Page 3 of The Cruel Highlander's Healer
“Quit askin’, ye wallop,” he answered, rolling his eyes at his friend.
“Will ye just tell me, then?”
Conall glanced at his man-at-arms.
He’ll think I’ve gone mad.
The Laird wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t gone mad. But he’d accepted that even if he had, even if it was madness that had placed this idea in his mind, he would see it through, anyway.
“We’re goin’ to find the Witch of the Wood.”
Conall’s voice floated on the air between them, a pregnant pause filling the air. The silence was filled only with the clopping of their horse’s hooves and the rustling of the leaves in the trees.
Just as he expected, Eliot threw his head back and laughed. Birds immediately took flight, their startled caws mingling with the sound, all of it coming together to mock him.
“Ye cannae be tellin’ me,” Eliot panted as he got control of himself, “that we’re ridin’ all this way to go chasin’ after some fairytale.”
“The With of the Wood is real,” Conall said resolutely, his jaw ticking in annoyance. “We’re on our way to her cabin, now.”
“Aye, and we’ll find a dragon along the way.” Eliot chuckled, focusing once more on the road ahead. “Daenae tell me, then. I’ll find out the truth soon enough.”
Conall allowed silence to settle over him again, resolved to make it to the cabin. He did not care that Eliot hadn’t believed him; he would see soon enough. The Laird knew the tales of the Witch of the Wood were all too true, and his man-at-arms would know the same within the hour.
He’ll be eatin’ his words soon enough.
There was a well-worn path through the woods, but it was a slender one. One that hinted of being traveled often, but not by many feet. To pass the time, Conall couldn’t help but wonder what the woman would look like.
He imagined a crone with hunched shoulders and warts on her nose. Someone who would terrify the children at the very sight of her, even as she was helping to save their lives.
“Conall.” Eliot’s voice broke through Conall’s wandering thoughts, bringing his attention away from the visions dancing in his mind and into the present moment.
His man-at-arms was pointing in front of them, and Conall followed the line of his finger. Even through the waning light, he could make out a widening to the path ahead of them.
He also noticed that the trees had grown thinner, opening into a meadow. A cabin sat in the center of it, windows aglow with the light of a fire inside.
“Who lives there?” Eliot asked, the man’s voice lit with confusion.
“I told ye,” Conall answered. “The Witch of the Wood.”
More of the clearing came into view as they urged their horses forward. There were large, well-tended gardens overflowing with healthy plants that Conall could not identify. The cabin itself had also been well maintained, even if he could tell it was quite old.
He and Eliot guided their horses into the clearing before dismounting and tying off their horses at a nearby tree. Eliot had stayed behind when Conall spoke to the other two healers, and Conall wondered if that had been a mistake.
It was yer own reputation that made all the other healers refuse to help, after all.
The thought was not a comforting one, even if Conall knew that it was correct.
Eliot was the milder of the two and often filled with a jovial, joking manner that others usually received much better than Conall’s brusque and gruff demeanor.
So he’d lean on his friend as they made their request of the witch.
The grass of the clearing was thick, silencing the sound of their footsteps as they walked toward the cabin. One of the windows was open, the white-painted shutters thrown wide.
A lovely sound floated on the air, and Conall listened intently as they approached the porch that led to the front door. The sound of a song drifted on the breeze, and it was so at odds with everything that Conall had been expecting that he nearly stopped walking.
The Witch of the Woods was singin’?
When they reached the stairs, their boots clunked onto the wood so loudly that Conall wanted to flinch. It was also loud enough that it must have been heard inside, because the beautiful singing of mere seconds before stopped abruptly.
