Chapter 21 Footsteps in the Fog
“I HEAR YOU wield earth magic.”
Alar glanced left to find Vyr riding beside him.
The path had widened for a spell, drawing back a little from the precipitous edge of the mountain.
They’d set off at dawn, with Mor leading the way upon Dorka.
A knot of Ravens upon stags and elks followed the queen, with Alar and Vyr behind them.
The morning was dull; a helmet of cloud had descended, bringing the sky oppressively close.
As always, Lara and her escort lagged a little farther back.
Alar eyed Mor’s cousin. Clad in black, the silver half-moon stud in his ear glinting despite the lack of sun, he was an enigma of sorts.
Alar had heard about Mor’s acrimonious relationships with kin.
Frankly, it was surprising that Vyrnek still breathed.
In truth, he was the only one among their Shee companions that Alar had warmed to.
“I have few secrets, it seems,” he replied.
Vyr inclined his head. “I’ve watched you fight.” He grimaced then. “And I smelled pine and ash on you … so I asked the chief-enforcer.”
Alar snorted. He wasn’t surprised Lara had told others his secret.
After all, he’d revealed hers to his wulvers and the Circines.
He imagined Cailean wouldn’t have received the news well; druids didn’t like common folk messing with earth magic.
“My tattoo allows me to channel earth magic, to make me faster and stronger.”
“But Shee blood runs through your veins. Earth magic should harm you, not help you.”
“I have Marav blood as well,” Alar replied with a shrug. “It balances things.”
An emotion Alar couldn’t quite place flickered over Vyr’s face.
Like his cousin, he had proud aquiline features.
“The very smell of earth magic turns my stomach,” he admitted.
“And even now, I can feel the bite of iron on my skin from those daggers on your back.” He pulled another face.
“Those things have always been our weakness … but if we are here to stay in Albia, that must change.”
Alar observed Mor’s cousin for a few moments.
Vyr intrigued him. He wondered then at the cousins’ relationship.
They seemed to get on well. However, appearances could deceive.
Did Vyr secretly covet the throne? If he did, he wouldn’t be the first of Mor’s kin to consider overthrowing her.
Lara had told him about the Raven Queen, and how she’d hunted her brother after he tried to usurp her.
The Shee were as ruthless as they were beautiful.
To rule them was a double-edged blade. You gained power, but you could never let your guard down.
“Why are you here, Vyr?” Alar had conversed little with his companions since fleeing Dulross.
Everyone had kept their distance from him, yet he sensed Vyr was ready to talk a little.
And, in truth, he was curious to learn about the dynamics between Mor and her cousin. “I don’t imagine Mor suffers rivals.”
The Shee warrior’s lips curved. “She doesn’t … but she chose her escort carefully for this journey. We all have skills she values. Like her, I can wield moonlight and starlight with song.” He winked at Alar then. “Or in other words … I’m useful.”
Alar regarded him speculatively. Aye, he wasn’t sure what to make of Vyr. He appeared easy-going, charming even, yet that wasn’t the whole story. Alar knew what it was to wear a mask—often your survival depended on it.
And yet it was exhausting.
“Are you close to Mor?” he asked then.
Vyr huffed a laugh, eyeing him. “No one is close to Mor … and that’s the way she likes it.” He paused then. “Back in Sheehallion, my territory is in the far north. In truth, I’ve had little to do with her over the centuries.”
Lara dragged a hand across her forehead. It came away slick. The air bit like winter this high on the mountain pass, yet heat rolled off her skin in waves. Worse was the coppery taste coating her tongue. Her throat was tight. And beneath it all, something gnawed at her insides, a wrongness.
“Your cheeks are flushed,” Bree said. They rode two abreast now, forced to crawl through the thick fog. A few yards to their right, the world simply ended—a sheer drop into nothing.
“Aye.” The word scraped out. “The fever's back.” Lara met her friend’s eye. “What time is it?”
Bree’s mouth tightened. “Hard to tell in this soup … but our break at noon was a while ago. Cailean said we’re almost at the summit. Didn’t you hear him?”
Ice slid down Lara’s spine despite the heat pulsing under her skin. She had no memory of Cailean speaking. None at all. “I’ve lost time again.”
Alarm flashed across Bree’s face. “It’s the fire magic … it’s doing something to you.”
Ahead, Cailean twisted in his saddle. Behind him, Eithne did the same, her young face pinched with worry.
“I feared this,” Cailean said quietly.
Lara’s fingers tightened on the reins. “Feared what?”
“Our gifts demand payment. When I became an enforcer, earth magic bound itself to me. I use it, and I must refill the well after. Without the blood-letting, I weaken. Eventually, I die.”
The words reminded her of the cost of Gregor’s desertion. They’d need to find Cailean a new sacrificer after this. But at least he understood the power burning in his veins.
She didn’t.
“So, is my price fire-madness?” The question stung the back of her throat like bile. “But that would mean all the fire-wielders of old would eventually have succumbed to it.”
Neither Bree nor Cailean answered, yet their expressions were grave.
“Gil found almost nothing in those scrolls.” She looked down at her right hand, at the Ord-ree seal gleaming against her skin. Her chest began to tingle. Cold washed over her fevered flesh as fear sank its claws in. “Nothing about what happens when you wield fire regularly.”
“Mor said the Marav destroyed most records about fire magic,” Bree replied. Her gaze traveled forward to where the Shee had vanished into grey nothing. Her expression tightened then, and Lara was about to question her when Eithne interrupted them.
“Can you hear that?” The lass’s fingers dug into Cailean’s waist hard enough to make him grunt.
“What?”
“Footsteps.”
Lara frowned. She’d been listening to the roar of blood in her own ears, the wheeze of her breathing. But now—
“Halt!” Cailean’s shout cut through the fog.
The group stuttered to a stop. Lara glanced back. Ruari, Ren, and Annis had frozen in place. Meanwhile, Vyr and Alar had pulled up in front of her.
Then she heard it.
The crunch and drag of heavy footsteps.
Something climbing the mountainside behind them.
The sound of it—rhythmic, patient, inevitable—made her still. Her pulse thudded slow and thick in her ears. Despite the fever burning through her, her fingers went numb with cold. “By The Five,” she whispered. “What is that?”
“I’d hoped to avoid this.” Cailean’s voice had gone flat.
Lara swallowed. “Avoid what?”
“The Grey Ghost.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Can you feel it?”
“You mean the certainty I’m already dead?” Roth’s face had pinched. Behind him, Duana paled.
“That’s it,” Cailean ground out. “The wraith is following us.”
“Why have we stopped?” Mor materialized through the fog astride Dorka, Sablebane and Fern emerging like shadows behind her.
“Do you hear footsteps?” Vyr called out to his cousin.
“No, I—” Mor’s words died. Her expression went rigid. Her dark eyes swept over the group clustered on the narrow path.
The footsteps were louder now. Heavier. Closer.
Lara’s grip on the reins tightened. Beneath her, Bracken shifted and trembled. She glanced back over her shoulder, peering into the wall of grey.
A shape loomed there. Massive. Taller than any man or Shee she’d ever seen. Not quite solid. Not quite smoke. Something in between.
“Gods!” Annis’s choked voice tore through the mist. “It’s coming!”
Aye. No doubt. No question. The knowledge settled in Lara's bones with absolute certainty. She whispered a prayer, the words tumbling over each other. Beside her, Duana and Eithne clutched the iron charms at their throats.
Lara’s breath came fast and shallow. She looked back again.
The shadow had vanished.
Bree cursed, her blade scraping from its sheath. “It’s above us now. Look!”
Lara’s gaze jerked upward. Tors rose through the fog toward the hidden summit. And there—moving through the drifting grey—the tall silhouette approached.
How had it moved so fast?
Crunch. Drag. Crunch. Drag.
The sound came from everywhere now.
Ruari choked on a prayer. Ren opened her mouth to sing, but the note came out strangled and died to a whimper. Fear had wrapped itself around the bard’s throat and squeezed.
“Don’t let it take you.” Alar’s words cut through the fog. “We need to keep moving.”
An anguished cry echoed across the mountainside.
“Eithne!” Duana gasped.
Her sister had launched herself from behind Cailean, skirts bunched in her fists, and now bolted back down the way they’d come. Her hair streamed behind her like a battle standard.
Ren tore past on her pony, sobbing, her small body hunched low. Ruari galloped after her.
“Fuck!” Cailean wrenched his horse around. “You’re all going the wrong way!”
They didn’t hear. Couldn’t hear. Terror had them now.
Annis sat frozen in her saddle, eyes locked on the shadowy figure. The mist rolled in, swallowing them. Lara felt the pull then—the urge to run, to flee, to do anything but stay here with that presence bearing down on them. Sweat poured off her despite the mountain cold. Her body trembled.
“We have to get them back!” The words burst from her. “Cailean. Roth. Go—”
“You won’t find them in this fog.” Mor’s voice sliced through Lara’s panic. “But we can. Wynn. Vyr. With me.”
The Raven Queen leaned forward and pressed her palm flat against Dorka’s neck. The clag-doo’s tail lashed, fighting the connection. A yowl ripped from her throat as she submitted and lunged forward, vanishing into the mist with Mor. Vyr and Sablebane plunged after her.
“Lara.” Alar appeared at her side. His hand clamped around her arm, and the contact jolted through her. The crushing dread pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe. His eyes burned into hers. “Ride!”
“The others—”
“Mor will find them. We cross the summit now, or the fear takes us all.”
He released her arm, grabbed her reins, and urged his stag forward. They surged up the path. Shapes blurred past—Shee on their elks and stags, phantoms in the fog.
Lara’s heart hammered against her ribs, as if it were trying to break free.
Shouts echoed through the grey. Weeping. Cursing. Prayers.
She twisted in the saddle. Bree rode right behind her, face set and pale.
Cailean had caught Annis’s reins and was dragging her forward.
The counselor clung to her horse’s mane, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Behind them, Roth wrestled with Duana. She snarled and clawed at him, desperate to chase after her sister, but he was bigger, stronger, and he held on.
Terror tightened like cruel fingers around Lara’s throat.
Even through the thunder of hooves, she could hear the heavy footsteps.
Patient. Relentless. Inevitable.
Cold air rushed past her burning face. A sob tore itself from her chest.
Panic took her then. There is no escape. They could run until their horses collapsed, until their hearts burst, and that thing would still be there. Their journey ended here on this fog-shrouded mountain. None of them would see the other side.
They galloped blind into the mist. Madness—for the drop was right there, just yards away, waiting to swallow them. But staying would have been worse. Staying meant the fear would burrow so deep they’d throw themselves off the mountainside just to make it stop.