It was said that when the Treibh Anam came to Inismian, they formed the Diamhair Mountains so that they could view their new home from the peaks.
With the moon shining down on them, Clía could understand why the gods would favor such a place.
Somethingseemed to hum in the air. Anticipation? Fear? Magic?
She didn’t know.
There was an electricity to the space around them. An unfamiliar and unnatural edge, similar to the Ghostwood but softer, almost comforting. As they walked, Clía wondered if she was stepping where the gods once stood.
They continued past trees and rocks that hadn’t seen humans for centuries, until Clía could see the horizon behind her. Until the chill of the mountain air numbed her fingers and nose.
The ground began to plateau, and Domhnall stopped.
“Over there,” he said, pointing to the valley below them. A dark shape stood out against the flat landscape around it.
A tent.
Domhnall began climbing down toward it.
Ronan grabbed his arm. “We don’t know who, orwhat, is down there.”
“We won’t find out by staying up here. This could be it—the proof we need. I’m not going to sit around and wait for Tinelann to destroy Scáilca. I’m taking every advantage I can find, and if it kills me, then at least I die protecting my kingdom,” Domhnall replied, shaking himself loose and continuing down.
Ronan’s eyes met hers. “Stay here. I have to make sure the fool doesn’t make a martyr of himself.”
“I can come too.” Clía crossed her arms, the motion pulling at the gash in her side and sending a streak of pain through her. She winced.
He shook his head. “You’re wounded, and less quick with your blade. Try to find a spot for us to make camp until sunrise. It will be easier if I only have one impulsive royal to protect.”
She could argue with him—try to pull rank and demand she be allowed to go with them—but the determined set of his jaw told her she wouldn’t win.
She turned away with a huff.
Fine. She could find a place to make camp for when they returned.
If they returned.
She shut out the thought. They were both well trained; they could handle themselves. Doubt and fear served only as distractions.
The sound of a stream bubbling greeted her as she walked. She followed the sound, thinking to replenish her canteen, drained from her attempt at cleaning her wound.
Trees littered the mountainside, but they were much less dense than in the Ghostwood. Clía continued walking, the rush of the stream growing louder. Until she heard another noise, barely audible under the water’s current.
The hitching breath of soft crying.
Taking a reluctant step forward, she saw her.
A woman. Her face rang familiar to Clía, but she couldn’tquite place it. The woman could be a maiden or a mother; something about her defied age. She was crouched over the stream, eyes half closed as she scrubbed a dark green fabric. A red stain bloomed in its center.
The woman’s white hair hid her face, until she looked up.
Clía froze.
A wail escaped the stranger. Haunting and devastating.
Her face was pale white, half hidden by the torn gray hood of her cloak. Her luminous white eyes stared straight at Clía.
A bean sídhe.
