by M. A. Grant
“They weren’t trying to control me, I promise. They had information they needed to share. Memories.”
“Of what?”
“Their deaths.” He swears, but I press on, needing to tell him what I saw. “Something’s gone wrong out here. The same man appeared in every memory. He’s the one who kept murdering them. The shades couldn’t show me his face, but it was him, Keir. Again and again. Whoever he is, whatever his reasons for doing all of this, we need to find him.”
“Lugh, there isn’t time—”
“Then we make time. They want him stopped. I want him stopped.”
A long, heavy silence. Keiran rises slowly, never looking at me directly, and I know he’s turning this statement over and over in his head.
“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he finally says. “I—I’m too tired now.”
At least the darkness hides my guilty wince. Keiran’s a bit older than me. Living in Faerie has slowed the aging process, but he still doesn’t heal as quickly as me, and violent magickal attacks leave him exhausted for days. If he’s admitting his limitations now, it means interrupting the shades tonight took a heavy toll on him. In the morning, he’ll be in worse shape than me.
“To bed then?” I ask.
He collects his father’s axe and checks the edge. Must still be sharp, because his shoulders drop in relief, and he adjusts his grip to a more relaxed hold. He still hasn’t turned toward me, but he nods and agrees, “To bed.”
We limp back into camp together, silently supporting each other and knowing the morning will be filled with quiet complaints about our new injuries. It isn’t until we’re tucked into our bedrolls beside a rebuilt fire that Keiran speaks. “Lugh?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for telling me,” he whispers before drawing the furs up around our shoulders like nothing has changed.
I close my eyes and fall asleep knowing it’s not true.
Chapter Ten
Lugh
Dawn comes too soon. As the year slips on, the sun’s light waits longer and longer to breach the horizon, but so many early starts in a row mean Liath and Dubh wake early despite the darkness. Their movements and soft greetings eventually coax me to open my eyes. Keiran’s already awake, though he hasn’t moved from the bedroll. He lies on his back, staring up at the sky overhead.
“Did you sleep?” I ask him, and immediately regret speaking. My throat’s still raw, a reminder of last night’s horrible experience.
“Eventually,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
I copy him and roll to my back, wincing from the pull on my muscles. There may be no visible wounds, but every phantom cut I suffered last night pulses and burns.
“Oh, I am not going to enjoy today’s ride,” I groan, and sit up.
If I don’t move, I know the pain will settle deeper. Better to get going now and warm up the stiff muscles before jumping into a full day of punishing riding. Once I’ve familiarized myself with the worst of the aches, I risk glancing at Keiran. “What about you?”
“Sore. Aching head. It should fade once we’ve eaten.” He frees himself from the pile of furs and scrubs at his face with his hands. “The men will be waiting for us.”
“It’s early. They’re probably still asleep. If we’re lucky, they’ll be awake when we get into town.”
“You talk like the ride won’t take us long.”
“Not if we get moving. Come on. No reason to linger here.”
He shivers at those words and risks a look back at the burial mounds. In this predawn light, they look like bumps on the landscape, no more dangerous than the curve of a stream or the gentle slope of a meadow. Nevertheless, their image is tarnished by the memory of last night, and I know Keiran’s reliving our battle when he forces his gaze away and turns his attention to the bedding. “Agreed,” he finally says. “Let’s get out of here.”
We finish getting dressed, throwing on the rest of our layers and returning weapons to their proper places, before tearing down the camp. It doesn’t take long to pack everything onto the horses, but I balk when I’m faced with the prospect of pulling myself up into Liath’s saddle. Keiran, already astride Dubh, watches me with grim amusement. “Come on, seidhr,” he teases. “I thought we were going to beat the dawn to the village.”
“I hate you,” I mutter. His jibe is enough to urge me up into the saddle though, and we head off.
My slow riding means most of the villagers are already working in the fields when we arrive. Their dark expressions as we ride past makes me glad I limited my glamour’s illusion to nothing more than a shadowed hood. I don’t think the sight of the horned helm would be welcome here.
Cybel lifts a hand as we approach the hall, the only friendly face around. “There’s breakfast inside,” he says. His shrewd gaze passes over me and darts to Keiran. Whatever Cybel sees makes him frown a little. “Difficult night? You’re here later than we expected.”
“My fault,” Keiran replies without hesitation. “Couldn’t get to sleep for some reason.”
“What’s your excuse?” Cybel asks me as I dismount and hitch Liath to one of the hall’s posts.
“New dream,” I say.
Keiran gives me a look, but doesn’t challenge me on the lie.
Cybel looks surprised. “Already?”
“The gods wait for no man,” I say as Keiran and I walk inside. “Especially on Samhain. At least this time they were clear about what I have to do.”
The hall is blessedly empty, quiet, and scented with aromatic smoke from the newly started cooking fire. Looks like Armel took it on himself to make the meal. I’m selfishly grateful for the privacy. Keiran and I won’t have to entertain anyone this morning. We’d be poor company to keep and Keiran would beat himself up later about the potential damage to the Hunt’s reputation.
“We have a new quest, huh?”
“Yes. An important one,” I say.
Keiran frowns. “It is, but it’s one that will hold until after we reach Eyjar.”
Cybel looks back and forth between us. “I see,” he says slowly. “I’m sure it’s important, so surely you will tell your mother to expect a delayed result from us.”
Keiran blanches. A prickle of dread creeps down my spine, and I hope I’m keeping my voice even when I reply, “Why would I need to tell her of such a change?”
“It may run contrary to her expectations. A raven arrived this morning when I went out for a quick ride.” Cybel digs in his pocket and pulls out a tightly rolled piece of parchment, sealed with a delicate ridge of ice. “The bird took off without waiting for a response.”
“That’s not ominous,” Keiran mumbles as he sits down beside Drest.
He accepts a bowl of lumpy porridge without complaint and digs in. He’s eating, which is a good sign. If he’d been really hurt last night, he wouldn’t have much of an appetite. Armel sets a fresh bowl in the empty spot left for me, but I don’t start in on it. Mother’s missive is more important.
I rub the pad of my thumb over the seal. The ice vanishes under my touch, disappearing without leaving any water stain or dampness in its wake. Her script is tight and cramped, written in a hurry. The message is nearly incomprehensible and my stomach churns when I reread it, trying to make sense of the clipped phrases.
“Is something wrong, seidhr?” Drest asks.
“There was an attack,” I say. The men fall silent, attention wholly fixed on me. “Roark was kidnapped from Mather’s campus by three fae before the sealing took effect.”
“Goddess,” Armel breathes.
“He was already retrieved and is recovering in the sídhe.” I trace over Mother’s last words with a finger and send up thanks to the Goddess for watching over my brother. No wonder Mother reached out to us. The rest of her warning is short and succinct, which is a true sign of the danger. “His kidnappers
were Sluagh.”
“No,” Drest argues, “they wouldn’t be so stupid. No Sluagh would dare steal Prince Lyne, not when it would bring the queen’s wrath down on them. Aage would never stand for such an attack.”
“Yet three of them did,” I say, reviewing that sentence again. “Bound Roark with iron. Tortured him.”
“And he’s alive?” Keiran asks.
“Apparently. Someone did...something to prevent the poison from spreading. She says—” I squint, but no matter how many times I reread her explanation, I can’t wrap my head around it. Deciphering written words is difficult on a good day, and between yesterday and last night... I’m amazed I’ve understood this much of her note so far. “Well, I’m not sure. But he’s alive and getting back to full strength.”
I shove the paper across the table toward Keiran, who will read it and share any other important details with me later. He accepts it and skims over the script. His eyes widen a bit at Mother’s closing—the demand we return home as quickly as possible—but says nothing. He tucks the note away in a pocket and looks back to me.
“Are we returning to the sídhe then?” Armel asks.
“No. She just wanted to warn us to be careful,” I lie. I hold Keiran’s gaze and add, “She understands how important our current task is.”
An ominous air hangs over the table. Cybel glances from me to Keiran, suspicious of our mutual silence and wordless conversation. “How supportive of her,” he muses.
Drest, as always, is the one to open his big mouth and ask the question no one else dares voice. “If that happened to Prince Lyne, how much danger are you in? You don’t think Aage would strike against us like this, do you?”
I drag my spoon through the porridge and try to think. There’s no reason for Aage to condone such hostilities against our Court, since they would only result in bloodshed. The fact that only three Sluagh were involved speaks to an unsanctioned attack. Those responsible for Roark’s suffering are dead, so there’s no direct threat from them, although they may have other friends in the Wylds. The focus on Roark is what disturbs me most. Roark’s dangerous and more than capable of caring for himself. Everyone knows he’s our Triumvirate’s pillar. He’s Mother’s right hand and his loss would likely shatter us. With Sláine’s defection and my own aversion to the sídhe’s magick, it would be all too easy to topple our Court. If the Seelie wanted to beat us in this war, Roark’s fall would be the ultimate prize. The fact that it was Sluagh—not Seelie—who managed to take him unawares and torture and nearly kill him doesn’t make sense. This is the most direct attack we’ve ever fended off, and I can’t make heads or tails of it. Who knows what danger we might be heading into?
“I doubt Aage knows of it, especially since he seems unaware of his people’s struggles in the Wylds. I think we’re safe for now,” I say slowly. “We stay the course.”
Keiran supports me without hesitation, though he clarifies, “We ride for Eyjar?”
“We must.”
Armel nods. “At least three weeks’ ride.”
“If we find hospitable locals,” Drest adds. He scowls and hands his bowl over to Armel. “Took us a while to convince the locals to let us stay the night. Supplies are low here. Elsewhere too. Apparently, Aage hasn’t been sending the aid he’s promised. Supporters of the thegn are in even shorter supply in these parts. Supporters of the old ways as well.”
“Perfect,” I mutter.
The Mainland Wylds are already more difficult to travel through, thanks to the unavoidable presence of the Summer Court and its people. We can’t risk capture by King Oberon’s forces, which limits safe travel routes. If the Sluagh are arguing over resources, we’ll have to plan our resupplying stops more carefully. This could stretch into a highly uncomfortable trip in short order. Worse, if rogue Sluagh are hunting for the Unseelie royal family, I’m going to have to put serious effort into maintaining my glamour. That’ll mean more rest, more caution around settlements... Herne and the hunters, this is going to be awful.
“We’ll get the horses,” Cybel tells me. He and the men clean up their mess swiftly and leave Keiran and me to our meager breakfast.
Once we’re alone, Keiran sets down his spoon and leans across the table, so close our heads nearly butt together. “Lugh—”
“I know.” The disappointment is even harder to swallow than this porridge.
He sighs, but presses on anyway. “I’m sorry. We can keep an eye out for signs of this shadow man as we ride, but we need to reach Aage swiftly. If someone attacked Prince Lyne—”
“They’re serious about the war,” I finish. “No one would risk Roark’s wrath, or Mother’s, otherwise. This complicates everything.”
“It doesn’t have to. We get to Eyjar and learn what Aage knows of this mess.” He smooths a hand over his beard. “I can’t imagine him being involved in this.”
“Nor I,” I agree.
Keiran nods. “Good then. We warn him of these usurpers and hopefully after we sort that out, we’ll see what help he can offer the Winter Court. Then we’ll contact Queen Mab and decide our next steps.”
“And if he has to stop Sluagh from breaking the neutrality? If he can’t help with our war?”
Keiran shrugs. “Then at least we know we’ll be facing death when it begins.”
I make a face and dig out another spoonful of porridge. It’s cooler now, congealing, and it feels like a heavy lump of clay as I swallow it down. “You’re so cheery this morning.”
He takes one final mouthful of porridge and stands, taking his bowl with him. “You don’t like cheery. You like honest.”
I like you, I want to say. I’ve always liked you. But the words stay lodged in my throat, even after he follows the others. Maybe it’s better that way.
Keiran
“We don’t have to stop,” Cybel says as we look down the hill at the drab, muddy village below. His words leave his mouth in puffs of steam, a reminder of how quickly winter’s approaching, and I hope we aren’t still here, relying on dismal hospitality, when the first of the storms hit in earnest. “We have enough to make it until the next village.”
Lugh flexes his hands on the reins, stretching the material of his gloves tight over his knuckles. “We’d be cutting it too close if weather comes. The hunting’s been abysmal, and there’s not much left to gather along the way. This is the largest village between here and Eyjar. If we don’t stop now, we may not find anywhere else that can help us.” He glances to me. “How much tribute do we have left?”
I’m glad I checked the saddlebag holding our treasures this morning. “Doing well, despite everyone’s best efforts to fleece us.”
The past weeks have grown steadily worse. What started as limited and expensive supplies available has now given way to limited, expensive, and rancid supplies. Small rooms in the halls that were difficult to find are now impossible dreams; we spend almost every night camping, and aren’t greeted with any kindness when we dare to cross into a township proper. Lugh’s sick of it. It’s not just our ill-treatment that bothers him; everywhere we stop, we hear of Aage’s negligence and the impact it has on the locals. I know Lugh is struggling as he plans how best to confront our old friend. Neither of us wants to accept that Aage is no longer the reliable man we’ve known for years, but the reality we see in the Wylds is too stark to deny away. Even if Aage is an unwitting accomplice in his people’s suffering, I worry it will tarnish his image in Lugh’s eyes, leaving him with one less ally to his lonely position.
“We can at least stop in,” Lugh decides at last. “If we can afford what’s on offer, we’ll resupply. If we leave empty-handed, so be it.”
The other men murmur their agreement, but I don’t think Lugh’s heard a word. He stares down at the settlement, his entire body leaning forward in the saddle. He looks older like this, with his jaw set and the dark wolf fur lining his cloak fluttering around hi
s neck. I forget sometimes—force myself to forget—that Lugh’s no longer an impetuous child. If something’s unnerved him, there’s good reason.
He frowns. “I don’t see much movement.”
I take another look at the scene below and try to focus on Lugh’s observation. He has a point. There’s smoke rising from some chimneys, but the streets are surprisingly quiet for the time of day. There are older Sluagh out too, a consistent trend I’ve noticed the farther inland we travel. The continued absence of young fae is something we keep track of, though more and more villagers refuse to speak on the matter. They don’t seem concerned about their missing either. Lugh’s convinced the disappeared populace has something to do with the shadow man of his dreams, and I’m running out of reasons to argue against him. Noticing that now makes the morning’s chill settle a little deeper into my bones. I shudder against the sensation and shrug my cloak higher up on my shoulders.
“How do you want to approach?” I ask Lugh quietly. He taps a finger against his thigh, which I take as permission to continue. “We don’t know if huscarl Boros is in residence.”
“I know.”
“The sight of the Horned King may not be welcome.”
“Maybe not.” He straightens in his saddle. “But we’re meant to be here.”
A cool breeze brushes the back of my neck, raising goose bumps, and I lift my hood in an effort to block it. “Were you led here by another dream?” I ask, knowing Lugh will understand what I’m asking. Has another shade come to you?
In my periphery, I catch the sharp turn of Cybel’s head toward me, but I keep my focus on Lugh.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m going to discover something here. Something important. And whatever it is, I need to see it for myself. I need to learn what they’re hiding.”
“That’s how people die,” I point out.
It earns me a humorless chuckle. “Maybe,” he counters, and the breeze twists around us even stronger, “but I don’t think we will suffer that fate today.”
