Rogan flushed. We looked back toward the Gate at the same time.
The path was now dingy and overgrown. The bridge, a sagging ruin. Even the stone monsters were nothing but ancient relics.
A chill of frost raised the hair along my forearms. Like all Folk magic, this place was determined to beguile the mind and fool the senses. Next time we came here, I’d have to be more careful not to let myself be tempted by the pretty fantasies of the Fair Folk.
“We’ll come back when the moon is full.” Morning was bleeding into afternoon, and it was a long hike back to the dún. “We’ll cross into Tír na nÓg, and we’ll find Eala together.”
If the prospect of Tír na nÓg frightened Rogan, he hid it well. He nodded, and together we headed back to the fort.
“I’m hungry,” Rogan grumbled to me as we hiked through a copse of aspens.
“So you’ve mentioned.” I sighed, more amused than annoyed. “You were hungry this morning; you were hungry at lunchtime.”
“I should have packed more food.”
The urge to say a viciousI told you sonearly overwhelmed me.
“I have dried meat and cheese left in my pack,” I told him instead. “We’ll share it when we return. Tomorrow we can send to the village for supplies.”
He muttered something unintelligible.
“What was that?”
“I said,I’m bigger than you. I need more than bits of cheese to survive.”
“You are bigger than me.” I reached out, pinched his well-muscled abdomen. “What’s this if not stores for the winter?”
He squawked, batted my hand away. But mercifully stopped complaining about food.
We reached the dún before the light faded. Rogan trudged straight through the doors, silent and morose without any promise of a warm dinner. But I paused at the top of the ridge. The land spread out like a tapestry, warp and weft woven in fallow fields and shades of frost. The lough was a circle of slate. On its far edge, dense forest pressed close.
An icy wind gusted by, bringing a wave of longing with it. I suddenly missed Rath na Mara. Missed Mother, despite her hardness. I tried to imagine what she must be doing now, with a fire blazing in the hearth and sunset chasing the horizon. Drinking with Cathair, perhaps. Entertaining one of her under-kings with a tale of heroism or hubris.
I hoped our own tale would have the ending she demanded. For all our sakes.
Wearily, I trudged into the dún—then stopped in my tracks.
A fire crackled in the hearth. A low table offered up a hearty meal—hunks of crusty black bread, a steaming vat of pottage, a roast pheasant. For a moment, it seemed another trick of the Folk—a vision meant to torment me. But Rogan had already availed himself of the spread; crumbs and small bones littered the table in front of him.
“What’s this?” I asked, shedding my mantle.
Rogan shrugged contentedly. “Someone must have sent it up from the village.”
“No one knows we’re here.” I frowned. “Much less who we are.”
“Who else could it have been?”
He had a point. But I hadn’t been raised to devour food of uncertain provenance. I dipped a finger into the pottage, brought it to my lips. I didn’t taste any poisons. At least, none I was familiar with.
A flurry of motion on the wall caught my eye. I stalked over to inspect the carvings. The firelight sharpened on a furred mouse with vast whiskers, rubbing tiny stone paws over its quivering nose.
Corra.Damned creature.
“Did you do this?” I accused, too loud.
“Obviously not.” Rogan spoke around a full mouth.
I considered telling him he was likely dining on cobwebs and bog mud, but couldn’t quite muster the energy to explain how I knew. Instead, I glared at the Folk sprite, who twitched its round ears.
