Chapter 2 A Lost Legacy
“ARE YOU SURE there are just ten of them with the queen?” Lara peered into the darkness that fringed the bright ring of torches ahead. “There aren’t more lurking amongst the trees … ready to attack the moment I show my face?”
“We checked.” The chief-enforcer’s tone was gruff. “Only Mor’s Ravens accompany her. I wouldn’t let you anywhere near them otherwise.”
Lara frowned. Cailean and Bree flanked her, while Skaal—his fae hound—stalked behind them. She trusted her chief-enforcer’s judgment, yet it still felt as if she was walking into a trap. Her last encounter with Mor’s Ravens—her personal Guard—had left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Do you want me to meet with Mor?” Bree asked. “It would be safer.”
“No,” Lara replied firmly, even as heat ignited under her ribs. “A High Queen doesn’t cower.”
“No … she doesn’t.” Censure edged Bree’s voice now. “But you shouldn’t put yourself at unnecessary risk either. And since I have … history … with Mor, she might treat with me instead.”
“Or she might kill you,” Cailean pointed out.
The warrior druid had a point. Since Bree had once been Mor’s assassin—before fleeing Sheehallion and shifting sides—the Raven Queen was likely still looking for retribution.
Lara quickened her stride, one hand drifting to the cairn stone safely tucked away at her belt.
She carried her dagger as well, but if things turned nasty, fire would be her greatest ally.
She didn’t want to wield it openly, for it would expose her secret to all, but if Mor tried anything, she’d have to.
“I’m not facing Mor without you both at my side,” she reassured her chief-enforcer and warder. “Keep that torch with you, Cailean.”
Her pulse leaped into a canter. This could be your chance to kill Mor. Cut off the head of the serpent.
Aye, she could—and she longed to—but she’d hear Mor out.
Initially, at least. The Raven Queen had threatened to push south within the year, to make The Wolds hers, yet she still hadn’t.
Maybe Alar’s presence in the borderlands prevented her, or perhaps there was another reason.
Lara was curious to learn more about her enemy.
She wouldn’t trust a word the Shee queen spoke though. She’d learned the hard way that trust was as dangerous as an aughisky. If you were foolish enough to reach out a hand, it would drag you down to the bottom of a deep, dark loch and feast on your entrails.
A terrible wail rent the night then, a woman’s cry full of sorrow.
Behind Lara, one of the warriors muttered an oath.
Despite that she’d heard it often since departing from Duncrag, the keening made Lara’s chest constrict.
The Weeper, foretelling grief and loss, dogged their steps these days.
It was hard not to let that anguished cry get to her.
Worse still, every time the Weeper held vigil near their camp, she watched those around her struggle to hold back the tide of despair.
The spirit’s mournful cry had a way of sucking hope out of you.
The last of the tents fell away, ghostly shapes in the mist. A line of enforcers and warriors waited there, weapons drawn, faces grim in the light of the torches many held. Roth stood amongst them, his cool blue eyes shadowed as his gaze slid over the trio. “Shall I join you, My Queen?”
Lara nodded. “Bring a few of your warriors and follow Skaal.”
Without another word, Roth gestured to the helmeted figures next to him, and they fell in behind the massive dog with a shaggy green coat, plumed tail, and glowing amber eyes.
Something chattered and hissed in the undergrowth then, the sound cutting through the Weeper’s wail.
The fingers of Lara’s right hand brushed her cairn stone’s pouch once more.
As always, these days, the night was alive.
It wasn’t just faerie creatures that stalked the darkness, Mor’s spies, but spirits too—angry, vengeful ones.
Over the past year in Duncrag, they’d terrorized the fort, forcing their way into dwellings through smoke vents and the cracks under doors.
And when Lara had set off west to deal with King Artair, the news in the villages they passed wasn’t good either.
The botach had stolen away bairns, while boggarts—broonies turned bad—had smothered two newborns. And then, there was the Slew.
Lara’s skin prickled. The situation was worsening, yet there was nothing she could do about it.
The rain had ceased now, although fog rolled through the woodland in a dense blanket. Wet ground squelched underfoot, and the rich scent of rotting leaves tickled her nostrils.
Up ahead, the glow of more torches beckoned. And as they approached, the outlines of tall, cloaked figures appeared. The Shee waited with a stillness that no Marav could have obtained.
Lara’s pulse kicked up another notch.
She couldn’t believe it. Finally, the two queens would meet face-to-face.
She drew nearer, stopping when she was around half a dozen yards away from the party of Shee.
As Cailean had assured her, they were a small group; lithe and lean, their gazes shadowed by deep hoods.
However, they were all heavily armed. Sheehallion steel glinted in the light of the blazing torches.
They must have slipped out of Golval Barrow, which lay just a league to the north of here.
Unlike the Marav, the Shee could use the ancient burial mounds to travel between Sheehallion and Albia. It had allowed them to approach unseen.
Lara’s gaze slid over the Shee. However, she paid scant attention to the black-cloaked Ravens. Instead, she focused on the figure standing in the middle of the group; the one who’d just pushed back her hood.
A large raven perched upon her shoulder—Eagal, Mor’s messenger.
Tall and willowy, the Raven Queen was a striking sight.
The torchlight accentuated her sharp high cheekbones, and in this light, her eyes were the color of ink.
She wore a long high-necked gown that shimmered like liquid silver, a sword belt buckled around her narrow hips.
A necklace of gleaming white stones encircled her throat, their paleness contrasting with her smooth umber skin.
Lara observed her adversary, taking in every detail. In truth, after what Bree had told her about the queen, she’d expected her to be more intimidating. Instead, her expression was solemn, her gaze veiled. “Good evening, Lara mac Talorc.” Her voice was low and melodious.
“You’re trespassing on my lands,” Lara replied coldly.
“We are … but with good reason.”
“State your purpose.”
Something flickered across the Raven Queen's face—an emotion Lara couldn’t quite place. “The spirit world grows unruly.” She paused then as the Weeper gave another heart-rending wail. “Something must be done.”
Silence followed this response, and when Lara replied, anger edged her voice. “Things only turned bad when you took the North. You threw our world out of balance. If you want to put things right, leave Albia.”
Mor frowned. “We aren’t to blame for this. Wraiths and wights were causing problems long before your father stepped up his campaign against us.”
Fire started to pulse in Lara’s gut. Easy words, but where was the proof?
Mor’s gaze slid from Lara’s face down her body, fixing upon her right hand—on where the amber stone of the iron ring she wore gleamed in the torchlight. “So … Fern was right,” she said softly. “Albia’s rulers still wear the ring.”
Lara’s heart kicked. Fern? Mor was referring to Alar’s half-sister.
The Shee warrior who'd tried to assassinate Lara a year earlier before being taken prisoner. She’d escaped Duncrag when the Slew attacked the previous Gateway.
It was no surprise that she'd gone straight to her queen. Yet mention of the ring Lara had inherited from her father confused her. “It’s the Ord-ree seal. What of it?”
“You know its history?”
Lara lifted her hand, studying the ring as if expecting to find the answer to Mor’s question in the depths of the amber. She didn’t. “No.”
“It was made for fire-wielders.”
Lara froze, while gasps and mutters rippled through the amassed crowd behind her.
“And that is what you are, isn’t it?” Mor continued, her gaze lifting to meet Lara’s. “The first in many generations of your family.”
Queasiness washed over Lara. Fuck. Mor had just ripped off her mask. She wasn’t ready for this. “I don't believe it,” she whispered finally, her mind wheeling.
“You didn’t know about the family connection?”
Lara shook her head.
“The Ord-ree seal … passed down from ruler to ruler over hundreds of years. Common-born fire-wielders didn’t possess such a ring though … it belonged only to Albia’s royal line.”
Aware of the gazes now boring into her back, Lara curled the fingers of her right hand into a fist. “How do you know this?”
“The archives of Caisteal Gealaich hold many secrets … if you dig deep enough.”
Moments passed, and as they did, the riddle Lara had been trying to solve for a while now untangled itself.
Whenever she displayed a strong emotion—anger usually—flames flared in the depths of the amber.
And they did whenever she wielded fire as well.
There were also times, as she clenched the cairn stone tightly in her right hand, when the ring pulsed hot against her skin.
Over the past turns of the moon, she’d guessed it was connected in some way to her ability. But she hadn’t made the link to her family.
“What does the ring have to do with the spirit world?” Cailean spoke up then, his voice sharp.
Mor’s gaze never left Lara’s face as she replied, “Nearly two and a half thousand years ago, fire-wielders were common in Albia. There was even a class of druid called pyromancers … trained fire-wielders who expanded their abilities through study and discipline.”
Cailean stiffened. Clearly, pyromancers weren’t part of current druidic lore. The news surprised Lara as well. She hadn’t realized some fire-wielders had become druids.