“We can at least stop in,” Lugh decides at last. “If we can afford what’s on offer, we’ll resupply. If we leave empty-handed, so be it.”
The other men murmur their agreement, but I don’t think Lugh’s heard a word. He stares down at the settlement, his entire body leaning forward in the saddle. He looks older like this, with his jaw set and the dark wolf fur lining his cloak fluttering around hi
s neck. I forget sometimes—force myself to forget—that Lugh’s no longer an impetuous child. If something’s unnerved him, there’s good reason.
He frowns. “I don’t see much movement.”
I take another look at the scene below and try to focus on Lugh’s observation. He has a point. There’s smoke rising from some chimneys, but the streets are surprisingly quiet for the time of day. There are older Sluagh out too, a consistent trend I’ve noticed the farther inland we travel. The continued absence of young fae is something we keep track of, though more and more villagers refuse to speak on the matter. They don’t seem concerned about their missing either. Lugh’s convinced the disappeared populace has something to do with the shadow man of his dreams, and I’m running out of reasons to argue against him. Noticing that now makes the morning’s chill settle a little deeper into my bones. I shudder against the sensation and shrug my cloak higher up on my shoulders.
“How do you want to approach?” I ask Lugh quietly. He taps a finger against his thigh, which I take as permission to continue. “We don’t know if huscarl Boros is in residence.”
“I know.”
“The sight of the Horned King may not be welcome.”
“Maybe not.” He straightens in his saddle. “But we’re meant to be here.”
A cool breeze brushes the back of my neck, raising goose bumps, and I lift my hood in an effort to block it. “Were you led here by another dream?” I ask, knowing Lugh will understand what I’m asking. Has another shade come to you?
In my periphery, I catch the sharp turn of Cybel’s head toward me, but I keep my focus on Lugh.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m going to discover something here. Something important. And whatever it is, I need to see it for myself. I need to learn what they’re hiding.”
“That’s how people die,” I point out.
It earns me a humorless chuckle. “Maybe,” he counters, and the breeze twists around us even stronger, “but I don’t think we will suffer that fate today.”
I swallow down my argument and pretend my acceptance. Even with my hood raised, he sees through me. “Trust me, Keir,” he murmurs, and a moment later his helm is in place, the wide rack of antlers stretching up toward the cloudy sky.
“We stick together,” I tell the men as we follow after Lugh. They agree with solemn nods and I know they feel the same thing I do. There’s no denying it anymore. We’ve finally crossed over the invisible boundary separating allies from adversaries. Anything could happen now, out here in this vast expanse of nothing.
The sharpened poles lashed together to form a wall around the village loom ahead of us and I grip Dubh’s reins tighter as we cross over the threshold of the open gate. The few Sluagh moving inside pause their work as we head for the central square. Nothing but hard faces and harder eyes greet us. They say nothing to Lugh, but the sight of Cybel, Armel, and Drest draws angry whispers of Unseelie, and several of the oldest inhabitants spit on the ground as I ride past, though they don’t utter any words against me. I must not warrant the breath necessary for them to curse me. My role as Lugh’s poet and bodyguard doesn’t make up for the fact that I am human and my people, my real people, have brought misery and pain upon the Mainland Sluagh for centuries thanks to their close proximities.
I do my best to ignore their hostility, but more and more villagers appear at our backs and remind me how outnumbered we are. The urge to reach down and wrap a hand around one of the short axes at my belt grows and the belt wakens from my increased nerves. I grit my teeth against its promise of protection and focus on Lugh’s back. He won’t risk our deaths. The moment this looks like it could go completely wrong, Lugh will give us a sign and we’ll bolt.
The narrow street we’re on finally opens out into the main square, where the hall waits. The building is worn, like the rest of the houses here, with faded paint and broken shingles. The doors leading inside are open, but there’s no warmth from welcoming fires.
Lugh doesn’t dismount Liath when he draws up in front of the building. Instead, he turns in a slow circle, taking in the crowd surrounding us. “Where is the good huscarl Boros?”
No reply from the villagers. They just glare at him and, by association, us.
The antlers of Lugh’s helm tilt as he cocks his head, seemingly thoughtful at their utter lack of response. The breeze is back, colder than before, and ruffling the fabric of our cloaks. Lugh sucks in a sharp breath before calling out again, “Where is the good huscarl Boros?”
“Here,” a low, irritated voice replies from the darkness of the hall.
We turn toward it and watch as a tall, lean man emerges into the daylight. His dark hair is short, cut more closely to Seelie styles than Sluagh, and he can’t quite hide his frown when he takes us in. He doesn’t offer Lugh a bow; the closest gesture of respect he affords is a bare inclination of his head. “The Horned King is welcome here.”
I’m tempted to call out his lie, but Lugh speaks before I can. “We have been riding for many days and hoped to take shelter with you tonight.”
Boros contemplates the request for a long moment that borders on outright insolence before replying, “Such an illustrious figure is always welcome in my home. Yet I should caution you that we have but little to offer you and your company—” His eyes dip down to our saddlebags and his thin lips curl in a sneer. “—despite the generosity you could surely show us. It has been a difficult year.”
Behind us, the villagers murmur their agreement. The hissed syllables they whisper are not fond. Not kind. I rest a hand on my thigh, close to my weapons and notice Cybel is doing the same.
“Surely a being so great and wise would understand our struggles,” Boros continues. “And he would not hold us responsible for our caution. We’ve heard rumors of a false prophet roaming these lands.”
“A false prophet?” Lugh asks.
“Yes,” Boros replies. “A man who has risen to claim a place never meant for him. A man hungry for power. It would be wise for us to be wary of such a man.”