Chapter 25 A Brave Flame
“WELCOME TO CRASK, My Queen!”
The slender man with a thick mane of flaxen hair swept into a bow. “You must take my roundhouse while you’re here.”
Lara studied Connor mac Garth’s face—young and open, despite the shadows under his eyes. “That’s kind, but we’re a small party. Another dwelling will do.”
He smiled, although the expression was strained. “Of course. And you’ll be wanting supper?”
“Aye,” Roth cut in. “Blood sausage. Bread. Cheese. Ale. Lots of it.”
Connor’s blue eyes widened slightly.
Lara shot Roth a sharp look. “Forgive my captain. We’ve had a few lean days.”
Lean barely covered it. They’d hunted what they could since the cave, but game had been scarce—unnaturally so. The land felt wrong, like something had curdled in the soil itself. Their last two suppers had left everyone hollow-bellied and irritable.
And all the while, as they’d pushed hard toward Crask, they’d been aware that the full moon loomed like a specter. As hungry and tired as they all were, their stop here would have to be a brief one.
Seeing Loch Glass’s dark surface through the fog had been a relief.
Crask rose from the water on its man-made island, the largest crannog on these shores.
Roundhouses clustered at the center—wood and wattle walls, turf roofs sagging with damp.
More dwellings perched on wooden walkways that radiated outward like wheel spokes, their pilings sunk deep into the loch bed.
Woodsmoke curled through the air. The aroma of baking bread threaded through the resinous scent, making Lara’s mouth flood with saliva.
But other smells also intruded: fish left too long in nets, the sour tang of spoiled grain, and underneath it all, something she couldn’t name.
Something dank and disturbing. The spirit world was closing in, tainting their own.
Her stomach growled despite the unease prickling her skin. Like her companions, she was starving.
Her nose wrinkled. She also stank—they all did. First thing: a bath.
“We’ll need supplies for our journey,” Mor said, her voice cutting through Lara’s thoughts.
Connor’s gaze snapped to the Raven Queen. His expression shifted, going from welcoming to cold in an instant. His shoulders went rigid.
Lara tensed as well. Mor had suggested the Shee ‘guise’ themselves as Marav warriors.
Their magic allowed them to wear the skin of others for a short while.
It would make things easier, less tense, but Lara had refused.
If their races were ever going to move past centuries of hatred, they needed to start appearing together. United.
Even if it made moments like this excruciating.
“Connor,” Lara said quietly, drawing his attention back. She kept her voice low, conversational. “Could we speak? Just for a moment?”
Something flickered in his eyes—relief, maybe, at being pulled away from Mor’s unsettling presence. He nodded and stepped aside with her, far enough that their words wouldn’t carry.
Lara glanced back at the crannog—at the roundhouses with their sagging roofs and the walkways where fog clung like cobwebs.
On the approach, she’d seen the fields on the shore, where late-season crops should have been standing tall.
Instead, brown stalks listed sideways, leaves curled and blackened. Dying.
“I saw your fields,” she said softly.
Connor’s throat worked. He looked away, toward the grey water. “Aye.”
“And the spirits? They’ve been worse?”
“Much worse.” The words came out rough. “The Loch-Bhàn took two fishermen last week. The aughisky drowned a child. And the Slew” —he swallowed hard— “they hunt regularly now.” He cut himself off, as if worried he’d said too much.
Lara stepped closer, lowering her voice further. “Connor, look at me.”
He did. Reluctantly.
“We’re going to Darkmere,” she said. “To The Shattered Crown. There’s something there … something the Raven Queen and I believe can help fix this.” She gestured vaguely toward the dying world around them. “All of this.”
His eyes searched her face. Looking for certainty. “What kind of something?”
“I can’t say more. Not yet.” She held his gaze. “But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
A long pause. Around them, the fog pressed closer, muffling any sounds. The water lapped against the pilings with a soft rhythmic slap.
“The Shee,” he said finally. His voice had dropped to barely a whisper. “You’re traveling with them? Working with them?”
“I am.”
“My Queen.” Censure hardened his voice.
“I know what I’m asking.” Lara glanced back at where Mor stood with her Ravens, a dark cluster of cloaks and gleaming eyes.
She understood the wrongness they represented to people like Connor.
To them, the fae were dangerous. Cruel and capricious.
“I know what they are to you. But Connor” —she turned back to him— “If we don’t do this, if we don’t work together, there won’t be anything left to protect.
The veil between the dead and the living is failing.
You’ve seen how the world has changed. You know. ”
His throat worked. A nerve jumped in his cheek. He looked quietly terrified—not of her, but of everything her words implied. Of the choice she was forcing him to make.
Behind him, his wife, Orla, stood watching, their wee daughter swaddled against her chest. The bairn was too quiet, Lara realized. Babies should fuss, should cry. This one didn’t.
Seeing the direction of her gaze, Connor glanced over his shoulder. And when he turned back, the shadow in his eyes told her that he understood there was something wrong with the bairn as well.
“Six days,” Lara said softly. “We need supplies to get us there and back. Food, water, whatever you can spare. That’s all I’m asking.”
Connor looked at her for a long moment. Then at Mor. Then back at the crannog—his home, his people, all of it slowly dying under a grey sky.
“Aye,” he said finally. The word sounded like it cost him. “Aye, My Queen. For you.”
“Thank you.” She touched his arm briefly. “I won’t forget this.”
He nodded, but his eyes remained shadowed. He gestured to Orla, who stepped forward with the too-quiet bairn. “My wife will show you to your lodgings.”
A short while later, as they followed Orla deeper into the crannog, Lara couldn’t shake the feeling settling in her bones like winter cold. The dying crops. The silent baby. The fog that wouldn’t lift. The chill that had nothing to do with the season.
The spirits were taking over.
And she was running out of time to stop them.
Inhaling the scent of lavender, Lara then sighed. Gods. What a relief. Washing away days of dirt and grime was beyond satisfying. She leaned over the earthen washbowl in her alcove and soaped up her hair. Then, picking up a ewer of cold water, she rinsed it clean.
Back in Duncrag, she enjoyed long soaks in an iron tub. She’d lean back against the rolled rim, eyes closed as the hot water soaked into her limbs. Standing at a washbowl wasn’t the same, but she didn’t care.
Being clean against was what mattered. For a few moments, she could put all her worries behind her.
Her extra clothes had been in the saddlebags the rockslide had taken. As such, Orla had given her one of her tunics to wear. Likewise, all the members of their party would leave their old clothes here to be laundered and picked up when they returned from The Shattered Crown.
Lara’s pulse quickened. Just three days.
When they’d set off on this journey, the destination had seemed distant. No longer though. Now, it breathed down their necks.
Reaching for a drying sheet, Lara toweled off her wet hair.
As she did so, she cast an eye around her alcove.
It was simple. A sleeping nook with a nest of furs.
A ledge where she’d placed her rosewood figures of The Five.
A clay pot for her to relieve herself in during the night, if necessary. A soft sheepskin beneath her feet.
Longing wreathed up. How she’d love to stay here for a few days. The alcove was much more rustic than she was used to, yet she liked that.
But no, time raced against them now. If they departed tomorrow, they’d arrive at The Shattered Crown just in time for Gateway.
This alcove will be waiting on the way back, she reminded herself. You can rest then.
Orla had also left her a wooden comb. Picking it up, she gently teased out her tangled hair. She was still bone-weary, but being clean again made all the difference.
A short while later, she pushed aside the heavy curtain and emerged from the alcove, stepping out onto the rush-strewn floor.
Her gaze swept over the shadowy interior.
Carven oak pillars held up a vast conical roof.
A hearth burned brightly in the center of the space while half a dozen curtained alcoves lined it—spaces many of their party would sleep in. The rest would find a spot by the fire.
Lara settled onto a low stool. Around the hearth, her companions were doing the same—arranging themselves in a loose circle, shoulders relaxing for the first time in days.
Two slaves moved among them, iron collars catching the firelight at their throats.
They set down trenchers piled high: bread still steaming from the oven, cheese with a rind like old leather, and cured sausage glistening with fat.
They filled wooden cups to the brim with ale, foam sliding down the sides.
Lara’s mouth watered. She grabbed a piece of bread and tore into it. The taste exploded across her tongue—oats, yeast, and salt. She almost groaned. When had food ever tasted this good?
Around her, the others had bathed and changed. With clean clothes and skin, the transformation was startling.
Mor wore plain charcoal—a tunic that should have looked austere but instead clung to her lithe frame like a second skin. She’d let her black hair down, and it fell past her shoulders, still damp at the ends.
Lara’s gaze drifted across the fire and stopped.