Page 10 of Highland Fire

“That could be naught but simple chance, a guess, a suspicion.”

“’Tis much stronger than that. I can see things in my head, but they arenae truly visions. They are more the images born of the certainty that grips me so tightly. The day of the murders I have been accused of committing, I kenned that my two friends were doomed. Even as I hurried to warn them I was certain I would be too late. I could see them dead. In my mind’s eye, I could see them murdered. I ne’er have the time to change what is fated, but, that time, the forewarning allowed me to save myself from falling into my cousin’s trap.”

Moira was not sure what to think about his confession. A part of her scorned the idea of forewarnings, but an equal part of her believed in them. Since she had a strange gift, why could he not have one as well? She was certain, however, that she did not like his particular gift, whether it was fact or just some delusion of his.

“If ye are right and if ye arenae jesting with your foolish talk of marriage, ye have just given me another good reason to refuse to be your bride. Besides the fact that ye are condemned to hang, of course,” she added.

Tavig stopped and looked at her, hurt that she, like so many others, could not accept his strange talent. “Ye are afraid, just like all the others.”

“Fear, and whether I believe ye or not, has little to do with it. Look at me.” She pointed to her hair. “Did ye not happen to see what color my hair is? ’Tis red.”

“Aye—a glorious red. Bright yet not too bright.” He stepped closer, running his hand down her long, thick braid. “A silken curtain of fire. Warm, soft, and of a hue that greatly compliments ye.”

She was touched by his flattery and pleasantly unsettled by his nearness, but struggled to keep her mind on what they were discussing. “Dinnae ye ken what is said about red hair? ’Tis the sign of a hot-tempered and choleric disposition. They say ’twas the color of Judas’s hair, ’tis the color of a dissembler. A red beard is a token of a vile and cruel disposition. Red is a witch’s color. Many believe redheads are witches, fit only for burning. If ye and I were to wed, we probably wouldnae live out the year. Someone would surely cry us witches and set us alight.”

“Burned as witches?” He almost laughed, relieved that her horror had not been aimed at him, but caused by the thought of all the difficulties such an odd gift could bring them. “I have had this foresight for my whole life, as no one has yet piled kindling about my feet.”

“Weel, mayhaps those whom ye abide with can either accept or avoid ye. They treat me the same way. Howbeit, to put the two of us together could easily be more than anyone could endure.” Especially when it is seen that I, too, have an odd talent.

“Nay, ye worry o’er naught.”

“I do, eh? Are ye saying ye ne’er had anyone who learned of your skill cross themselves or make the sign to ward off evil? Would ye have me believe no one has decided to have as little to do with ye as they can?”

He grimaced as some painful memories of just such reactions passed swiftly though his mind. “There have been a few.”

“A few? Ye try to hide the truth, but it cannae be ignored. Ye ken that truth as weel as I do. I have suffered the looks that silently cry me a witch or touched by the hand of the devil. I have had folk avoid me because they feared such superstitions were fact. I have e’en had an old woman cluck o’er how thin I was, o’er how little fat there would be for the taking when I died.”

“Fat? What is so important about your fat or lack of it?”

“I would have thought a mon with your gift would be weel aware of each and every superstition held by those around him. The fat of a dead redhead is verra useful in potions.”

“That is utter nonsense.”

“Of course it is, but the fact that what they believe is utter nonsense has ne’er stopped people from believing it. A part of me says that your claim of foreseeing is utter nonsense, but another part of me believes it and is frightened by it, and I consider myself a verra reasonable person.”

“It frightens ye?” He frowned as he studied her, regretting his confession. The very last thing he wished her to feel for him was fear. “There is no need for ye to be frightened.”

“Nay? I would wager that it frightens even ye at times.” She nodded when a light color flooded his dark, high-boned cheeks. She knew better than most how the fear of one’s own gift could grip one from time to time. “No one likes the idea that someone can see what will be. There is a great debate o’er whether such a thing is a gift from God or the work of the devil. It could be considered a curse, and that must mean ’tis the devil’s unholy work. Howbeit, ye claim it has saved your life and it certainly helped ye save mine, so that must mean ’tis a blessing that makes your foresight a gift from God. Sadly, we both ken that many folk will see anything that they cannae understand as the devil’s work.”

Tavig cursed softly, running his hand through his hair. “I dinnae wish ye to fear me because of it.”

“Weel, I dinnae verra much. It but makes me uneasy. If I was to fear ye, it wouldnae be for that, but because ye are a condemned murderer.” Even as she said it Moira knew that she no longer believed he was some vicious killer.

“I didnae kill those men,” he snapped and started to walk again, tugging her after him with a touch of force. “I could hear their screams,” he said softly, his rapid pace easing as his annoyance died beneath the numbing weight of painful memory.

“Ye were that near to them when they were murdered?”

“Nay. I could hear the screams in my head. ’Twas part of my foretelling of their death—those pain-filled, horrible screams. I was a day’s ride or more away, too far away to stop their slaughter. They were hung from a tree by their bound wrists and gutted like newly killed deer. God alone kens how long they must have suffered ere they died.”

Moira felt slightly ill over the thought of such a cruel, savage death. Tavig’s “gift” was far worse than her own. She could at least comfort herself with the knowledge that she had helped people, had eased their pain.

“And ye found them like that?” she asked.

“Nay. I was halted not far from them by a friend. He warned me of the trap that had been laid for me. My cousin Iver was trying to use my gift against me, to use it to snare me. He was sure that I would, weel, see the deaths of my dear friends and ride to them. He was waiting there with a few men-at-arms to grab me.”

“Ah, and claim that ye were caught with bloodied dagger in hand.”

“Just so. Avoiding the trap didnae save me, though, neither from seeing my friends hung up like rotting game nor from being accused of their foul murder.” He grasped her by the waist, easily lifting her to the top of a stony rise then hopping up after her. “I was caught, dragged before the corpses of my friends to see what I was being accused of, then tossed into the pits of Drumdearg.” He clasped her by the hand again and led her along a slowly rising sheep trail.