38 THE WATCHER
FERN SABLEBANE STOOD on the edge of an overhang, framed by snow-clad pines, and looked over the fort.
The icy air made her eyes water and her nose tingle.
The waxing moon shone down, rising now and illuminating the silvery crust of snow.
Meanwhile, the braziers upon the wall burned, lighting up the night like a hive of fireflies.
Her gaze narrowed as she observed the fort.
It was new, seemingly sprung from the earth like a toadstool.
She’d walked the forests, straths, and glens of Albia for a long while, and never on her travels had she come across this fort. Years earlier, she had passed this way, and there had been a Circines village upon the crag—turf-roofed huts and wooden palisades—but this was not a hill-tribe stronghold.
What can you see?
A voice, croaky and slightly irritated, intruded upon her mind.
She turned, tearing her gaze from the fort, to find a large raven observing her from a snowy branch.
Eagal had once been the Raven Queen’s companion.
He’d sat on Mor’s shoulder and advised her.
But she was dead now. She’d fallen five years earlier in the North, sucked into The Threshold.
Mor’s cousin, the Elk King Vyrnek, ruled the north of Albia now, but Eagal hadn’t joined him.
Instead, to Fern’s surprise, the raven had sought her out, and for the past couple of years, he’d followed her like a shadow.
All is quiet, she replied, huffing a frustrated breath. No sign of an execution, at least. I’d wager they’re still alive.
That is good news.
Another voice echoed inside her mind, low and rough.
She glanced behind her to where a large roan stallion stood.
Rùn. Dale—no, Darach’s—horse.
She had encountered him at dawn that morning.
The stallion had been panicked, lathered with sweat, and it had taken time to calm him.
But when her hand stroked his shoulder, their minds had touched, and he had told her what happened—that Darach, Ailsa, and the woman they’d tried to rescue had been captured.
The depth of what he knew did not surprise her. The Marav never understood that the animals who served them comprehended far more than they realized.
“Don’t get your hopes up too much, lad,” she murmured aloud, stepping back from the cliff and resting a hand on Rùn’s warm neck. “Your friend may not be alive for much longer.”
She frowned, recalling what she had learned from the stallion.
He had been with Darach—aye, she’d learned his real name—for a few years, and the warrior liked to speak to his horse.
Rùn had heard at length of how he’d tried to kill his brother, and the retaliation that followed.
He’d witnessed the fights with the sellswords his brother sent after him, and Darach’s foolish choice to be tattooed by that rogue tattooist in Troon.
The riddle of the man traveling with Ailsa finally made sense—his smell had the deep musk of a feral cat—although the lass herself was still a bit of a mystery.
Rùn had told her how Ailsa fought using her nails, and of the bloodthirsty urges that sometimes seized her.
But he had no explanation for any of it.
Your master has gotten himself into a right mess, she touched the stallion’s mind once more. One that neither you nor I can untangle him from.
And what of the lass? Eagal asked.
She’s a tattooist, like the woman she was searching for. Whoever rules this fort has a purpose for them both.
Fern had noted the heavily tattooed warriors guarding the walls and gates earlier. Many were grotesquely muscled, even for Marav males.
Something was wrong about this place.
Wrong about all of it.
And she was eager to learn more.
Fern had always been curious—her mother had told her it was a curse—and after leaving Ailsa and Darach’s company, instead of making her way to Golval Barrow as she’d told them, she’d doubled back and tracked their path into The Goatfells.
They’d admitted they were hunting the men who’d attacked her, ones who’d abducted someone dear to Ailsa.
Fern couldn’t let that go.
She sighed then. Maybe I should go south to Duncrag and tell Alar and Lara about this.
You could, Eagal replied, his tone disapproving, although you shouldn’t meddle in Marav matters. You forget you are one of the Shee. You should be with your own people. Vyrnek needs you.
Fern bit back an irritated retort. It was an old argument. The raven was loyal to the Shee and had no patience for the Marav. Not surprising. He had served Mor loyally, and the Raven Queen had despised the mortal kind.
Fern had once shared her queen’s view.
But that was before she’d spent time with her brother here. Half Marav, half Shee, Alar had surprised her in many ways. She had traveled with mortals, fought alongside them, and along the way, Fern had understood her prejudice was hollow.
After Mor had gone, she had tried to return north to Cannich and serve the Elk King. He’d proved to be a strong ruler so far—less mercurial than Mor had ever been—yet restlessness seized her.
Aye, she was still loyal to her own people, but she didn’t belong in Cannich.
She didn’t belong in Duncrag either.
So, she roamed Albia alone, with only a raven for company, surviving as a trapper and hunter, selling meat and fur.
Her brother welcomed her at Duncrag, so she entered that fort unglamored and ignored the stares.
However, she disguised herself whenever she entered other Marav settlements.
Things had shifted in Albia, but not enough that her kind were no longer feared.
Maybe I should linger here and see if I can help those three.
Eagal gave a rough croak. Why would you do that? You barely know them … and you’ve never met the woman they tried to rescue.
No … but I owe Ailsa and Darach a debt.
And she did. She’d meant what she’d said before they parted ways. She wouldn’t forget a kindness.
Her gaze returned to the fort. Its stone walls were new, quickly built.
An army must have worked day and night to raise it.
Her skin prickled.
Can Darach and Ailsa be saved? Rùn asked. Anxiety tinged the thought.
Not tonight, Fern replied.
And perhaps not ever. As one of the Shee, Fern had ways of melding with the shadows, of altering her appearance so she might fool those at the gates long enough to let her through. However, without a plan, she’d just end up a prisoner too.
And Eagal had a point. Even if she owed them, these people weren’t her friends. She wasn’t going to get herself impaled on an iron blade on their account.
As if sensing her conflict, Eagal gave a loud caw and ruffled his feathers in disapproval. I can’t believe you’re even considering this. There’s always trouble among the Marav … let them butcher each other. Best for us all if the Shee rule these lands.
Fern’s lips thinned. The situation wasn’t as simplistic as Eagal made out though. The High Queen was just, but the south was fractured. Lara’s over-kings had rebelled, and the land had split into three rival kingdoms clawing at one another.
Fern had seen the strain in Duncrag. Rebuilding was slow.
And her brother lived there, which complicated things further.
Thinking of Alar softened something inside her. She was long estranged from her mother in Sheehallion. Her father was dead. Her brother was all she had.
Rùn snorted and tossed his head. I will help.
Fern smiled. She was sure the stout-hearted beast would.
“Three paths,” she murmured aloud. “Which will I take?”
Neither of her companions answered. They would let her make her choice without further interference.
Time slipped by as she worried over it.
Duncrag.
Cannich.
Here.
Each had its merits. Each had its drawbacks.
Maybe she wouldn’t choose any of them. Maybe she’d just walk away from all of this.
Eventually, with a snort of irritation, she stepped back from the edge of the crag.
“I’ll decide in the morning,” she muttered. “For now, let’s find somewhere warm and dry.”
Moving to Rùn, she vaulted lightly onto his bare back. Like all the Shee, she needed neither saddle nor bridle. Her people traveled upon stags and elk, but a horse would do.
Come on … there’s a sheltered gorge north of here. Take me there.
Rùn turned and began picking his way down the pine-strewn slope. The snow lay thick now, swallowing his hooves to the fetlock.
With an irritated croak, Eagal landed on her shoulder. He was heavy. His claws bit through wool and leather, but he liked to travel this way, and she let him.
Her thoughts flicked back to Darach and Ailsa.
Ailsa especially.
Fern had never met anyone like her, and the odor of frozen blood that clung to the young woman was deeply unsettling. Yet beneath the strangeness lay an indomitable will and stout heart. Most people would have turned back long before reaching The Goatfells.
Aye, those two both preyed on her mind, mostly because she liked them.
But more worrying was that great fort at her back, one which had appeared from nowhere. One that appeared to be readying itself for something.
Her brow furrowed.
She had seen war ignite before. It never began with armies, but with subtle shifts in the balance of power that went unnoticed until it was too late.
Pulling her cloak closer as the snow thickened, Fern let Rùn pick his way down the hillside.
She didn’t look back, yet the weight of the fort lingered behind her.
To be continued …