The outlaws fell silent, staring at him in surprise, and Rowena turned thoughtful.
“There’s this, too,” Gar said. “You never know which ‘weakling’ will turn out to have the Second Sight—or even a gift for magic, if it comes to that.”
Kerlew stared at him, amazed, and some of the outlaws muttered to one another, caught between superstition and mockery. Rowena demanded, “You really think there’s magic?”
Gar remembered meeting the fairies. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Never seen any, myself,” Farrell scoffed, but his look was uncertain.
“Well, if it’s real, show us some,” Lem said to Kerlew. “Go on, boy—tell us what’s happening at, say, the Gregors’ homestead.”
The outlaws recovered from their superstitious awe with laughs and jeers. “Yeah, you tell us, Kerlew boy!”
“Aye! If you’ve got magic, tell us what’s happening there!”
“Or make a squirrel fall out of that tree smack dab into the cooking pot!”
“Hey, I can do that.” Farrell lifted his rifle and sighted at the tree limb, then lowered it, shaking his head. “Don’t need no magic. No, I like him telling us what’s happening at the Gregors’ house.”
The clansfolk cast a few surreptitious glances at Farrell, and Gar realized the man was himself a Gregor and eager for news of home, though he would never admit it.
“Yeah, see twenty miles for us, Kerlew!” a young woman jibed. “What’re they doing at the Gregor house?”
“And none of this saying they’re sitting down to dinner, mind you—anyone could guess that, at sunset!”
Kerlew grew redder and redder at the mockery and finally burst out, “All right, blast you! just shut up and let me look!” He closed his eyes and sat, rigid as a pole, hands clasping his knees.
The catcalls cut off as though a valve had closed and the outlaws stared at him, taken aback. Then superstitious dread began to show in a face here and there.
Gar braced himself, readying a vision to implant in the boy’s mind. He knew he’d been riding a bluff and would have to make good on it.
Alea looked up at the groan, eyes wide. “Who’s in pain?”
“Oh, that’s Linda,” one of the men said, his face resigned. “The baby’s fine, but we might lose her.”
“Lose her?” Alea leaped up. “Why? What happened?”
“She lost a lot of blood,” Hazel said, frowning. “We managed to stop it, but likely too late.” She shook her head sadly. “She’s wasting away, but what can anyone do?”
“Help her body to make more blood, that’s what!” Alea turned toward the groan and started walking. “Take me to her!” The crowd parted in surprise but didn’t look hopeful. Hazel hurried after her. “She’s in her room, that third door, but you can’t make blood, Alea.”
“No, but her body can.”
Hazel skipped ahead and opened the door, holding up a hand to caution Alea. She poked her head in, then back out and beckoned. With soft steps, they went into the room.
There was a fire on the hearth, but the woman who lay in the bed shivered nonetheless. Alea was shocked at the paleness of her face. A young man sat beside her, holding her hand; he looked up as Alea came in and she was shocked again by the suffering written there. His eyes were hollow and darkened, his skin pale and waxy. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, and he probably hadn’t. She could imagine him dozing off in the night and waking at Linda’s slightest groan.
Alea touched the hand he was holding; Linda’s skin felt like ice. She felt for the pulse and could barely find it.
Before Gar could implant a vision, Kerlew spoke, voice sounding as though it drifted wind-borne from a thousand miles away.
“There’s a woman there, a stranger, and she’s sitting in a bedroom holding a younger woman’s hand. Poor soul, she’s pale as milk, and there’s a young fellow sitting by with his head in his hands.”
The outlaws stared.
Kerlew’s eyes flew open in alarm. “Did I say that?”
“You did,” Gar said before anyone else could speak. He turned to Farrell. “Who would the young woman be?”
Farrell had to lick his lips before he could answer. “Might be Linda Balfour. She was betrothed to Martin before I … left, and we was supposed to meet his bodyguards halfway to take her on home. That was when we saw the Mahon boys swimming, and I spoke against an ambush ‘cause it weren’t what we’d been sent to do.” He shook his head angrily, as though to banish the memory. “If they married, she’d likely have been heavy with child last spring, and light by now.”
The outlaws stared at Kerlew with awe and dread.
The lad trembled. “I never! Never done that before, never seen!” He rounded on Farrell. “And wouldn’ta done it now, if it hadn’t been for your yammering!”
“Oh, yes you have,” said another, “for there’s more ‘n once you’ve wakened all the bachelor’s house with your shouting to warn folks of ambush.”
“Those was dreams!”
“Second-sight dreams,” a third young man said, eyeing Kerlew with respect but no friendliness.
“Yes,” Gar said, “it seems that I spoke more truly than I knew, though perhaps you saw clearly now because the young woman’s heart was calling out for any who could help her.” But Gar knew it wasn’t the sick woman who had been broadcasting anxiety—it was Alea, for she was the young woman sitting by the bedside. “What color hair did the young man have?” Farrell asked. “What? … Why, yellow.” Kerlew jammed his jaw shut, looking alarmed at his own words.
“Martin’s hair is yellow,” Farrell said heavily. Rowena nodded. “Most folks have red or brown.”
“But—but I ain’t no seer!” Kerlew protested. “I ain’t no Druid!”
“Perhaps not, but you seem to have the talent for it.” Gar turned to Rowena. “I’d treat him well, if I were you. If he practices, he might be able to learn how to eavesdrop on all the clans about here, and be able to tell you if anyone starts agitating to band together and move against you.”
“Either that, or send him to the Druids,” Lem said. “No-o-o-o!” Kerlew clutched his scalp. “No, I don’t want it! Get it out of my head!”
“There’s few who do want it,” Gar said gently, “for it’s as much a torment as a blessing—but it can help your friends greatly.”
Kerlew stilled, then bowed his head, though he kept his fingers in his hair. “I wouldn’t use it to harm any travelers—nor any clan!”
“So long as you use it to help us.” Rowena laid a hand on his knee. “You’ve always said you weren’t a coward, Kerlew, just sick of killing. Well, now’s your chance to prove it.”
The lad raised his head from his hands, frowning. “Prove it how?”
“By learning to control this gift, and use it for the good of the band,” Gar told him.
“He just can’t stand the sight of blood,” someone said. Kerlew turned toward the voice, face hardening. “It ain’t the blood, Jeeter, and it ain’t the pain and the writhing, and the wounded screaming for someone to take pity on them and kill them. No, it’s the wife left to grieve and live on the clan’s charity the rest of her days, and the children crying for their daddy and never understanding why he’ll never come home again.” His eyes began to burn. “It’s the girls in pigtails who can’t understand why their daddy would go to the Afterworld instead of coming home to them, and the barefoot boys who can’t understand how the gods can be good if they let their mommies die.” His eyes blazed, his voice deepened and boomed as he said, “It ain’t the killing and the dying that anger me so much as the birthing and the living that has to go on in the shadow it casts over them all!”
The outlaws were silent a minute, staring at Kerlew as though they’d never seen him before. Then Rowena cleared her throat and said, “Yes. I’ll allow as how the boy has some magic.”