46. Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Four
Tairngire hadn’t lied.
The fortress rose from the hills like something out of an old tale.
Black stone veined with silver, towers spearing the heavens.
It wasn’t a camp so much as an academy. The gates yawned open, swallowing us whole.
Steel clanged. Wards hummed along my skin.
This was no ordinary stronghold. This was where the Morrígan’s Kathari were forged.
We dismounted in its shadow, boots striking dirt. My legs still ached from the ride, but the pain vanished when I caught Ailbhe’s familiar snarl. I looked away before she could sink her claws into me.
The horses snorted and pawed as we tied them off. The fortress loomed like a mountain of carved stone.
“So this is the mighty Kathari stronghold?” Ailbhe sneered. “Looks more like a library than a camp.”
Ciaran glanced up, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Careful. They might hand you a book to read. Then what would you do? Bleed on the pages?”
Her golden-threaded eyes narrowed, venom sparking. I bit back a laugh, remembering the ball—how Ciaran admitted he wouldn’t tangle with a daughter of Goibniu. Yet here he was, baiting her like it was his favorite pastime.
Maddox stepped forward, horns gleaming in the faint torchlight. His smirk was worse than Ailbhe’s. “Still running that mouth, Sister? You’ll get yourself gutted one of these days. Maybe then we’ll see what you’re really worth.”
The insult cracked in the air along with the magic surrounding us.
Ciaran’s cold voice cut in. “Noble words from a warrior who’d rather gut his own kin than stand beside them. Is that how House Goibniu teaches loyalty now?”
It was enough to turn the blade back on Maddox. Silence tightened. Ailbhe stiffened, but, for once, said nothing.
That was when I noticed Scáthae. At the edge of us all, black hair spilling like shadow, her gaze pinning Ailbhe and Maddox, measuring, sniffing out the rot.
Tairngire’s murmur brushed my ear, rough as tree bark. “She hunts for poison. Always has. She’ll carve it out if she finds it.”
I glanced from him to the fortress, then back to Scáthae’s razor stare.
“And with Goibniu’s children?” His mouth twisted grim. “She won’t have to look far.”
The weight of centuries lay in his tone, old wounds and grudges both. And I was standing right in the middle of it.
The gates groaned open, iron and oak yawning wide. We filed inside, boots striking stone, the fortress swallowing us whole.
The air shifted. Sigils carved into black rock pulsed faintly, as if they had their own pulse. Training yards spread beyond the archways, figures sparring in perfect unison. Steel flashed in one hand, flame and shadow writhing in the other.
These were the Morrígan’s chosen.
Magic commanded the armies here, not just brute strength.
Men and women alike wielded it, ruthless and terrifying. Sorcerers raised spears crackling with runes, splitting the air with their voices.
Beside me, Branwyn’s eyes gleamed with something like envy. “Why don’t you stay here?” I whispered. “If this is your bloodline, your people.”
She laughed somewhat bitterly, pulling her hood down.
“Because I was chosen as the Crone. My mother needs me in Anamcroí, at the center of everything. My duty is there, not here.” Her fingers flexed like she was holding something back.
“Don’t mistake me, though, I love walking through these halls.
I grew up here.” Her voice softened on the last words.
And I saw it, the Morrígan’s shadow rippling over Branwyn’s face, her blood singing in these halls. No matter how she teased, she was lit from within. This is where she would spend her days if she had the choice.
Just another example of how cruel divine duty could be.
Our boots echoed through corridors heavy with spellcraft. Then, without warning, the shadows bent inward, smoke curling like a serpent around sudden light.
A man appeared in the center of the hall—a sorcerer, like I’d only read about in tomes. His robes were storm-dark, threaded with fire-lit runes wrapped around onyx skin. His eyes were bright, electric and locked right on Branwyn.
“So,” he said, voice carrying through the vaulted stone. “The Crone returns.”
Branwyn crossed her arms, her expression giving nothing away. The tension between the two of them cracked off the stone walls of the fortress. I held my breath. "Nice to see you too, Riordan.”
His grin split wide before laughter rolled through the hall, deep and rich. Branwyn darted forward, light as a spark, leaping straight into his arms. He caught her easily, spun her once, then set her down. They clung a moment longer than casual. I arched my brow.
Behind me, Saoirse muttered, “Sorcerers are…odd creatures.” Her tone was fierce, but her eyes were curious.
Bram caught it instantly. His scarred mouth twisted into a frown. “Curiosity looks strange on you, Saoirse.”
Saoirse’s head snapped toward Bram like an arrow loosed from a bow. For a second, I swore she’d draw steel. Bram wisely backed down, shoulders shifting in a half-shrug as if he hadn’t spoken at all.
From the corner of my eyes, Goibniu watched, arms folded, with a shadow in his gaze strong as the steel he forged. It wasn’t directed at Branwyn and Riordan, but at his children. There were cracks in his house where there should have been iron.
Scáthae narrowed her gaze on the Forge God. The goddess of shadows truly never missed anything.
Riordan finally turned to the crowd, grin wolfish. His gaze swept, blue eyes like cut sapphires, stripping flesh from bone with a single glance.
“I am Riordan, first sorcerer to Cermait the Honey-Mouthed,” he said, voice smooth, but threaded with authority. “Son of the Dagda, Keeper of Glamour and Sorcery. Where he casts radiance, the Morrígan casts shadow. Duality. Balance. I wield both when called, just like your Crone.”
Silence thrummed thick as he turned, assessing one by one.
To Caedmon, he said, “The laughing wolf. You wear strength like a it's a feast—loud, easy, generous. But underneath? Fierce loyalty. A king whose heart bleeds only for his house.”
He fixed his hard gaze on Domhnall. “You wear your father’s shadow like armor, but your fire is your own. Scarred and unbending.”
He turned toward Bram. “The giant. Built for war, carved from battlefields. But not a brute. Teeth and wit both. You’ll be the one who holds the line when others falter.”
Maddox shifted when those burning eyes pinned him. Riordan’s grin cut deeper. “The horned one. Goibniu’s favored. Blooded in war, dripping with pride. Dangerous, yes…but not half as dangerous as the woman behind you.”
His eyes slid to Ailbhe. She lifted her head, defiant. “Ah, the serpent daughter. Pretty fangs, eager to bite. But half your venom hides in longing. Careful where you sink your teeth, some flesh will strike back.”
Then he turned to Saoirse, the fairest of Goibniu’s children. “Beauty sharpened to a blade. Dangerous not for your sword, but because others will always underestimate you…until it’s too late.”
Ciaran stiffened as Riordan’s gaze cut to him. “Loyalty carved into bone. You’d burn yourself to ash if your king commanded it. Admirable, yet…dangerous.” He paused. “And still, you’d burn for her too.” His eyes flicked to me.
The bond flared, fire-hot in my chest. My breath caught. Tairngire’s rage stormed through me, breaking ribs from the inside. I turned, wide-eyed. His face was calm, too calm, but I felt the fury underneath. He tried to bury it. Too late. I couldn’t help myself, I smiled.
Riordan noticed, blue eyes gleaming with mirth. He said nothing. Only moved on.
His gaze swept to Aidan. “Broad shoulders. Calm steadiness. Second to the Ard-Connacht, but no less dangerous. Your strength isn’t loud, but it will outlast the clamor of many battles.”
He turned to Mairenn next. “The king’s consort. Sharp-tongued. Coyness hides nothing. You carry your mother’s fire, and his devotion.”
Riordan’s gaze locked on mine. “And you. The Seer. Chain-bound, yet tugging at the Weave itself. Fated to Sight. But defiant to law. The most dangerous of all.”
The air was sucked out of my lungs. Every eye swung to me. Godsdamn it.
Finally, his gaze released me and slid to the gods, blue eyes catching each in turn.
Scáthae was first. “The Goddess of War. Storm-veined, merciless. Judgement at your hip, always ready to slice. The shadow in every hall. The silence before a scream.”
Then, he looked at Goibniu. “The Smith God. Hammer and anvil. Pride smolders in you as hot as your steel.” He clucked his tongue. “But pride unchecked bends even iron.”
Goibniu’s jaw flexed, his voice rumbling like stone breaking. “Of course, this is Cermait’s boy.” He spat the name like it tasted bitter. “His tongue’s as silver as his father’s, though more tempered.” Respect and disdain were tangled in equal weight.
Riordan only gave a toothless grin, unbothered, before turning at last to Tairngire.
“Ah, the forest god. The almighty Stagborn. Awakener. You wear calm like bark on the tallest tree, but beneath it your emotions boil—sap rising, hot and ready to split the tree in two if you aren’t careful.”
Riordan’s words plucked a nerve just to see what would happen. Tairngire’s expression didn’t shift, carved in stone, but I felt it, the tension, the silent annoyance.
Riordan spread his hands, his grin full of amusement. “There. Introductions made.”
Branwyn let out a delighted hum. “This is why my mother favors you.”
Riordan dipped his head, the admiration in his eyes meant for her alone. “And why I’ve always had a fondness for her Crone.” Warmth threaded his words, enough to make Branwyn roll her eyes and blush at once.
“Speaking of your mother,” Riordan went on, sweeping his robe aside in a swirl of smoke. “She’ll want to meet your company once you’re settled. Come, I’ll take you to the guest corridors.”
He pivoted, leading us deeper into the fortress. Stone halls swallowed our footsteps, echoing like drums. Somehow, I ended up before Saoirse and Ailbhe, their voices curling behind me like snakes.
“ A Seer moon-eyed over the Forest God,” Ailbhe murmured, venom sweetened to a whisper. “A flame she could never grasp. Even if the Old Gods allowed it, she’d burn herself hollow. The Fates would cut her from the Weave itself.”
My nails bit into my palms, but surprisingly, I held my tongue. The Shaman’s lesson echoed in my head: never show emotion in a garden of serpents.
Ahead of me, Tairngire walked with arms crossed. He wouldn’t look back, wouldn’t meet my eyes, as though command weighed heavier here.
And then it hit me.
The chessboard stretched clear: kings, houses, half-born, gods all sliding into place.
Tairngire hadn’t just followed Scáthae’s will or Goibniu’s demand.
He had brought us here, to the Morrígan’s doorstep, a goddess he didn’t want to stand in the shadows of.
He was binding every thread to his purpose.
Whispers said he was leashed to the Old Gods, bent beneath their rule. But watching him—head high, every move calculated—one thought struck me cold.
Are the Old Gods really orchestrating this? Or is he?