Mathison emerged from the tunnels, squeezing through the narrow space between the obelisk and the entrance. A large tawny owl soared down to greet him, shifting into Alryn Tolbodeck, Wraith Tower’s most trusted footman, as soon as his feet touched the ground.
“Shall ye require yer horse, grand chieftain? I’ve kept him at the ready as Master Tanpip bade.” The servant, stocky and dressed all in soft grays and browns that matched his hair and his feathers, stood at the ready with Mathison locked in an unblinking stare. “The beastie has grown more anxious of late. Is war upon us?”
“Maybe not war,” Mathison said, “but a definite battle. Stay alert, aye? The witch is near.” He scanned the cliffside for signs of anything out of place. Repeated summons for the Weavers had gone unanswered, and he needed more tincture of ferus-antidotum for Calia. Her raging fevers had returned, draining away what little strength she’d regained during the short time of calm while Carman the witch was in the Under. “Have ye seen anyone moving about? Noticed any Weavers in the area?”
“Only the mighty Kannis and the mystical Giddrie.” Alryn looked all around, swiveling his head in nearly a full circle even though he was in human form rather than owl. His feathery brows knotted over his dark, round eyes. “And wisps of spirits. They rise from the ground, fill the air with faint whisperings, then disappear.”
Legion had apparently taken it upon themselves to help Kannis and Giddrie stand watch.
“Shall I fetch yer mount?” Alryn asked again.
“No. My wolf can scale the cliff faster than Horse.” But Mathison wouldn’t tell his loyal beastie that. It would not sit well with the proud animal at all. “Any word of the traitors at Wraith Tower?” That was another major concern. He’d not take Calia home until he knew it was safe to do so.
Alryn looked as though he’d just bitten into something sour. “The fox shifters. I never liked those two. As soon as they delivered the mistress’s bathtub to her quarters and sensed her inner wolf, they sought to use the knowledge for the lining of their pockets with wealth.” He shook his head and spat on the ground. “And after ye took them in and treated them fair as ye do everyone else. ’Tis a disgusting thing they did, I tell ye.” He bobbed his head with a curt nod. “Master Tanpip took care of those two, he did. The moat beasties ate well that evening.”
Grim satisfaction filled Mathison. At least that was done. But there was still the matter of discovering what had become of the Weavers who had sworn they would stay close and harken to every call. “But no Weavers here about?”
The footman shook his head. “Afraid not, grand chieftain. Shall I take to the skies and have another look around just to be certain? Master Tanpip said ye’d not wish to get far from the tunnels until it was time either to wage war or bring yer lady home.”
Mathison studied the sky. It looked more wintry than springlike. A storm was brewing, and something deep inside warned him there was nothing natural about it. “No. Stay close. Keep Horse ready and sound the alarm should anyone or anything come close to the entry point, ye ken?”
“It will be done, grand chieftain.” Alryn thumped his fist to his chest. “I swear it.”
Shifting to his regal form of the formidable black wolf, Mathison soaked in the sights, scents, and sounds around him as they stretched out their legs and loped up the mountainside.
“Something is wrong here.” Dubh snorted, then slowed to a cautious amble and kept his nose to the ground. “Where are the feckin’ Weavers? They said they would stay. I dinna smell a single one of them.”
“They would not leave unless they had good reason,” Mathison thought, knowing that to be true from the very core of his being. Besides, old Mairwen wanted Carman destroyed just as badly as he did and wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch when it happened.
But Dubh was correct. It was too still at this point on the cliffside. Even the constant wind coming in off the firth had disappeared. His hackles tingled and stood on end. Evil was here. Watching. Waiting.
“We must not return the way we came and enter the tunnel,” he thought. “Whatever is here will follow.”
“Agreed.” Dubh snuffled the ground again, doing his best to behave as though he was foraging or tracking game. “We shall stay away from Grandsire’s cave as well. In case the Weavers have taken refuge there.”
Mathison concurred. “Let us go higher so that we might look out across the ravine and the keep.”
In no time, they’d reached the top of the cliff, but rather than seeing the sea, the gorge, or Shadowmist Keep down below, an eerily thick fog blocked everything from view. It was as though they had stepped into another dimension, a dimension of unnaturally deafening silence.
“We have stepped into a trap,” Dubh said. “Feckin’ hell.”
“Feckin’ hell,” Mathison echoed. “I hate it when ye’re right.”
“You can’t be serious.” Calia struggled to shove herself into an upright position but failed and fell back among the eggs in the velvety nest. “You let him go out there? Alone?”
“Ye need more ferus-antidotum.” Bresag offered yet another cup of the drink that had started making Calia gag. “Yer fevers have returned, and the tears do little to bring ye back to us.” Her great dragon eyes shone with sympathy and worry. “Ye must heal, Mistress Shadowmist. Ye are the only hope for stopping that vile witch and cleansing the Ninth Realm.”
It was time to switch tactics. A long conversation Calia’d had with one of Gillian’s doctors came to mind. A conversation about fevers and how they weren’t necessarily always a bad thing. She gently pushed the cup away. “No more dragon tears. Water, Bresag. Plain water to keep me hydrated. It’s time to let my body use the fever to burn that poison away.”
Bresag stared at her as if she’d sprouted horns. “I fear ye will die,” she whispered. “Please dinna choose this course, which will surely fail. The chieftain will return soon. He would want ye to drink the tears.”
“No.” Calia reached out and rested her hand on the caring dragon’s forearm. “My gut is telling me that this is what I need to do. Gut instincts have gotten me out of a scrape or two in my lifetime.”
The caring dragon shook her head as she set the goblet aside and started pacing, doing laps around the nest like a worried mother hen. “The chieftain shall be most displeased when he returns.”
“He’s been displeased with me before.” Calia didn’t add that her instincts were also telling her that Mathison was in trouble. “Plain water, okay? Please? I need to load up on water to keep from getting dehydrated.”
Bresag shot her a side-eyed frown. “What is this dehydrated of which ye speak?”
