Free Released by Kerrigan Byrne

laid eyes on the man twice before in his adult life, and he’d known him to darken his flesh with the black silt of the Allt Dubh.   He valiantly tried not to stare at the markings now, likely uncovered by the violent storm from the looks of the smudged streaks on his right cheek.  He couldn’t tell if the man’s long, snarled hair was truly black or made so by the same means. 
    “My God, MacKay,”  Fraser sputtered from behind him.  “What is the meaning of this—this profane sacrilege?”
    “Calm down, Father,” Kathryn’s soft voice sounded closer and Rory turned to see her glide forward to rest an elegant hand on her father’s arm.  “’Tis how things are done here in the Highlands still.  Not everyone’s ways are your own.”
    Bestowing his intended with a warm and grateful smile, Rory turned his attention back to the Druid. 
    Daroch MacLeod regarded Kathryn with an intensity that Rory didn’t appreciate.
    “I had not expected ye for some hours, yet, but I thank ye for coming.”
    The Druid stared at Kathryn for a moment longer than was appropriate before turning his startling attention back to Rory.  “I had some companions to aid me with swiftness.”  MacLeod turned to the wolf first and bent to it, touching it firmly beneath the throat and motioning to the door with his eyes. 
    The wolf’s golden glare touched upon every soul within the room before turning and padding back the way it had entered, and fading into the stormy darkness. 
    Next, the Druid turned to the stag.  Pressing his forehead to that of the powerful animal and pushing it back one step toward the door. 
    The stag looked like it would argue, but in one dexterous bound, he leapt away from Daroch and also plunged into the night, leaving a departing pile of scat at the top of the entry stairs. 
    Saoirse huffed, as though the animal had made a personal remark.
    Maybe it had.
    “Where’s Lorne?” Rory asked. 
    “What did ye do to him?” Saoirse demanded. 
    The Druid silenced her with a shrewd look tinged with wildness.  “Ye’ll be dead within two years.”  The dispassionate tone of his voice directly contrasted with his demeanor.
    Saoirse gasped, “Ye just cursed me!  Everyone heard it.  I’ll see ye burned for that!”
    Daroch sighed.  “Yer hands tell me ye’re a butcher’s woman, but the condition of yer skin and eyes and the ingredients on yer collar prove ye’re too often at the Baker’s.  Due to yer sheer size, it’s obvious that ye visit the pastries rather than the man who makes them, but I predict that if ye do not stop gorging yerself, yer pancreas will give out and ye’ll be dead within two years.”
    Saoirse paled, then reddened.  “My—what?”
    “Pancreas,” The Druid’s lip curled.  “Likely that wrapped foot will rot first and poison yer blood, but either way, yer fate remains the same.”
    Her chins doubled as her mouth dropped open in silent protest.  Closed.  Then opened again. 
    “Yes, eat more fish.  That should help.”  Twin strings of swansea, whelk and eigg shells clinked together from the knotted braids at Daroch’s temple as he dismissed Saoirse and surveyed the assembled council, his swiftly moving regard leaving no detail uncalculated.
    “You just cursed her!” Fraser thrust his stubby finger at the Druid.
    “I just warned her.”  Daroch’s eyes flashed as they collided not with Fraser’s but his daughter, Kathryn’s.  “She has it within her power to change her fate by eating fibrous tubers, vegetables, and fresh meats, though I doubt she’ll do it.”
    Dismissing the subject as inconsequential, the Druid addressed Rory.  “Yer man was foolish enough to come to collect me with one horse.  I left him in my residence with an assurance of my safe return and enough food for the appropriate time of my absence.”  His gaze touched Rory’s, glittering with untold secrets and unrepentant derision. “There’s no way out, unless one is an