We finish getting dressed, throwing on the rest of our layers and returning weapons to their proper places, before tearing down the camp. It doesn’t take long to pack everything onto the horses, but I balk when I’m faced with the prospect of pulling myself up into Liath’s saddle. Keiran, already astride Dubh, watches me with grim amusement. “Come on, seidhr,” he teases. “I thought we were going to beat the dawn to the village.”
“I hate you,” I mutter. His jibe is enough to urge me up into the saddle though, and we head off.
My slow riding means most of the villagers are already working in the fields when we arrive. Their dark expressions as we ride past makes me glad I limited my glamour’s illusion to nothing more than a shadowed hood. I don’t think the sight of the horned helm would be welcome here.
Cybel lifts a hand as we approach the hall, the only friendly face around. “There’s breakfast inside,” he says. His shrewd gaze passes over me and darts to Keiran. Whatever Cybel sees makes him frown a little. “Difficult night? You’re here later than we expected.”
“My fault,” Keiran replies without hesitation. “Couldn’t get to sleep for some reason.”
“What’s your excuse?” Cybel asks me as I dismount and hitch Liath to one of the hall’s posts.
“New dream,” I say.
Keiran gives me a look, but doesn’t challenge me on the lie.
Cybel looks surprised. “Already?”
“The gods wait for no man,” I say as Keiran and I walk inside. “Especially on Samhain. At least this time they were clear about what I have to do.”
The hall is blessedly empty, quiet, and scented with aromatic smoke from the newly started cooking fire. Looks like Armel took it on himself to make the meal. I’m selfishly grateful for the privacy. Keiran and I won’t have to entertain anyone this morning. We’d be poor company to keep and Keiran would beat himself up later about the potential damage to the Hunt’s reputation.
“We have a new quest, huh?”
“Yes. An important one,” I say.
Keiran frowns. “It is, but it’s one that will hold until after we reach Eyjar.”
Cybel looks back and forth between us. “I see,” he says slowly. “I’m sure it’s important, so surely you will tell your mother to expect a delayed result from us.”
Keiran blanches. A prickle of dread creeps down my spine, and I hope I’m keeping my voice even when I reply, “Why would I need to tell her of such a change?”
“It may run contrary to her expectations. A raven arrived this morning when I went out for a quick ride.” Cybel digs in his pocket and pulls out a tightly rolled piece of parchment, sealed with a delicate ridge of ice. “The bird took off without waiting for a response.”
“That’s not ominous,” Keiran mumbles as he sits down beside Drest.
He accepts a bowl of lumpy porridge without complaint and digs in. He’s eating, which is a good sign. If he’d been really hurt last night, he wouldn’t have much of an appetite. Armel sets a fresh bowl in the empty spot left for me, but I don’t start in on it. Mother’s missive is more important.
I rub the pad of my thumb over the seal. The ice vanishes under my touch, disappearing without leaving any water stain or dampness in its wake. Her script is tight and cramped, written in a hurry. The message is nearly incomprehensible and my stomach churns when I reread it, trying to make sense of the clipped phrases.
“Is something wrong, seidhr?” Drest asks.
“There was an attack,” I say. The men fall silent, attention wholly fixed on me. “Roark was kidnapped from Mather’s campus by three fae before the sealing took effect.”
“Goddess,” Armel breathes.
“He was already retrieved and is recovering in the sídhe.” I trace over Mother’s last words with a finger and send up thanks to the Goddess for watching over my brother. No wonder Mother reached out to us. The rest of her warning is short and succinct, which is a true sign of the danger. “His kidnappers
were Sluagh.”
“No,” Drest argues, “they wouldn’t be so stupid. No Sluagh would dare steal Prince Lyne, not when it would bring the queen’s wrath down on them. Aage would never stand for such an attack.”
“Yet three of them did,” I say, reviewing that sentence again. “Bound Roark with iron. Tortured him.”
“And he’s alive?” Keiran asks.
“Apparently. Someone did...something to prevent the poison from spreading. She says—” I squint, but no matter how many times I reread her explanation, I can’t wrap my head around it. Deciphering written words is difficult on a good day, and between yesterday and last night... I’m amazed I’ve understood this much of her note so far. “Well, I’m not sure. But he’s alive and getting back to full strength.”
I shove the paper across the table toward Keiran, who will read it and share any other important details with me later. He accepts it and skims over the script. His eyes widen a bit at Mother’s closing—the demand we return home as quickly as possible—but says nothing. He tucks the note away in a pocket and looks back to me.