Closing his eyes, he prayed to the Hearthkeeper for this ride to be over.
Sliding from Reedav’s back, Alar’s gaze swept over the line of trees stretching west. The carpet of sycamore, oak, and birch was changing hue now, bright-yellow and deep-gold leaves amongst the darker greens of evergreens like yew and pine.
The Hallow Woods.
After three days of travel, they’d made it over The Hog’s Back. The woodland stretched right up to the edge of the foothills. The mountains reared above them, slicing into an overcast sky. It had been a dull and windless day, eerily so. The Gaulas hadn’t returned—not yet anyway—yet the stillness made everyone quiet, watchful.
Around them, the shadows were lengthening. They still had some distance to travel today, for they planned to reach a cave farther north, in the foothills of the Goatfells, before nightfall. However, since a burn bubbled across pale stones nearby, this was a good spot to water their animals and take a short breather.
The sight of the woodland brought gusty sighs of relief from everyone.
Finally, The Hog’s Back was behind them. Of course, Alar had been the one to suggest taking this route. He didn’t regret it, yet the journey had been even harder than he’d expected.
Aye, it felt good to be standing on the other side of The Goatfells. Even so, he noted that none of the Marav appeared comfortable here, especially Cailean. The chief-enforcer wore a grim expression as he led his stallion over the burn. Of course, Alar had heard of the massacre that had taken place here a few years earlier. The news had traveled far and wide over Albia. Several enforcers had fallen that night.
For his part, Alar had crossed the Hallow Woods a few times over the years, yet he always avoided the ancient burial site onits southern edge. The Slew dwelled amongst these trees, and it was best not to disturb them.
The Shee didn’t gaze upon the woods warily though. Mor and her Ravens looked west, their eyes soft with longing. Dunmorth Barrow lay at the heart of the forest—a sacred place for Shee. Only fae-kind traveled easily in this place. It was safe enough in daylight, if you kept to the paths and didn’t stray into its dark corners—thankfully, they wouldn’t be going in that direction.
Skaal stared into the shadowy trees, golden eyes sharp. The blood on her left shoulder had dried now, and her limping had eased as they made their way down the mountainside. Dorka yowled before scraping her claws feverishly upon the ground. After three days without trees to blunt her claws, she was desperate.
“Come now, sweet one.” Mor swung down from the clag-doo’s back. “Let’s help you out.” She led Dorka over to the tree line, looking on then as the feline clawed at a sycamore trunk in a frenzy. Alar noted the soft expression on Mor’s face, the affection in her eyes.
Meanwhile, Reedav walked over to the bubbling burn and started to drink. Alar knelt next to him, scooping up water in his hands and slaking his own thirst. They had fewer waterskins with them now, although they’d fill what they had before moving on.
Shifting back from the water’s edge, Alar stroked Reedav’s ruddy coat, warmth kindling in his chest. He’d been relieved to see the stag at dawn.
He glanced then over at where Lara was watering her mare. Like the others, she now rode bareback, as their saddlery and saddlebags lay under a pile of rocks on the western slope of TheHog’s Back. Head bent close to her horse, she stroked its neck and murmured soft words.
The warmth faded. His breathing quickened, and his gut hardened. She had no soft words for him.
Ashes.Was he jealous of a horse?
He cut his attention away—to find his father watching him.
Wynn Sablebane stood barely more than two yards away, next to his own stag.
Father and son hadn’t spoken since their tense exchange the day after leaving Dulross. But the Slew attack and their journey across The Goatfells had taken their toll.
Their gazes locked, and then, to Alar’s surprise, Sablebane favored him with a faint smile. “Reedav has taken to you,” he said gruffly. “An honor indeed.”
Unnerved, Alar stared back at him. An awkward pause ensued before he found his tongue. “It would seem so,” he replied before turning away.
Uneasiness churned in the pit of Lara’s belly as she led Bracken toward the cave’s shadowy entrance. Her mouth was dry, her skin clammy.
A fever had plagued her for most of the day. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her mind had wandered constantly, and she’d lost time twice.
She was getting sicker.
Pausing before the cave mouth, she glanced up at the sky, shivering. The sun had now dipped behind the edge of the woods. Mist had snaked in as they rode, drifting from the trees,blocking out the bulk of the mountains rearing above them. It felt like days since she’d last seen the sun, and she wondered if the spirits that plagued the night now influenced the day too. Heaviness lay in the air, and although she didn’t wish for the return of The Gaulas, she found herself missing the Four Winds. The shriek of The Whistle would come as a relief, would shatter the oppressive stillness.
Inside the cave, her companions were already busy with their evening routine. Four of the Shee had gone hunting as they’d traveled north, catching up with the rest of their party later, each with a brace of fat red grouse. A fine supper awaited.
Duana and Eithne sat with the Shee as they plucked and gutted the birds. Next to them, Roth lit a hearth—without Lara’s assistance this time—while others went out to collect firewood.
Lara led Bracken to the back of the cave, where Annis, Ruari, and Ren were seeing to the other horses, rubbing them down and checking their feet and legs for injuries. Forcing herself to ignore the dread that clenched under her ribs like a fist, she tied up her mare.
“You’ve done me proud, lass,” she murmured to Bracken, stroking her neck. The contact soothed her. “You have nerves of iron.”
