Chapter 30 The Most Dangerous of All
DORKA PROWLED TOWARD Lara, Mor upon her back.
The clag-doo’s tail swished with each stride.
The steel collar on her neck still glinted, even in the murky early dawn light.
Despite the bond that had formed between Mor and Dorka, the queen hadn’t removed it, and she always carried the steel chain looped in one hand when she climbed onto the beast’s back.
Mor didn’t trust her pet entirely yet. Their relationship was still new. Untested.
Even so, the Raven Queen was a sight to behold this morning. Eagal perched upon her shoulder, claws digging into her fur cloak.
“Ready to go?” Mor surveyed Lara, brow furrowing; she was clearly unsure if she was up to traveling.
Lara managed a smile. She didn’t imagine she looked great. Her body ached, sweat poured off her, and it was difficult to keep her spine straight. “Aye.”
And she was. With the rising sun had come the certainty that fire-madness would soon consume her. But, strangely, acceptance of her fate was easier to deal with than dread.
She was oddly calm this morning. Resigned but ready.
Shifting her gaze from Mor’s, she glanced up at where the eastern sky above the jagged peak that loomed over them was starting to lighten.
The heavens had been clear overnight, but clouds drifted in with the dawn, obscuring the rising sun.
It was eerily still this morning. The silence was unnerving.
Around them, the others were already moving out, their mounts picking their way down the slope, into a narrow defile that would take them north toward the Darkmere. The last leg of their journey. Tonight was the eve of Gateway. They’d make it, just, by the skin of their teeth.
Alar passed Mor and Lara, nodding to them both. Reedav loped forward in long strides. The gait must have been difficult to get used to, yet Alar sat easily astride his stag. There were no reins to hold onto, or a mane. Riding such an animal required excellent balance.
Lara nodded back, her gaze tracking him as he followed Vyr.
She then urged Bracken forward.
To her surprise, Mor fell in next to her, while Bree followed close behind.
Dorka didn’t enjoy slowing her pace. She made a spitting noise in protest, but Mor leaned forward and placed a hand on her neck, murmuring to her until she settled.
“Your gaze often seeks him out,” Mor said then. Her voice was quiet. No one else would have heard—but Lara did. “And he often watches you … when you’re not looking.”
Lara stiffened, not sure how to respond.
“It seems his betrayal didn’t break everything, after all.”
Lara swallowed. “I’m not sure about that.”
Their eyes met and held for a heartbeat before Mor’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “You don’t love him then?”
Her pulse quickened. “It doesn’t matter if I do. It’s over.”
A dull ache rose under her breastbone then: the weight of a love that had been doomed from the start. Aye, she loved the bastard. There wasn’t any point in denying it. But love wasn’t enough.
Mor didn’t reply to that, and Lara found herself studying her.
They’d been traveling together for a moon’s turn, yet didn’t really know each other at all. They’d been guarded with each other. This was the first intimate talk they’d ever had, although Lara didn’t wish to discuss Alar. It hurt too much.
“Why have you never taken a husband?” she asked finally.
“Shee don’t have handfastings,” Mor answered. “We take mates for as long as it suits us … and end the arrangement once things grow stale.”
“Stale?”
Mor gave a soft laugh. “I’ve seen the turn of two thousand years. Even the most exciting of lovers grows boring in the end.”
Lara supposed they likely would. “So, you’d never share power?”
Something moved in the depths of Mor’s onyx eyes. “Never.”
Silence settled between them. They’d left the corrie behind now, riding over wind-blasted hills studded with towering tors of stacked stone.
“Males … whether Shee or Marav … always want to be the ones in charge,” Mor said finally. “When a woman rules, she can never show vulnerability … or others will exploit it.” She paused then, eyeing Lara. “You’ve learned this too.”
She nodded, even as she thought about Bree, Cailean, and the others who’d followed her north. She’d also learned that relationships were more complex than that. Ruari was right. Trust had to be given if you wished to receive it. There was vulnerability involved, and that could be terrifying.
“You can love and hate someone at the same time, you know?” Mor said then. “I loved my brother … and yet I had Bree hunt him down and chop off his head.” A brittle smile tugged at the Raven Queen’s lips. “The people you love are the most dangerous of all.”
Alar had only ever traveled this far north once.
When he was around thirty, and determined to see every corner of Albia with his own eyes.
Even so, he’d found this place unsettling.
Even with the low cloud, the sky was endless up here, the screech of eagles hunting echoing for furlongs across the hills and off rock.
On that trip, he’d camped on the southern edge of the Darkmere but hadn’t been able to sleep.
He’d lain by the fire he’d lit, imagining something whispering to him in the darkness.
Despite the fire’s heat, cold had prickled his skin.
It had been a relief to get up early, kick dirt over the embers, and ride south.
But here he was, decades later, approaching the same place.
Dusk was settling now, a bright, cold, windy day darkening into a murky gloaming. And as the shadows lengthened, the world grew quiet, as if it were holding its breath. The stillness had followed them all day; a watchful silence that had put everyone on edge. Even the Shee.
Reedav snorted then, tossing his head. Leaning forward, Alar stroked the stag’s neck. “Aye, lad … I feel it too,” he murmured.
The waters of the loch were dark and still, the color of beaten iron. The Darkmere sat in a cradle of mountains, sharp grey peaks that seemed to lean inward, shadowing the loch and glen below.
Urging his stag forward, Alar drew up alongside his sister.
Fern rode just behind Mor and Vyr. She cast him a wary glance.
“Have you ever visited The Shattered Crown?” he asked.
Something flickered in his sister’s grey eyes before she gave a tight nod. “I was one of the party sent to report on the goings on at the stone circle.”
“Did the spirits bother you?”
Her proud features tensed. “Aye … a little. Although we were careful to visit on a new moon. It’s the safest night to walk amongst wraiths.”
“And you saw the rip in the veil?”
Fern nodded. Their gazes met, holding for a few moments before she looked away.
Alar studied her profile, curiosity wreathing up. “Do you have any other siblings?” he asked after a pause.
Her gaze cut back to him, eyes narrowing. For a moment, he thought she might snap at him, but instead, her lips thinned. “No,” she replied stiffly. “Shee families aren’t large.”
“And are our father and your mother still together?” Alar’s gut tightened as he asked this.
Did it matter? Did he care? Aye, he did. He wanted to know more about the warrior who’d sired him, of the life he’d returned to in Sheehallion. He wanted to find the piece of himself that had always been missing.
“No,” Fern replied. “Their relationship ended a century ago.”
Alar stilled at that. Half-bloods lived longer than Marav, yet he’d never get used to the way Shee viewed time. As if a century meant nothing. They weren’t immortal, but since their lifespans often stretched into thousands of years, a century was a mere blink of the eye.
“Does he have another mate then? Another family?”
“No.” Fern looked away. “He’s had little opportunity.” Her voice lowered. “For he’s only recently gained his freedom … he spent nearly seven decades in a labor camp.”
Alar’s heart kicked. Nearly seven decades. He was seventy-three, which meant his father had been imprisoned for most of Alar’s life. The news unbalanced him.
“Aye, he was punished for his transgression.” Fern now stared resolutely ahead. “Mor was … displeased.”
Mind reeling, Alar took this in. All these years, he’d imagined Wynn Sablebane had gotten away with planting a bastard in a Marav woman’s womb. But he hadn’t. He glanced ahead at where his father rode alongside Vyr. Mor led the way now, stalking ahead on Dorka.
Suddenly, his head was full of questions, one tumbling over the other.
“And you don’t resent him for what he did?” he asked finally. “He disgraced you, didn’t he?”
Fern snorted, casting him a sidelong glance. “He disgraced himself, not me … and he’s paid for it.” She paused then, her features tightening. “My mother and I are estranged … he’s all I have.”
Alar inclined his head. Their gazes met and held.
His sister fascinated him—especially since he recognized some of himself in her. A loneliness she hid well from the world. For the first time, she’d lowered her shields and let him glimpse beyond.
Alar’s chest tightened. He wanted to tell her that she had him too but wisely swallowed the words. Fern wouldn’t want to hear them, and he wouldn’t be stupid enough to make himself so vulnerable around her.
A mournful long cry echoed across the hills then, shattering the fragile connection between brother and sister. Grief distilled into one keening scream that made the fine hairs on the back of Alar’s arms stand up.
The Weeper.
It warned them not to go any farther. But they would.
Behind him, someone shouted a curse. Glancing over his shoulder, Alar looked to where Roth was pointing east—to dark shapes boiling over the hill.
His heart bucked against his ribs. Next to him, his sister was silent.
Alar leaned forward, his sharp eyesight slicing through the murky gloaming.
In amongst the approaching swarm, he made out heavyset bodies gripping pikestaffs, red caps bouncing as they ran.
Alongside them were smaller wiry imps with hooked noses and sagging faces, gripping daggers. Powries and trows.
He swiftly drew his twin blades, his pulse thundering now as fury washed over him in a blistering tide. These creatures were the Shee’s allies. Five years of service and they’d be able to return to Sheehallion.
A fucking ambush. Mor had turned on them.