Maybe he was walking into a trap.
They traveled all morning, while hunting goshawks dove overhead, their cries echoing through the vastness. Despite that the air held a bite, sweat dampened Alar’s back and forehead. The band he’d joined traveled fast, urgency in every stride. It was a relief when they stopped at noon.
One of the Ravens approached him, a grim-faced male who shoved some bread and cheese into his hands. Alar took it with a nod, but the warrior had already turned and stalked off. Settling down onto a lichen-encrusted rock, he ate his meal in silence.
Meanwhile, Skaal, who’d remained with him all morning, wandered over to Cailean. The chief-enforcer murmured something to her, and she pushed against him, her plumelike tail swishing from side to side.
As he ate, Alar observed his companions. Not the Marav, but the Shee.
For years, he’d wondered about his father’s people. His feelings toward them were complicated. They were part of him, and despite the persecution he’d suffered because of it over the years, he’d secretly been proud that powerful fae blood flowed in his veins. But he had a reason to loathe them too.
His gaze lingered on Wynn Sablebane.
The warrior stood apart from the others. He’d finished his light meal and was now looking north. Ashes, he was an ice-cold bastard. How had his mother fallen for him?
Memories of Struana mac Aedan fluttered up. Small and dark-haired with bright blue eyes. A dimple puckered her cheek whenever she smiled, although his mother hadn’t smiled often. Indeed, with the years, her lovely face had grown stern, her gaze increasingly shadowed. She’d done her best to protect him, but he hadn’t been able to protect her.
And neither had this Shee bastard.
He’d planted a seed in her womb and then disappeared, never to be seen again.
Hate now pounded in Alar’s chest. Finishing his scant meal, he rose to his feet and made his way over to Sablebane.
Along the way, he skirted around the clag-doo Mor held on a chain. The predator crouched on the ground, a growl rumbling low in its throat as it eyed the Raven Queen. Long and sleek, the feline looked to be female.
Mor crouched just out of reach, eyes bright as she whispered what sounded like a gentling sain.
Incredulity wreathed up within Alar. When he’d met with Mor and Lara in that pinewood, he hadn’t seen the beast chained up nearby; its black pelt made it blend in with the shadows. Clag-doos were dangerous, yet pity stirred within him to see it leashed and shackled. Just like fae hounds, they were wild creatures. He didn’t know why Mor wished to gentle it, but they weren’t meant to be pets.
Sablebane turned then, watching him approach. A few yards away, Fern also tracked Alar. He noted the way her hand strayed to the pommel of her sword. She was readying herself for trouble.
Meanwhile, their father’s mouth puckered. His iron-grey eyes with their goatlike pupils narrowed.
His reaction made something ugly flare inside Alar. “I bet you regret that tumble,” he greeted him. He hadn’t intended to open with something so aggressive, yet he couldn’t help it. He was aware then of gazes upon him. Mor and her Ravens were observing him, as were Lara and her party. All of them had been waiting for this moment, wondering how it would play out. Did they want him to put on a show for them?
A heartbeat passed, and then Sablebane’s lip curled.
Alar’s blood started to roar in his ears. How he wanted to reach for his blades and deal to this whoreson. If he dared insult his mother, he would, and fuck the consequences.
“You’re here because of it, aren’t you?” Sablebane’s voice was low and eerily like Alar’s own.
Alar’s hands flexed at his sides. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What do you want to hear?”
“The truth.”
Their gazes locked for a long moment before the Shee warrior’s expression hardened. “No, you don’t.”
“Tell me.”
Something glinted in those iron eyes. “The truth is I made a mistake,” he replied softly. “Andyouwere the consequence.”
15: A FOUL WIND
AS THE SHADOWS grew long, a strange wind kicked up.
Lara tried to place it, but it wasn’t any of the Four Winds she recognized. It wasn’t shrill like The Whistle, or aggressive like The Sweeper. Nor did it peck at them like The Sharp Billed Wind or blister the land like The Gales of Complaint.
