Chapter 32 The Ritual
MOR LEAPED FROM Dorka’s back. Slicing her steel blade at a bog wight, she severed its head.
Water cascaded over her, but she barely seemed to notice.
Taking a moment, she leashed Dorka to a gnarled hawthorn that grew at the foot of the promontory.
The clag-doo yanked at the chain and howled in protest. Mor murmured something soothing, yet didn’t linger.
Instead, she whipped around, her gaze slicing into Lara’s. “After me!”
She then sheathed her sword and began the steep climb up to the broken stone circle.
Lara watched her go, still struggling to regain her breath.
Holding onto Bracken with one hand, she turned to Bree.
“We’ll be right behind you,” Bree grunted as she slashed at another Fuath, a slender female with a mane of wild, knotted hair. The trows and powries had formed a protective ring around the base of the crag, but wraiths had still managed to break through.
“Ruari!” Roth shouted then. “Watch yourself!”
Lara turned to see a Loch-Bhàn reach for the seer. Ruari had been slashing at a Slew, focused elsewhere. He hadn’t seen the ethereal figure drifting toward him.
Roth had, but his warning came too late. Silver fingers enclosed around Ruari’s wrist.
He staggered, his eyes snapping wide. The Loch-Bhàn released her grip then, drawing back.
A bewildered expression rippled over his face. His dagger slipped from limp fingers.
“Ruari!” Annis rushed toward him.
He blinked, turning to her. “Who?”
Two bog wights, seizing their chance, lunged then. Clawed, webbed hands grabbed the seer, and they dragged him backward.
Roth and Alar tried to get to him. The Slew dove, blocking them as they slashed and stabbed—even as the Fuath hauled Ruari toward the edge of the loch. Lara watched, heart pounding in her throat, helpless to stop them, as he disappeared under the cold dark water.
Just like that, he was gone. So fast. So final.
Lara flinched. Gods. Ruari.
“Climb!” Mor shouted. She’d already scaled the first few feet of the outcrop. The urgency in her voice tore through Lara’s shock.
She staggered away from Bracken, following Mor. There was no time to tether her mare; it wasn’t safe to do so anyway. Bracken needed to be able to flee, if necessary.
An instant later, Alar was at Lara’s side. But so too, unfortunately, was a boggart.
“Half-breed fucker!” Spittle flew. “Freak! You’re not fit to—”
Alar stabbed it in the throat, cutting off a tirade of jabbered insults. He then pushed her ahead of him. “Go.”
Scrambling over rock, slippery with dew, her hands and feet fumbling, she followed Mor. The Shee queen was well ahead now, her black mink cloak billowing behind her. She climbed like a mountain goat, but Lara didn’t find it so easy.
She was only a few yards up when her arms started to tremble and burn. Fuck.
“Faster,” Alar grunted from below her.
“I’m trying,” she panted, even as sharp rock dug into her palm.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she hauled herself upward.
The Ancients hadn’t made this stone circle easy to reach.
“I … must … stop for a moment.” She halted then, clinging to the side of the promontory, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Farther below, the others were climbing the crag.
Grunts and curses echoed through the icy air. “Just … need … a breather.”
Alar pulled himself up next to her. “Can you manage this?”
Lara shook her head, too winded to answer. Gods. Her body was letting her down. Clenching her eyes shut, she made a silent prayer to The Warrior. Just get me to the top of this rock. Please.
“Climb onto my back,” Alar ordered then. “I’ll carry you.”
Lara’s eyes snapped open. Under other circumstances, she might have refused him. But she didn’t now. She needed help, or she wouldn’t reach the top.
Edging closer, she slid onto his back. The next thing she knew, she clung to him. Her arms wrapped around his chest, while her knees gripped his narrow hips.
And then, he was climbing. Inch by inch. Foot by foot. The promontory suddenly seemed so much higher than it had from a distance.
Alar didn’t speak as he scaled the crag. His entire focus was upon his task. He was sweating heavily, yet his body felt cool compared to hers.
Craning her neck, Lara gazed up at their destination, at the point where Mor had disappeared. “Just a few yards more.”
Alar grunted. His arms were starting to tremble now.
“Not much farther,” she whispered, tensing against his back.
Breathing hard, Alar finally reached the ledge above them. His body tensed as he prepared to heave himself over the edge—and then a slender hand snapped down, fingers clasping around his.
A heartbeat later, Mor heaved them both up. Lara swallowed a gasp of surprise. She hadn’t realized the Shee queen was so strong.
Meanwhile, Alar rose to his feet, and Lara slid from his back, her boots hitting the dry grass that covered the rock. He braced his hands on his thighs as he recovered from the climb, before his gaze met Lara’s. His lips then curved.
Her breathing hitched. That smile. She hadn’t seen it since his betrayal. She’d almost forgotten how his cheek dimpled, how his eyes softened. How he looked at her as if she was something precious. Warmth spread across her chest before she caught herself. Don’t go there. Focus.
All three of them then turned their attention to the massive stone slabs that rose before them.
The Shattered Crown formed a tight ring on the outcrop’s summit.
Time and weather had left their mark on the stones, blunting and smoothing their edges and covering them with patches of lichen and moss.
The circle resembled the weathered crown of a giant.
Some of the stones had fallen inward, while others leaned against each other.
Lara’s gaze slid over the ring, her skin prickling. “Can you hear that?” she asked her companions. “They’re humming.”
“Aye,” Mor replied. “It’s coming from the rift in the veil.” She met Lara’s eye then, her head inclining. “Do you see why we needed the powries and trows? We’d never have made it this far without them.”
Lara nodded, reluctantly giving her that.
Mor turned then and moved forward, heading toward the gap between the two nearest stones.
Lara and Alar shared a long look.
He stepped in close. “This is it … are you ready?”
Squaring her shoulders, she straightened her spine. “Aye.”
“We need to be careful in here, Lara. Stay near me.”
Lara’s belly tightened. Slowly, she nodded.
Sweat slid down her back. Her limbs trembled. But none of that would stop her. She was here for an important task, and she’d see it done.
Walking ahead of Alar, she followed Mor into the circle.
Moonlight filtered through the stones, illuminating the crown in a soft silver light.
This was an ancient place. Cailean had told her that The Shattered Crown was rumored to be the oldest of all of Albia’s stone circles.
Few mortals had ventured here over the centuries, and she couldn’t help but feel that she was intruding.
However, a heartbeat later, she realized they weren’t alone. Dark shapes flitted between the monoliths. Spirits.
Heart kicking, she moved close to Alar. He’d asked her to, yet it was an instinctive act, all the same.
Familiar voices drew her attention then.
Glancing over her shoulder, she made out the shadows of their companions just outside the ring of standing stones.
Bree and the others had also reached the top, and they were holding vigil as Mor had instructed.
Howls and screeches rang through the night.
The wraiths had followed them up here too.
Lara’s gut clenched then. Had the powries and trows also climbed up to the stone circle? And if so, were they still allies?
“No one is to enter,” Mor called. “No matter what you hear. The binding will only take if we three are alone.”
Sweeping her gaze around the perimeter, Lara’s gaze alighted on the space between two stones that leaned drunkenly on each other. Darkness swirled between them.
There it was. The rift.
Smoky shapes wreathed out of the gap, shapes that vaguely resembled men and women with glowing emberlike eyes.
Grimlochs.
Alar acted first, drawing his last handful of salt from the pouch strapped to his thigh and flinging it at the smoke wraiths. They fled, squealing, back through the rift.
But there was no time to draw breath, for a Slew burst forth.
Its shrieks echoed off stone as both Alar and Mor unsheathed their weapons, slashing at it.
Lara backed up, drawing her own dagger. Gods.
How were they supposed to do the binding with spirits erupting like this?
Wings beating, the Slew shot upward into the moonlight.
“Take your positions.” Mor took charge now.
Lara obeyed, moving over to the southwestern edge of the circle.
Alar shifted to where a flat circular stone lay in the midst of the circle, worn and pitted with age. He cast his gaze over it before glancing Mor’s way. “Here?”
“Aye,” she replied, sheathing her sword. “On your knees. Face Lara.”
Alar’s gaze narrowed. However, he didn’t obey.
“You need to kneel, Alar,” Mor repeated.
“Why?”
“It’s all part of the ritual.”
Tension rippled over his lean frame.
“I’ve already explained this,” Mor said, meeting his gaze squarely. “You are the bridge.”
“Aye … but—”
“You need to be close to the earth when I begin the binding … and that means you must prostrate yourself upon the stone.”
A nerve flickered in Alar’s cheek. He didn’t look any happier about this than earlier. Yet, he didn’t argue with her now. Moments passed, and slowly he sank down upon the stone.
The sight made Lara’s pulse stutter. Bathed in moonlight, he appeared a sacrificial victim from the old stories, back when sacrificers had been permitted to kill people to appease the Gods. The comparison disconcerted her.
Mor approached Alar. She then pushed back her cloak, revealing a row of blades strapped to her belt. The largest was a fighting dagger, the smallest the size of a boning knife. Mor selected one of the smaller ones, a thin-bladed dagger. “Hold out your hand.”
Confusion flickered across his features. But this time, he didn’t do as bid.
Making an impatient noise in the back of her throat, Mor grabbed hold of his wrist and slashed him across the palm.
Alar jolted, his hiss of pain following. His blood flowed thick, running through his fingers. “What the fuck?” he ground out.
“Let the blood drip onto the stone,” Mor ordered. “It’s all part of the grounding … connecting you to the earth through blood.”
“But you said—”
“Quiet.” Mor snapped.
Lips pressing into a thin line, he watched Mor warily as his blood dripped. Anger and suspicion blazed in his eyes.
Lara’s own unease spiked. This wasn’t right. Mor had said no blood was needed.
The Raven Queen moved back, taking her place at the southeastern edge of the circle, behind Alar. “Extend your right hand, Lara,” she called. “Let the Ord-ree seal announce its presence.”
Forcing herself to focus, Lara lifted her hand. Her gaze lowered to where the amber stone set against iron gleamed silver in the moonlight. “The ring feels warm.”
“Good … it’s seeking a connection to the Threshold. As anchor, you must hold fast. Don’t take off the ring … no matter how hot it burns.”
Lara nodded, sweat beading on her forehead.
She stared into the swirling darkness between the two leaning stones.
Moments passed, and her breathing deepened.
Pushing her uneasiness aside, she concentrated on the task at hand.
She’d made it. She was finally standing in The Shattered Crown.
The wraiths hadn’t taken her, and neither had fire-madness.
Not yet. She’d survived, and now she had to end this.
Her fingers flexed. The void before her was mesmerizing.
And then her ring started to pulse. Red-gold light flooded through the stones.
The Ord-ree seal was an ancient thing. Forged in another age, for a chilling purpose.
There were many things about the ring she didn’t understand, but she’d seen its legacy.
It had brought darkness into their world. She couldn’t wait to rid herself of it.
The ring grew warmer still against her skin, stinging now.
Mor began to sing then. Words in the Shee tongue. Lyrical. Beautiful. Poignant. Holding her hands aloft, the Shee queen dropped her head back, staring up at where the full moon hung above them. Her slender hands moved. Indeed, she did look as if she was lacing something together.
The anchor. The bridge. The weaver. They were all here.
The sounds of combat drifted into the stone circle then. Grunts. Muffled curses. The thud and scrape of booted feet. Lara’s gaze cut right, alarm blooming under her ribs. Gods. Bree and the others were fighting for their lives out there. She couldn't let the wraiths best them.
The binding needed to take.
The buzzing noise from the rift grew louder then. And as Lara looked on, the gap in the veil seemed to pulse in response to Mor’s voice. Still, her haunting song continued, more strident now.
And then a wind drove in—between the stones.
Dry and sharp, it held a vicious chill that stung her cheeks and caught in the back of her throat. Lara staggered forward before she braced herself against it.
Shapes started whipping past, hurtling toward the tear in the veil, ragged shadows with flailing limbs. They screamed. They fought. But they couldn’t escape.
She watched the rift swallow them, and exhilaration tightened her chest. It’s working. Mor’s wind was pushing the wraiths into The Threshold.
More spirits poured through—a tide of them. Boggarts, their long fingers clawing at the air. Bog wights, hair billowing behind them like floating banks of kelp. Loch-Bhàn, mouths wide as they wailed. And the Slew too. Dark wings beating furiously. Elongated faces twisted with fear.
Still on his knees in the center of the circle, Alar crouched low, watching the spirits tumble past. Blood dripped from his clenched fist. It had formed a dark pool on the center stone now.
Lara winced then. The Ord-ree seal was scorching her skin. It hurt.
The wind continued to roar, a storm wielded from moonlight and Shee song. More wraiths streamed in, their wails rending the air. But there was no resisting this. The Raven Queen’s binding was too strong.
Eventually, the spirit flow slowed, then stopped. When it did, Mor ceased her singing.
The wind died as abruptly as it had begun, and an eerie silence swallowed the stone circle.