Page 80 of Highland Fire

“Weel, no sense in running away and trying to hide now. Your secret is a secret no longer. Come along, I am sure Tavig will be looking for you.”

Moira sighed, knowing she had to speak the truth. Somehow she did not believe Mungan would stop her no matter how much he disagreed with her choice. What she had to do was insure that Mungan did not tell Tavig she was leaving, at least not until it was too late for Tavig to stop her. Although, she mused sadly, Tavig might not even try to find her after she dealt him a two-edged insult—lying to him by keeping her skill a secret and then deserting just as he celebrated his victory.

“Mungan, ye must promise me ye willnae say anything to Tavig,” Moira asked.

“Aye, I swear it. What is it I am not supposed to say? If ’tis about your gift, there is little use in tying my tongue. Too many others are clucking about it.”

“Nay, ’tis not about my secret. I am leaving Tavig.”

“Leaving him—why? Have ye been knocked in the head, lass? Ye arenae making sense.”

“I am making perfect sense.” She succinctly related all of her reasons and almost smiled at his glowering look.

“If ye kenned all this from the start, why did ye marry him?” Mungan demanded.

“So ye would stop being such a crazy fool and do as ye really wanted to—marry Una.” She was a little surprised when Mungan responded to her tart remark with a wide grin.

“Methinks ye arenae as weak as I first thought ye were, either. Weel, I think ye are wrong to leave,” he added, growing solemn, “but ’tis not my place to try to stop you. Dinnae ask me to help, though.”

“Nay, I wouldnae. Ye need not worry about that tower house, Mungan. I would never let it fall to your enemies.”

“Oh, I dinnae worry about that at all.”

Moira frowned as he walked away, tugging a confused Una with him. She felt a little confused herself. The clash with Mungan had been too brief, too easily settled. It roused her suspicions. She readily recalled how often Tavig had referred to Mungan as sly. Deciding she might not have much time left, she hurried to the stables.

Tavig frowned, tugging on a clean shirt as he listened to James and Robbie relate the tale of the attack in the wood. He had only been half listening to the youth for, with the help of a page, he had been washing off the worst of the dirt and blood gathered during the battle. When they excitedly told him how Moira had helped Malcolm, he sat up, his whole body tensing with a mixture of disbelief and growing anger. Healing hands? They had to be drunk.

“Moira touched the lad and took his pain away?” he demanded.

“Aye,” answered James, eyeing Tavig warily. “She put her hands on his arm, and the pain left him.”

“Are ye sure she didnae just put some salve on him?”

“Nay. She had already tended his wound, dressed and bandaged it. We even asked if she had the gift, and she said aye, didnae she, Robbie?” His friend nodded, his thin fair hair falling into his face. “I thought ye kenned it,” he added a little weakly.

“Nay, she ne’er told me.”

It was easy to tell by the nervous, wide-eyed looks on the youths’ faces that he had nearly spat the words at them. Tavig fought to control his anger. His conversation with the boys had been overheard, though, and others rushed to tell him of Moira’s skill. As they talked, he recalled the time in Craigmoordun when his aching head had so rapidly faded away. She had been lightly touching his forehead as he had woken up. He cursed himself for a fool for never guessing.

He caught sight of Mungan and Una approaching the table and, somewhat abruptly, waved away a few men, silently commanding them to give up their seats at his side. There was a look on Mungan’s dark face that Tavig recognized. It was reminiscent of their childhood. Mungan was filled with the knowledge that he had information Tavig did not. The trick would be to get that information out of Mungan. Tavig was sure it had to do with Moira.

As Mungan sat down, pulling Una down beside him, Tavig was seized with an odd, chilling feeling. The images that filled his mind confused him. He stood on the walls of Drumdearg and watched himself ride away. The wider the distance grew between his two selves, the emptier he felt. It was as if he were being torn in two, all the essence of his life leaving him, the figure on the wall becoming little more than an empty shell. When he realized that throughout the vision he could smell Moira’s delicate scent and that the image of himself riding away had copper hair not black, he suddenly understood. Moira was leaving.

“Where is she?” he demanded of Mungan.

“Where is who?” Mungan asked, sipping at his ale.

“Dinnae play games with me, Cousin. I ken she is leaving. I have seen it. Is she still within reach, or must I saddle my horse and run her down?”

“Weel, if ye go to saddle your horse ye willnae have to go much farther. I left the lass but a few moments ago, and she was headed for the stables. I doubt she kens how to saddle a mount.”

“Mungan,” Una protested, “ye said ye wouldnae tell him anything. Ye swore to it.”

“I swore I wouldnae say anything. I didnae swear not to answer the mon’s questions.”

“Oh. Oh.” Una took a deep breath and finally said clearly, “What deception.”

“Aye, ’tis a good one, isnae it?” Mungan winked at her before turning his full attention back to Tavig. “That lass of yours has some verra odd ideas in her bonnie head.”