42. Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty
When we finally made it out of the forest, village gates rose before us—tall wood braced with iron, moss twisting up its surface. Torches threw a golden wash across the palisade.
“Ah, at last. Behold Willowhollow,” Tairngire murmured, tone lilting with mockery. I rolled my eyes. Everything in Cindraloch sounded like a child’s tale, even with shadows pooling at the edges.
“If every half-born carries divine blood,” I asked, “then how does Cindraloch even have villages? Shouldn’t they all be equal?”
He chuckled low, smug as ever. “Then we’d really be in trouble, wouldn’t we?”
I turned just in time to catch that damnable dimple. “Not every child with divine blood inherits their sire’s spark. Only some. The rest—” he lifted his chin at the walls ahead. “End up here. Still half-born, but powerless. No bond. No gifts.”
“Then why call them half-born at all? Why not send their souls to Morhaven?”
“Because their blood still marks them. And divines," he leaned closer. “Have appetites. They’ll bed anything that amuses them. For every child born with the spark, there are dozens left without. And where do you think they go, Little Seer?” He waved a hand in the air.
“They work these lands. And when the time comes, they pledge to a house, and usually not to the one that sired them. Out of pure spite”
Heat curled low in my chest, equal parts disgust and shame. He knew the words would scrape me raw, and he reveled in it.
“Oh? Is that all I was last night? Something that amused you?”
I felt him falter for a moment. His glowing gaze slid to mine. “If amusement was all I sought, Aurenya, I’d have taken something and left you trembling. Empty. Unsatisfied. That’s what most gods do when they’re simply amused.”
Before I could respond, I noticed a figure on the battlement, bow threaded with an arrow, his face covered with a dark hood. His voice sheared the quiet like an axe through bone. “State your business. Travelers are not welcome into Willowhollow without a clear purpose.”
Caedmon’s laughter boomed, full of that jovial charm of his. “Good man! We’re here on pilgrimage from Asterroth. Looking for lodging, and perhaps a prayer at your shrine. Nothing more.”
The guard’s gaze flicked between us, lingering too long, wary of the large party. My pulse quickened. He wasn’t buying it.
But Caedmon continued, leaning in conspiratorially. “And perhaps a drink at your tavern, if your ale is as fine as rumor tells.”
The tension eased, just barely. The guard grunted, signaled, and the gates creaked open. The horses filed in. I twisted uncomfortably in my saddle. “Asterroth? Why did he—”
“Shh, Little Seer,” Tairngire whispered, reaching over and pulling my hood tighter around my face. My pulse quickened beneath my armor. We were walking into a lion's den, why else would Caedmon lie about where we'd come from? Neit's forces must be near by.
Well, that would have been nice to know prior to stopping here.
I glared at Tairngire but he was busy taking in the village around us, which looked plucked from a fairytale, naturally—Ivy on stone walls, flowers spilling from window boxes, the air thick with burning wood and something sweet baking unseen.
Children’s laugher echoed faintly, but when they spotted us, their parents yelled for them to come home and shutters slammed shut.
Beautiful on the surface, uneasy underneath.
We rode in silence until the stables by the square came into view. The scent of hay clung to the air as a man stepped out from underneath the thatched roof, wiping his hands on a cloth. This had to be the stable keep.
His gaze raked over us—suspicion clouding in his gray eyes. “A large company,” he said slowly. Distrust edged his heavily accented voice. “Not pilgrims.”
I shifted, but Caedmon’s lighthearted voice rang through the air again. “The roads are perilous, friend. Would you rather we traveled light and bled out on your cobblestones?”
The stable keep didn’t smile. His knuckles whitened against the cloth in his hand. Tairngire dismounted, movements calm, but the bond flickered. His face was hidden under his dark hood as he led his steed forward, and for an instant the stable keep’s face blanched.
“We’ll pay double,” Tairngire said, voice gravely, unrecognizable.
The man swallowed hard, nodding. But his suspicion lingered, carved deep in the lines of his face. He took the first steed and led it to an open slot, out of earshot for now.
I slid from my own saddle and nearly fell. I cursed under my breath. My legs ached after hours of riding. I glanced over at Ailbhe who had an expression that resembled worry—the first time I’d seen it on her. At least she hadn’t noticed my stumble.
Exhaustion blurred the world. Maybe that was why it took me so long to notice. But the company looked…different. All of them. Even the horses.
At first, I thought the lanterns were playing tricks, but no, their faces had softened, dulled.
Even the gods, whose presence usually announced them far before they arrived, simply looked like weathered warriors.
Not divines on parade. The kings looked like captains of men.
The half-born looked mortal. No spark in sight to the normal eye.
A glamour. Branwyn’s doing, of course.
The half-born's threads shimmered, each one a beacon to my Sight, burning through every illusion. Mairenn’s fire, Ciaran’s steel, Ailbhe’s arrogance, Maddox’s horns.
But the divines, An Chéadcumtha, they could hide from me all the same.
That was why Tairngire had been able to dim his divinity that night at the rite.
We gathered in the shadow of an alcove. Tairngire’s gaze slid to Branwyn, his voice smooth. “You do nice work, daughter of crow.”
She smiled faintly, honored by the praise.
Ailbhe ruined the moment, as expected, tugging at her altered face with a scowl. “If Saoirse looks like that, what did you make me look like? A washed-out peasant?”
I bit back a laugh.
Ciaran leaned against the wall lazily, arms crossed. “A daughter of Goibniu, trained for war, complaining about glamour for safety? That’s rich.”
Bram snorted, his scar catching the light. “Sounds just like women to me. Always fussing over looks, no matter the field.”
Maddox shoved his shoulder, chuckling under his breath. Aidan’s glare silenced them both.
“Careful, boy.” Scáthae’s voice followed, low and lethal. Ailbhe and Saoirse may not have been her daughters, she also didn't seem to particularly enjoy them. But the War Goddess was a fierce protector of women, there was no denying that.
Tairngire growled. “That’s enough.”
The words cracked the tension. His eyes swept over us, hard. “We’re too close to Neit’s borders. We pass unseen or risk everything. Branwyn’s glamour holds. Count yourselves lucky we didn’t meet his brood on the road.”
Ailbhe sneered. “Yes, let’s risk it all for our little mortal.”
Before I could retort, Goibniu thundered over her. “Quiet, girl. You disgrace my house with your insolence, I will not tolerate it further.”
For the first time since I met her, Ailbhe stiffened, color rising to her cheeks. Scáthae’s gaze narrowed, her voice like tempered iron. “The Forge God is correct. Emotions blind you.”
She glanced to me. “The Seer is the only way this works. Mortal, yes. But her Sight is our weapon. That alone binds us to her pace.”
I burned beneath the silence, caught between shame and fire.
Tairngire cut it clean. “We split.” His gaze swept the group, and the bickering died. “Scáthae, take the women. Go discreetly. Goibniu, the men. Keep your heads low. Suspicion lingers like a fetid stench here. The kings and I will go to the tavern, try to gain intel on Neit and his alliances.”
The orders fell final, unquestionable. I clenched my jaw in an attempt to keep my mouth from inviting trouble.
So Tairngire tucked us away like children while he strode through enemy streets? He and the kings swaggering in a tavern while we hid behind shutters?
The injustice blazed through me, bitter as bile. Not for myself, I understood why I needed to stay discreet. My safety was important and I was a threat standing next to my allies. My anger was for the rest of them who came here on this journey and had to suffer for my mortal weakness.
Then I felt it, his attention sliding across me. Even beneath Branwyn’s glamour, the bond vibrated. He’d felt the spike of my anger.
A warning curled in his stare: watch your tongue, Little Seer.
I swallowed the fire, barley. My glare was daggers, sharp and unrelenting. He smirked, faint, knowing, then turned away as if it satisfied him. I once again had to make an effort to bite back the words clawing up my throat.
“How long will it hold?” he asked Branwyn.
Her grin was all teeth, “Long enough…Unless one of you divines decides to get reckless.”
That earned a scoff from Goibniu.
“Women east. Men west,” Scáthae commanded, voice like a blade.
No one dared argue, which meant we were marching off with Goibniu’s daughters.
Goddess save us.
We all fell in step behind Scáthae, and every so often, Ailbhe would lean in toward Saoirse, whispering low enough that I couldn’t catch the words.
I clenched my fists at my sides. I'd never have to deal with women like them…
probably because most people steered clear from me, as I did them.
But that was unavoidable now, and I needed to try my best to ignore them.
Branwyn walked beside me, with light chatter on her tongue. Mairenn stalked ahead with careless sway. I held my chin high, reminding myself not to give Goibniu’s daughters the satisfaction of seeing it burn.
Scáthae led us without pause. Even hidden, she was command incarnate, and the villagers felt it, shuffling aside without knowing why.
And traveling in this unwilling sisterhood, I could only think one thing: Ugh.