Dark Victory. Brenda Joyce

knew that Coinneach hid behind that tree.

      He slid his sword from its sheath. Well oiled and bloody, it hissed loudly in the quiet Highland morning.

      A nearby saber sang.

      The boy had drawn his sword. His thoughts were silent now. Coinneach would die fighting—a true Highlander’s death. His kin would be proud of him—and then they would seek revenge for both father and son.

      He did not care. It was the way of this Highland world. Death brought revenge and more death. The cycle was an endless one and to question it would be as purposeless as questioning why the sun rose and set each and every day. He started toward the stand of firs.

      Lightning sizzled in the blue sky.

      Macleod ignored the warning. As he was about to step into the thigh-deep water, he felt a huge power emerging behind him, almost as holy as that of the gods. The power was so immense that it enveloped him. He instantly recognized its source. Macleod tensed.

      Thunder boomed.

      “Let him live. He’s Innocent.”

      And finally, he was angered. He turned to face MacNeil, the Abbot of Iona—the man who had become his protector and guardian the day after the massacre, the man he had come to consider both family and friend. But MacNeil was not in the habit of calling at Blayde—except when he meant to harass him. “Dinna interfere,” Macleod warned, meaning it.

      MacNeil was a tall, golden Highlander with more power and wisdom than any other man, mortal or not. “Of course I will interfere. If I dinna protect ye from yerself, who will?”

      “I dinna need protection, not from ye or anyone,” Macleod said, his temper lost at last. He would never allow himself any passion during a hunt or a battle, but he was aware of Coinneach running through the forest, toward Melvaig, the hunt now ended. So he would live…only to die another day.

      MacNeil’s smile faded. “Have I ever failed ye on this day, lad?” he asked softly.

      Macleod’s tension increased. It was the anniversary of the murders—and the burials. “Ye need not come every single year. I never think about the past. I ceased thinking about the past an’ that day years ago.” It wasn’t really a lie, he thought. “It serves no purpose. I leave broodin’ to the women,” he snarled.

      “I will always come on the anniversary of their deaths,” MacNeil said gently. “Besides, the gods are impatient. I’m impatient.”

      And finally Macleod felt as if he was on firm ground again. He smiled, but without humor. “So ye say, year after year. Ye bore me, MacNeil, the way a woman does when she’s not in my bed.”

      “Ye’re as stubborn as that boy was,” Macleod said, unperturbed. “But Coinneach is cunning. Ye’re a fool. Ye survived the massacre fer great reasons! And ye heard the gods just now—in a rage over yer pursuit of an Innocent.”

      “No one commands me, MacNeil. Not even yer gods.”

      “Now ye deny yer mother’s faith?”

      He was furious, enough so that the branches on the nearby firs started waving wildly about their heads. “Dinna dare speak to me o’ Elasaid!”

      “Ye survived that terrible day so ye could become a great Master—so ye could take yer vows to protect Innocence an’ keep Faith. Most Masters take their vows at an early age, but yer over a hundred years old now. Ye can hardly delay fer much longer. An’ I’ll discuss yer mother if I wish. She must be very disappointed, lad.”

      Macleod was enraged. “Mention her again an’ suffer the consequences!”

      “I hardly fear ye…an’ I willna fight ye, not now, not ever.”

      His duty was to his father, the great William, first and always. Elasaid would understand. He had no intention of taking his vows and joining the brethren—ever. He did not mind fighting evil—he fought evil as naturally as he took women to his bed. He did both every single day. His heart might be made of stone, but his word was written in stone, as well. If he took the vows MacNeil was speaking of, those vows would rule his life. The gods would rule his life. Protecting the Innocent would rule his life. And then he would have to forgo—or even forget—his duty to his dead kin and to Blayde. And that he would not do.

      “’Tis time. Come to Iona and make yer vows.” MacNeil laid his hand upon his shoulder again. “Before yer Destiny is taken from ye.”

      “Let them take my damned Destiny,” Macleod snapped. “It would please me greatly!”

      “Ye act fourteen years old!” MacNeil exclaimed. “We both ken ye can control that rage o’ yours. Ye do so when ye hunt an’ war—ye can do so now.”

      “Ye push me more than I’d ever let any other man push me, MacNeil. I let ye do so because I owe ye still. Ye arrived at Blayde that day with yer soldiers to help me turn the enemy away. Blayde would have been lost if ye hadn’t come. Ye helped me bury the dead—ye helped me rebuild. But I watched two Frenchmen stab my father in the back. I was held captive an’ I could not go to aid him, to defend him! My mother died in the fires that day, carryin’ my brother or sister in her womb. My two older brothers died that day, fighting against all odds.” Now, the placid river was raging, racing past them. “When every MacDougall is dead, I will come to yer island and swear on yer holy books to serve the Ancients and protect Innocence. But as long as a single MacDougall lives, my duty is to Blayde.”

      “Are ye nay tired of yer endless wars? Have ye never thought of havin’ a different life—a pleasin’ one?”

      “Ye’re the fool now.” He turned and whistled for his horse, aware that it was but a short distance away, grazing in a nearby glen. He’d leaped from it to pursue Alasdair on foot.

      MacNeil sighed. “Ye’ve had yer revenge—ye’ve had yer revenge for over ninety years. No man would ever fault ye, Guy. Ye have done yer duty to yer father an’ mother.”

      “My duty will never be done.” As he spoke, he glimpsed that young boy again, and his presence infuriated him. That boy was weak and he’d failed everyone. “If ye cease yer harangue, ye’re welcome at Blayde an’ I will be pleased to offer ye wine, a woman and a bed.”

      Hooves sounded. The huge black charger came galloping up the riverbank, its eyes bright with interest. Macleod seized the bridle, then gave the animal a single stroke upon its neck.

      “Ye’ve enchanted yer horse. Yer powers are meant to be used against deamhanain an’ their lackeys, not on mortals an’ not on the gods’ earthly creatures.”

      Macleod shrugged. Shortly before the massacre—as if the gods had known he would lose his family and become laird—he had learned that he could hear the thoughts of others and bend the will of either man or beast with a simple direct thought. It was a useful power. And just after the massacre, he had found his other, god-given powers, powers that could destroy a man or a deamhan with a single blast.

      But MacNeil showed no sign of being ready to return to Blayde. “Do ye ever wonder why yer powers sometimes defy yer very will?”

      It was common knowledge that he often could not control his own powers, especially when he was angry. Even those closest to him were afraid of his errant powers and his terrible temper. “I dinna care if the occasional stone wall falls when I take an extra breath.” But he was curious now.

      “When ye take yer vows, ye’ll be master of yer powers, Macleod, but until then, they’ll escape ye when ye need them most. The gods toy with ye—a punishment fer yer refusal to obey them.”

      He had seen MacNeil use his powers, and they never failed him. Suddenly the explanation made so much more sense than his assumption that he was simply less skillful or powerful. “I have enough power, more than any mortal man,” he said slowly. “Ye should remind the gods that I never use their powers to dispatch my enemies. I always use my dagger, my sword or my bare hands.”

      “We