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Beltane
Eve, Alistair had spoken only once of the woman of his vision, giving Fergus
only the barest outline of their meeting by the forest pool. When Fergus
wondered if she might be real, Alistair laughed and changed the subject. And
when Fergus suggested that Alistair go forth and look for her, the younger man had
grown quickly angry and refused to hear another word on the subject. Yet his
very silence was more eloquent than words. Whatever had happened that night,
Fergus had no doubt it had shaken Alistair to the depths of his soul.
    "There's no knowing which way your path will take
ye," he said at last, choosing his words carefully. "But whatever ye
need, ye will not find it here."
    Alistair sat down beside the old taibhsear and
brushed the white-gold hair back from his face. "I don't know what to
say," he began hesitantly. "What thanks can I give for all you've
done for me—"
    "Well, since ye ask, I'll tell ye."  Fergus
put his hand on Alistair's and looked into the crystal-gray eyes. "Live,"
he said quietly. "That's what ye can do." 
    Alistair had come a long way from the sick and broken
man who had come to him four months ago. He no longer spoke of suicide, though
Fergus suspected he still thought of it at times. But the times were becoming
far less frequent. For that, Fergus gave silent thanks to Alistair's woman of
the forest. Whoever—or whatever—she might be, she had shaken him out of his
preoccupation with Ian's Kirallen's death.
    Yet Alistair's vision at the waterfall had left Fergus
deeply puzzled. He had run through the business with the bullock more for
Alistair's peace of mind than from any expectation of a vision. It wasn't
magic, it was just plain common sense, as any hedgepriest would agree. Get the
man to tell him what the trouble was, give him every reason to forgive himself.
Then send him through a ritual designed to bring on clarity of thought.
    But they had both gotten more than Fergus bargained
for. Alistair had been granted an immrama , a true vision, one that
Fergus did not fully understand. There was no denying Alistair had brought
something back with him from the waterfall, the shadows that followed him on
dusky wings. There was more than guilt and grief at work here.
    Something had happened to Alistair on that January morning when he had lost not only his
closest friend, but eight men under his command. If part of Alistair's soul had
indeed gone with them to the grave, it was a situation fraught with danger. He
alone could find the missing part of himself, and he would not find it here. Perhaps
the woman was the key—if she truly lived. But there was no telling if she
existed on this plane at all or was as insubstantial as the dark tower Alistair
had seen.
    Sighing, Fergus recalled himself to the present. "If
there is one thing I have learned, lad, 'tis that wherever ye go, your fate is
sure to find you."
    "That's what I'm afraid of," Alistair said,
and though the words were spoken lightly, Fergus saw the sudden tension in the
younger man's form.
    A cloud passed across the sun and the wind turned
chill. From the distance came the harsh cawing of a bird.
    "The corbies," Fergus said. "Aye, I
hear them, too. But ye canna hide from them forever."
    Alistair picked up a bit of dried heather at his feet
and tossed it high into the air. Fergus watched the breeze catch it and bear it
toward the valley.
    "West it is," Alistair said, then laughed. "If
Ian could only see me now! He used to say I couldn't put on my boots without
first setting out the options and drawing up a plan. How he would enjoy
this!"
    His laughter died and he turned away quickly, blinking
hard. It was a good sign, Fergus thought, that Alistair could speak of Ian like
this, let out his grief for his friend.
    "Perhaps ye had to plan so carefully because he
never did," Fergus suggested gently. "And now ye have your own path
to follow."
    "Aye, but... Fergus, I am sorry. I ken ye
hoped..."
    "The fault was mine, not yours, for trying