Chapter 27
Aoife paced the narrow passage by the staff entrance, her palms slick against the folds of her dress. She didn’t have long before Lord Halverton expected her on the dais. Her heart thudded with the rhythm of her plan, fragile but the only one she had.
She swallowed, trying to steady herself. Wiren needed to be there. His men needed to be there.
She had gone looking for Wiren as soon as Halverton had left her. He was in the lower courtyard, standing with a group of Morran stable hands as they swept the flagstones. He straightened when he saw her coming, his expression flickering from surprise to wariness.
“Walk with me,” she had said. “Please.”
He hesitated, then nodded. They moved to the shelter of the archway, out of earshot.
“I need a favour,” she said. “A… dangerous one.”
Wiren’s jaw tightened. “If this is about stopping what’s going to happen—”
“It isn’t.” Her voice cracked despite her effort.
His shoulders eased a fraction. “Tell me.”
She glanced toward the path leading to the gallows field. “Halverton wants a crowd. And crowds can turn.” Her voice dropped further.
Wiren tilted his head. “Sounds like you’re expecting trouble.”
Aoife hesitated, a moment’s doubt flickering in her mind. Could she trust Wiren? Resolve settled over her. “I’m counting on it,” she told him.
The small smile at the corner of his mouth told her she’d been right.
“All right then. What do you need?”
“If Eldrossi soldiers are at the front… if one of them even thinks a villager might step out of line—”
Wiren finished for her, grim. “They might use force before thinking.”
Aoife nodded, throat tight. “But your men won’t. You know these people. They know you. If you and the other Morran soldiers are stationed closest to the villagers, it might keep things from… igniting.”
Wiren was silent for a long moment. His breath misted in the air between them.
“If the orders permit it, my men will be there.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “I hope whatever you’re planning doesn’t need us.”
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Clara appeared, breathless, with two figures in tow. Aoife froze, then exhaled sharply and stepped forward, arms wrapping tight around Riona. The woman hugged her with the same desperate strength.
“Thank the Shee you came,” Aoife said, breaking away. “I have a plan.”
As Aoife explained the plan, Riona and her husband Steafan looked unsure.
“It’ll work,” she assured them, though she wasn’t as confident as she sounded.
Steafan gave a grim nod. Riona smiled. “All right, then.”
Aoife gave Riona another hug before she left. “Be careful.”
“We will,” Riona assured her.
Aoife watched them slip through the side door and disappear down the servants’ path toward the yard. She drew a deep breath, trying to steady herself, then made her way up through the servants’ corridor, across the entrance hall and out into the open air.
When she stepped outside, the sunlight struck white off the stones.
Halverton was there, hands on the balustrade, looking out over the silent crowd.
Six soldiers were on the landing with him, including Wiren, Norin, and Kian.
Wiren caught her eye and gave a quick, apologetic shake of his head. Aoife’s stomach turned cold.
She moved closer, keeping her voice low. “What happened?”
Wiren didn’t look at her. “Captain caught wind something was up,” he muttered. “Put us where we can’t do much good. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and she hoped it wouldn’t.
She stepped up beside Lord Halverton. Her posture was perfect, every line composed. To the crowd below, she looked impeccable, the polished lady of the house standing beside her lord. The villagers were silent, faces dull with resignation. They had seen this before. Nothing ever changed.
Aoife’s eyes roamed the crowd. She knew every face; they were even thinner than she remembered. Her father stood near the front, her brother and sister beside him. Her stomach twisted. She wished they weren’t here to see this.
Aoife angled her head towards Halverton, voice low enough for only him to hear.
“You said once,” she murmured, “that the lord of Dromdara burned his own village because he’d lost control.” She paused. “Will they not think the same of you if you flog a starving man? Does that look like strength to you… or desperation?”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.
She pressed on, voice even softer. “You could show them something different. Show them that your power doesn’t rest on pain. Any brute can order a flogging, but only a man truly in command can choose not to. Show them… show me… that you’re more than they believe.”
For a moment his gaze fixed on her, black eyes unreadable. Aoife held her breath, hoping against reason that he might prove her wrong, to show that beneath the ambition and cruelty there was still a man capable of good.
The silence stretched, heavy as the sky before a storm.
His voice rose, sharp and cold.
“Bring the prisoner.”
Cormac was pulled up from the cells, blinking against the light, half-dragged, half-fighting the soldiers for every inch. His boots skidded on the stone as he tried to resist. Halverton leaned closer to Aoife, lips curling in satisfaction.
“So,” he said, “he is not no one. I wondered what it would take to make you show your true colours.”
Aoife’s throat tightened. She forced herself to look at Cormac instead of answering.
He was still struggling as the soldiers tied his hands to the flogging post.
“You think he’ll stop with me?” Cormac shouted at them. “With the villagers? None of us are safe. It’ll be you next.”
Once he was secured, the soldiers stepped away. He tugged once more at the ropes, then stopped, realising it was pointless. But he didn’t sag or look resigned. He stood tall, defiant, unbroken.
Lord Halverton stepped back, amused. He caught her eye and smiled, inviting her to watch, to learn what real power looked like.
Instead, Aoife moved down the steps. Her legs trembled, but she kept her chin high. Every eye in the courtyard followed her. She stopped beside the soldier holding the lash. Before she could lose her nerve, she held out her hand.
“Aoife, what are you doing?” Cormac hissed, low but urgent.
She met his eyes. Without a single word, she asked him to trust her.
He hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.
She turned to the soldier, hand still outstretched. He glanced at Halverton, uncertain.
Halverton tilted his head, curious. “Give it to her,” he said, a slow smile spreading.
The lash’s weight was worse than she expected. Her hands shook. She turned and lifted it toward Halverton. Her voice shook, but it carried in the silence.
“Do your own dirty work.”
The words hung in the air. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Halverton’s jaw clenched. He didn’t move.
The soldier reached forward to take it, but she stepped away, her voice rising, pulse hammering in her throat.
“Does the master not have hands of his own?”
A nervous ripple of laughter ran through the villagers, giving her courage. Their expectant eyes were on her now. She had never spoken to a gathering before, never dared raise her voice to power. The words scraped out raw.
“Look at him!” she cried, turning to face the crowd. “He calls himself lord, but without you, without us, he is nothing. It’s your hands that till the fields, your backs that break bringing in the harvest—”
“Silence!” Lord Halverton thundered.
But the word didn’t fall as cleanly as it once had. It met resistance: a murmur of voices, a stir of breath, the smallest sound of awareness.
Her knees wanted to give, but she forced herself to stay upright, turning to face him.
“Your greed has caused this famine,” she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard. “The land itself rejects you.”
A ripple ran through the crowd, low murmurs swelling into gasps and cries.
Heads turned. From beyond the yard came the thundering of hooves.
Two enormous shapes emerged from the morning mist: one black as pitch, the other chestnut brown.
Both towered over the men, taller even than Cormac in Athraith form.
The soldiers faltered, uncertain.
Cormac struggled behind her.
“Aoife!” Cormac shouted, part warning, part plea. His voice cracked with fear, not for himself, but for what might follow. She understood his fear for his parents, for the villagers. She couldn’t allay those fears.
She raised her hands. “Don’t be afraid,” she called, her voice steadying as she spoke. “It’s a sign from the Otherworld, from the Sheedar themselves. A call to action!”
The black Athraith pawed the ground, breath steaming, but the chestnut one stepped forward, lowering its great head.
The air hummed. Aoife reached out and laid a trembling hand against its muzzle.
The creature leaned into the touch, warm and solid.
Chestnut hair glinted along its mane. Riona. It had to be Riona.
The crowd stirred, whispers growing louder. Her father’s voice rose above them.
“It’s a sign!” he shouted. “The Shee stand with us!”
Others took up the cry, voices overlapping until it rolled like surf.
Lugh stepped out from among the line of soldiers, eyes wide, and reached to touch the Athraith’s flank. The instant his fingers brushed its coat, his breath hitched, awe written clear on his face.
Lord Halverton’s voice sliced through the noise. “Do something!” he bellowed at the soldiers.
The line of soldiers hesitated, struggling to hold back the surging villagers. Shouts and movement blurred together.
Halverton snatched the rifle from the nearest man and fired into the crowd. The shot cracked through the air like lightning. Someone fell. Aoife couldn’t see who. Screams tore through the courtyard.
He seized another rifle and swung it toward the Athraith. Aoife’s heart clenched. The next shot rang out. She turned as a figure fell to the ground beside her, but it wasn’t Riona. It was Lugh.
Aoife dropped to her knees beside him, pressing her hands against the wound. Blood slicked her fingers. “Stay with me,” she whispered. Lugh’s mouth was moving. She leant in closer to hear what he was trying to say.
“Athraith… is… it…”
Aoife looked up. Riona and Steafan had fled. She caught sight of them as they disappeared into the forest. She couldn’t blame them.
“They’re all right,” she told him. “You saved her.”
Lugh smiled, then coughed, and a trickle of blood spilled out the side of his mouth.
“Hold on,” she told him, pressing harder. “Help me.” She shouted into the crowd. At the top of the stairs, Kian struggled against Wiren, trying to reach them.
When she turned back to Lugh, it was already too late.
Aoife touched her forehead to Lugh’s. “May the Shee guide you home.” She stayed there a moment, regretting that she didn’t have better words, that she hadn’t known him better.
By the time she stood, the soldiers had regained control. Many of them had their weapons pointed at the crowd. But even they turned back to look. Halverton had killed one of his own men.
Cormac had been right. None of them were safe.
Halverton descended the stairs slowly, deliberately, as though reclaiming control with every step. He bent and picked up the lash Aoife had dropped. The motion was graceful and fluid. In the same movement, he raised it high and struck.
The lash cracked like thunder, and Cormac’s whole body jerked against the ropes. His shoulder tore under the strain, the breath ripped out of him, and then he lifted his head, eyes burning.
Is that all you’ve got? The words weren’t spoken, but she heard them as clearly as if he’d shouted. The defiance was there in the set of his jaw, in the way he rolled his shoulders, daring the next strike.
Aoife’s stomach lurched. Every spark of resistance only goaded Halverton further, and she knew it, knew Cormac knew it too. Still, he wouldn’t stop.
She lunged for Halverton, catching his arm, trying to tear the lash from his hand. He shoved her; the blow knocked her to the ground.
Halverton didn’t give the crowd time to breathe. The lash cracked again and again and again, three blows in swift succession.
Cormac jolted with each one, his body snapping against the ropes. The second strike tore a ragged sound from him, half-roar, half-groan, but the next two he swallowed down, chest heaving, teeth bared too wild to be a smile.
Aoife was on her feet again, grabbing for Halverton’s arm.
“I thought you wanted me to get my hands dirty,” he snarled, grinning like a madman.
He thrust the whip into another soldier’s hands. “Fifty lashes,” he said, and seized Aoife by the arm.
Halverton dragged her backward toward the stairs. Her feet skidded, fighting for purchase on the stone. The villagers shouted, angry but afraid, hemmed in by the soldiers’ raised rifles. A few had already fled.
He pulled her up the steps, her breath coming short and hard.
At the top, he turned, eyes sweeping the courtyard below. The air had gone eerily still. The whip hadn’t cracked again.
“Do it!” he shouted. “Or you will be next!”
Aoife looked out over the crowd. Maire was crying into their father’s side. And then Eoin broke free, running towards the steps.
“No!” she screamed.
Halverton yanked her through the doorway. The soldiers by the entrance followed them in and slammed the heavy doors behind them.