Channa Leigh couldn't stop shaking. At home, at her mother's bedside, she would have said anything, promised anything, to see her mother well again. But now, standing here on Darkfest's doorstep, it was time to make good upon her promise.

"What is he like, Papa, this wizard?"

"I dinna know, Channa Leigh. No one really knows."

"What does he look like? Is his face cruel?"

Dugald frowned. "He is a tall man, with long black hair. His eyes are as changeable as the seasons. As for his face... 'tis a hard face, to be sure. I dinna know if you would call it cruel, but... 'tis hard. He is never seen without a cloak. A long black cloak that billows behind him like the hounds of hell."

"Papa, do you think - ?" She bit off the words as the door opened with a faint creak.

The wizard stood in the doorway, towering over them.

He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, black breeches, and supple black leather boots. A long black cloak fell from his shoulders to ward off the chill of early morning. His eyes burned with an intensity that Dugald found unsettling. Fear for himself and his daughter turned his blood to ice.

Dugald took an involuntary step backward. "I have brought my daughter, as promised." He studied the wizard's face. Was it cruel? The eyes seemed dark and cold; the mouth was set in a firm line; the jaw was firm and square and well denned, the cheekbones high and proud, the nose straight and sharp as the blade of an ax. "We..." He swallowed hard, unsettled by the wizard's unwavering stare. "We will expect her back in one year."

"Aye, old man, that was the bargain."

"You do not ask about my woman."

One dark brow rose slightly. "She is well, is she not?"

"Aye," Dugald replied. Mara was well enough, though she had been inconsolable upon hearing that her dear Channa Leigh had to leave them for a time. You should have let me die, Mara had raged at him. Better that I should be dead than our daughter be at his mercy.

Channa Leigh drew in a sharp breath as a large unfamiliar hand closed over her arm.

"Come," said the wizard.

"Fare thee well, Channa Leigh," Dugald said. He handed the wizard the small cloth bag that held his daughter's few belongings. "I will come for you when the year is up."

"Fare thee well, Papa," she replied tremulously. "Will you not hug me good-bye?"

She felt the wizard's hand fall away from her arm as her father stepped forward to embrace her.

"Be a good lass," her father admonished softly, and she heard the unshed tears in his voice. "Remember yer prayers, at daybreak and eventide."

"I will, Papa."

He hugged her, hard and quick, and then he was gone, and she was alone with a stranger. Once again she felt the wizard's hand upon her arm as he guided her into the castle.

She had never heard anything so frightening, or so final, as the sound of the heavy door closing behind her.

He released her, and she stood there, lost and alone in the darkness. She knew he was still there. She could feel his presence looming over her. Hands clasped, she waited, wondering what was expected of her.

Darkfest dropped the girl's belongings on the floor beside the door. "Can ye cook?" he asked.

"Aye."

"That will be one of your chores on the morrow. Today, I will prepare our meals."

"Have you no servants?" she asked, thinking it strange that such a powerful wizard had no one to look after him.

"No."

A sliver of fear ran down her spine. She had not realized she would be alone in the keep with him. "I can prepare a meal," she said. "I enjoy cooking." It was something she did well, something that she had straggled hard to learn. Something that gave her a sense of accomplishment and self-worth.

"Come along then," he said. He walked slowly toward the kitchen, and she followed the sound of his footsteps, her feet learning the shape and feel of the cold stones.

In the kitchen, he took her hand, wondering if his touch would enable her to see, but she continued to stare ahead, looking at nothing. Odd that in his wolf form, his touch granted her sight. What was it, he mused, that made the difference?

Holding her by the hand, he guided her to the pantry and to the hearth, showed her where the cook pots were, the shelves that held the pewter plates and cups and bowls, the drawer that held the utensils and the linen. He guided her hand to the pump.

"Where do you keep the wood and the flint, my lord?" she asked.

He blinked at her. He was master of fire and flame; he had no need of flint.

"Ye will have no need of them," he replied. "The fire burns day and night."

She gazed in his direction, unseeing, unblinking.

"Is there anything ye need?" he asked.

She shook her head. She had been blessed with a quick mind, a good memory. It would take her but a little while to learn her way around the kitchen; until she did, she would rather stumble around on her own than ask for his help.

"Call me when the meal is ready."

"Aye, my lord."

With a grunt, he left the kitchen; then, on silent feet, he returned to stand in the doorway, watching her. She moved slowly about the kitchen, one hand out in front of her. He was tempted to go to her aid as she ran her hands over the pans, looking for a particular size, but he stayed where he was, curious to see if she would call for help.

She had the patience of a saint, he mused, as he watched her. By smell and by touch, she found the ingredients she desired. His amazement grew as he watched her prepare a pot of porridge, boil half a dozen eggs, and brew a pot of tea.

He backed away from the door as she walked toward him.

"My lord Darkfest," she called. " 'Tis ready."

He waited a moment, then moved toward the kitchen, making certain she could hear his footsteps.

He approached the table and sat down. He waited for her to join him, and when she did not, he cleared his throat and said, "Come, eat with me."

"I'd rather not."

"I would rather ye did."

She hesitated a moment, then made her way to the table and sat down in the chair across from him. "Shall I serve you, my lord?"

"I can do it," he said gruffly.

He watched her while he ate, studying her face, the rich golden color of her hair, the delicate shape of her brows. She ate very little. Her hands trembled slightly. Did she fear him so much then? Ha! He knew the stories they told of him down in the village, that he drank blood and devoured children, that he sacrificed virgins to the Dark One. That he was the misbegotten son of the Dark One.

He would have renounced it all as nonsense save for the fact that he did not know who his father was. Perhaps he was the son of the Dark One. Perhaps that was why he had lived so long, why he did not grow old; perhaps it explained his supernatural powers.

Darkfest stood up when the meal was over. "Would ye like me to show ye the rest of the castle now?"

She stood up. "Aye, I would."

Taking her by the hand, he led her through each of the rooms on the castle's main floor.

"This is the great hall." He led her around the room, describing the huge stone fireplace that took up the entire west wall, letting her touch the long trestle tables where no one had eaten as long as he could remember. He led her to the raised dais situated near the east wall. Two chairs were located on the dais; a thick carpet was spread before the heavy oak chairs. She ran her hands over the heavy draperies that covered the windows.

There were tapestries on the walls, three of which were embroidered with scenes he was glad Channa Leigh could not see. They had troubled him all his life. The first depicted a large black wolf being pursued by hunters. A spear protruded from the wolf's back; blood stained his fur, trailed behind him in the snow.

The second tapestry showed a tall man clad in a flowing black cloak. Behind him, the dark sky was growing light as the sun rose over a craggy cliff. Surrounding the man were a dozen hunters armed with spears. Apart from the hunters stood a priest, a large silver cross raised over his head. Teeth bared, the man in the cloak faced his pursuers. It was the eyes that troubled Darkfest. Red eyes alight with defiance. The wolf's eyes.

The third tapestry portrayed either a victory or a defeat, depending on one's point of view. A black wolf lay dead in the snow, surrounded by the hunters and the priest. A hooded man stood at the wolf's side, an ax poised to sever the wolf's head from his body.

Darkfest guided her into the library, felt his face grow hot as he realized she would have no need of this room.

He took her to the solarium, watched her smile as she took a deep breath, her nostrils filling with the scents of the hardy mountain flowers that bloomed and thrived even in the midst of winter.

He bypassed his bedchamber and led her into the room that connected to his. It was a large square room. Once, it had belonged to his mother.

Step by step, he guided Channa Leigh to the huge canopy bed, the table that held ewer and basin. There were two large chests in the room, one for her clothing, he explained, and one for extra bedding.

A smaller room opened off this room. It had been his mother's sewing room.

He escorted Channa Leigh down the narrow corridor to the garderobe, saw the color bloom in her cheeks as he told her what it was.

When the tour was complete, he took her back to her own room. "I will get yer belongings," he said, and left her there.

Channa Leigh made her way to the bed and sat down. 'Twas a huge place. She would not have been surprised to learn that the whole of her village could fit inside the main hall. She ran her hands over the mattress. The bed itself was bigger than her room at home.

Home. A single tear slipped down her cheek. A year away from her mother and father, from Ronin, seemed a terribly long time, and yet it was a small price to pay for her mother's life.

She shook off her melancholy and thought about the wizard instead. What did he want of her?

Frightened and restless, she stood up and began to pace the room, her feet moving slowly over the floor as she memorized the dimensions of her chamber, her hands exploring every object within the room, running over the window ledge, touching the glass.

She whirled around at the sound of the door opening.

" 'Tis I," Darkfest said. "I have brought yer things."

She heard his footsteps as he crossed the floor.

"I have put yer bag on the foot of the bed."

"Thank you, my lord." She clasped her hands to still their trembling, took a deep breath. "I would like to know, my lord, what it is you expect of me."

"I should like ye to prepare my meals and wash my clothes, and clean the castle, as best ye can."

"Aye, my lord. Is that all?"

"It is."

"I do not mean to be impudent, my lord, but surely you could have hired a girl from the village to serve you. One who could see."

"Aye, Channa Leigh."

"Then why..."

"Why did I want ye?"

She nodded, certain she had angered him.

"I want ye to sing for me in the evening, Channa Leigh. For me, and for no one else. Is there anything else ye wish to know?"

"Nay, my lord. I shall do whatever you wish."

"Then we shall get on well together, the two of us."

She heard his footsteps move toward the door.

"I shall see ye this evening. The larder is well stocked with meat. Prepare whatever ye wish for supper."

"Aye, my lord."

She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the door close. She would cook for him and sing for him, and at the end of a year she would go home.

Darkfest cursed softly as he left the girl's room. He should not have brought her here. What folly had possessed him to do so, to think he could look at her every day and not want her, to think he could remember the touch of her hand upon his wolf self and not take her to his bed? Even now, he burned for her, for the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice rising in ecstasy, sobbing his name.

With a harsh laugh, he plunged down the stairs to the dungeon room where he practiced his sorcery. What did he know of women? Of ecstasy? No doubt she knew more of the carnal nature of what went on between a man and a woman than he did. His only experience in coupling had been in his wolf form with a she-wolf late one moonlit night. It had left him feeling satisfied and confused and frightened.

A wave of his hand, and a dozen candles sprang to life, illuminating the room where he kept the ingredients he used in his magic. Powdered horn of a unicorn. Saint-John's-wort. Crushed rosemary and thyme, vervain and yarrow and lavender, garlic and sage and rue, mugwort and cinquefoil and hyssop. He kept a large supply of tree bark and leaves: birch for cleansing and to expel evil; hazel for wisdom and the divining of water; yew, the tree of death; rowan for life and healing; ash for power and absorbing illness; pine for rejuvenation; willow for enchantment; hawthorn for male potency; holly for beauty; the apple for fertility; mistletoe for love and peace. And the alder, said to be the tree of fire, the wood of witches and wizards. He carried a whistle made of alder in his pocket for use in summoning and controlling the four winds.

He needed but little help in conjuring or making spells. The power was within him, within his hands, within his heart and mind. His, for good or for evil.

But it was not power or magic that concerned him this night. It was a fair lass by name of Channa Leigh. What was he to do with her, now that she was here?

Dinner was a silent affair. He could think of nothing to say to her, the beautiful young woman who sat across from him, her head bowed, the shimmering curtain of her hair concealing her face from his prying eyes.

The meal she had prepared was fit for a liege lord: the roasted venison succulent and swimming in a rich sauce, the vegetables sweet, the bread still warm from the oven. And yet he would have traded it all for a plate of cold ashes to see her smile.

When the meal was over, he thanked her, curtly, and left the room.

He took refuge in the high-ceilinged library that was his favorite room in the castle. It was a large chamber, with a cozy hearth and leaded windows. A bearskin rug was spread before the fireplace; curtains of so deep a blue as to be almost black hung at the windows. An enormous overstuffed chair, large enough to seat two comfortably, was angled toward the fire. A heavy oak table stood beside it. Two walls were lined with shelves that were crammed with ancient books and scrolls that held the wisdom of the known world. He had read them all many times over.

He whirled around, his gaze going to the door, which he had left open. He heard her footsteps in the corridor, hesitant, barely audible, and yet they echoed in his mind like thunder.

"My lord?" She stood in the doorway, her head cocked to one side. "Are you here?"

"Aye, lass. What is it ye want?"

"You said you wished me to sing for you."

He grunted softly. "Come in," he invited, and then, remembering that she could not see, he went to her. Taking her by the hand, he led her into the room, bid her sit down in his chair.

"I would rather stand," she said, "if you dinna mind."

"As ye wish."

"What will you have me sing, my lord?"

"Whatever pleases ye."

She hesitated a moment, and then she began to sing the lullaby he had heard her sing on the night of First Harvest. Hands clasped to her breasts, head high, eyes closed, her voice filled the room, soft and sweet and filled with yearning, and he knew in that moment that she dreamed of marriage, that she hungered for a babe of her own.

"My sweet bonnie lass,

A boon from heaven above,

I cradle you to my heart

And pray you know my love.

"Sweet bonnie lass,

My sweet bonnie lass,

Heaven sent you to me.

Heaven sent you to me.

"My sweet bonnie lass

So young and fair of face,

May you ever walk in sunshine

And be blessed with God's good grace."

She sang to him for an hour, and he felt her words twine around his heart, as delicate as a silken web, as binding as silver chains.

How beautiful she was, this woman known as Channa Leigh. There was magic in her voice, a mystical power equal to his own as she sang of a maiden's dreams and a mother's love and a warrior's heart.

"Enough," he said, his voice hoarse, his mind reeling from the images her songs had planted within his mind.

"As you wish, my lord," she said, and with a curtsey she left the room, leaving him awash in darkness though the room glowed with the warm rosy light of the fire.

And he knew, as he listened to her footsteps fade away, that he was totally, irrevocably, lost.