The horse snorted, tossing her head.
Lara huffed a sigh. “I know … you’re hungry. Let me get you some supper.”
Slapping Bracken on the rump, she went outside to pick grass with Ren. They had no grain to feed the horses with, and there had been little time to allow them to graze.
Outdoors, the light was fading fast.
The two women set about their task. It relaxed Lara to focus on something practical. Riding gave her too much time to think.And when she did, her mind drifted. Concentrating became difficult, like trying to catch hold of water.
But this repetitive job steadied her.
Some of the grass was dry and stalky; it was late autumn now, and the greenery was dying off. However, their mounts would no doubt eat it. As they worked, Lara and Ren filled the skirts of their over-tunics, and when they were full, carried the grass back into the cave. The horses snatched at the grass immediately. They were hungry. This task would take several trips.
Annis joined them when they went back outside.
Tearing off clumps of grass, Ren cast a nervous glance over at the dark line of trees. The back of her neck prickled. “It feels as if something is watching us,” she muttered.
Annis harrumphed. “There will be … more than the Slew live in those woods.”
“We’d better make sure a line of torches burns outside the cave entrance then,” Lara replied, deciding it was best to be practical rather than let the shadowy forest unnerve them. “Best we take all the precautions we can.”
“Cailean lost his ward stones in the rockslide,” Ren said then. “But I will hold vigil after supper.”
Lara glanced the bard’s way. Even in the dimming light, the lines of fatigue on the young woman’s face were clear. Her eyes were bloodshot and hollowed. “You need to rest.”
Ren pulled a face. “Wealldo, My Queen.”
24: SHARING SECRETS
LARA ENTERED THE cave carrying the last armload of grass, stems poking through her fingers. Behind her, Sablebane shoved torches into the ground—a ring of fire between them and whatever hunted in the dark.
She walked past the hearth, where grouse carcasses dripped fat into the flames. Her companions sat in a rough circle, their voices a low murmur that didn’t quite reach her.
She stopped and stood there, watching.
Fern’s slender hands moved through the air as she explained something to Duana and Eithne. The sisters leaned in, faces intent, while two Ravens edged closer to listen. A few feet away,Vyr and Ruari debated something—she caught the word ‘Gateway’ before their voices dropped again. Closer, Alar sat beside Mor, their heads bent together.
Shee and Marav. Sitting together. Talking likeallies. Like people who might actually trust each other.
Something twisted in Lara’s chest. Not quite hope—it was too fragile for that—but something akin to it.
This wouldn’t last. She knew that. Once they reached The Shattered Crown, once they sealed the rift, everything would fracture again. Old hatreds ran too deep. She’d go back to Duncrag, and Mor would return to Cannich or Sheehallion, and the brief warmth of this strange fellowship would freeze over.
Her stomach clenched. Gods, she was so tired of fighting. Tired of keeping lists of enemies, of nursing grudges. She’d seen what waited at the end of that road: a woman alone, consumed by her own rage, becoming the very thing she’d denied being.
Her father’s daughter.
If the fire-madness didn’t take her, bloodlust would.
Her boot caught on something—a stone, jutting up from the cave floor. She stumbled, grass spilling from her arms.
Hands grabbed her, steadied her, and pulled her upright.
Alar.
Of course, it was Alar.
Their faces hung inches apart. She could see the flecks of black in his grey eyes. The smell of leather filled her nostrils. Heat radiated off him. Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs. Why? Why was it always him? Why did he appear every time she faltered, and why—Gods help her—why did his nearness scramble every coherent thought in her head?
