The wood immediately caught fire.
“I’ll be more civilized if you toss one of those trout to me,” he said then. “Ignore the beast, and whittle some spits to roast our breakfast on. A man could starve to death in your company.”
It took Morgan another good minute to move. Finally, satisfied that Faol was more intent on guarding his trout than on eating the two of them, Morgan sheathed his sword and drew out his dagger. He stripped a maple sapling of its leaves and fashioned two intricate circular spits, skewered the three remaining fish, and walked over to the now crackling fire. Not once throughout his chore did Morgan take his attention off the wolf.
“Will you lend me your dagger, please?” Daar asked, once the trout were roasting.
Morgan studied the hand held out to him. “What for?” he asked, darting another brief look at Faol.
“I’ve a chore that needs doing while breakfast cooks.”
Obviously reluctant to give up his weapon, considering he was within lunging distance of a wolf, the Highlander hesitated.
“He’s more intent on eating the trout than us,” Daar assured him, still holding out his hand. He grinned at the warrior. “Or is it me you’re afraid of arming?”
He was answered by a green-eyed glare strong enough to turn a man into stone. Daar had a moment’s concern that true passion in this warrior might very well turn out to be a dangerous thing for anyone on the receiving end of it.
Morgan finally handed his dagger to Daar, then quickly drew his sword and laid it across his knees. Faol lifted his head at the motion.
“Have you noticed his eyes?” Daar asked, using the dagger to point at Faol. “And the way he cants his head slightly to the right? Does he not seem familiar to you?”
Morgan’s and Faol’s gazes locked, each seemingly determined to outstare the other.
“No,” Morgan said, not breaking eye contact. “He’s just a wolf.”
Daar sighed and set the sharp blade of the dagger to the small burl in the middle of his cane. Morgan had been only a lad of nine when Duncan MacKeage had died. And nine-year-olds had no time for noticing things like the color of their fathers’ eyes.
“What are you doing?” Morgan asked, his attention suddenly drawn from the wolf when he realized that Daar was using the dagger on his cane.
“I’m thinking you should have some help as you set out on this path you seem determined to travel,” Daar said, prying at the stubborn knot. The cane hissed in protest and started to vibrate.
“I want nothing to do with your magic,” Morgan said, quickly moving back to tend the trout. “Keep your precious cane intact. You need its powers more than I do.”
Daar ignored Morgan. His snarling cane was trying to scorch his hand as it twisted and sputtered to avoid the blade of the dagger.
Faol whined and stood up, leaving his trout and backing away toward the woods.
Morgan also stood, his sword at the ready in his hand. He, too, began moving toward the safety of the forest.
With the deep roar of a wounded animal, the burl suddenly popped free of the cane and rolled across the forest floor, igniting a path of snapping red flames. Faol yelped and disappeared into the woods. Morgan grabbed Daar around the waist, lifted him off his tree stump, and pulled him into the forest. They stood together behind a giant spruce and watched as the angry knot of wood rolled around in frantic circles, spitting and hissing a rainbow of sparks.
“Are you insane, old man?” Morgan whispered. “You shouldn’t piss off the magic.”
Daar wiggled himself free of Morgan’s grip and walked back to the stump. He picked up his now maimed staff and stroked it gently. “Give me that cord from around your neck,” he told Morgan as he soothed his trembling cane.
“Why?”
Daar looked up. “Because it’s time you let go of that pagan charm. It’s been a worthless crutch and does nothing for you.”
Morgan grasped the stone at his neck. “It’s been with me for years.”
“Old Dorna was not a true witch, Morgan. See her here today, alive and practicing her black magic? The old hag is eight hundred years dead. She preyed on simple-minded men and desperate women for her living. The stone is useless.”
“I am not simple-minded.”
“Nay. But neither are you quite ready to let go of your old beliefs. Have you learned nothing in six years? This thing called science has disproved what Dorna practiced and what you call magic.”
“Then how does science explain you?”
“It can’t. Nor will it ever. Some things must simply be accepted on faith.”
The Highlander did not care for that explanation, if Daar read his expression correctly.
Morgan gripped his amulet protectively, then finally tore the cord from around his neck.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Daar.
The wizard let the smooth stone slide free and fall to the ground. “Hand me that burl, would you?” he asked, using his cane to point at the now silent knot of cherrywood.
Morgan paled. “You pick it up,” he whispered.
The burl was sitting against a rock, softly humming. With a sigh of impatience, Daar pushed himself off the stump and picked up the burl. He closed one eye and squinted the other to thread the rawhide cord through the burl.
“There’s no hole,” Morgan said, coming up behind him. “You can’t push a soft rope through solid wood.”
The rawhide smoothly slipped through the swirling cherrywood. Daar quickly knotted the cord and turned to Morgan.
The warrior stepped back, holding up his hand. “Keep that thing away from me.”
“It won’t bite,” Daar snapped. “Now, lean over so I can put this around your neck.”
“I said I don’t want your magic.”
“And I’m thinking the time will come when you will need it,” Daar countered. “If not for yourself, think of the valley. And the yellow light. Remember? The blackness was consuming it.”
Daar pointed at Morgan. “And although you may have survived your journey six years ago, there’s no saying you’ll survive this one. You are a fierce warrior, Morgan MacKeage. But hear me well. You are not invincible. The blackness is a powerful life force void of goodness, compassion, or conscience. It will devour anything that gets in its way—you, the yellow light, and eventually this whole valley if it manages to get past you. This small piece of my cane will be your greatest weapon against it.”
It took the warrior some time to digest Daar’s words. Finally, Morgan leaned forward and bowed his head, allowing the wizard to place the cord around his neck. Daar then centered the burl over Morgan’s chest as he straightened.
“If you want this to work, you’re going to have to give it your faith,” Daar told him, stepping back to admire his gift. “And your intelligence. This burl is not strong by itself.
You must discover the best way to add to its strength.”
Standing as still as the mountains themselves and holding his breath again, Morgan scowled at him. “How—” He swallowed hard. “How do I do that?”
Daar waved his question away. “You’ll figure it out when the time is right.”
He handed Morgan back his dagger. As if afraid any quick movements would fry him on the spot, the warrior carefully held out his hand and took his weapon, then slowly placed it back in his belt.
“Oh, one more thing, Morgan. You’re not to whisper even a hint of what’s happened here today. Especially not to your brother. Not one word about the unusual state of this gorge, your vision, or my special gift to you,” Daar said, pointing at the burl. “I don’t want Greylen knowing that any part of my old staff still exists, and I surely don’t want him knowing that my new one is gaining strength.”
The first hint that Morgan was beginning to relax appeared when one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “You have no worry I’ll tell anyone about this, old man.”