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

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

“Make no mistake, Purdon. You did a fine job, but your  work's not yet complete.” Campbell sipped his brandy, deep  in thought. “You'd be wise not to underestimate my enemy.  MacColla is a savage, well accustomed to dirt for a pillow.  I'd not put it past him to choose a canopy of leaves to a roof  over his head.”

“But he travels with two women. Surely they'd not bear up

for long under those conditions.”

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

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

“Witch,” he called to the far end of the table. “The woman

you summoned, where does she come from?”

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

Campbell exchanged an irritated glance with the major.

“You know not,” he said flatly.

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

“Are you quite done?” Campbell snarled.

“You forget your intent,” Finola said calmly. “Your desire  was to kill MacColla. Not this woman.” She tilted her head.

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

“Do you threaten me, woman?” Campbell's  fury boiled high  in his chest.
 
Witchcraft.
 
A sport for women and fools. He'd  chosen this path in error. This Finola was a weapon  indeed, but one with no aim. The powers of black magic  seemed haphazard, like a top set to spinning. Once put in  motion, there  was no way to control its course, its intent. “I  ask you a question and you give me nonsense in return.”

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

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

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

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

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

Finola looked around her in disgust.

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

They locked gazes for a long moment.

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

“What is that?” Campbell asked sharply. He shoved his

chair back from the table and strode to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two sights that I might see, Alasdair MacColla, come to me. An da shealladh.

That I might see.

Alasdair MacColla Ciotach MacDomhnaill,

Come to me.

An da shealladh.

Two sights soar free.

Alasdair MacColla mhic Gilleasbuig MacDomhnaill.

Appear to me.

Opening her eyes, Finola exhaled an impossibly long breath.

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

palms. She gasped.

“What?” Campbell cried. He saw nothing but black on the

face of her scrying stone. “What do you see, witch?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know not what the vision says about you, Campbell.”  Finola was maddeningly placid. It smoothed the lines from

her face and made her pale skin seem waxen in the  candlelight. “Simply that your course is no longer a wise  one.”

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

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

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

“So be it, witch.”

Chapter Twelve

He didn't understand it.  MacColla slammed the cup onto the table, sending the amber liquid sloshing. Jean's cheeks reddened and she stared, stricken, down at her stew bowl, visibly forcing herself to chew and swallow her meal. He felt bad to have upset the lass, but he couldn't stop himself.  “And you're certain he said disband?”

“Aye,” Scrymgeour replied warily, “the king's letter asked  that all Royalist battalions disband at once. He specifically  mentioned you, Alasdair. Asking
 
you
 
to disband.” he added  gravely.

“Disband… ” MacColla growled. All this talk of kings and  letters. It meant nothing. The king knew nothing of  Campbell. Knew nothing of MacColla's fight, of the wrongs  that needed avenging.

He felt a surge of anger and frustration. The world of politics churned on and here he sat with a glass of whisky and two lasses by his side, when what he really required was to face his enemy across a battlefield with naught but the sword at his back.

“Aye,” Scrymgeour said gravely. “If you continue this  feuding with the Campbell, you 'll be in defiance of the  king's orders.”

“Whatever my fight with Campbell, disbanding Royalist  forces won't stop the king's enemies on the battlefield.” He

stared at Scrymgeour across the table, the weight of his

glare something most men would turn from.

“I fight for Clan MacDonald” MacColla continued. “For land,  for honor. These are things more ancient than the king,  more ancient than Parliament, or the Covenanters, or any  of the many enemies set on bringing down Charles.”

MacColla was breathing hard,  trying to make sense of this turn of events. He would make Campbell pay for his wrongs, and fighting was the only way. If it meant he were in opposition to the king, then so be it.

He'd sacrificed much for King Charles. Fought with James  Graham against Campbell and the Covenanters, in defense of the king's own standard.

His lips twitched, face souring in anger, thinking of the countless men he'd lost. So many MacDonald clansmen, fallen.

“I'll not back down,” MacColla said.

He tilted his glass once more  to his lips. There'd been a day when he thought his service to Charles would be rewarded.  He'd thought perhaps the king would grant him lands. A title.

But to request MacColla's submission instead?

“I'll not know what he thinks,” Scrymgeour said carefully,

“asking his supporters ”-

“What he thinks?” MacColla interrupted, raising his voice.

“He's a madman. What he thinks… ”

Scrymgeour stiffened at such treacherous words.

Haley ventured quietly, “King Charles… ” All heads whirled to look at her. She cleared her throat, and tried again.  “King Charles thinks that if he can get you to disband, it would demonstrate to all his enemies that he's sincere in

his attempts at brokering a peace.”

MacColla stared at her, his eyes flat. Finally he gave her a slow nod. “'Tis too late for a peace.” And though his voice was hushed, it was cold steel. “I'll not disarm. I'll remain in arms. And if it's in defiance of king and Covenanter both, then so be it.”

MacColla drank deeply then, a great swig from his glass that he swallowed back with gritted teeth. He'd thought himself isolated before. But he'd never back down from his

fight with Campbell. If that made him nobody's ally, well,  he wasn't in search of friends. He was hunting for enemies.

He glared around the table, challenging any who would question such a traitorous move. Scrymgeour sat at the end opposite him, nervously eyeing MacColla over the lip of his crystal tumbler.

The strange lass sat across from his sister. She was the only one at the table who returned his gaze evenly. He looked at her and met a frank stare, open but unreadable.  “And you.” he barked at her. “How do you know of such things? How can I be assured you're not Campbell's spy?”

She opened her mouth to speak, and he interrupted. “Tell me about this strange name of yours.” MacColla picked the cup back up and poured himself another healthy two fingers of whisky.

“Haley.” Her voice was even. “Haley Fitzpatrick.”

“Fitzpatrick… ” he mused. “An Irish lass, is it?”

“From Donegal,” she announced, sittin g a little straighter.

“Truly, now? I've known Fitzpatricks, but I've not ever  heard such a strange name as
 
Haley
.” Eyes not budging  from hers, he took a big swig from his glass. “I'd know how  you ended up so far from home. Mistress Haley. Or is it

you were kidnapped just as my Jean was?”