Night Visitor Read Online Free PDF

he hunted when it rained and killed a stag, he always left a portion of venison for the faeries. At other times, he left milk on the flags by the fire, but on rainy days, he knew that the still-folk ate venison.
    And the still-folk were grateful. Where others might find magic barriers stretched across certain hidden ways in the woods, no bar to passage was ever raised against him. Malcolm always returned with game before other hunters. He could always find his way through the woods on even the darkest night.
    And he owed his skilled playing not to Black Anndra, but to the blessing his mother’s kin had received in that long-ago cradle where the first half-human, half-faerie child was said to have been born.
    And now, Malcolm had been left the silvered reed for his pipes. The gift of the moon-metal and the vision from the still-folk meant that he was chosen for some arcane task or sacrifice.
    But this was not something that he could explain to others. Not ever. Nor could he tell them about the knowing that came now when he stood close to certain objects of power. Usually, it was a holy spring, or perhaps an ancient weapon, that brought forth his intuitions. This time, the object of power was a man: the MacColla. A man who, like Robert the Bruce—and himself—carried the trait of ambidexterity.
    Yet now, when he needed the inner-guidance most, his instincts had gone quiet.
    Aye or nay? Should he embrace this man and swear his loyalty, or refuse, and finally so anger the chief that he would be broken and sent away? Malcolm would not regret leaving the glen, but neither answer was a desired one until the spirits gave him some definite sign of what was to come. Danger was near, but from this world, or the other?
    “Are ye drunk, man?” the chief demanded, frowning in earnest. “Speak up!”
    Putting his unease aside, Malcolm prepared to answer the men of war who waited impatiently for his reply.
    Then, just as he parted his lips to say he knew not what to do, from the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the wraith that had lately been haunting him. All unwilling, he turned his head to stare at her.
    The apparition was a strange sight. Female, certainly, but dressed in a manner he had never seen on mortal women. She had honey-colored hair and eyes the deep shade of late blueberries with the bloom of dew upon them.
    She was not, he felt certain, of the true Daoine Shi —the still-folk who lived under the ground in the turrets of Shian. Nor was she a terrible Irish banshee, nor a ghost, nor an elemental spirit. Yet something about her spoke of magic.
    The coming of an apparition was always a sign of change—nearly always for the worse, and most often of imminent death. Yet, he could not believe that this shadowy girl he ofttimes saw from the corner of his eye was any portent of evil.
    All she ever did was walk about, with a box mounted on sticks through which she peered from time to time before disappearing in a lightning flash. She had never spoken to him, never looked into his eyes, or given any sign that she knew he was there. Yet this time, when he needed to choose a path, she was staring in his direction, waving her arm in languid farewell.
    Farewell Not greeting.
    “Malcolm,” the chief prompted in a desperate voice. “Ye’ve returned no answer tae our guest.”
    Malcolm reluctantly turned away from the apparition and found the MacColla watching him intently.
    “Have you the sight, piper?” he asked softly in Gaelic, leaning forward, those cold eyes avid as he sent a quick glance to the empty air where the girl had stood. “Knowest thou the future? Hast thou seen the evil priest of the Campbells who is said to hunt thy kin? He is even now at Duntrune.”
    “Nay,” he denied automatically. It was true that his mother had been a MacLeod, and from a family of wise women, but he had never had the true sight—didn’t want it! Yet…He had been born on the day of Saint Columba’s birth,and those born at the