaids, all moving stiffly.

"One bright spot in the gloom," he continued cheerfully, "is that Master Hamish will not be bored this winter. The Reverend Murray has never been known to give anybody anything before, but I am sure he will give his willing and industrious cousin more than enough work to keep him busy till the heather blooms. His wages—"

"I'm not staying here!" Hamish howled.

"Those were your father's orders, were they not?"

"Yes, but—"

"Must obey one's parents!" Rory said sternly. "So mine are always telling me, anyway. Here you are, here you stay."

Father Lachlan chuckled. "You're not afraid of hard work, are you? Joking apart, my son, Master Rory is right. Our mission is fraught with considerable risk. You will be safer remaining here."

Hamish turned a stare of abject horror on Toby.

Zits! Toby had given his word to the tanner, but not to the teacher. The boy was not his concern, and the men were undoubtedly right — this was no outing for juveniles. On the other hand, he had made some glib promises to Hamish himself. He had not meant them to be taken seriously, but he had said the words. Now Hamish was going to throw them back in his face. Hamish was going to appeal to friendship.

Where was honor? Where was friendship? A true friend would grit his teeth and tell the kid to be sensible about this… Hamish was not his friend, anyway. He had no friends. He didn't need friends, right? He certainly didn't need Hamish, and Hamish did not need him and his troubles, whatever the kid thought at the moment.

But a man must stand by his word, and the expression on the lad's face would make a demon weep.

"Father?" Toby said. "How many books does the keeper own?"

The acolyte looked at him in bewilderment. "I don't recall seeing any. Why?"

"In that case we may have a serious problem! If Master Campbell is deprived of books for more than two days, he starts having fits. He twitches. He foams at the mouth."

"That's too bad!" Rory snapped. "He can just foam."

"Really? When you were fifteen, Master Glencoe, if someone had told you that a stalwart young Highlander like yourself must stay out of danger by settling in here to work as an unpaid lackey for a deranged miser — how would you have reacted?"

Rory frowned, looked at Hamish, then Father Lachlan, Toby. "I'd have cut out his guts and strangled him with them! Why do you ask?" The familiar silver twinkle was back in his eyes, but for once he was smiling with Toby and not at him, seeming almost likable.

Toby smiled back. "Just curious. Why don't we go and see what's for dinner?"

Hamish beamed relief and gratitude at his hero.

The keeper's idea of a meal turned out to be scraps of stale bread, raw onions, and one boiled egg per customer. He distributed the salt himself in tiny pinches. Rory restrained his tongue, but he threw the whole log pile on the hearth and handed out a second round of onions from the net of them that hung from the rafters. Had there been anything else edible in sight, he might have pirated that, too, but there wasn't. The hermit glared murder at him.

His cottage was no larger than Granny Nan's, more sparsely furnished, and a great deal dirtier. The host sat on his own tottery chair, Meg on the straw mattress, and the others spread themselves around the open hearth. The only light came from the fire; books were conspicuously absent. The little room was thick with smoke. Toby's eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Meg sank back on the pallet and went to sleep.

The keeper clearly detested Rory, probably with good reason, and yet seemed wary of him. He was respectful to Father Lachlan, ignored the youths, and never once glanced in Meg's direction. As the urgent crunch of onions died away, though, he straightened up on his chair and demanded to know what the supplicants wanted of the spirit of Shira.

Father Lachlan looked to Toby for permission. Toby shrugged sleepily. The acolyte told the story, but without mentioning how he and Rory had become involved, or where they had come from.

Murray Campbell's haggard face reddened steadily. When the tale ended with the miracle on the trail, even that did not mollify his anger. "You have led evil to this holy place!" He sprayed spit in his agitation. "You risk even Shira itself! Four demons, you say that hexer controls—"

"I think you slander the spirit!" Lachlan said sharply. "It has already shown that it can overrule her forces."

The hermit turned a glittering gaze on Toby. "If that was its doing! But if this man is one of the hexer's creatures which has somehow managed to escape from her compulsions, then he… it… may have contrived that evasion, not Holy Shira."

His voice was deep and strident. Father Lachlan's was shrill and squeaky, yet it carried more authority.

"You argue in circles, brother. First you fear that the hexer's four demons may endanger the spirit, and then you fear that one demon is stronger than the four. I have faith that Shira is invincible here at its shrine. I do not believe this young man is possessed anyway. I am gambling my life and soul on that. Remember that Valda's army is in disarray. Two of her creatures' husks are dead, so she must soon find new bodies to reincarnate those demons, new victims. If she wishes to bring her full power to bear, she must bottle them instead, even bottle all four of them. This will take time — several days, I hope."

"And while she is doing that, she will be vulnerable to attack by the spirit," added Rory, who had been staying unusually quiet in the background.

Murray swung around to glare at him. "You must leave as soon as you have visited the shrine, my lord!"

"Oh, no! We have used up half your winter supply of firewood. My stalwart retainer there will need two or three days to chop you a replacement — won't you, Longdirk?"

Toby decided he enjoyed the rebel's humor when it was not directed at him. "I don't dare sleep, so I may as well chop wood all night."

The hermit scowled as if believing he was serious.

"I am sure you can sleep safely here, my son," Father Lachlan said. "And sleep sounds like an excellent idea."

It did indeed. Hamish's head was nodding. Toby's jaw would not stay closed. Even a wet plaid on a dirty floor would satisfy him tonight. Let the rain beat on the trees and drip through the dilapidated roofs! Let the logs crackle and smoke. He would sleep soundly if Valda danced naked round the cabin blowing a bugle…

"Wait," Rory said softly. For once the silvery eyes seemed deadly serious. "I have a question. Perhaps you holy men can answer it. But first… Tobias, you said that the woman in your dream spoke to you as a lover?"

Toby stopped yawning. He glanced apprehensively at the bed, but Meg seemed to be asleep. He nodded.

"And she called you by name, but not your own name?"

"That's correct. I can't remember what it was."

"A woman's name? Was it by any chance… Susie?"

A cold shudder ran fingernails down Toby's back and suddenly he was wide awake. "Yes! Yes, I think it was!"

Rory frowned. Everyone was waiting expectantly, even Hamish.

"Here's my question, then, Fathers. When a man is possessed, what happens to his soul?"

"It is still there," Father Lachlan said, "imprisoned with the demon."

"Always?"

Keeper and acolyte exchanged glances.

"Perhaps not always." Father Lachlan adjusted his spectacles. "I have heard of cases where the demon was exorcised but the husk remained inanimate and soon died — as if the mortal soul had gone. When that might happen, I don't know. Would it be displaced at the moment of possession, or expelled by the exorcism? I can't venture to guess. I can't even guess how one could find out. Why? What are you implying?"

"Bear with me!" Rory stretched and made himself more comfortable, raising his knees to lean his arms on them. "I shall have to tell you a story. Could 'Susie' be the name of a demon?"

The acolyte displayed signs of annoyance. "Anything could be the name of a demon — who ever speaks with them? In the lore, they are identified by the names of the places they are thought to have been collected, but I'm sure that is mostly guesswork. In common parlance, to say that you know a demon's name means that you know how to conjure it, but that is not a name in the usual sense, just the formula by which that particular demon is controlled, the words of command."

"Quite," Rory said, evidently satisfied. "Well… the story. It's quite long — perhaps it should wait until another day? No? As you please. Well, when I was a mere cub, even cuter than I am now, I was carted off south as a hostage. I know I talk like a Sassenach. I can't help it — I spent my childhood in England. That's why I hate the bast — scum… so much. Part of the time I even lived at court. I knew Lady Valda."

CHAPTER FIVE

No one said a word. The fire crackled, the trees thrashed in the storm, but no one spoke.

Rory yawned, enjoying the reaction. "Not intimately, of course, much as I… I never spoke with her, and I'm sure she didn't know I existed. I knew her only as one of the ranking courtiers and the most beautiful woman in the land. Men drooled as she went by. The palace floors were permanently soaked. The rugs rotted. Unfortunately, I was at a very impressionable age. I swear my whiskers grew in two years early because of her. You can't begin to imagine how I suffered."

"Get to the point!" old Murray growled, looming over the guests clustered around his hearth.

Rory looked up at him with bland stupidity, an effect spoiled by the golden flames dancing in his silver eyes. "Why? We have all night to talk."

The hermit stretched out his large and horny feet to toast at the fire. "Then I shall narrate the circumstances of your last visit to the spirit."

"Demons, no! Not in front of these innocent young gentlemen!" Rory did not seem very worried, though. He rose. Yawning, he stepped over to the bed and turned the free end of the blanket to cover Meg. He came back to the fire and settled again on the floor with the other three, closer to the fire than before. He grinned, admitting that he was playing tricks with them.

"All right, I'll get to the point. The point is that I was at court when Valda was banished. Now that was a very curious affair! It has never been properly explained.

"I'd spent years taking dancing lessons on an estate near Guildford, in Surrey. A group of us were brought to court at Greenwich in March 1509, to learn some civilized manners. Edwin was still king then. Edwin was a big man. Not big like our bareknuckle friend here, although he was beefy enough — big in the sense of domineering. He could be cruel and ruthless, but he was never mean. Edwin might stamp you into the ground, but he wouldn't knife you first. He was a bugle of a man — loud, resolute, overbearing. Early in his rule, he'd been suzerain for a while, and I think he did a fair job of satisfying the Tartars without grinding the peasants of Europe too badly. He fell afoul of some political infighting. The Khan deposed him and appointed the king of Burgundy in his place, but I don't think that had anything to do with Edwin's performance.

"His son Bryton was much the same sort of hard-riding, hard-wenching, crude-but-rather-likable ruffian. Another bugle, but not quite as strident. The middle son, Idris, was quieter, devious, persuasive. A violin, maybe.

"Then there was Nevil. Nevil's mother was Queen Jocelin, Edwin's second wife. There's no question she dabbled in gramarye, and it was generally assumed that she'd snared the old boy by putting a hex on him. Potentates usually keep mistresses, you see, and he didn't. When a top dog does nothing in the nighttime, that's always regarded as curious behavior. No matter… Jocelin still had a sexual glow to her, and the old rascal certainly seemed content."

Toby smothered a yawn. Everyone else appeared to be far more engrossed in this irrelevant rigmarole than he was. Hamish's eyes were big as mushrooms. He wouldn't find this in any book.

"Nevil had been absent from court for a year or so — officially studying law at Oxford, although everyone assumed that he was studying gramarye. I'm sure he was, because Oxford is notorious for it. He reappeared in the palace just a month or two after I arrived there. The value of a good school is not what you learn but the friends you make there, yes? Nevil turned up with Lady Valda on his arm. He already had a wife and child, but they were not in evidence and were never mentioned. This was the summer of 1509."

Ten years ago — Rory must be in his middle twenties now. Fair men often looked younger than they really were.

"Nevil was just nineteen, slim, dark. Valda seemed… ageless. If Bryton was another bugle and Idris a violin, then Nevil was a harp. He spoke very softly, and there always seemed to be overtones of meaning shimmering behind the main refrain… I'm getting fanciful. He was sweet and he was sinister. He was boyishly young and yet gave the impression of being well seasoned in evil. He was moonlight to Lady Valda's noonday sun.

"Valda hit the court like a charge of gunpowder. No one doubted for an instant that she was a hexer, and everyone waited to see what would happen between her and Queen Jocelin. Well, they had one thing in common — they both wanted to see Nevil on the throne. Within three months, Bryton died of a fever and Idris in a hunting accident. In January, in a fit of total sobriety, Daddy Edwin jumped from a high window and Prince Nevil was King Nevil. It really wasn't difficult at all, now was it?"

Rory glanced around. Father Lachlan nodded, everyone else looked blank. Meg mumbled and rolled over on her side, pulling her legs up. Straw crackled. Father Murray's craggy jaw clenched, but he did not turn his head. Rory caught Toby's eye and grinned faintly.

"Of course, he wasn't officially king until he had made the required visit to Sarai to do homage to the Khan and have his accession confirmed. He never did. Queen Jocelin left court within a week — probably the wisest move possible under the circumstances. The court gossiped, as courts always do. The courtiers wondered if Valda would be content to remain royal harlot or if she craved royal honors, and what would happen to Nevil's existing queen if she did. They wondered if her powers would extend to making him suzerain. They wondered what France and Burgundy would do — whenever a monarch dies, it's regarded as good manners for his neighbors to invade as soon as possible and grab off whatever they can before his successor gets settled in. Nevil was smart enough and subtle, he just didn't seem strong enough to be an effective ruler. The question was whether Valda could rule through him, or so the gossip went. Then came the infamous Night of the Masked Ball."

Rory glanced around as if to see who already knew about the Night of the Masked Ball. Everyone except Toby was nodding understanding.

"No one knows exactly what happened that night. The king did not attend the ball, and neither did Valda. In fact, Valda was never seen again. He put a price on her head the next day."

"Ten thousand marks," Father Lachlan muttered.

"That came later. It was less to begin with. Nevil himself was changed after that night, dramatically changed. Everyone noticed. Oh, he looked just the same, and he had the same gentle manners and soft voice, but something fundamental was different. He was nothing like a harp anymore, more of a bass drum. He began raising taxes, raising men, planning for war. One of the first things he did was to call us all in — the Scottish hostages his father had collected — and send us home."

Rory's face darkened and he stared at the fire for a moment. "Before we left, he made us swear allegiance at a grand public ceremony in Westminster Hall. I've told you how old I was, and I was not the only madcap youngster in the group. We agreed we were utterly determined to die rather than betray our beloved Scotland. We were going to smuggle knives into the hall, we were going leap out windows in a mass suicide… and so on. Of course none of us did anything of the sort. Nevil demanded the full Tartar obeisance, and we kowtowed and touched our faces to the floor and laid the king's foot on our heads and all that, just as we were supposed to. Well-trained dogs!"

He fell silent and continued to scowl at the embers for so long that Hamish plucked up the courage to whisper, "He used gramarye on you?"

Rory turned an eagle glare on him. "Would I admit this if he hadn't? I mean, would I ever admit he hadn't hexed me, when I confess to treason?"

The kid shriveled about three years younger, shaking his head vigorously.

Rory relented with a bitter smile. "Nine years ago and it still rankles! It didn't last, of course. Away from the source demon, hexes soon fade. Or go to any sanctuary and the spirit will take it off you. And in compensation, we were going home! We were all ecstatic at the prospect of seeing the Highlands again — at least we all said we were, but some of us had been prisoners for years and could barely remember our homeland.

"What we couldn't understand was what had come over Nevil. All those hostages his father had used to keep Scotland quiet for a decade — why was he letting us go? The court thought he'd gone crazy. As soon as we were safely home, the Highlands exploded, with every ex-hostage right out in front, screaming to enlist and prove his patriotism. The Lowlands followed. We knew what was going to happen. Everyone knew what was going to happen. It was inevitable. But Nevil knew what he was doing." He grinned. "Well, lad? Have you any suggestions?"

Again Hamish shook his head. "I don't know, sir." He was as intent on the story as a toddler hearing a favorite bedtime fairy tale.

Toby was bored. He stretched his long arms and yawned luxuriously. "Practice! Nevil's father wanted peace. Nevil wanted war. He used the Scottish campaign to temper the army he was raising. The Battle of Norford Bridge, June, 1511… it was an English training bout."

Hamish gaped at him as if he'd grown wings.

Rory laughed. "Muscles," he said, "you are acting out of character! Who told you that?"

"Don't remember." In fact he'd worked it out for himself, at the time, while the Fillan survivors were still limping home. He must have been a horribly cynical little boy to have seen that. He'd even been cynical enough not to speak such blasphemy in the glen, for he'd never told anyone.

"Well, you're absolutely right, although of course it wasn't apparent at the time. It's obvious enough in hindsight." Rory shot a reproving glance at Hamish, who shrugged bashfully. "Nevil was a different man after Valda's disappearance, and a military genius in particular. The French invaded the English enclaves in Brittany and Aquitaine. He invaded France. He didn't merely beat them back and rough them up as he was supposed to under the usual rules. He conquered France, annexed it, and had himself crowned at Reims. Then he went on to grander things. He has never lost a battle, never failed to hold a field or take a city."

"He hasn't conquered the Highlands!" Hamish protested.

"Hasn't he?" growled the keeper from his lofty perch.

Rory scowled at the fire and did not answer.

"Admit it!" said the keeper. "He has! He strangled you. Scotland has never been able to throw out the English without the backing of France or Flanders. Now Nevil rules both of them, and half of Europe besides. You have no money, my lord, no guns, no prospects."

Still watching the dancing flames, Rory said, "That's true. At the moment at least, that's true."

Hamish had subsided into horror-stricken silence.

"But?" said Father Lachlan. "If I were King Fergan, which I am not, then I might be thinking of other allies — such as the Tartars themselves." He smirked mischievously, firelight flashing on his eyeglasses.

"Dangerous talk!" Rory snapped.

"Oh, nonsense! If a peaceable old man like me can work it out for himself, then don't you think the English can? I've never heard of the Khan taking any interest in Scotland at all, I admit, but he must be getting seriously worried about Nevil."

The rebel did not want to talk about that.

"What has all this got to do with me?" Toby demanded. "Who was Susie?"

Rory turned thoughtful silver eyes on him. "Do you understand how the Golden Horde runs Europe, how government works?"

"The kings are vassals of the Khan."

"In theory. But in practice? You know the English have to reconquer Scotland all over again every few years. The Tartars haven't brought an army across the Vistula in two hundred years, and yet all of Europe still pays tribute to the Khan. Do you think the Golden Horde's hexers are so much better than ours that they do it with demons?"

"I never really thought about it," Toby admitted, shifting position. He hated being lectured at any time, and it had been a long day.

Hamish chuckled. "It's no use asking Toby about history, sir. My Pa could never beat any history into him."

"Couldn't he?" Rory studied Toby again for a minute. "Or couldn't he beat it out of him?"

The boy frowned. "How do you mean?"

"I'll bet it went like this: Teacher says: 'Strangerson, the Tartars overran England in 1244. When did the Tartars overrun England?' Horror Child says: 'Sir, I don't remember!' He does, but he won't admit it. So your Pa reaches for his birch and tries to beat the answer out of him. I would guess that, in this case, he usually lost and Horror Child won. Am I right, Longshanks?"

"No. I never called him 'Sir.'"

Rory chuckled. "And you're still not admitting you know anything, are you? The khanate runs the continent on a simple divide-and-rule system. Whichever monarch is current suzerain grows rich, because he gets to collect and remit the tribute, and he can also call on the others to make war on his personal enemies in the Khan's name. They all want to be the next suzerain, and that keeps them licking the Khan's boots. They know that as soon as the present one begins to get out of line, the Khan will depose him and appoint another.

"But now Nevil is turning the system upside down. He's deposed three suzerains and is about to start on a fourth."

Father Lachlan pushed his glasses up his nose. "I cannot understand why the Tartars haven't marched against him already."

Rory shrugged. "Because the khanate is old and decadent, probably. When they do come, they'll come like a tide. Or else they're waiting for Nevil to cross the Vistula, so they can take him on their home ground. That's when we…" He yawned. "Never mind. It's getting late, and this is an odd place to be discussing world politics."

"I thought you were going to tell us about Susie," said Toby.

"So I was, Longsword, so I was. You don't know what a palace is like. It's like a school, with one teacher and hundreds of children. Courtiers are stupid, worthless people. They're idle, useless, and bored. They live in circles, grouped around the ruler, and all they ever worry about is which circle they're in and how they can move closer to the center. Their lives are an endless game."

He shifted, leaning on his left arm and pulling his feet around. His eyes were suddenly very intent on Toby. "They have childish habits."

Toby decided he did not like that stare. "Such as?"

"Such as nicknames," Rory said softly. "Each circle, each little coterie, has its own codewords, its own signals. It's a great honor to be able to address someone of higher rank by his pet name, and of course everyone is always gossiping. The secret names are common knowledge, although just because you know that a senior minister is Wooky to his friends doesn't give you the right to get familiar. As Father Lachlan says, names can be words of power. Names are dangerous — I told you that."

"You're not telling me much now. Who was Susie?"

Hamish gulped.

Rory did not look at him. He kept his eyes on Toby and his free hand hovered close to his dirk. "Got it?"

"Suzerain?" Hamish whispered.

"Right, lad. Susie for short. Susie was the innermost-secret codeword for King Nevil. That was probably what Valda called him in bed. Your oversized friend used to be Toby Strangerson. He says he still is, but Lady Valda calls him Susie."

CHAPTER SIX

Morning came, cold and dark, rainy and hungry. The Reverend Murray Campbell hammered on the cabin wall to rouse the men and must have then found the courage to go and waken the fearsome Meg, for they heard him beating on the other cabin also.

Toby moved and groaned aloud. All his joints had frozen and all his muscles petrified. The fire had gone out. He had slept, though, slept like a boulder. The hexer had not haunted his dreams — he had been much too tired to dream.

"Breakfast first, please," said a subdued whisper from Hamish's direction. "A hot breakfast and a blazing fire and dry clothes…"

"If we are to break our fast here," Father Lachlan remarked squeakily from Toby's other side, "which I doubt — then it will not be until after we have visited the shrine." His voice changed. "We are one short!"

Toby sat up sharply. Rory was missing.

More trouble? How could there possibly be more trouble than there was already?

"I didn't hear him go. Perhaps he went to the market."

"I just hope he didn't go up to the shrine by himself!" The acolyte found his eyeglasses and put them on, looking worried.

"Is that dangerous?"

"Er… not usually. But it would be a grave affront to the keeper."

Toby did not care eggshells for the keeper's feelings, and he thought Rory was more capable of looking after himself than any man he had ever met. He shivered out of his blanket and began pleating it into day wear.

Ten minutes later, he was starting up the path to the shrine. Apparently it was correct procedure to attend to one's devotions on an empty stomach; it seemed disrespectful not to shave first, yet when he had suggested it, Father Lachlan had told him not to bother.

Rain was beating the trees harder than ever. The keeper limped ahead, leaning on his staff. Father Lachlan and Hamish followed him, deep in talk. Toby brought up the rear with Meg. Huddled in her cloak, she was just as irksomely chirrupy as she had been the previous morning, but worrying about Rory.

"He can't have gone far," she said.

"I expect he'll be waiting for us up at the shrine."

Had he wanted to ask the spirit a few private questions?

"I'm not very happy about the shrine," Meg said. "It's easy for you — you were brought up with a hob — but I'm nervous!"

Did she think he wasn't? He was scared to a jelly, but he would die before saying so. The idea of an adolescent hob was very unsettling.

"Don't worry! It isn't going to do anything. We're just going to thank it for saving us from Lady Valda and ask it some questions."

Toby supposed he wanted to hear the answers.

They walked on in silence. He could think of nothing to say. What did one say to girls? Meg's crush on him was flattering, and also very disturbing. He was not experienced in friendship, let alone love.

Meg raised her head to peer at him, blinking as the rain fell in her eyes. "Are you going to ask if you're really King Nevil?"

"I thought you were asleep."

"I heard some of it. Are you?"

"No."

"Pity. I would like to be friends with a king." She looked down quickly.

"Not that one, surely?" World traveling must already have made Toby bolder, for he added, "Don't you like me just as myself?"

"Oh! Yes… of course."

Good. What was the right thing to say next? Meg made him feel like a clumsy, lumbering ox, but if she didn't mind being seen with a man who must weigh twice — or three times — what she did, then why should he mind? She was a jewel: small and sparkly and full of fire. If he tried to say so, she would laugh her head off. Men couldn't say such things.

"When I am restored to my throne, you can be the belle of the court." Coward! Humor was cowardice. He took her hand. It was icy. She did not pull it away. He closed his great paw over her tiny fist to warm it.

"Does Master Glencoe really think you are Nevil?"

"No, I don't think so. He was just talking nonsense. It's rubbish."

But… There were buts.

Meg plodded on in silence.

"There's no reason to believe it," Toby protested. But that name, Susie… He had not told Rory that; Rory had told him. "Nobody can explain what happened between Nevil and Valda. If she demonized him, then why did she disappear? Why did he banish her?"

"Something went wrong with the gramarye. Or the demon possessed Nevil and then turned on her." Either the tanner's daughter had overheard most of the arguments, or she had been giving the matter much thought on her own.

"Maybe," he admitted. "But then why has she come back now? Why wait ten years?"

"She lost all her demon slaves and had to go hunt down more? Or she has been gathering more gramarye somewhere, learning how to restore him. I mean, she still had Nevil's soul bottled in a jewel, and she chose you to be… to… A very good choice, of course."

"Thank you." He remembered her words in the dream: See the fine young body I found for you, my love. More than the cold trickle of rain inside his plaid made him shiver. "But Father Lachlan says he's never heard of anyone being possessed by a mortal soul."

"He also admitted that Lady Valda must have forgotten more evil than he's ever known, didn't he? He wouldn't say it was impossible."

Yes, Miss Campbell had been listening! "He also said that a man possessed by a demon has superhuman powers that a man possessed by a mortal soul couldn't have."

"And you do?" Meg asked quietly.

"I… No, of course not." But he had found the way out of the bog. But he had bent iron bars to escape from the dungeon. "Even Rory had to admit that Nevil was a superlative horseman and I ride like a sack of coal." But that first time, bareback on Falcon, hurtling across country by moonlight… Too many buts. There was a hex on him, or a demon inside him. He felt soiled, unclean.

"You heard Hamish, didn't you?" he protested. "He asked me all sorts of things about the glen — the names of Dougal Potter's children, what Rae Butcher's shop looks like… I answered correctly. I'm Toby Strangerson, not King Nevil!"

But he might be both.

"Do you think I'm not me?" he demanded miserably.

"You never held my hand before it happened."

"Is that a sign of evil?"

"No. It's a big improvement!" She grinned up at him and he discovered he was smiling.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for not doing it before or sorry for doing it now?"

"Um… sorry I can't hold both of them."

That won him another smile. Her smiles were lovely.

He seemed to be doing all right.

Talking with girls was not all that much harder than talking with boys.

CHAPTER SEVEN

At close quarters, the cliff was as rotten as old deadfall, pitted with numerous holes. The path led to the largest: the shrine.

Rory was sitting on a rock just inside the mouth of the cave, munching an apple. He tossed the core away without explaining where it had come from. He ignored the keeper's angry glares, smiling blissfully. He looked well rested, but at some point in the small hours he had found time and opportunity to shave. He also looked drenched to the skin, and he had not achieved that inside a cave.

"Morning all! Fine day for a battle — wet the Sassenachs' powder. Longbones, why did you bring that preposterous sword?"

"For the battle, of course." Again Toby cursed himself for cracking jokes. The rebel would guess how nervous he was.

It wasn't just the spirit that was making him nervous, either. He had not meant to bring the sword. He hadn't even realized that he'd strapped it on his back until it thumped on his bruises. Then he'd wanted to take it off — and hadn't got around to it. He could believe he was possessed when he thought of the sword, or else that it was a demon sword and had hexed him.

Rory glanced around the group. "It's customary to make an offering. If you don't have anything suitable, I can lend you some money. That's always acceptable — isn't it, Father?"

He had addressed Keeper Murray, but Father Lachlan spoke up hastily.

"Of course. I brought a book of poems by Wilkin MacRobb."

Meg produced a small brooch. Hamish hesitated and then pulled out a tiny penknife in a leather sheath. Toby would have wagered real silver that it had been a going-away present from his mother, a hint to write often. As for Toby himself, he knew what he would offer. He met the inquiring glance blandly and shrugged.

Rory stood up. "I suggest you be our spokesman, Father Lachlan. The rest of you — stay silent unless you are addressed directly."

So spirits, unlike hobs, spoke to people?

The little acolyte seemed ominously worried, fiddling constantly with his spectacles. "Father Murray and I were discussing… We do not plan… Even if the spirit does determine that Tobias is possessed… as you know, I do not expect that… but we do not intend to ask for an exorcism, unless the spirit offers one." His smile at Toby might have been intended as reassurance but wasn't.

The implication was that a country doctor might be allowed to diagnose Toby's sickness, but treatment would require the services of a skilled surgeon in a city. Suppose the spirit decided to try its hand anyway? Did an adolescent elemental yearn to be a big, grown-up tutelary?

Rory gestured to the keeper. "Lead on, then."

Father Lachlan said, "Wait!" He wrung his hands. "Tobias, I must warn you that you may be going into danger. A spirit is not like a wisp. The wisp can be mischievous or spiteful; it cares only for its own whims. The spirit knows the difference between good and evil. It is benevolent. It means well. It looks after the glen and cares for its people. That is the problem! If it detects evil in you, then it may… It may take drastic action."

Toby felt all his muscles knot up. His fears were not groundless. He heard his voice come out very harsh: "It may protect you by killing me, you mean?" Unclean!

The dumpy little man nodded unhappily. "I do not expect this, my son, but you should know that the possibility exists. If you do not wish to enter the shrine, then we shall understand."

One morning, years ago, a little orphan bastard had called in at the tanner's shop in Tyndrum on an errand for old Mara Ford. Kenneth Campbell had been very drunk. He kept the boy there for hours, babbling about Leethoul, the Battle of the Century, how he had taken a musket ball through his leg, and how he had almost bled to death before he was brought to the surgeons. In the next few days the leg had turned black and begun to rot. Horrified, disgusted, fascinated, the boy had stayed to listen.

"They made me decide!" the tanner said, between his incoherent mumbles. "They said if they left it on, it would poison me, and I would die. They said I had lost so much blood already that if they cut it off I would probably die anyway. Then they asked me what I wanted them to do. They had a great butcher's saw there, and men standing around waiting to hold me down. Can't go near Rae's shop without seeing the saws and thinking of that day."

"And you told them to cut it off?" the boy asked, horrified.

"I did. I told them I couldn't stand the smell of it. And it still hurts! It isn't there, but I feel its ghost, and it hurts, hurts all the time…"

Now the boy was a man and it was his turn to make a decision.

Everyone was waiting. Meg and Hamish were aghast; even Rory was frowning. Murray Campbell's face was a granite outcrop.

"If I am possessed," Toby said, "then isn't a quick death the best thing I can hope for?"

Father Lachlan blinked over his spectacles. "Well, unless the demon can be removed…"

"Would it let itself be exorcised? Would it let me approach a sanctuary? I think I can walk into that cave — let me go and ask the spirit!"

"Very well, my son," the acolyte murmured, nodding to the keeper.

The keeper limped forward without a word and the others followed in single file into darkness.

Toby waited until the end, but Rory waved him ahead, bringing up the rear.

He might be going to his death. He might never walk out of this hole.

Why? Why was he doing this? Was it courage? He did not feel very brave. Or was it cowardice? Was he craven like Kenneth Tanner, who had chosen mutilation over the chance to remain a whole man? Was he just afraid to live with uncertainty, desperate for superhuman reassurance that he was only mortal?

This would be his third trial in three days. The Laird of Fillan had tried him for the murder of Godwin Forrester and found him guilty. The elders of the village had tried him for the murder of Granny Nan and acquitted him. Now an immortal would try him for the crime of being possessed.

The still air felt warmer than the wind outside. It had a dead, stony odor, but the absence of rain was a real joy. Someone, at some time, had leveled a path, which wound to and fro like a snake, gently descending into the hill. A rail had been spiked to the wall to guide supplicants; the wood was worn to silky smoothness by the rubbing of countless fingers. He could see nothing ahead except Meg's cap, which was a paler shade than her plaid. He could hear only a faint shuffle of feet and rustle of cloth. There was no echo at all. He sensed that the roof was rising and the tunnel spreading, and he decided that the walls he felt nearby were probably only fallen boulders.

He wondered how safe the roof was, and whether the spirit ever dropped rocks on unwelcome visitors.

Then the others were stopping, edging into a line abreast, silhouetted against a faint glimmer of light ahead. The path had widened into a smooth floor. He stood with Meg on his left and Rory on his right. Taking their cue from the adepts, they all knelt. The rock was flat as ice on a bucket.

His eyes adjusted with maddening slowness. The cavern was huge — far larger than he had expected. He began to make out marble columns and carvings, a strange white stonescape of incredible beauty. Curtains of ice draped the walls. Pointed pillars hung from the roof, masking the source of light, which must be a shaft leading eventually through to daylight. Other columns rose from the floor, except that there was no real floor. He was suspended halfway up the side of the chamber. Overhead hung the toothed ceiling, but downward the chamber was equally rugged, with great white fangs fringing a funnel-shaped pit, from whose heart poured even more light than came from above. It was like nothing he had ever seen or imagined. The spirit must have worked for centuries to make this unearthly abode for itself.

Somewhere water was dripping.

Meg's hand found his, tiny in his grasp. Her fingers were shaking. He squeezed to convey a comfort he did not feel.

The shelf was completely flat and level. It ran all around the cavern, sometimes wide, sometimes very narrow. It was incredibly thin — how could anything so frail even support its own weight, let alone the weight of the worshipers kneeling on it?

Water dripped irregularly: Plop… plip, plop… plop… plip, plip, plop… plop…

Suddenly the lower half of the chamber rippled in spreading circles and Toby's head swam with vertigo. He was looking at a pool, a small lake — kneeling on a shore, not a shelf. Crystal-clear water lay exactly level with it, reflecting the roof. The light from below was the light from the chimney above, bent back by the mirror.

"Great Spirit of Shira!" cried Murray's raucous voice. "I bring you supplicants, who come in reverence and good will!" He was at the far end of the line. He had drawn a flap of his plaid over his head to conceal his face. The cavern swallowed his voice without a hint of echo.

"Hear our prayers, Spirit!"

There it was. At the far side of the lake, just over the water — a shimmer. It was a mist, a shower of faint sparkles, a hint of smoke, but not unlike the hob at Lightning Rock. Toby's skin broke out in sweat and goosepimples.

"They bring you offerings!" the keeper screeched. "First, Lachlan of Glasgow, whom you know, a holy man!"

Father Lachlan tossed his book out into the pool. It landed with a splash, sending circles floating outward, rippling the phantom reflections. For a moment it bobbed and floated, and then sank in silence.

But while the surface was disturbed, Toby saw through it. The pool was very shallow, paved everywhere with ancient offerings. He saw all sorts of things: shoes, tools, candlesticks, bowls and goblets, carved figures, little precious things that worshipers had been able to bring with them and dedicate to the presiding spirit. Now they were all white stone. For centuries the immortal must have accepted offerings and preserved them by turning them into white stone to match the rest of its shrine.

The water stilled, the shiny surface again hiding the hoard beneath, but now the ghostly shimmer hovered over the place where Father Lachlan's book had submerged, as if the spirit was examining the sacrifice.

"Hamish Campbell of Fillan, a distant kinsman of my own."

Hamish's penknife made a tiny plop, sinking instantly. The ghostly glimmer of the spirit moved to inspect it. Toby could only just detect it, and he wondered if anyone else had noticed it at all. Meg did not seem to be looking in that direction.

He leaned forward a little. Staring almost straight down, he could see the bottom through the illusion of space. He made out a baby's shoe of pure white marble. What story could that tell?

"Meg Campbell of Fillan."

Meg tossed her brooch only a little way and the glimmer drifted closer.

"Tobias Strangerson of Fillan."

Now! Toby reached up and dragged the straps over his head. He took the great sword in both hands… and froze.

This is right! I must be rid of this thing before it perverts me utterly and I wreak devastation with it.

But it had been a gift… it would not be right to throw away a gift. If he was possessed, then throwing it away would solve nothing. One sword would do as well as another.

He hugged the blade and its clumsy wooden scabbard to his chest, unwilling to part with it, unable to make the effort.

This is a massacre sword. My arms and strength could do infinite damage with a blade like this. Give the terrible thing to the shrine, and it will never kill anyone again.

If he was only human, then the sword was meaningless. If he was a demon, then he could easily find another. Throwing it away would be a foolish gesture, perhaps even a deception. That might even make him relax his guard, thinking he had disposed of the problem when it was really still there. His fascination with the crude broadsword was a constant warning, and he would be safer keeping it by him as a reminder…

Plop… plip, plop… plop, plip…

Do it now! Quickly!

He raised it overhead with both hands.

Plop, plop, plop…

Sweat trickled down his face. The others must all be watching in bewilderment. How long could he hold that weight up there?

Hours, probably. The spirit… He thought it was watching him, and such delusions were the toes of madness.

Help me, please!

He heard no answer but he knew what the answer must be: Help yourself!

He swayed back to throw and again his muscles locked.

If I do not do this thing now, then I am damned!

So go ahead and be damned! Start by chopping off Rory's head. Then run Meg through and… Ugh! Demon sword!

He jerked forward, hurling the monster from him like a deadly snake. A spasm of pain almost pitched him face-first into the pool. Done it!

The sword spun across the lake, struck the rock wall on the far side, and seemed to fly apart as the scabbard broke open. Water flew up, splashing over the stone draperies and cornices. Tiny waves rushed out, lapping over the edges of the platform. Two narrow planks of wood floated, but the blade had gone.

The spirit stayed where it was, a misty glimmer hovering above the surface a few feet away from him.

"And one already known to you!" Murray cried.

Rory tossed something into the pool without taking his eyes off Toby. There was not enough light to reveal his expression.

"Accept these, their humble tokens!" the keeper brayed. "Guide them in goodness. Holy Shira, hear their prayer!"

The shimmer drifted toward him.

"Most Holy Spirit," Father Lachlan squeaked, an octave higher. "We thank you for rescuing us last night from the evil that pursued us. We thank you for giving us sanctuary here. We come seeking guidance. There is one among us who is grievously troubled."

The cave fell silent. Then:

"Lachlan, Lachlan!" said a new voice. "Why does a man of peace consort with men of violence?"

It could have been the voice of a woman, or an adolescent boy. It was soft, tuneful, appealing. It came from Father Murray, but it was emphatically not his voice. He knelt very still, head bowed, face concealed. He was enveloped in the shimmer of the immortal.

Father Lachlan grunted, and took a moment to frame his reply. "They are not evil men, Holy Shira — no more evil than others. They would gladly go home to their wives and children and be at peace, if only their enemies would do the same."

"We see," said the spirit, through the keeper. "And how do their enemies feel?"

"I think they feel the same."

"Tell us, then, why do they not do this?"

"If the English will go away to their homes, then the war will end. If the rebels go to theirs first, then the English will kill them."

"So why do the English remain here?" asked the haunting, insinuating, inhuman whisper. It might be genuinely seeking knowledge on a tricky ethical problem, or it might be trying to make Father Lachlan admit that he was supporting an evil cause — Toby could not tell.

He did not care overmuch. He had won a victory of some sort. His heart ached for that splendid giant sword, but he was jubilant at having found the strength to discard it — he was not damned yet! But why had it been such an effort? What had the others thought? What had Meg thought?

Then he realized that Father Lachlan's ordeal had ended and the conversation had turned to him.

"Let him speak for himself," said whatever spoke through Murray's mouth. "Ask us what you would know, Tobias."

"Am I possessed by a demon?"

"You are in great danger. Two dangers. The hexer and her demon host await you. She will not trespass here in search of you, but we cannot defend you at any great distance — and would not, anyway. You must go forth and face her."

So spirits were capable of evading issues? It had not answered the question.

"Will you tell me what she wants of me?"

"Your body and your soul."

No evasion there! He almost wished he had not asked. Before he could frame another question, the spirit put one of its own, in its calm, delicate voice:

"Why did you throw away the sword?"

"I could not stand the smell of it." Then Toby realized that Meg might recognize her father's words. She must have heard that story a thousand times. Too late to call them back… "Is it a demon sword?"

"No more than any other sword," the spirit whispered. "Because you gave it to us, Tobias, and because we know what that giving cost you, we shall give you in return what hope we can. We do not fully understand the ethics of the burden you bear, so we shall leave it to others vaster in wisdom. If you can thwart the hexer, which will not be easy, then your troubles will be only starting. We see no great evil in you — not yet — but the possibility is there. So is the possibility of greatness. You are a gathering storm, and we cannot tell where or how you will strike. Be resolute and true to yourself and go with our blessing."

After a moment of silence, Toby realized that the spirit had departed.

"Advise us," Father Lachlan cried, "how best we may escape the woman and her unholy minions."

There was no answer, of course. Toby began to rise. Rory grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

Toby rose anyway. "It's gone."

"You could see it?"

"Yes. Let's get out of here!" He had learned nothing of any use. He had thrown away a valuable sword to no purpose.

"It is customary to wait for the keeper," Rory snapped. "He needs to recover…"

Murray stirred and raised his head. "What did you hear?" he mumbled in his normal coarse voice.

"Nothing much!" Toby reached down and lifted Meg bodily, setting her on her feet. "Let's go!"

"Take your hands off me!"

"Fine!" he said. "I'll wait outside." He turned and marched up the tunnel.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The rain seemed less and the day brighter, but that might just be after the dark of the cave. Toby was staring out at the rain and the narrow glen when the others came blinking into the daylight. They regarded him warily, as well they might. Gathering storm…! Twaddle!

"I wish the spirit had advised us how best to proceed," Father Lachlan fussed. "But the fact that it did not shows that it has faith in our judgment."

"Or it doesn't know!" Toby growled.

"What?" The old man blinked, peering up over his glasses.

The spirit was frightened of Valda and had not answered Toby's questions because it had no answers. But to say so would just get him accused of blasphemy. Hamish had Cynic! written in his eyes.

"I promised I'd get Meg to Oban. Which way from here?"

Rory shrugged disdainfully. "Back the way we came yesterday and through Pass of Brander. The Sassenachs will still be there, I expect. Or you can go down the glen, but that takes you in the wrong direction, and you will have to get past Inverary. In case you don't know, that's the seat of the earl of Argyll, a traitor who never misses a chance to lick the Sassenachs' boots. You will be stopped and questioned."

Trapped!

"North it is, then," Toby said. "We'll try Pass of Brander at night. Come along, Meg." He stepped out into the rain and was alone. He turned.

She was standing very close to Rory with her chin up. "And suppose I don't want to come?"

What had made her so mad all of a sudden?

"Then I'll put you over my shoulder and carry you!" Couldn't they see? He had a hexer and four demons to worry about. The spirit had as good as told him he had to go and fight them. He could not keep running away. He must stop and fight — and he had no idea how to begin.

"You lay a finger on me, Toby Strangerson," Meg screamed, "and…"

"Yes?"

"Master Glencoe will defend me! Won't you, sir?"

Rory doffed his bonnet and clasped it to his heart. "My life is at your command, dear lady. I'm not sure I can defend you from Wee Willie, though — we are dealing with a gathering storm, remember. But I do have a suggestion. A mile or so down the glen lies the home of Sir Torquil Campbell, whose heart is as true to Scotland as the heather. He's also a friend of mine. I dropped in on him this morning and asked him to lay on a meal for eight hungry men. I meant us, you see, counting you as one and the Tyndrum Mauler there as four. Why don't we go and eat, and then perhaps we shall all feel a little more agreeable?"

Meg beamed.

Toby spun around and strode off down the track. Outsmarted again!

He was shortly joined by Hamish, red-faced, out of breath, and intent on leaving before anyone remembered that he was supposed to stay here.

Toby stopped at the cottages only long enough to snatch up his bundle. Common sense suggested he should wait there for the others to arrive, but he was too mad to listen to common sense.

He gained control of his temper when he reached the end of the trees and was faced with the heaviest cloudburst yet. He took shelter under a massive sycamore, leaning against the trunk to wait. At least he was no longer encumbered by a ton of scrap iron on his back.

Hamish was staring at him in solemn silence. The boy must be ill!

"So you don't want to be deputy keeper of the shrine? Where are you heading?"

Hamish bit his lip, looking uncomfortable. "Eric, I suppose. Glasgow. I can write to Pa and explain."

Toby nodded. Hamish could look after himself, which was more than anyone would say for Toby Strangerson. Why had he gone and upset Meg like that? Worse, he wasn't even sure what he'd done wrong.

"And you, Toby? Oban?"

"Not sure… I wish I knew what Rory's up to. What's his interest in me?"

"He's… I don't know." The kid looked so owlish that he obviously thought he did.

"Guess."

"I think… Did you notice Cousin Murray call him 'my lord' a couple of times last night?"

Of course. And it had been right after the first time that Rory had launched into his tale of being imprisoned in London — sons of peasants were not held hostage in Greenwich Palace. But if Toby had worked that out, then Hamish must have.

"Fergan was a hostage, wasn't he?"

Hamish shivered and pulled his plaid tighter on his shoulders. "Rory's too young to be Fergan. Fergan's thirty-two."

"How'd you know that?"

"Read it in a book of course." He lowered his voice in case the trees overheard. "You want to know who I think Rory really is?"

The other three came scurrying and slithering down the steep path, huddled against the rain. Father Lachlan seemed lost in thought, but Meg and Rory were chattering busily together. All three went by without stopping.

"No," Toby said. "I don't want to know." Hamish had not answered his first question.

CHAPTER NINE

They walked a mile and saw no sign of Valda. They saw no one. They could barely see each other — the air was thick enough to swim through. Water danced on the mud and flowed over the fields in sheets. In places the road was ankle-deep.

Sir Torquil's house was a grand affair of two stories, surrounded by a retinue of trees, sheds, cottages, barns, and horse paddocks. It stood on the right bank of the Shira, the travelers stood on the left, and the river foamed betwixt. Bloated by the rain, it was lapping greedily over some of the stepping stones. Rory had stopped to consider the crossing. Toby and Hamish arrived at his back.

"It's risen since I was here earlier," he said. "If you want to wait a minute, Meg, I'm sure Torquil will send a horse as soon as he sees us."

That was funny. The river was considerably more deadly than the one at Tyndrum and the crossing longer, but the stones were closer together and more regular. Meg Tanner could hitch up her dress and skip across there with an agility Master MacDonald had lost years ago.

Meg turned around to Toby and said, "Carry me!"

There was absolutely no accounting for women.

Toby threw his bundle to Hamish and was on the third stepping stone with Meg in his arms before it hit. She looked up at him with a grin and sparkles of water on her eyelashes. He knew there was no use asking why she felt a need to be carried. Whatever the reason, he probably wouldn't understand it. Demons, who cared?

"You weigh more when you're waterlogged."

Her grin widened. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"I'm sure I deserved it. Don't try to explain what I did wrong, though. It would waste too much valuable time." Having reached the middle of the stream, Toby stopped. He would never get a better chance.

Devilry danced in her eyes like sunlight on water. "Valuable for what?"

"Toll."

"How much?"

"A kiss, of course."

"Long or short?"

"As long as you like." Then his heart failed him — decent women did not kiss men in public places. "If you don't mind?"

"You big lummox, that's what I wanted!"

Whatever Toby might have said then remained forever unspoken…

It lasted much longer than he expected. He had believed that kisses were brief affairs. He should have picked a stone where the icy water was not running over his feet. He wondered what would happen if he swooned and fell off the boulder. Again, who cared? When it was over he opened his eyes, savoring the taste of her mouth…

"There's two of us," he said hoarsely. "Passenger pays toll for both."

"He's waiting right behind you," Meg said softly. "We've made the point."

Pity. He made a long stride to the next stone. "What point?"

"If you don't know that, Tobias Strangerson, then you are a bigger fool than you pretend to be."

Another stone, leaving only three to go. "It's not pretending, Meg. I really am a fool. Less brains than an ox."

"But more muscle."

"Don't trust him, Meg. He's rich and probably noble—"

"And handsome, and I'm only a tanner's daughter, who can be sweet-talked into yielding her virtue and then be discarded. Have I got that right?"

"No, you haven't. He is not handsome." Another stone. One to go.

"Sorry, Toby darling. Yes, he is. You turned every girl's head in the glen, but Rory could turn them back again."

None to go — last stone. Toby could think of nothing more to say, so he kissed her again. She did not refuse him, and he twisted around so that Rory, waiting on the previous boulder, would have a clear and unobstructed view. It was only when Meg broke away that he realized he had an audience on the bank as well.

He set her down on the turf and stepped aside as Rory came ashore and the welcoming committee surged forward.

He had done it. He had kissed her.

Sir Torquil Campbell of Shira must rule a minor clan of his own. He was a loud, short, broad man with a flaming red beard. The woman at his side could be assumed to be his wife, and she had flaming red braids. They had brought a retinue of men, women, youths, maidens, boys, girls, toddlers, and babies. As every one of them was loud, short, broad, and afflicted with flaming red hair of varying amounts, they must all be related. Every one of them had been waiting in the rain, while Toby…

While Toby kissed his girl! Pipe bands and drumbeats! He had kissed her!

"Master," Sir Torquil exclaimed, "er, Rory, that is! And the good Father Lachlan! And who's the bonnie lass? You'll all be coming in out of the weather, it being a touch damp now."

The visitors were led indoors and upstairs. Meg was rushed away by the women into one room, and the men directed into another. It was a big chamber, with a ceiling so far above Toby's head that he could barely have touched it if he tried, but there was not much space for five men to stand between two chairs, several oaken chests, and a real bed — complete with feather mattress and curtains and bolsters and all.

Sir Torquil had followed them in. "Doff your wet things now. There's cloths there to dry yourselves, and dry plaids. You'll not mind that, Father, while the women see to your robe, now? And I've brought a dram of something to warm you. That's a terrible bruise on your chest, Master, er, Master Rory. Was it a horse kicking you?"

"It felt like that," Rory said.

He took a long swig from the flagon and handed it to the friar, who in turn passed it to Toby. Toby tilted it, but did not swallow. The trace of whisky he got in his mouth was enough to paralyze his tongue and dissolve his teeth. Eyes watering, he passed the bottle to Hamish in necessary silence.

Sir Torquil continued his soliloquy. "You'll be putting on these dry plaids now, Master — Rory. We have no robes here, I'm afraid, Father. I don't know about your man, there. He can just wrap himself in two of these for now, and we'll see what we can find for him after you've all come downstairs and—"

Hamish exploded.

Father Lachlan rescued the flagon; Rory and Toby took turns thumping the corpse on the back until it began breathing again.

"You'd best have another drink, lad," Sir Torquil said solicitously. "Like being thrown from a horse — a man has to get on again right away to show who's master."

"Very sound idea!" Rory agreed. "Don't you think so, Longdirk?"

"Two might be safer," Toby said.

Hamish looked at them despairingly with red and weeping eyes, then manfully took another sip.

Swathed in borrowed plaids, they went downstairs to eat.

The kitchen was almost as big as the one in Lochy Castle. Sir Torquil sat at the table with his guests and the rest of the space was filled by redheads, who stood around and stared. They varied in size from wet-nosed toddlers to pregnant mothers and thick-armed laborers smelling of cattle.

The food was superb. Before every guest was laid a slab of bread cut from loaves straight out of the oven; on that were piled beans, juicy hot meat, and fresh fish. There was whisky to drink, although the fainthearted might dilute it with water if they wished. The refugees from the Reverend Murray's meager hospitality fell to with avid purpose while Sir Torquil talked — of the weather, of the ships in the loch, of reports of fighting up near Banff, of rumors that the Sassenach king had razed another town in Europe somewhere with his customary fearful slaughter. His assembled clan stood with folded arms, listening, studying the visitors, and speaking only when their patriarch addressed them.

Toby did eat enough for four, but Hamish came a close second, and the others did not skimp. If a man was going to die, it was best to do so on a full stomach. The world mellowed to a kinder, easier place. He could forget for a little while that he might be possessed by a demon, that a notorious hexer was hunting him, that the Sassenachs had probably set a price on his head, that he was responsible for seeing Meg Campbell of Tyndrum safely to Oban. What matter? He had escaped from the prison of his childhood. He was no longer Toby the Bastard, he was making his way in the world. He was going to make his name also.

Toby of Tyndrum, Toby of Fillan? Never!

Toby of the Highlands? Too vague.

"Annie," Sir Torquil told one of the redheads, "Master Longdirk needs more beef."

"Nonsense, Father! He's got more beef than I've seen in years."

Toby heard his own laugh over all the rest.

Gradually the voids were filled and the eating slowed. Rory wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, licked his fingers, and folded his arms. He refused offers of more. He began to talk, ignoring the huge audience with apparent confidence that his words would never be reported to outsiders.

"What news of Lord Robert?"

"The Campbell's in Edinburgh still," Sir Torquil said cautiously, "with his lady. Attending Parliament."

Rory did not repeat his earlier description of the chief of Clan Campbell as a boot-licker — his hosts lived only an hour's walk from Inverary. He did not parrot the usual rebel description of the current parliament as a farce of traitor puppets.

"And the master?"

"He's gone hunting up Fort William way." The caution was even more marked. "So they say."

Rory nodded. "I gave Keeper Murray money for the wood we burned and the food we ate — the most expensive meal in the history of Scotland, that was. But he'll never spend it. Would you take a load of peat and—"

"I was planning to, soon as the rain stops. I do that every year."

"Good!" Rory reached for his sporran and his host growled like a dog at a bear-baiting.

Rory smiled thanks. "Apart from that, we have a couple of problems. The Sassenachs are after my man Longdirk, there, and you have a hexer loose in the district."

Sir Torquil nodded. "Aye, you told me. Nobody's seen any strangers."

"She's around."

"Well, you're safe here."

"But we can't stay!" Rory raised a hand to balk argument. "You're close enough to the shrine that the spirit will guard you, but if we hang around, we may endanger the spirit itself."

"Like that, is it?"

"Very much so. We need to decide where to go. Father?"

The little friar blinked, suppressing a burp. "Glasgow. Master, er, Longdirk, needs to visit the sanctuary. Failing that, Dumbarton. But we must get past Inverary."

"That can be arranged," Sir Torquil said, smiling yellow teeth in his red beard.

"Then we should go by Glen Kinglas, over to Loch Lomond. Two days should do it."

Rory nodded thoughtfully. "Hamish Campbell?"

"I go with Toby, sir." Hamish was very pink, fighting an attack of hiccups.

Rory's eyes turned to Meg. "You'll be safe here."

Meg glanced at Toby and then down at her hands.

"You're a Campbell with Campbells in the middle of Campbell country, miss!" Sir Torquil thumped a hairy fist on the table. "No one will lay a hand on her here, Master, er, Rory."

Except perhaps Campbells. Toby had already registered that there were many more males than females in this household. Several young faces were displaying interest already. If Meg wanted a husband, she would have a wide selection available in Glen Shira. Why should that prospect alarm him? It was no business of his, even if she had let him kiss her. She must stay and he must go, out of her life forever.

And what of the alleged MacDonald — the MacDonald who gave orders to Campbells in the middle of Campbell country and had them obeyed instantly? The allegedly handsome smoothie?

He knew who Rory was now.

Still Meg said nothing.

Rory was looking at him expectantly.

Was he really to be allowed to make his own decision? He held the rebel's gaze for a moment while he straightened out his thoughts. He wished he were smarter. If he blundered, he would imperil not just his own life — which was worth very little at the moment — but the others' also. Meg, obviously, must not be taken into more danger. To insist on trying to protect her would be to expose her to Valda's demons. Meg would have to remain at Glen Shira, yes. It was the least of all evils.

"You heard what the spirit said, Master MacDonald." He noted the twitches of amusement in the audience. "It said I might thwart the hexer, although what that means, I don't know. I have to go out and face her. I don't fancy a life of endless miraculous escapes. If I stop running away and go on the offensive, perhaps I'll start enjoying miraculous victories?"

Rory showed none of his usual mocking contempt. "Or just stop escaping? How do you go on the offensive? You've thrown away your sword. What weapon will you use? Fingernails?"

"Boulders!" Hamish declaimed. "There's lots of battles in Scotland been fought by rolling boulders down on the enemy. Pass of Brander in…" His voice withered away under Rory's glare. "Hic!" he added quietly.

Toby sighed. "Why not boulders? I'll pick them up and throw them. Show me the Dumbarton road and I'll be on my way. The rest of you stay here."

Rory shook his head. "We'll come. We could try and find a boat to take us, of course, but not while the weather's doing what it's doing."

Toby thought about that. "No. If you're all trapped with me in a boat, you'll be too vulnerable. I'd rather walk where I can run."

"Walk it is, then. Not Miss Campbell, of course, but—"

"Me, too," Meg said quietly. "Where Toby goes, I go." She looked up, her face flushed. "He needs looking after!"

Some of the onlookers tittered, but then silence fell.

Rory's jaw was clenched. He was obviously about to exert a veto, and what the alleged MacDonald said here had the force of law.

"Yes," Toby said, "I do need looking after. Let's all go. When we sight Lady Valda, you turn back and I'll go on alone." If Meg was there, there would be less chance for heroics from any of the others — Hamish, or Father Lachlan. They would rally around Meg.

Rory drummed his fingers on the table. Then he shrugged. "We'll see you as far as Kinglas, then. Valda'll not likely try anything before that." He turned to Sir Torquil, who was looking deeply shocked. "Can you get us by Inverary without the earl's men questioning us?"

Their host smiled. "Aye, Master, I think we can that."