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swung his legs over the side of the bed. Ranald was there in a trice, cursing him for reopening wounds.
    “Send word to Lord Diarmid that she is mine to punish. Tell him I live and will be very angry if he takes my right to punish the one who sought to end my life. Very angry,” he said, putting his foot on the floor.
    “My lord, you are not strong enough to leave your bed.” Ranald tried to block his way. “Is your sight restored?” he asked in a whisper, so that no one else could hear.
    “Nearly. Enough for me to find my way down the halls, searching room by room, until I discover where she is.”
    There had been many tests of wills in their past, and he’d won every one, even at great cost, so Ranald knew the outcome already. He backed away and bowed.
    “Stay, rest, while I speak to Lord Diarmid.”
    Connor sank back on the bed and nodded. Truly, he did not have the strength to leave his bed, let alone his chambers. Once his head fell back onto his pillow, he lost consciousness once more.
    Shadows shifted in his chambers, and whispers floated around him. Connor tried to focus his thoughts and open his eyes, but with his strength gone from the last contest, he could only lie in silence. It was possibly another day before he roused and felt clearly awake. The light, from both the braziers lit around his chambers and from the sun as it poured through the open window in the wall, told him that his vision was back.
    It was different though, not as clear as before, and he was not able to see in the shadows. How many more times before he went completely blind? Would the Sight then vanish from him? Would the curse be lifted once the gift was gone? Whimpering in the corner drew his attention away from all the possibilities he faced.
    Connor struggled, but managed to sit up and find the source of the noise. As he pulled himself to stand and edged closer to the corner of the chamber—damn it, but it was the one in the darkest shadows—the smell knocked him back. The foul stench gagged him, but Connor moved closer, now seeing a small heap lying on a pile of straw.
    “Is that her?” he asked, knowing Ranald stood behind him now.
    “Aye, though why you would bother with her, I know not.”
    “I do not need your permission or consent on this, Ranald. If you would rather serve another, I can speak to Diarmid.”
    The silence told him that Ranald was effectively quelled for the moment.
    “Has she been fed? Given water?” Again, the silence gave him his answer. The odor and his own weakness kept him at a distance, frustrating him in his need to look on a girl brave enough and foolish enough to breach Diarmid’s keep to get to him.
    “Clean her and feed her, and then I will speak to her.” Ranald began to argue, but ceased at his look. “I do not want her befouling my chambers with her smell. ’Tis a small matter, Ranald, not one that should cause any problem for you.”
    Connor made his way to sit in his chair, far enough away not to choke but close enough to insure that his orders would not be ignored. Ranald left the room, calling out to various servants in the corridor outside as he went. When he chose to be efficient, none could match his efforts, so Connor knew it would only be a short time before the girl was ready to be questioned.
    A serving girl entered with some broth for him, and with her help he sipped at it as he waited for Ranald’s return. Instead, one of Diarmid’s burly house slaves entered, carrying two huge wooden buckets of water. The man did not wait for a tub. He put the buckets down and proceeded to dump one on the girl curled on the floor. She did not move much with the first, only coughed and shook, so he reached down and tore the garments she wore off. Then, before Connor could do anything to intervene, the slave threw the other bucket of water on her. The shuddering now was noticeable even from where he sat in shock.
    Connor stood so quickly that he knocked the bowl of broth out of the