Nechtan Cameron sat at his scarred oak desk in the small stone building at 1 Milton Street, idly levitating two small metallic balls above his open palm while a book lay open before him. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, with the lean, deceptively youthful build of a man who had walked the earth for nearly a thousand years, Cam paid the insistent ringing of the telephone no mind. Neither did Iain MacGregor, who lounged in the chair opposite watching the balls with rapt attention, red curls catching the weak afternoon light slanting through the open windows.

     The door behind the desk burst open. Caoimhe MacLochlainn strode in, her fiery red hair billowing like flame in the draft from the open window, her deep blue eyes flashing with familiar irritation. Without breaking stride she snatched up the receiver.

     “Cameron Enterprises,” she said, her Dublin lilt sharp but professional. “How may I help ye?”

She listened for a moment, then reached over and knocked Cam’s feet off the desk with a firm thump. The balls dropped into his lap and then onto the floor. He looked up at her with a shrug and a grin.

     “I dinnae hear it.”

     Caoimhe rolled her eyes and continued soothing the caller while Cam turned back to Iain.

     “As ye see, lad, if ye lose your concentration for just a second, everythin’ stops.” He bent to retrieve the balls and handed them over. “Now you try it. Remember—levitation first, then the motion.”

     Iain took the balls, held them at arm’s length, and stared intently. Slowly they rose, trembling, then began to spin. His grin widened—until they clattered back into his palm.

     “Feckin’ hell! How d’ya sit there readin’ a feckin’ book and still concentrate on levitatin’? I ken you’ve had nine hundred years more experience than me, but still.”

     He paused, setting the book aside. His expression grew more serious, the levity draining away. “The Morrígan’s been stirring again. I pulled your arse out of the fire that night on the moor, but she’s not one to forget a slight. And the Templars… they did worse. When the Church decreed that every last Druid had tae be wiped from the earth, the Templars were the ones sent tae dae the dirty work. They hunted us like animals, burned our groves, and drove the survivors intae the shadows for centuries. We cannae hide from any of ‘em forever. I need ye sharp, lad. Prepared.”

     Iain straightened, brown eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and the ghost of old fear. “Am no wee child, you feckin’ geriatric! I can multi-task—walk, chew gum, and talk all at the same time. And aye, I ken about the Morrígan. She damn near killed me that night—would have, if you hadn’t stepped in with that earth-binding at the last second.” He gave a short, rueful laugh. “Still wakes me up sometimes, that one. But I’m still here, aren’t I? So quit worryin’ and let me finish the bloody lesson before Caoimhe boxes both our ears for lettin’ the phone ring off the hook.”

     Cam chuckled, the sound warm and low. “If that’s what you call multi-taskin’, lad, you’ve a long road ahead.”

     Caoimhe hung up the phone with a decisive click and turned her glare on both of them. Her fiery hair still moved in the breeze from the open window, making her look every inch the storm she could become.

     “Why do ye insist on ignorin’ the phone and makin’ me answer it? It’s not like I’ve nothin’ else to do except be your secretary.”

     Cam gave her a look of mock innocence. “I have never thought of you as a secretary. You don’t even ken how tae type.”

     “I can type—fifteen words a minute,” she shot back. “As for the call, her name is Mary MacDougal. Says her husband disappeared on the way to the market and never came back.”

     Iain grinned. “Suppose he went for fags, eh?”

     “Matter of fact, yes.”

     Cam adopted his best Holmes voice. “Elementary, my dear Caoimhe. He’s gone on a tryst with his long-time Latin lover, Miss Marple, in the library… with a candlestick.”

     Iain giggled. Caoimhe glowered. “’Tisnae humorous in the least! She fears somethin’ has happened to him.”

     Cam stroked his beard, suddenly serious. “We shall see.”

 

     Twenty minutes later Mrs MacDougal arrived. She was a frumpy, middle-aged woman with greying hair and a mac fastened at the throat despite the warm day. Cam noted the mustache, the dull blue eyes rimmed red from crying, and the way she clutched her handbag as though it might fly away. Something about her put him instantly on edge.

     Iain offered her his chair, but Caoimhe, ever the better host, stepped forward. “May I take your coat?”

     Mrs. MacDougal looked at her as if she had suggested cutting her throat. “No! No, I’ll keep it on if ye dinnae mind.” She turned to Cam. “Can yous help me find ma husband? He’s never done this kind of thing before.”

     Cam leaned forward, voice calm but probing. “I need tae ask some questions. Some may seem intrusive, but they are important. His name, age, job, any enemies, financial status?”

      “Douglas. Douglas MacDougal. He’s fifty-five and a Security guard at Holyrood Museum. We dinnae bother anyone. No money tae speak of. A couple of friends, but we dinnae socialize much. No Facebook, no computer.”

     “When did he disappear? Have you spoken to the constabulary?”

      She pulled a folded sheet from her handbag. “This mornin’, nae lang after he left, this came through the post slot.”

      Cam unfolded the heavy cream paper. A crude but deliberate drawing filled the center: a simple pawn trapped inside a barred cage, a tall bishop standing guard just outside it. Beneath the image, written in a strong, angular hand, were the words: Call N Cameron. In the bottom left corner, almost invisible unless the light caught it just right, was a single rune in faint, watery ink — Laguz, reversed.

      “May I keep this for study?”

      “Of course, if it helps find him.”

      Cam studied her carefully. “Earl Grey? Would yw care for a cup o’ tea? Perhaps a biscuit?”

     She accepted with a nod. “Aye. With cream and honey would be lovely.”

     Caoimhe caught the wink and went to the kitchen. Iain followed to help. Alone with the woman, Cam noted the oddity: the room was warm, yet she showed no sign of discomfort in her heavy coat. No perspiration, no fidgeting. When Caoimhe and Iain returned with the tea, she took the cup and plate but set them down without touching either.

     Cam raised his own cup. “Tae findin’ your husband.”

     She replied curtly, without lifting hers. “Aye. I ken ye can dae it.” Then she stood, left the cup untouched, and walked out, leaving the three of them staring after her.

     “She’s an odd one,” Iain said.

     “That she is, Padawan. That she is.” Cam stared at the closed door. “Caoimhe, she didnae touch the tea.”

     “Not a sip,” Caoimhe confirmed. “Not even tae be polite.”

     Cam nodded slowly. “I believe that was not a normal human being. I believe she was bein’ controlled by another Druid. Or somethin’ worse.”

     He studied the note again, brow furrowed. “Chaos, confusion, avoidance, circular motion. Some runic bastard is tauntin’ me.”

     For the next few days Cam buried himself in dusty tomes, chasing the reversed Laguz riddle. Nine hundred years had taught him much, but runes still twisted like snakes—divination one day, doom the next.

     What gnawed at him was the chess imagery itself. A pawn caged, helpless, and a bishop standing guard over it. In the old game, the bishop had once been an elephant, a war-beast. Only later did the Church reshape it into their own piece—powerful, diagonal, able to strike from the shadows of faith. The symbolism was no accident. Whoever sent this knew Cam’s history with the Church, with hunted Druids, and with men who wore the cloth while practicing older, darker arts. This wasn’t just a threat. It was a signature. An old enemy’s hand, reaching across centuries, telling him the game had already begun.

 

     Late one afternoon he slammed a book shut and called out, “Caoimhe!”

     She appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “Are ye tellin’ me the hermit is leavin’ his cave? Have ye finally decided what it all means?”

     “Nae. I’ve got tae make a journey tae Loch Doon—the Council library. I’ll need tae take Iain with me.” He cringed slightly. “And you’ll have tae stay here and watch the shop.”

      “I’ll do no such ting!” she snapped. “Where you go, I go!”

     “Nae, mo chridhe. You shun your magick. Non-magick folk cannae enter.”

     Caoimhe seethed for a moment, then forced a smile. “Fine, lover. I’ll play Susie Homemaker—Shirley Secretary too.”

     Cam caught the sarcasm and grinned faintly. “Thank you. A week or so at most. I’ll dig up who’s behind this.”

     She spun on her heel and started down the hall, red hair swinging like a battle standard. Cam followed, reaching out to pull her close for a kiss. Caoimhe sidestepped neatly without breaking stride, laughter trailing over her shoulder.

     “No ye don’t,” she said, the words sharp but warm. “Yer no gonna turn all lovey on me to make me feel better. Ye’re off gallivanting to some secret hole in the hills, leaving me here to play secretary and worry meself sick. Again.”

     Cam stopped at the corner, watching her go with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He knew that tone — equal parts genuine anger and the fear she hated showing. “Mo chridhe, it’s no that I dinnae want ye there. Ye ken the rules. Non-magick folk cannae cross the threshold. I’ll be back before ye’ve had time tae miss me.”

     Caoimhe paused at the kitchen door, one hand on the frame, and shot him a look that could have curdled milk. “Aye, and the last time ye said that I didn’t see ye for a fortnight. Just… come home in one piece, ye stubborn Pictish ox.” Her voice softened on the last words, then she disappeared around the corner before he could answer.

     Cam stood there a moment longer, rubbing the back of his neck, then turned back toward the office with a low sigh. “Iain, ye bloody bampot, stop faffing about! We’ve a trek ahead.”

     Iain bounded up from his chair, eyes bright with excitement. “Aye, Master Druid! Where are we aff tae?”

     Cam allowed himself a small, crooked grin. “A secret. Ye’ll find out when we get there — kinda. And if ye breathe a word of it tae anyone, including yerself after a few pints, I’ll turn ye intae a particularly ugly hedgehog.”

     Iain grinned back, unfazed. “Fair enough. Long as there’s actual food at the end of this mystery trek and no more of yer dried venison strips from the twelfth century.”

     The train rattled them to Glasgow, then a hired car twisted south through Kilmarnock to Dalmellington. Cam kept Iain’s bearings deliberately muddled, turning off the A713 onto a narrow side road. He stopped amid whispering trees.

     “Time tae get out. We walk from here.”

     Iain gazed at the woods, awed. “Feckin’ gorgeous! Sure beats that Edinburgh stink.”

     Thirty minutes later they stood before a barren hill beside Loch Doon. Cam knelt, scratched runes into the dirt, and muttered an old spell. A cave mouth yawned open. As the tunnel swallowed them, the air grew cool and damp, the only sound the scrape of their boots on slick stone and the faint drip of water somewhere ahead.

     Iain’s voice echoed a little too loudly. “Am I deid already? It’s so dark and quiet in here… Feels like we’re walkin’ straight into the underworld.”

     Cam’s low chuckle rolled back through the blackness. “Nae, lad. This is enlightenment — or the closest thing tae it ye’ll find this side o’ the veil. Now haud yer wheesht and keep moving. We’re almost there.”

     Iain muttered under his breath, “Easy for you to say. Ye’ve been doin’ this for nine hundred years. I’ve only had two pints and a dodgy pasty for courage.”

     Cam’s voice carried a rare note of amusement. “Ye’ll need more’n courage where we’re goin’. And try not to pish yerself before we reach the light — Brandubh hates cleaning up after nervous apprentices.”

​

      The narrow tunnel opened without warning into a vast chamber carved from living stone. Ancient oaks rose from the cavern floor, their roots threading through cracks in the rock like veins of the earth itself. Soft green light filtered down from clusters of glowing moss and faint veins of crystal high above, turning the air into something half cave, half forest. The scent of damp earth, leaf mold, and distant pine filled the space. This was no mere library hidden underground — this was the Sacred Grove, alive and breathing within the heart of the hill.

     At a desk hewn from a single slab of stone sat a small, bent man with a long white beard that spilled over one shoulder like a waterfall of snow. Brandubh looked up from the scroll he had been studying. Recognition kindled in his eyes, followed by a slow, genuine smile.

     “Ah, the prodigal returns at last,” he said, voice rough as river gravel yet warm with affection. “And ye’ve brought company. Who is this lad ye’ve dragged through my tunnels, Nechtan?”

     Cam bowed low, the gesture one of deep respect. “Arch-Druid, this is Iain MacGregor, my apprentice. He is honorable, quick-witted, and stubborn as a Highland mule.” He straightened, a faint wry smile touching his lips. “We’ve come for two reasons. First, I wish tae present him properly tae the Grove. Second…” He drew the folded note from inside his coat and laid it on the stone desk. “We have a puzzle. A nasty, runic sort. A pawn trapped in a cage with a bishop standin’ guard over it. Notice the reversed Laguz in the corner. The whole thing feels like an old enemy’s hand at work. It gnaws at me, and I cannae place the signature. Does it ring any bells with you?”

     Brandubh grinned. “I remember a stubborn and contrary apprentice once. He never listened and always did things his own way. That man turned out tae be one of the wisest and most powerful Druids in the world.”

     Cam bowed again. “I dinnae ken that I was contrary. Stubborn, aye. Contrary, nae.”

     “As you wish,” Brandubh chuckled. “Your apprentice is received and recognized. How long before he’s ready for confirmation?”

     “He’s only been with me a couple of years. It’ll be a while yet.”

     Looking at the note Cam had handed him, Brandubh’s expression darkened. He turned the paper slowly between his fingers, as though the ink itself might reveal more if he only stared long enough. “Runic work,” he murmured at last. “Old and twisted. Laguz reversed—chaos, confusion, avoidance. Whoever sent this knows the old signs well enough tae use them as a taunt. It could be many things.”

     “If we could use the library, Arch-Druid?” Cam asked.

     Brandubh gave a small grunt of assent. “Aye, lad. Ewan!” he called, voice echoing off the stone. Then, almost under his breath as he turned back to his scroll, the old Druid muttered, “That one’s always slippin’ about like a shadow. Never right where ye expect him when ye need him, yet he turns up the moment the dust settles. Scribes and their damned secrets…”

     A tall, thin figure slipped from the deeper shadows at the far side of the chamber. Ewan was dressed in the simple grey robes of the Grove, his black hair falling straight to his shoulders and framing a sharp, intelligent face. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth as he stepped into the soft green light.

     “Nechtan!” he said, the greeting warm and familiar. “Three centuries, give or take?”

     Cam studied him for a heartbeat, the old affection warring with the faint unease that always prickled when Ewan appeared so quietly. “Three hundred fifteen years, two months, and six days,” he replied dryly, the numbers rolling off his tongue with precise, almost affectionate irritation. “Get out more, ye bampot. The world’s changed since the last time ye poked yer nose above ground.”

     Ewan chuckled, low and easy, though his dark eyes held a glint of something sharper than simple amusement. “And miss the peace and quiet of these tunnels? Nae likely. Besides, someone has tae keep the records from turning tae dust while you’re off saving the realm from one catastrophe or another.” He gestured with a graceful sweep of his hand toward the arched doorway behind him. “Come. The records await. I’ve already pulled the newer scrolls on runic bindings and church-era conversions. If your nasty little puzzle has any history, we’ll find it there.”

​

     Ancient manuscripts were laid out. Iain stared in dismay. “How the bloody hell am I supposed tae read these? Looks like chicken scratches and pasta!”

     Cam bowed his head. “I forgot—you cannae read ancient text. Shite!”

     Brandubh looked at his former student with exasperation. “You never taught him? You feckin’ eejit! What were you thinkin]?”

     “I didn’t expect tae need the library so soon.”

     Brandubh shook his head. “Stand back, ye wanker. I’ll fix it.” He placed a hand on Iain’s head. The young man’s eyes widened in terror, then softened with sudden understanding.      He snatched up a book and exclaimed, “I can read this! I ken what it says!”

     Brandubh nodded to Cam. “Seems you still have a lot of work tae dae with this lad. I cannae fix all your mistakes.”

​

     It was almost a week later when Iain’s voice echoed through the chamber, sharp with excitement. “Cam! I think I found somethin’ here!”

     Cam looked up from the heavy tome he had been studying, one eyebrow raised. “What is it, lad?”

     The young Druid practically bounced on his toes. “Diarmad Mag Uidhir! It says here that when the Church decided tae wipe out Druidism, this bastard converted and became a priest. Rose through the ranks, became a bishop, but never really gave up his old magick. When they caught him still practicing, they killed him and dumped his body down a dry well to rot.”

     Cam stroked his chin, eyes narrowing. He read the passage himself, then sat back slowly. “Threw him in a well… Never made sure he was dead. I would have.” A dark thought crossed his mind — men like Mag Uidhir rarely died easily. Not when they carried a Philosopher’s Stone. “If he survived that, he’s had eight hundred years tae nurse a grudge. And now he’s sendin’ me chess pieces and reversed runes. This is no random ghost from the past.”

     Before Iain could reply, a tall, thin figure slipped from the shadows near the stacks. Ewan moved with that quiet, almost unnerving grace of his. His eyes flicked between the two of them with open curiosity.

     “Did you find something?” Ewan asked, voice smooth and interested. “I heard a commotion from the outer chamber.”

     Cam studied the scribe for a long moment, the old familiarity warring with that faint, persistent unease he could never quite name. “Ewan, you’ve been here a long while now.      When exactly did you come tae the Grove?”

     Ewan tilted his head, considering. “Late fifteenth century, I believe. After a couple of hundred years one tends tae forget the exact dates. Why do you ask, old friend?”

     “Just curiosity,” Cam said, keeping his tone light. “Goin’ through these records makes a man nostalgic. This matter with Mag Uidhir is before your time by about a hundred years. The Arch-Druid will be of more help on it.”

     Ewan nodded easily, though his dark eyes lingered on the open book a fraction longer than necessary. “Of course. Follow me — I’ll take ye tae Brandubh’s chambers.” He turned with a small smile and led them deeper into the Grove, robes whispering against the stone floor.

​

     “Arch-Druid,” Cam began respectfully, “what d’ya remember of Diarmad Mag Uidhir?”

     Brandubh’s face darkened like a gathering storm over the hills. The old Druid’s hands tightened on the edge of his stone desk. “That traitorous bastard! Convertin’ tae the new religion as easily as changin] his socks. I don’t care if he secretly kept his Druid ways—he was a feckless coward who turned his back on everything we stood for the moment it suited him. When the Church finally caught him still practicing the old arts, they excommunicated him and killed him. Around 1350, I’d guess. He wasn’t aging as the mortals expected. By then he should have looked seventy. Instead the bastard still looked twenty-five. Not bad for a man well over a thousand years old.”

     Cam leaned forward. “And when they killed him?”

     “They simply threw the body down a dry well and walked away,” Brandubh growled. “If he had the Stone… well, that wouldn’t have mattered much. No one knows if he’s still alive.       You truly think this note is his doing?”

     Cam nodded slowly, jaw tight. “He was a bishop. That fits the chess imagery perfectly. And after eight hundred years in hidin’, no one would remember his face.”

     “I’d remember!” Brandubh slammed a fist on the desk, making the scrolls jump. “That feckin’ bastard could never hide from me.”

     Ewan, who had been standing quietly to one side, interjected smoothly, “Why assume it’s Mag Uidhir at all? If he hasn’t been heard from in so long, he’s probably long dead.”

     Brandubh shot the scribe a sharp look. “He ain’t deid. That man was too contrary tae die. Many of us disappeared for centuries just tae survive. Most are still alive today, hidin’ under different names.”

     “Aye,” Cam agreed, though his eyes flicked briefly to Ewan. “Like myself. I use my birth name now, but I’ve worn many others over the years. Could be Mag Uidhir is doing the same.”

     He turned to Iain. “Padawan, it’s getting late. We should get back tae Edinburgh. Caoimhe’s probably gang insane by now. I huvnnae let her ken anythin’ since we left.” Cam bowed to Brandubh. “Arch-Druid, thank you for your help. Hopefully it willnae be so long until next time.”

     Brandubh’s expression softened. “You’re always welcome here, Nechtan. Travel well. Be safe.”

     Ewan walked them back to the passage. “Safe travels, Master Druid and apprentice,” he said with a small, pleasant smile. “May we meet again soon.”

     The two headed into the dark tunnel. The weight of centuries and old grudges pressed heavy on Cam’s shoulders. It would be good to breathe fresh air again and return to Caoimhe. Finding — and defeating — Diarmad Mag Uidhir would be no easy task.

​

     Caoimhe was waiting when they finally walked through the door at 1 Milton Street. Her fiery red hair seemed to crackle with a mixture of relief and fury.

     “I hope you found what you were lookin’ for,” she growled, arms crossed. “It’s been over a week and not one feckin’ word from either of yous. I didn’t know what was goin’ on. For all I knew the two of you were floating face-down in the loch.”

     Cam smiled calmly, trying to soothe the storm. “My lady love, we did indeed find something. As for not gettin’ in touch… it’s hard when you’re buried in ancient texts in a forgotten language deep inside a mountain.” His expression grew grave. “Have you heard any more from Mrs MacDougal?”

     Caoimhe calmed slightly. “Aye. She came by a couple of days after you left. Totally different woman this time. We had a fine chat over tea and scones. She was even dressed for the weather.”

     “A normal human, then?” Cam said. “Mag Uidhir’s spell must have broken. That’s a good sign.” He turned to Iain. “Tell Caoimhe what we found. I’m goin’ tae dae some scryin’ and try tae locate our missing druid-bishop.”

     He locked himself in his office, pulled out the scrying mirror, and stared into it intently. After several long minutes he set it down with a heavy sigh. “Nothin’. Where are you, Mag Uidhir, my old friend? Why won’t you be found?”

     In the kitchen he found Iain and Caoimhe already seated at the table with a mug of Earl Grey waiting for him. He took it gratefully. “You were readin’ my mind.”

     Caoimhe reached across and took his hand. “Nae, love. We could hear the mumblin’.”

     “Have you come up with anything?” Iain asked, leaning forward eagerly. “Did you find where the wee bastard is hiding?”

     “Nae, I huvnnae,” Cam admitted. “I think he’s hidin’ in plain sight, usin’ a different persona. The only way tae hide from a scryin’ mirror is tae truly become someone else. An old Druid like Mag Uidhir would ken exactly how tae dae that.” He finished his tea. “I think I’m goin’ tae bed. Tomorrow is a new day, and I’m exhausted. After a good night’s rest I may be able tae think of somethin’ else.”

     Once he was gone, Caoimhe winked at Iain and lowered her voice. “Two years as his apprentice, right? Hasn’t he taught you to divine yet?”

     “Aye, a bit,” Iain grinned. “But he couldn’t find the wee bawbag. If a master Druid cannae do it, how am I supposed tae?”

     “Cam’s knackered — couldnae scry a scone for breakfast.” Caoimhe’s grin was pure mischief. “Find MacDougal and we may find the wanker behind this.”

     Iain’s eyes lit up. “Oh, aye — brilliant! Let’s see what the mirror’s got.”

     They slipped into Cam’s office. Iain stared hard into the scrying mirror, muttering under his breath. “Feckin’ thing’s gone smoky — hang on, there’s an old sod! Grey hair, tweed trousers, stuck on a bed — magick’s got him pinned, I’d wager.”

     Caoimhe leaned closer. “Where’s he at, ye daft lad?”

     “Run-down flat — bare floor, one chair,” Iain said, eyes wide. “28 Dryden Street — bloody close, eh?”

     “Do we go get him now, wake Cam, or wait until morning?” Iain asked, excitement plain on his face.

     Caoimhe cautioned, “We didn’t see Mag Uidhir. Ye really want to wake Cam half-cocked?”

​

     After revealing their jubilant discovery, Cam’s half-closed eyes turned to seething slits when they told him. “You feckin’ eejits! There was a reason I was lookin’ for Mag Uidhir instead of MacDougal. Iain, your scryin’ has a marker. Any magick sod will see it. I’ve told you this time and again. Now he’ll know for sure it’s me, not some doaty investigator or numpty constable like Ballantyne.”

     Caoimhe stayed calm. “Doesn’t he already know it’s you? After all, he did send that note so that you’d start looking.”

     “Aye, he baited me,” Cam snapped, “but listen — he left MacDougal easy tae find. Right under our noses, no wards against scryin’, just charms tae hold him. It’s a trap, ye daft pair.”

Iain hung his head. “Sorry.” Caoimhe echoed it.

     “Dinnae fash — I shouldnae gotten so angry. Yer no eejits — just supposed tae read my mind,” Cam said, smiling at his friends.

     Caoimhe deadpanned, “Yeah, rather not — scary place up there, judgin’ by yer gob.”

     Iain laughed. “Aye! Even the Shadow’d steer clear o’ yer head.”

     Cam chuckled. “True that. Now, since you did find MacDougal, what’s your game plan? Mag Uidhir’ll show up eventually — gotta feed and water his pet.”

     Without hesitation Iain said, “Well, go get him, of course!”

     Cam looked at his apprentice sideways. “Are there protections around him? Enchantments, charms, spells? Will the building blow up if you go through the door? Have you thought about any of that?”

     Sheepishly, Iain glanced at Caoimhe for help. “Aye, a bit. Only the magick holding him.”

     Caoimhe noticed Cam drifting again. “You okay?” But he was somewhere else.

     Cam’s mind slipped back to a distant, snowy past…

​

     “Ye hae tae find and save a man from Queen Mebd. That is yer task,” Brandubh had stated simply.

     “But how? Will ye no help me?” young Nechtan had asked.

     “Nae! I will only advise ye. What’s the first thing ye gotta dae?”

     “Divine where he is.” Cam cast his runes. Studying them intently for several seconds, “Feckin’ useless — no showin’ me a thing!”

     “What else is available?”

     Cam spotted the polished metal square his teacher used to see himself. “I could use your reflective metal. Or maybe the crystal sphere?”

     “Brilliant, yer learning, ye daft lad,” Brandubh commented sarcastically.

     Cam set the square on the table. It clouded, then cleared — it showed an old farmer, terrified, in a barn nearby. He bolted out and ran to the old barn not far from the hut. Without thinking, he tore the door open — bam! A gust of wind flung him on his arse followed by the big surprise – a ball of goo splattered him.

     Laughter rang out. The “farmer” morphed — Diarmad, grinning. “Got ye, ye numpty!”

     Furious, Cam slung goo back — right into Diarmad’s eyes. “Yoo scabby bassa! Fuck ye daein'? Ah cannae see a thing!” Diarmad howled, clawing at his face, blinded.

     “Shite,” Cam muttered, dragging him to Brandubh. Six weeks later Diarmad’s sight returned — but their friendship never did.

​

     “Cam? Are you all right?” Caoimhe’s voice brought him back.

     “Aye. Just roamin’ the past. I ken why Mag Uidhir’s daein' this — I hurt him centuries ago. It’s karma time in his eyes.”

     “Hurt him how?” she pressed.

     Cam told the tale — blinding Diarmad, the lost friendship. Silence hung heavy afterward. Quietly he added, “He’s payin’ me back, though Brandubh cured him. We’ve got tae find him before he hurts someone else over me.”

     “We need to go get MacDougal. He’s been there for over a week,” Iain said, nearly tripping over his own feet in eagerness.

     Laughing, Cam shook his head. “He’s a nobody.”

     Iain gaped. “What d’ye mean ‘he’s a nobody’? ’Tis a man we’re talkin’ about!”

     “Nae, lad,” Cam said. “That thing you divined is an automaton — more than Mrs MacDougal was the first day.”

     “She came by while you were gone,” Caoimhe said. “Normal human then — no robot. Explain that.”

     “Simple, love. First time, Diarmad’s spell had her. She knew she’d been here, needed something — came back hopin’ we’d spill why, not tae look a bampot. Thing is, Douglas MacDougal died three years back. Checked last night — constabulary pals helped.”

     Iain’s eyes darted between them, confusion plain. “So we leave it there tae rust?”

     Cam grinned. “Nae — you found it, you fix it. Figure it out, but ask first — dinnae want you blown up or worse.”

     “Worse than blown up?” Iain gulped.

     “Aye,” Cam winked. “Might be a spell tae nab your weddin’ tackle.”

     Iain grabbed himself and bolted off as Caoimhe stifled a laugh. “No spell like that, is there, ye daft sod?”

     “Dinnae ken — never pondered it.” Cam eyed her thoughtfully. “Caoimhe, time tae flush a hare. Let’s lure Mag Uidhir out.”