All he had to do was nod, and they opened for him. Moments later, he led the way out onto the road beyond. However, insteadof taking the long, winding way that would eventually take him down to the lower gates, he cut right and slipped into one of the narrow vennels that dropped down into the residential area of Dulross’s highest level.
The sisters followed him, hurrying now to keep up with his long stride. Out of sight of the guards, he moved faster, taking the stone steps in twos.
Along the way, they passed the headman’s roundhouse—each level of the fort had one. These men had once kept order, although those who hadn’t lost their lives a year earlier were now powerless. They did Alar and Beathan’s bidding or risked hanging by their neck from the walls. The dwelling was bigger and better constructed than most. Light glowed around the door of the roundhouse as Alar and the women slipped by, the rich aroma of blood sausage drifting out into the darkness.
They continued down a network of narrow vennels, heading toward the archway that would take them to the lower levels, passing well-kept roundhouses with turf roofs. This was the wealthiest area of the fort, where most of Dulross’s ‘elders’ lived, venerated men and women whom locals came to for advice. Before the Circines and wulvers’ arrival, they’d settled disputes and warned the headmen or the fort chieftain if there was any trouble brewing among the residents. Now, they kept their own counsel.
Since it was after dark, Dulross’s residents had locked themselves away behind sturdy oak doors. If Alar had any sense, he’d be inside too. The Slew hadn’t attacked in a few days now, but that didn’t stop other wraiths from stalking the wynds and vennels of Dulross, looking for a way inside homes or an idiot who didn’t respect the curfew.
“Things are moving in the shadows,” Eithne whispered, her voice catching.
“Aye … there will be,” Alar replied. He thought then of the boggart who’d visited him days earlier. “Don’t look at them … and keep moving.”
They reached the archway that led out of the top level then and slipped through, moving past two brightly burning braziers. Dulross glowed like a beacon each night—something Lara could have used against them if she’d wished. Perhaps she planned to, once her mission in the North was complete. Nonetheless, fire was necessary. Spirits didn’t like it. They were born from the shadows and preferred to linger there.
As such, Alar avoided some of the darkest, dankest back streets now, sticking to the better-lit paths.
On the way down to the gates, they passed no one. At one stage, a large brown rat scuttled across their path, and then farther down, a rail-thin cat hissed at them.
Finally, they crossed the market ground, a wide dirt area before the gates.
Both wulver and Circines warriors flanked the way out.
“A bit late for a walk, isn’t it?” One of the Circines greeted him. Alar recognized the man. His name was Ewart. Tall and blunt-featured with long curly straw-colored hair, he was one of Beathan’s trusted senior warriors.
“I’m off on an errand,” Alar replied, flashing the man a cool half-smile. “Beathan and I have met. I have a proposal for the queens.”
Ewart raised ruddy brows. “He’s sending you outnow?”
Alar shrugged. “We prefer not to wait. None of us wants the Raven Queen or thatfire-wielderto linger at Dulross.”
Ewart nodded, although his gaze was still wary. He glanced then at the two hooded figures who stood behind Alar, heads bowed. “I’ve never known you to take an escort anywhere?”
“These two are slaves … offerings. They carry gifts.”
The warrior frowned. “You’re trying to buy the queens off?”
“It’s part of our plan, aye.” Alar was starting to sweat now. If these questions continued, he’d have to draw his blades and kill Ewart—and anyone else who tried to stop him. “Do you want me to send up a runner to the broch, haul Beathan out of the furs, and get him to explain this to you?” He paused then. “When I left him, he was about to give his bed-slave a tumble … shall we disturb him?”
Behind him, one of the sisters—Alar wasn’t sure which—squeaked.
Shit.
A moment passed, and Ewart’s lips pursed.
Everyone knew Beathan was as randy as a ram in rutting season. After supper each eve, he retired early to give Duana a seeing to—and he didn’t like being interrupted.
“He should keep me better informed,” the warrior grumbled then, stepping back and gesturing to the men standing by the large iron bolts that kept the gates locked.
Alar didn’t answer.
A rumble followed as the drawbridge on the other side lowered over the spike-filled ditch. Moments later, the warriors and wulvers pushed the gates open, just wide enough for Alar and his companions to slip through.
“How long will you be?” Ewart asked as Alar moved forward.
“If I don’t return from the pines by the witching hour, I’m likely dead.”
Alar departed then, with the sisters right behind him. The moment they walked out onto the drawbridge, their boots thudding on wood, the gates started to close. But as they did, the faint echo of shouts reached Alar’s ears.
