Daar stopped when he realized Morgan was not following. “Hell, boy. Your own land has lines drawn on a map and marked in the woods. They’re even written in the deed you got when your brother purchased TarStone Mountain. It’s what makes things legal today.”

“They’re not borders,” Morgan said, stuffing the ribbon back in his pocket as he moved to follow Daar. “They don’t run in any line I can discern.”

“Then maybe they’re logging markers,” Daar offered next, mentally planning what he would fix with the trout. He started scanning the forest floor as they walked, looking for edible mushrooms. “Maybe they’re doing a cutting in the valley,” he absently continued. “Those numbers could be directions for the cutters.”

“No. I found some of the ribbons on MacKeage land,” Morgan countered, moving ahead to block his path, forcing them to a halt yet again. “And we are not cutting trees in this valley. The loggers we’ve hired are working east of here.”

Daar looked up into Morgan’s intense green eyes. “What is it you’re wanting that’s so important you’re letting a fine brace of trout grow old?”

“I want you to use your magic and tell me what’s happening in my woods.”

Daar lifted his cane and used it to scratch his beard. “Ah. So it’s okay to cast spells when it’s convenient for you but not me? Is that how it works now?”

Morgan’s eyes darkened. “There are rumors of a park being built in this valley, and I want to know if they’re getting ahead of themselves and presuming to start work.”

“And if they are, what does it matter?”

“I don’t want the park to be here. A quarter of this valley is MacKeage land, and I’m against selling any of it.”

“Why?”

“It’s ours.”

Daar lost hope that he was going to get breakfast anytime soon, unless they simply built a fire here and roasted the trout on spits. He sat down on a stump, cupped his hands over the top burl of his cane, and stared up at the young warrior.

“What’s a few thousand acres to you, when your clan already owns four hundred thousand?”

“They can build their park someplace else, as long as it’s not near this gorge.”

Daar finally got his mind off his belly and focused on the man standing in front of him.

Was that a faint spark he saw in those usually indifferent spruce-green eyes? Had something in this forest finally captured the attention of Morgan MacKeage?

“What’s so special about this particular gorge?”

Morgan unhooked the trout from his belt. “These,” he said, holding them up. He waved his fishing pole to encompass the forest. “This entire ridge. The stream that mysteriously appears from nowhere out the side of the mountain, cutting this gorge down to the valley. These trees. Have you even noticed their size, old man? Or their health? And these fish,” he said again, shaking them slightly. “They’re brook trout the size of salmon.”

Daar frowned as he slowly looked around the forest. Aye, the trees did seem rather overlarge when compared with the others of the area. “They are big,” he admitted. “I never noticed that before.”

“That’s because they were just like the rest only two years ago.”

That number pricked at the wizard’s memory.

“It’s when your staff was thrown into the pond,” Morgan continued at Daar’s look of confusion. “It’s the mist,” he added, waving his fishing pole again. “See? It boils up from the falls and covers this gorge.”

Daar nearly fell off the stump he was sitting on. The mist from the stream that ran from the mountain pond where his old staff lay?

Well, hell. Daar knew the water was special in that pond, since it held his magical staff, but he had never stopped to consider consequences such as this. Huge fish? Towering trees? A veritable rain forest where none should exist.

“It’s magic,” Morgan said in a whispered, almost reverent voice. “This entire gorge is the result of what happened two years ago. And I don’t want it to become part of a park.

Hundreds of people will come hiking through here and discover the magic.”

Daar stood up. “And neither do I,” he quickly agreed. “We must do something about this.”

“You’ve got to talk to Grey,” Morgan said. “And make him understand that our land must not become part of this park.”

“Me?”

“He’ll listen to you.”

“He will not. He’s mad at me right now. His wife just had some test for her pregnancy, and the blasted doctor told Grey that Grace was carrying twin daughters, not sons.”

Morgan looked startled. “They can tell if an unborn child is a boy or a girl?”

Daar shrugged. “It seems they can now.” He started walking back the way they had come, totally resigned now to missing his breakfast. He chose a path that would lead them above the falls to a ridge that overlooked the valley below. “Come on. Let’s go see just how strong my staff has grown.”

Morgan quickly fell into step beside him. “Will it tell me what the plastic ribbons are for?” he asked.

“Nay. It’s not a crystal ball. It’s only a conductor of energy.”

As they walked along the path, Daar fingered the smooth, delicate cane he had been training since his had been lost. It sported only a couple of burls so far, which indicated that its power was not yet strong. His old staff, the one Grey had severed with his sword and thrown into the pond, had been riddled with burls, carrying the strength of fourteen hundred years of concentrated energy.

“Then what’s the point?” Morgan asked. “If it can’t do anything yet, why are we climbing the ridge?”

“Hush. I’m trying to remember the words,” Daar instructed as they walked along. It was not that easy, reciting spells by rote. The last time he had tested the new cane for something more intricate than lighting a fire, it had rained dung beetles for more than an hour. He could only thank God that it had been dark outside at the time.

Surprisingly, Morgan obeyed his request, and they quickly reached the top of Fireline Ridge. Two miles behind them was the pond where his old staff lay on the bottom, and in front of them was the deep gorge that fingered its way to the vast valley below.

Daar was stunned. From this vantage point the stream’s path was blatantly obvious.

Large, lush hemlock and spruce and pine trees, draped in a mantle of mist, towered up from the forest floor in a carpet of vivid evergreen splendor.

The cane in his hand suddenly began to hum with delicate power. A warm, familiar energy coursed up his arm, and Daar closed his eyes to savor the distinct feel of his long-lost staff.

“What is it, old man? What’s happening?” Morgan asked, taking a step back, eyeing the humming cane as it twisted and grew in length and thickness.

“Here. Touch this,” Daar said, holding out his staff. “Feel it, Morgan. ‘Tis the energy of life.”

“I’m not touching that accursed thing.”

“It won’t bite,” Daar snapped, poking the warrior in the belly.

Morgan instinctively grabbed the cane to protect himself, his eyes widening as the warm cherrywood sent its vibrations up his arm and into his body.

“There. That’s what it’s about, warrior. That’s the life force. Have you forgotten what passion feels like?”

Morgan let go and stepped back, rubbing his hand on his shirt as he did. “I’ve forgotten nothing, old man. Now, point that thing at the valley and say your words. Tell me what’

s happening down there.”

Daar pointed his staff toward the valley below and began to chant his ancient language.

The burls on his cane warmed. The breeze kicked into a wind, sending the mist into swirling puffs of chaos around them. Birds and squirrels scurried for cover, and the distant roar of the falls turned to a whisper.

Daar opened one eye to peek at Morgan. The man had his hands balled into fists, his eyes scrunched closed, and his head pulled into his shoulders, his jaw clenched with enough force to break his teeth. And the poor warrior appeared to be holding his breath.