Chapter 20 No Safe Place
LEANING FORWARD, LARA let Bracken pick her way up the slope.
Mercifully, The Gaulas didn’t plague them this morning.
Just as well, for her defenses were low; she’d barely had the strength to mount her horse earlier.
She now slumped in the saddle, sweating despite the cool breeze that feathered her face.
The fever still hadn’t lifted. Every bone and muscle in her body ached.
But the physical discomfort wasn’t the worst of it.
At the back of her mind, dread lurked. Sometimes it would prod at her, causing her skin to pebble.
No, she wasn’t frightened about what lay ahead—but the beast within.
There were few things more terrifying than feeling as if your mind were betraying you.
Her thoughts were woolly, scattered. Every time she failed to concentrate, panic grasped at her throat.
At this rate, she’d be demented by the time they reached The Shattered Crown.
They had just left the highway that wound its way north to Cannich.
That wouldn’t be their road. Instead, they were taking The Hog’s Back—a narrow mountain path that led over the Goatfells.
Cailean had told her it would take them three days to cross it.
The road then dropped down to the west, on the edge of the Hallow Woods.
From there, it would be another three-day journey to Crask, the largest of the crannogs that lined the eastern edge of Loch Glass.
They were in the heart of The Uplands now, yet still far from their destination.
Lara was painfully aware of time passing. When they’d set off from The Wolds, it had seemed they had many days ahead of them. But every night when she glanced up and saw the moon steadily growing fuller, impatience swelled inside her.
We have to keep moving.
Her fingers tightened around the reins. If she had to weather another night like that one, she wouldn’t make it to their destination. The Slew had been vicious, and that wraith—bigger and more substantial than the others—had come for her again.
The spirits were actively trying to stop them now. Did they sense that she bore the Ord-ree seal, and that she was carrying it back to The Shattered Crown? Were they afraid of what she might do?
The ring had been used to keep the breach open, and now it would close it. Forever.
The path was too narrow to ride two-abreast, and so Lara followed Cailean with Bree behind her as they made their way up the mountain. Eithne clung to the chief-enforcer’s back, her flaxen hair snagging in the breeze.
Misgiving plucked at Lara.
The sisters had shown surprising mettle the night before.
However, she didn’t want to drag Eithne and Duana into this.
She couldn’t abandon them either. They couldn’t go back to Dulross, and the road ahead led into Shee territory.
She’d hoped they’d pass a village where she could leave them, yet there hadn’t been any.
There was no safe place for them now. There isn’t for any of us.
Despite that all their party survived the night, the mood had been subdued when they packed up at dawn.
The Slew attack had rattled them, even Mor.
The Raven Queen went first up the mountain, leading Dorka.
She loped alongside Mor’s white elk now, far more placid.
Alar was among the leaders of the group, astride that magnificent red stag.
Lara had to admit that he looked right on its back.
She checked herself then.
Alar. Wherever she turned these days, there he was.
He’d helped her fight back against the fire that threatened to consume her—had risked himself to do so. He’d been standing nearby when she collapsed. It was likely he’d been the one to carry her over to the fire. Heat rolled over her then, a warmth that had nothing to do with her fever.
His face had been the first she’d seen after waking. He’d been watching over her.
She’d been aloof with him ever since. She wasn’t ungrateful. She just didn’t want to rely on him. Ever again.
It galled her that she’d feared for his life as she’d watched him fight that terrifying Slew, that his burns had concerned her, and that some traitorous part, deep inside, had melted at his protectiveness.
No, none of that mattered. He didn’t matter. All that did was reaching their destination with her sanity intact.
“Gut it like this.” Eithne dug her knife into the hare’s belly. “You then get rid of everything inside.” Reaching into the body cavity, she pulled out its guts in deft, practiced movements. The rank odor of offal made Lara’s nose wrinkle. Nonetheless, it was a useful lesson.
Following the lass’s lead, she sliced open the hare she’d just skinned and plunged her hand inside its still-warm body, fighting squeamishness. She was still sweating from her fever, chills crawling over her skin, and her body trembled from exhaustion, but this task was a welcome distraction.
They’d made camp against a steep scree slope, just off the narrow path.
Beyond, there was a dizzying drop that plunged down to a deep corrie.
The setting sun gilded the sea of craggy peaks, bringing out the streaks of gold, ochre, grey, and black rock.
The wind was sharp up here. The Whistle echoed off stone.
Nonetheless, Lara was so relieved to be free of The Gaulas, she didn’t care.
“Fucking grimlochs.”
Lara glanced up. A few yards away, Roth was bent over smoking tinder, clutching his flint. As Lara and the sisters looked on, he struck it once more. Flames flared, and then something doused it, like a puff of wind.
Lara frowned. Dark shapes writhed around the fire pit, eyes glowing in the gloaming. Aye, the smoke spirits were making trouble.
Still, Roth persisted, his curses growing ever more colorful as his efforts were blocked.
A few feet away, Fern muttered something in her own tongue. She eyed the warrior as if he was inept. She and her father were gutting and skinning a wild pig they’d taken down earlier in the day.
“Shall I help?” Lara called out.
Roth looked up, his brow furrowing. “Is it safe?”
She nodded. In truth, she was wary about wielding fire again, but surely, she could manage something simple. She wouldn’t even need her cairn stone.
Pulling out the last of the hare’s entrails, she passed Duana the carcass. She then wiped off her hands, rose to her feet, and crossed to the fire pit.
“Try again,” she instructed.
Casting her a wary look, he did as bid. The flint sparked, and flame spurted upward.
Lara wiggled her fingers, and a line of fire shot across the laid hearth, igniting the dry grass and twigs he’d arranged. “Off you go,” she murmured to the swirling smoky shapes. “Bother someone else’s hearth tonight.”
The shadows grew frenzied, and then, buzzing like an angry swarm of wasps, they departed.
Lara sat back on her heels, meeting Roth’s eye. His lips quirked. “You’ve pissed them off.”
She huffed. “No doubt, they’ll be back.”
Singing intruded then—the same haunting melody from a couple of nights earlier.
Lara glanced over at the path, where Ren stood at Mor’s side, hands outstretched, tattoos glowing.
Dorka crouched before them, ears back. Mor was tense, her lips tight.
Being so close to earth magic pained her, yet she needed the bard’s help with this.
Eagal had flown from Mor’s shoulder and now looked on from a scraggly hawthorn a few yards distant.
Meanwhile, Eithne and Duana had busied themselves pushing the hare carcasses onto spits. Likewise, Fern and Sablebane readied the boar for roasting. It would be a hearty supper tonight, and anticipation of it had lightened the mood slightly.
Mor and Dorka also provided a welcome distraction.
“She’s going to get on its back,” Alar murmured, dumping his whin bush near the fire. “Look.”
Indeed, Mor moved forward, one hand sliding along Dorka’s neck to her shoulder.
The feline had relaxed now though. Her tail no longer swished, and the rigidity of her spine had softened.
“I don’t understand why this matters to her so much,” Roth muttered.
“For a Shee ruler to ride a clag-doo carries much prestige,” Fern replied, favoring him with an arch look. “If Mor can gentle Dorka, she will earn herself great respect among our people.”
Roth raised an auburn brow. “Doesn’t she have their respect already?”
Fern sneered at him. “Of course.”
Lara glanced back at where Mor now ran her hand gently along Dorka’s spine.
Realization dawned then. This wasn’t about prestige or respect for the Raven Queen, but about something far more primal.
As a ruler herself, Lara understood. To rule was to be alone.
A queen always had to be on her guard. But if this clag-doo would submit to Mor, would agree to carry her on its back, she’d have a special relationship with it. Intimacy. Something of her own.
Ren sang on, her soft song drifting through the gathering dusk.
Mor took her time. Continuing to stroke Dorka’s plush black coat until she purred. And then, gathering her skirts, she climbed onto her back.
The feline stiffened, her long tail starting to whip from side to side.
“Stop singing,” Mor called to Ren. “I need to touch minds with her.”
The bard ceased, dropping her hands to her sides.
As Lara looked on, Mor reached forward, stroking Dorka’s neck. “That’s it, my lovely,” she murmured. “Listen to me … trust me. We shall be friends, you and I.”
A shiver rippled through Dorka’s sinewy body. And then, she made an odd chirping sound. “Pass me the chain,” Mor said then, glancing Ren’s way once more.
The bard hesitated, clearly wary of coming any closer to those deadly jaws and claws.
However, Mor nodded to her, and she did as asked, retrieving the end of the chain and handing it to her. She then backed away, joining Lara and the others by the fireside.
Dorka threw back her head then and gave a loud howl.
The surrounding Shee muttered oaths. Some of them even reached for their weapons. But an instant later, Dorka leaped forward. The Ravens rushed toward the clag-doo. It was too late, for she bounded up the mountain path, disappearing within moments with Mor clinging to her back.
“Well, that’s it,” Roth murmured, watching clag-doo and rider go. “We won’t see either of them again.”
But the Raven Queen wasn’t so easily rid of.
They were sitting by the fire pit, while the carcasses of the hares and the boar sizzled, when she appeared once more—still astride Dorka’s back.
Mor’s Ravens rose smoothly to their feet, their gazes riveted upon their queen.
Mor flashed them a grin.
“Well played, cousin,” Vyr greeted her, approval shining in his dark eyes.
Nodding to him, Mor slid to the ground and led Dorka over to where a dead hare had been left for her.
She then looped the chain around the hawthorn.
Eagal still perched upon a branch, glaring down at the clag-doo.
After that, she joined everyone at the fireside, dropping down into a cross-legged position with loose-limbed ease next to Alar.
He glanced at her, surprised. As was Lara.
Mor usually took her place amongst her Ravens in the evenings.
However, when Lara’s gaze slid around the fire pit, she realized they were no longer segregated.
Sablebane and Fern sat with Ruari and Annis, and Vyr had taken his place to Lara’s left, while Bree and Cailean sat to her right.
Had last night’s near disaster shaken them? Maybe. The atmosphere had definitely shifted. For the first time since setting out together, they seemed like one group rather than two.
Eagal swooped down then, landing upon Mor’s shoulder.
She reached up a hand, stroking his back in greeting.
“I timed my return well, I see,” she said, glancing over at where Eithne and Duana were gingerly removing the hare carcasses from the spits.
Her gaze then flicked to Ren. “My thanks to you, bard.”
The young woman’s spine stiffened. “My name’s Ren.”
Mor flashed her a warm smile. “Your skill with song is quite something, Ren.”
The bard’s cheeks flushed, and she dropped her gaze.
“Will you be riding Dorka from now on then?” Vyr asked.
“Aye … I’ve let my elk know it can return to Sheehallion.”
Fern grinned, nudging her father in the ribs with an elbow.
In response, Sablebane’s lips actually tugged up at the corners in a ghost of a smile.
Mor’s elation, her success, had buoyed their moods.
The other Ravens were all smiling. Likewise, even Lara’s escort wore softer expressions this evening.
Eithne and Duana pulled the carcasses apart and handed them around the fire.
The bed-slave collars around their necks caught the ruddy light as they worked.
The boar would take longer, for it was a much bigger beast, although the rich scent of it made Lara’s mouth fill with saliva.
Her fever was drawing back now, and her aches and pains subsided with it.
She was still tired and looked forward to wrapping herself in her fur-lined cloak and stretching out on the ground, but the numbing fatigue was lifting too—and with it the gnawing dread.
At moments like this, she could almost forget there was something wrong with her.
Even so, as conversation rose and fell around the fire pit, she found her mind kept wandering. It was difficult to concentrate. Bree nudged her with an elbow then, passing her a hunk of roast boar.
Lara blinked. Didn’t the boar have a while to cook yet? Her gaze flicked to where Sablebane carved the roasted carcass.
Where did the time go?
She stilled then, cold creeping over her. Shades. It had happened again. She’d had another lapse.
Her chest constricted, her dread sliding into panic. No. I can’t go to pieces … not yet.
She had to hang on—had to keep her wits together long enough to reach The Shattered Crown. Otherwise, she’d let everyone down. Otherwise, the shadows would win.
Feeling queasy, she looked across the fire, her gaze meeting Alar’s for the first time all day. He was watching her. His expression was serious, his eyes slightly narrowed.
Her skin prickled. Curse him, he’d noticed. The Half-blood always saw too much.