“Two weeks?”

Daar nodded. “This won’t be resolved in one trip. Tonight you’ll look over the situation, then decide the best way to proceed. Take off those modern clothes,” he instructed, going over to the boulder and picking up a length of cloth and a wide leather belt.

“This is my MacKeage plaid,” Daar continued, holding it out to Robbie. “From when I lived with them in the old days. It should help ya move around inconspicuously. Ya do remember your Gaelic, don’t you?”

Robbie stiffened. “You’re not coming with me?”

“Nay. My presence would be known immediately.”

Robbie hesitated, then finally slid his pack and sword off his shoulders, shrugged out of his coat, and started unbuttoning his shirt. “How will I recognize this tree?” he asked, unbuckling his belt.

“Ya can’t miss it,” Daar assured him. “It’s larger than all the other trees, gnarled with eons of wisdom, and carries the mark of itsdrùidh, Cùram.”

Robbie went utterly still. “Thedrùidh is a guardian?” he whispered, obviously recognizing the Gaelic title.

Daar snorted. “He’s a lot of things, including a blackheart and a tricky bastard. That’s why ya must look the situation over carefully and not rush into anything.”

“How old is this Cùram?”

“He’s a young man like yourself,” Daar told him as Robbie pulled off his boots and stepped out of his pants. Daar sucked in his breath at the sight of the imposingly naked warrior. “This just might work,” he whispered, handing him the plaid.

Robbie stopped wrapping the cloth around himself and raised an eyebrow. “You have doubts?”

“Nay,” Daar said quickly, holding out the belt. “Only worries. I know you’re well trained, Robbie, and highly motivated.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Ya can take Mary with ya, if ya want.”

The young warrior looked off to his right at the snowy owl sitting on one of the boulders not a hundred yards away.

“She doesn’t much care for you,” Robbie said, looking back at Daar. He shook his head.

“I’ll not put Mary in danger.”

Daar snorted. “That blasted bird can take care of herself.” He canted his head skyward.

“In fact, she might enjoy a chance to see your papa’s homeland.”

Robbie wasn’t paying him any mind but had walked over to the snowy and was holding out his hand. Mary opened her wings and hopped onto his arm.

Robbie returned and pulled his sword from its sheath. “How do I get back here?” he asked. “And when? You mentioned sunrise. Does that mean I have only twelve hours in the past?”

“Nay. Ya might be days in the old time. But,” Daar said, cutting him off before he could argue, “it will only be the length of one night in this time. No matter how long you’re gone, you’ll always be back by sunrise.”

Robbie nodded and turned to the setting sun. “How are your planets looking now, priest?” he asked.

“They’re ready for us to begin. Here,” he added, holding out his hand. “Take this cherrywood burl from my staff. When ya’re ready to come back, grasp it in your fist and merely will yourself home.”

Robbie took the knot of wood, looked down at himself, and laughed. “No pockets,” he said, looking back at Daar.

“Tuck it in your belt. Are ya ready?”

“Not quite,” Robbie whispered, turning to face him. “If something should go wrong… if I don’t come back, I want your promise you’ll tell my father and Greylen what’s happened. And promise you’ll give them the chance to stop your spell from sending them back.” He stepped closer. “They have the right to fight for their lives, even if it means they die trying.”

Daar clutched his staff to his chest and nodded.

“And tell my father about the woman on West Shoulder Ridge.”

Daar nodded again.

Robbie stepped away, tucking Mary against his chest and covering her with the hilt of his sword. “Then do it now, priest!”

Daar raised his staff, closed his eyes, and began chanting his spell to move matter through time. He implored the elements to gather into a collective charge, coaxing the churning energy into the tip of his glowing staff.

A rolling darkness swept over the mountain, sparked with flashes of blinding light and thunderous heat. The wind rose, howling in protest of the unnatural happening.

Daar pointed his staff at Robbie. Fingers of energy arced toward the warrior, sending tendrils of pulsing colors around him, the air screaming at the disruption of time.

“Godspeed, MacBain!” Pendaär shouted, bracing himself for the final jolt as the storm tightened smaller and smaller.

The blow came in an angry boom, shaking the mountain, cascading pebbles and displacing boulders in a deafening growl.

And as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. A peaceful silence returned, and dusk softly blanketed the mountain. The sun was set, winter abandoned to the first night of spring. And Daar could only stare, clutching his spent staff to his chest, at where Robbie had stood.

“Aye. Godspeed,” he whispered.

Chapter Four

Robbie spotted thelow-hanging branch just in time to avoid getting his head knocked off. He ducked without breaking stride and scrambled down the bank to the stream, catching himself from falling by using his sword like a cane.

Mary called from somewhere upstream, her piercing whistle carrying through the dark forest in urgent echoes. Robbie splashed into the frigid water, slipping on the loose rocks, falling once and stubbing his bare toe on a piece of ledge.

The breaking limbs behind him sounded like gunshots as the four warriors closed in, their battle cries filling the night air with menace.

Robbie wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his sword hand, pressed his right hand more firmly against his throbbing side, and sloshed out of the stream and up the opposite bank, breaking back into a run.

He’d quietly been going about his nightly business of searching for Cùram’s tree when the attack had come, unprovoked and completely unexpected. The chase had been going on for over three miles now, and Robbie didn’t know if the ambushing bastards were merely out for a night’s sport or if they truly were as inept as they appeared. Either way, he was reaching the end of his strength, and if he didn’t turn and fight, the chase itself would likely kill him.

He stopped on a clearing of ledge and turned, planting his feet and lifting his sword, preparing to skewer the first man who broke through the trees.

He heard them floundering in the stream, heard them curse, then heard two separate shouts and a loud splash.

Robbie pulled his right hand from his side and rubbed his fingers together to see if the blood was congealing, then looked down at the deep gash on his hip, squinting to see it in the stingy moonlight.

Dammit, one of the ambushing bastards had tried to slice him in half and might have succeeded if Robbie hadn’t knocked his sword away just in time. He took a deep breath, tightened his belt to add more pressure to the wound, wiped the blood off his palm on his plaid, and used both hands to steady his sword.

Mary called again. Robbie looked up and saw the snowy flying through the trees toward the stream.

“Nay!” he shouted in Gaelic, automatically speaking the language he’d been using for the last three days. “You will not be part of this game, little one,” he said quietly, knowing she could hear him.

He stepped back into the forest, just off to the side of the path he’d made, and hid behind a large oak. Hell, if it had worked for the ambushing bastards, it could work for him.

The first warrior broke into the clearing, and Robbie let him pass unchallenged. The second and third men, both dripping wet, also ran by. Robbie stuck out his foot, tripping the fourth bastard, then used the flat of his sword to propel him into his comrades. And with a battle cry of his own, he sprang toward them, his sword aimed at the downed warrior. He checked his movement at just the last second, piercing soft skin and slicing upward until the man screamed in pain.