Healer by Linda Windsor Page A

Tarlach continued his bent, shuffling walk through the round, thatched huts of those who lived within the protection of Glenarden’s thick stockade walls and headed toward the raised stone keep in the center of the compound.
    As if Caden did not exist in this world or in the old man’s own bitter one. It wasn’t new to Caden, but it hurt, twisting like a knife in his chest. Tearing open old scars and barely healed wounds. Again.
    By the time the men had seen to their horses and had their grim audience with Tarlach, a feast fit for kings awaited them. But the air was far from the festive scenes portrayed on the tapestries hung along the wall. The pall of Ronan’s disappearance blanketed the very air and choked any semblance of laughter. The eyes of man and woman alike blinked away mists of grief as the story circulated the room in hushed tones.
    “Gowrys!” Tarlach spat the name of his enemy and slung his empty bronze cup across the table where his sons and honored guests sat. The remainder of the population gathered on benches about the fire pit. The cup rolled off the table and onto the floor, where Tarlach’s hounds set upon investigating the untempting handout. A maid hastily retrieved it, wiping its rim with her apron, her eyes creeping to Ronan’s seat beside the chieftain.
    It was conspicuously empty. No one dared occupy it. Certainly not Caden. Not yet. He contented himself to be next to Rhianon, the bride he’d taken that spring. Never had Caden felt this way about a woman, and he had known more than his share.
    Beyond Rhianon’s golden crown of braided hair, interwoven with wine velvet ribbon to match her gown, Tarlach came into focus. He stared unsteadily at Caden, his head weaving from the drink in which he’d drowned himself. “ You lost him, lad. You find him. You owe me that.”
    “On my honor, Father, I will find our brother and exact justice.” Caden meant every word. He would prove himself invaluable to Tarlach. Indispensable. Now was his chance to show his father and his bride he was every bit his brother’s equal.
    Tarlach rose on wobbly legs and lifted his freshly filled cup. “Tomorrow, at dawn’s light, we will search again for my firstborn. I will not mourn without a body. I will not!” He slammed the fist of his good arm on the table and leaned forward. “And if our search fails, then we will ride to the high hills at Leafbud and raze every Gowrys hovel until his fate is known to us.”
    “What if the wolf-witch has him?”
    All heads turned toward the youngest O’Byrne. Alyn had been unusually quiet until now … no doubt wracked with guilt for abandoning the search. In other men, Caden found such idealism disgusting. But in his youngest brother, it was pure charm.
    The youth pressed on. “What if it wasn’t the Gowrys, but she who spirited him off his horse?”
    For a moment the room was as frozen as the hunting scene embroidered by Caden’s late mother that hung on the wall. Glances, not words, were exchanged—some with fear and superstition, others with skepticism and mild amusement.
    Tarlach thawed first, sinking into his chair as though the wind had been snatched from his lungs. Despite his rantings over the she-wolf, it was obvious that this had not crossed his fevered mind. In his mind, he was the hunter. The witch, if she existed, was the hunted. With a trembling hand the old man made the sign of the cross over his chest. His gesture was repeated here and there around the room.
    Caden watched, fascinated to see the bear almost shrivel within the folds of his brat. Tarlach’s lips moved, yet nothing came out of them. Nothing coherent.
    “Father?” Alyn hastened to the old man’s side. “I’m sorry I mentioned her. Of course she couldn’t possibly overcome Ronan. He’s a fine warrior.”
    “Oh she could, laddie. She could, she could, she …. ” A whimper escaped Tarlach. “May God forgive me if it was I who put my son in her path.” He switched his