“Shh,” Matt whispered, reaching around Winter and enveloping her into a tender embrace as he pressed the side of his face to hers. “Don’t cry, lass,” he said, his arms tightening. “The young warrior lives. By the next morning he’s able to stand, and he binds his wound and sets out on the long and arduous journey back to his parents’ home.”

He used his thumbs to wipe her tears away, then started brushing her hair again. Most of the tangles were gone, and Matt brushed in long strokes as he ran his free hand under her hair. “He nearly didn’t recognize his old cottage,” he continued, his voice as soothing as his gentle strokes. “It was in a state of disrepair and didn’t seem to have anyone living in it. But he did find two graves out back, with the names of his mama and sister carved on two crooked crosses. His mama had died four years earlier, the cross read, his sister just three months before he’d returned. There was another board propped against his sister’s cross, with the name Kyle carved into it, along with the age of three weeks and two days.”

Matt stopped brushing, circled Winter’s neck with his hand, and soothingly rubbed his thumb over her pulse when she tried to stifle a sob. Winter didn’t know how much more she could take, yet she held herself perfectly still, afraid he would stop telling his story.

“The warrior searched the cottage for any signs that would tell him what had happened to his papa and brother,” he continued as he started brushing again. “The place was a mess. Dishes were broken and grain spilled on the floor, but he could tell it had been from neglect, not thieves. Cobwebs covered everything, so he knew no one had been home for months. Possibly not since his sister’s death.

“Then he remembered the cave farther up the mountain, about a mile away. It was where he had often found his papa when the old man would go missing for days at a time. The warrior went to the cave, and there was his papa—drunk, half blind, dirty and smelly, and raving mad. The warrior tried to get him to come home, but his papa—not even recognizing his own son at first—refused. So they lived in the cave for nearly a month together while the warrior healed and the old man continued to tell his crazy, fantastical stories.”

“W-what kind of fantastical stories?” Winter whispered.

Matt gave her hair a soft tug. “Be patient, lass.” Instead of the brush, he started running his fingers through her curls. “The warrior did learn what had happened to his brother,” he continued. “Not a year after he had left home, his younger brother had also left in a fit of anger. He’d gone in search of another clan to live with, since everyone in the nearby village considered the whole family odd and shunned them.”

“He could do that?” Winter asked, trying to turn to look at Matt. “He could just go join another clan?”

Matt held her hair to keep her facing forward. “It wasn’t uncommon to move between clans back then. Remember, this was very long ago, Winter. Long before even your papa’s time. So,” Matt continued. “Our young warrior stayed with his father until the old man simply didn’t wake up one morning. He buried his papa next to his mother and sister and nephew, then burned their old cottage and raked the ground clean until no evidence remained that it had ever existed. He even disguised the graves before he set off to find the only remaining member of his family.”

“But why burn the house and disguise the graves? What was he hiding?”

“His heritage,” Matt said simply. He pulled her back into his embrace, leaning against the wall and folding his arms over hers just under her breasts as he stretched his legs along either side of hers. He used his chin to urge her to lay her head back against him, then continued.

“You see, the old man’s ravings finally made sense to the warrior after hearing them over and over for weeks. It seems his papa was the son of a drùidh who had married a guardian.”

Winter gasped, and Matt held her tightly when she tried to sit up. “Aye,” he said before she could speak. “My grandparents had been destined to serve Providence, but they chose love instead. So they married and lived in the same cave my papa had died in,” he continued, relaxing his grip when he realized she was staying still. “My drùidh grandfather’s powers were lost with my papa’s birth, and wouldn’t appear again until the next generation, in me.”

“But Robbie had a baby and didn’t lose his powers,” Winter quietly pointed out.

“It’s not the same for guardians. Guardians live a normal human’s lifetime, then move on to become mere helpers. MacBain’s pet owl, Mary, is an example of this. She was Robbie’s mother, and can help him in his guardian duties, but she can’t actually affect the physical world.”

“You know about Mary?” Winter whispered.

“Aye. We’ve met, mostly eight hundred years ago, when she was trying to help MacBain steal my tree.”

Winter stiffened, and Matt tightened his embrace and kissed the top of her head. “He brought back the tap root only because I wanted him to, Winter,” Matt told her. “Because I needed my energy to be brought forward. Along with Kenzie,” he added.

Winter stiffened again. “You said you wanted me to help you kill him,” she whispered, tilting her head back to look up. “I won’t. I can’t.”

Matt used one hand to gently ease her to face forward again. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story, or argue about something you know nothing about?”

She let out a deep sigh. “Continue,” she softly growled.

Matt chuckled and dropped his mouth beside her ear. “So once I had wiped out any trace of my family,” he softly continued, “I pointed myself north and started walking to where my papa believed Kenzie had gone. It took me over three years to reach him,” he said, looking across the cave, seemingly amazed by that fact himself. “I kept getting waylaid by wars,” he explained, his attention coming back to her. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that before my papa died, he told me where my grandfather’s staff was. It was buried deep in the back of the cave he had been living in since he’d buried Fiona’s babe beside her.”

“W-what did her baby die of?”

Matt shrugged, shrugging Winter with him. “Neglect, most likely. My old man didn’t know anything about bairns. And he certainly wouldn’t know he couldn’t feed raw cow’s milk to a newborn.”

“Before he died, did your papa explain why you had to live away from people?” she asked.

“Aye. He kept our whole family isolated in the hopes of protecting me from my destiny. He knew that if I took up my calling to become a drùidh, bonding with people would cause me to grow bitter as everyone I cared for died but I kept on living. It’s what his own parents had told him would happen, and that he should discourage me from taking that path.”

Winter frowned at the opposite wall. “But you did take it. You became a drùidh.”

His arms tightened again. “Aye. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Daar told me we all have a choice. That we have free will to follow either Providence or our own path. Your grandparents chose their own path, so why didn’t you have the same choice?”

“Are you going to let me finish my story?” he growled.

Winter snapped her mouth shut.

“I finally found Kenzie after three years of hunting for him, but I was nearly too late. He was in the midst of a raging battle between two powerful clans, and his clan was being slaughtered. I almost didn

’t recognize him, since Kenzie had only been thirteen when I’d run away from home. And when I did finally fight my way through the battle to reach him, he was covered in blood. My first hope was that the blood belonged to his enemy and he was only stunned by the blow I’d seen him take.” Matt’s arms squeezed her tightly. “But Kenzie was mortally wounded, his guts spilling from a gaping hole in his belly.”