Her gaze lingered on the departing warriors and wagons. Spears pierced the drifting mist.
A strange detachment filtered over her then, as if she was dreaming, or watching her life unfold from a distance. It was a sensation that had started visiting her with increasing frequency of late, one that troubled her. Was the stress of everything finally causing cracks to appear?
“You’re making a mistake.” A rough voice intruded, and she turned to find Gregor next to her upon his stocky grey gelding. The bruises on his face were mottled and colorful this morning, and a scab had formed on his lower lip. However, when their gazes met, his brown eyes blazed with frustration. “But it’s not too late to change course. Break with the Raven Queen and join your own people. You can’t go through with this.”
Anger spiked through Lara. “The Warrior’s balls,” she muttered. “You’re like a baying hound.”
The chief-sacrificer flinched as if she’d just struck him. Yet, vexed now, she pushed on, enunciating each word sharply. “Our path lies north now, Gregor. Don’t bring this up again.”
With that, she urged her mare forward, leading the way toward the waiting band of Shee.
It felt strange to travel with such a small escort. Unnerving and yet liberating.
All her life, Lara had been sheltered. Every time she stepped outside the protective walls of her broch, she was never alone. She couldn’t even venture into Duncrag’s market without guards, and had only ever left the fort with at least two hundred warriors with her. And she’d always had servants to tend to herneeds. On this journey though, she’d sleep under the stars, with no attendants to wait on her.
But Mor was right: they traveled much swifter this way. There were no lumbering supply wagons. No warriors keeping up on foot.
The Shee led the way along the road, their leggy elks and stags easily outpacing the horses that followed. Mor kept Dorka on a long chain, allowing her to settle into her own ungainly stride, hampered by shackles.
The Sweeper blew leaves in their path, a carpet of red, gold, and pale yellow surrounding them. The air was sharp, laced with the faint perfume of woodsmoke. Albia was beautiful this time of year, although Lara found it difficult to focus on such details.
As often, her thoughts turned inward.
Now that they were traveling to Dulross, Alar kept intruding. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep him out. Memories tortured her—of how she’d slowly let her shields down around him, how she’d learned from him, believed in him. Given herself to him.
Gods, the humiliation of it.
When he’d turned on her, the world had spun for a few instants. And after the dizziness had settled, everything had looked different.Shewas different.
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Lara jerked out of her reverie, her gaze cutting right to Bree. The two women traveled side-by-side, with Cailean and Roth in front of them and Annis and Ren behind. Gregor and Ruari brought up the rear of their party.
Lara grimaced. “How could you tell?”
“You get that look.”
“A look?”
“Aye … hard … hungry … like you were imagining twisting a knife in that fucker’s gut as he pleaded for mercy.”
She snorted. “That’s because I was.”
Bree studied her then, her brow furrowing. “And yet, you’ve agreed to work with him.”
“For the moment.”
“You’re ready to face the Half-blood again then?”
“No.” Lara cut her gaze away. “I’ll never be ready.”
Warming her hands over the fire, Lara looked west. “No sign of the Slew,” she murmured.
“And the Weeper hasn’t joined us yet, thank The Mother,” Ren replied.
Lara glanced over at where the bard tossed a gnarled branch of old pine into the flames. Sparks gushed skyward, illuminating the young woman’s tired face. Ren had held vigil the eve before and was clearly hoping to get some rest tonight.
Lara nodded. “Maybe we’ll have some respite.”
“Aye.” Ren’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Although I don’t think I’ll sleep easily … not withthemso close.”
