Chapter 4 Nothing Is Certain
THE WEEPER’S WAIL echoed through the gloaming. The drawn-out cry made Lara’s chest ache. Taking a step forward, she stumbled, her feet suddenly clumsy.
“Lara?” Bree was at her elbow, supporting her, but she gently shook her off.
“It’s all right,” she muttered.
Bree’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”
Lara nodded, yanking her cloak close. “It’s that howling … it gets to you after a while.”
“Aye,” Bree agreed roughly. “It gets to us all.”
Indeed, lines of strain bracketed her warder’s mouth this evening. Her posture, usually as straight as a spear, was slumped, her shoulders rounded.
The Weeper’s lament was eroding their defenses, letting despair and hopelessness creep in. Even Bree, the strongest person Lara had ever met, couldn’t hold it back.
For herself, Lara could feel the weight of it, pressing down upon her shoulders like two heavy hands.
Her limbs tingled with fatigue, and her temples pounded.
Jaw clenching, she looked around her. They stood near the northern edge of the perimeter her army had just built around Cobblebrae.
Two days had passed since her victory over Baldeen and her meeting with Mor.
And ever since, Lara had deliberately kept herself busy.
She didn’t want to think about the things the Raven Queen had told her, or what might happen if nothing was done. And she wished to forget about the alliance Mor had proposed between her, Lara, and Alar.
Around her, warriors were hammering in the last stakes to secure the high wooden palisade that now surrounded the clusters of sod-roofed roundhouses.
The thud of iron colliding with wood echoed through the grey dusk like a listless heartbeat.
One look at the faces of the men and women working—their slack expressions, wet eyes, and shallow breathing—and she knew the Weeper’s song was affecting them badly.
One of the men, a young warrior, threw down his mallet and sank to the muddy ground, burying his head in his hands. Two other men cast aside their tools and knelt next to him.
“It’s all right, Brodie,” one rumbled, slapping the warrior on the shoulder to rouse him. “Pay no heed to that wailing bitch.”
A few yards away, two women were bringing in washing from a line outside a roundhouse. They stared at their High Queen as if she’d just sprouted horns and fangs. Wide-eyed and nervous, they whispered together before one clutched at the iron protection amulet around her neck.
Lara murmured an oath, even as the ache under her breastbone deepened.
Of course, her army’s morale and the mood in Cobblebrae weren’t helped by the fact that everyone knew she was a fire-wielder now.
“We’ll need Ren to sing to us tonight,” she announced then, looking away from the women.
“Something cheerful to keep the despair at bay.”
“Good idea,” Bree replied. “The villagers won’t be able to defend Cobblebrae if they can’t rise from their furs in the mornings.”
Most of the residents had returned to the village now.
They’d welcomed the weapons eagerly, and the training that came with them.
A few yards away, warriors guided a line of men and women through basic drills—parry, strike, defend—but the Weeper’s distant wail kept shattering their focus.
Cobblebrae had been fortified, yet fear still lingered in the faces around her.
“No,” Lara agreed, her pulse quickening. “Hopefully, when we move on … the Weeper will follow us and leave these people be.”
The two women continued their circuit then, around the palisade. Lara had wanted to see it before nightfall, although it was difficult to concentrate. Tomorrow, they’d pack up and begin the journey back to Duncrag.
Maybe I should just give up. Just leave the North to Mor, and the borderlands to Alar. None of it matters. Not anymore.
She caught herself then. Shades. The Weeper was altering her thoughts now.
Jaw clenching, she quickened her stride. No, she wasn’t giving up. It would take more than a wailing spirit to best her.
“My Queen.” She glanced over her shoulder to see Roth approaching in long strides. The captain’s auburn brows were knitted together over the blade of his nose. His lips compressed; he struggled like the rest of them. “The Shee are back.”
Lara halted and turned to him. “Mor asks for another audience?”
He nodded.
Lara breathed a curse.
“You knew this was coming,” Bree reminded her gently.
The last of the light was fading when Lara emerged from the village. As before, Bree and Cailean strode at her side, with Skaal padding silently behind them, while Roth and a group of warriors brought up the rear.
And like two evenings earlier, Mor and her Ravens waited for them—tall, cloaked figures surrounded by flickering torches.
“Have you changed your mind?” The Raven Queen greeted her without preamble. Eagal perched on her shoulder, beady eyes fixed upon Lara.
“No,” Lara replied, folding her arms across her chest as she halted.
Mor sighed. “We’re wasting time here. The full moon has just passed … we need to get to The Shattered Crown before the next one.”
“Off you go then.”
Mor’s black eyes narrowed. “Not without you.”
“Why does this matter to you so much?” Lara demanded. Bree had counseled her to work with Mor, but over the past two, largely sleepless, nights, she’d relived their conversation multiple times. Something didn’t make sense. “Surely, the spirits are more of a problem for my people than yours?”
Bree had told her that the Shee couldn’t control the spirit world, yet Lara couldn’t imagine they were bothered by most of them. Mor had gone to a lot of trouble to search for a way to mend the veil, and Lara wanted to know why.
A nerve flickered in the queen’s smooth cheek. “The wights that dwell in our barrows grow … unruly.”
Lara stilled. Of course, wights were spirits too, malicious ghosts. The barrows that the Shee used to travel between Sheehallion and Albia were the tombs of ancient kings, and their spirits still lingered.
“Of late, crossing between realms has been … difficult,” Mor admitted after a lengthy pause. “If things continue, we won’t be able to travel back to Sheehallion.”
Or it might drive you back to your realm for good.
Lara’s pulse quickened. Perhaps she’d just found a way to rid herself of the Shee.
She caught herself then. Was that really her priority right now? The likes of the Slew were a far greater risk to Albia at present than the Shee. She had to focus on them.
Mor had finally given her a solid motivation, one she could actually believe. Yet, at the same time, there were so many things that were wrong about all of this. Her enemy was proposing that they work together. Every instinct rebelled against it.
And then there was Alar.
Just thinking about him made her stomach burn.
Ironically, she had some things to thank the prick for.
Their marriage had helped forge her. It had toughened her up.
Even though his support had all been mummery, she’d believed in it at the time.
It had allowed her to step into her own power.
By the time his betrayal happened, she’d been stronger.
Surer of herself. Despite hardships and obstacles, leadership had been much easier ever since.
But now, thanks to Mor, the earth shifted beneath her feet.
After besting the Baldeen army, she’d been unwavering in her resolve. She’d had a plan. She understood what she needed to do and had been ready to do it. But this new development changed everything.
“The idea of allying myself with you and the Half-blood doesn’t overjoy me either,” Mor said then, irritation lacing her voice now. “If there were another way, I’d have taken it.”
Lara pulled a face. “Can you assure me it’ll work … this binding between the three of us?”
Mor shook her head. “Nothing is certain. However, with you as our anchor bearing the ring, we have a strong chance.” She paused then, impatience flickering across her features.
“We shall be traveling fast and light. We must, if we wish to reach The Shattered Crown by Gateway. I have only my most loyal Ravens with me … I suggest you choose just a handful of warriors and druids to accompany you. Send everyone else home.”
Lara tensed. Mor was talking as if she’d already agreed, and she hadn’t. The Shee queen was making sense—nonetheless, she’d never traveled without an army before. It would make her vulnerable.
When she didn’t reply, Mor huffed another sigh. “If this is going to work, you’ll have to trust me a little.”
Lara’s pulse quickened.
Trust is a blade offered hilt-first—dangerous to give, deadly to refuse. Her chief-seer had told her that, and she’d replied that trust was just betrayal waiting for the right moment.
A year on, and she still stood by her response.
Where had trusting someone ever gotten her? Hurt by her father. Abused by her first husband and betrayed by her second. Abandoned by her overkings. But the need to trust was forever raising its head. And now, she was supposed to put her faith in her enemy so they could work toward a common goal.
Suddenly, she was standing on the edge of a cliff with nothing but darkness beneath her. The future was yet untold, but she wasn’t powerless. She had a chance to make a difference.
Long moments passed, the weight of gazes pressing down upon her. Everyone, her own people and the Ravens standing behind Mor, was awaiting her answer.
Lara glanced at Bree, their eyes locking for a few moments. “Very well,” she said finally, even as her heartbeat thumped in her ears. “I’ll do it.”
“Your warriors aren’t happy, My Queen.” Roth’s announcement made Lara’s fingers tighten around her wooden cup.
She stood before a roaring fire in Cobblebrae.
Her army had put up tents inside the new palisade overnight, but she and her advisors had gathered around a hearth outdoors.
Her council members all nursed cups of warmed wine, their expressions drawn in the flickering firelight.