“It was five years ago,” Cailean replied, still eyeing the chief-sacrificer. “A group of us were in Darkmere hunting Shee who were fleeing toward their barrow.” Bree shifted uncomfortably beside him as he continued, “They were too quick for us, and reached safety … but that night we camped on the shore of the Darkmere, under the shadow of the stone circle. None of us got any sleep. Boggarts crawled into our tents and tried to smother us. I woke up to find four of them on me.” He paused, his lip curling. “When I fought them off, they turned the air blue with their insults. Nothing has a fouler mouth than a boggart.”
“Had you offended broonies?” Annis asked.
Cailean shrugged. “Not to my knowledge … but boggarts weren’t our only problem. When I left my tent, a cluster of Loch-Bhàn were drifting across the loch toward our camp, their hair flowing like water.”
Lara tensed. ‘Lake women’ were rarely sighted in The Wolds. The wraiths were said only to appear upon a full moon. Theirsong was haunting, and if one touched you, you’d lose your memory.
“We didn’t linger near the loch after that,” Cailean concluded.
“So, spirits were guarding The Shattered Crown … even five years ago?” Roth asked, alarm flaring in his eyes.
“Aye.”
“That would indicate that this has been building for a while.” The captain scowled. “Which means Mor was telling the truth … about that, at least.”
“It would seem so.”
“You don’t want to work with the Half-blood … I understand that,” Bree spoke up once more, meeting Lara’s eye squarely. “I too want to see him dead … but don’t let your emotions blinker you. If you must form a temporary alliance with him, do it.”
Lara’s belly cramped. Bree might want to drive a blade into Alar’s throat, but her hate for him was a pale shadow in comparison to what Lara felt. All she thought about these days was killing him. It was the first thought that appeared in her mind upon waking, and the fantasy she played in her head each night as she struggled to get off to sleep.
She couldn’t work with him.
“Mor should never be trusted,” Bree went on. “But right now, she’s not the greatest threat to Albia.”
“In your eyes, maybe.” Gregor erupted once more. Disgust twisted his face. He’d clearly had enough. Over the past years, he’d suffered Bree’s presence at Lara’s side, but this evening, his anger at the High Queen for letting Mor live unleashed his deep-seated resentment. “You were Mor’s spy once … what’s to say you haven’t turned again? Let’s face it … you’re nothing but a Shee bitch wearing Marav skin.”
A blur of movement followed the chief-sacrificer’s insult.
Cailean’s fist smashed into Gregor’s face with a sickening crunch. The chief-sacrificer staggered back. Blood gushed from his nose, but Cailean wasn’t yet done. Another punch followed, and this one felled the big man like a tree.
4: NOTHING IS CERTAIN
THE WEEPER’S WAIL echoed through the gloaming. The drawn-out cry made Lara’s chest ache. Taking a step forward, she stumbled, her feet suddenly clumsy.
“Lara?” Bree was at her elbow, supporting her, but she gently shook her off.
“It’s all right,” she muttered.
Bree’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”
Lara nodded, yanking her cloak close. “It’s that howling … it gets to you after a while.”
“Aye,” Bree agreed roughly. “It gets to us all.”
Indeed, lines of strain bracketed her warder’s mouth this evening. Her posture, usually as straight as a spear, was slumped, her shoulders rounded.
The Weeper’s lament was eroding their defenses, letting despair and hopelessness creep in. Even Bree, the strongest person Lara had ever met, couldn’t hold it back.
For herself, Lara could feel the weight of it, pressing down upon her shoulders like two heavy hands. Her limbs tingled with fatigue, and her temples pounded. Jaw clenching, she looked around her. They stood near the northern edge of the perimeter her army had just built around Cobblebrae. Two days had passed since her victory over Baldeen and her meeting with Mor. And ever since, Lara had deliberately kept herself busy.
She didn’t want to think about the things the Raven Queen had told her, or what might happen if nothing was done. And she wished to forget about the alliance Mor had proposed between her, Lara, and Alar.
Around her, warriors were hammering in the last stakes to secure the high wooden palisade that now surrounded the clusters of sod-roofed roundhouses. The thud of iron colliding with wood echoed through the grey dusk like a listless heartbeat. One look at the faces of the men and women working—their slack expressions, wet eyes, and shallow breathing—and she knew the Weeper’s song was affecting them badly.
One of the men, a young warrior, threw down his mallet and sank to the muddy ground, burying his head in his hands. Two other men cast aside their tools and knelt next to him.
“It’s all right, Brodie,” one rumbled, slapping the warrior on the shoulder to rouse him. “Pay no heed to that wailing bitch.”
