Keiran
He hasn’t emerged from the thicket yet. It shouldn’t take this long to lay a body to rest. Beneath me, Dubh shifts and pricks his ears forward. Beside us, Liath is far more relaxed, which is a good sign Dubh’s uncomfortable because of me. I try to relax my legs, but every small sound, every brush of wind, brings me back to attention and ruins my efforts.
Lugh asked for a moment. I can give him that. Well, I think I can.
Movement near the trees draws my attention. It’s only Armel adjusting his cloak. He watches the woods, leaving his back to the thicket. I envy the easy set of his shoulders. On our other watch corner, Cybel looks equally serene. Their faith in Lugh, and in each other’s ability to spot danger, is absolute. Mine should be too.
But Lugh won’t tell them about the shades and, based on his careful dance around the topic earlier, he expects me to keep his secret as well. Maybe he has a reason for it. I’m not sure how the men would react to the news that his visions are from the dead, or that the dead can influence his living body. Or is there another reason entirely for Lugh to hold to this silence? And does that mean he’s hiding something else from me?
The swirling doubts are almost enough to distract me from the sight of a figure stepping out of the thicket.
“Thank the gods,” I breathe and urge Dubh forward. At the sight of his master, Liath increases the pace, and the distance between us closes in no time.
Lugh turns to watch our approach, but I wonder if he really sees us. He’s pale and his lips are tinged with a hint of blue. His chestnut hair is darker, dampened with sweat, and he breathes like he just finished a battle. He has something wrapped up in the edge of his cloak, but it’s so tightly bound I can’t tell what it is. After a moment, he comes back to himself and reaches to stroke Liath’s cheek.
“What happened?” Maybe he’ll give me an answer before Armel and Cybel reach us.
He doesn’t take his saddle. He stands there and continues to pet Liath and waits for the other two to join us. He’s not ignoring me. He’s decided everyone deserves to hear the answer. Once Cybel and Armel arrive, he gives me a nod and says, “I know why we had to come here. We were meant to find proof for Aage.”
“Proof?” Cybel asks. “Proof of what?”
Lugh begins to walk, leading us away from the thicket and toward the maypole in the center of the village. The mud here is tinged with blood and I wrinkle my nose against the assailing stench of rotting animal
corpses. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve spent adventuring at Lugh’s side, killing monsters and defending allies, I’ve never grown used to the familiar scent of death. The lack of fae bodies makes more sense now. Someone already came to claim the dead.
“The village was attacked,” Lugh says. “It was meant to look like our Court did it.” He points to a scrap of fabric buried in the mud. He couldn’t have known it was there. We haven’t explored this place at all, yet he pointed as if he knew its exact location.
Cybel dismounts and lifts it. Even torn, the colors and the partial crest of the Winter Court are visible. It’s a different design than the carefully wrought skeletal tree I’m familiar with. This tree’s branches are cruder, the dark colors not as strong, but this is Queen Mab’s crest, without any doubt. Armel holds out his hand, and Cybel passes him the evidence.
“How is that possible?” Armel asks. The question isn’t directed to Lugh. It’s for Cybel, whose mouth is nothing but a tight line and whose hands pull on his saddle horn a little too hard as he gets back on his mount. “This is one of the banners we rode under in the war for independence. How did it get here, in Seelie lands?”
“More importantly,” Cybel says, “who would have betrayed the standard in such a way?”
Armel’s fingers tighten around the cloth. “I’ll gut them myself when we find out,” he promises.
“If it wasn’t our Court who did this,” Cybel asks Lugh, “who was it?”
Lugh tilts his head, looking at the slaughter around the maypole and says casually, “Sluagh. There’s no sign of magickal attack. No broken weapons or armor left behind.” His smile is sharp. “You know how wasteful the Courts are in battle. No one in the Wylds has access to military surplus.”
“That’s supposition,” Cybel points out. “Aage will expect proof if you’re accusing his people of trying to start a war.”
“And I have it.” He lifts up his cloak and the bundle he’d wrapped so carefully unfurls. A cleaver falls to the ground.
Armel and Cybel instinctively jerk away from the iron weapon. Lugh doesn’t seem perturbed to have dropped it near his own feet, despite the risk it poses him. I jump from Dubh’s back. The movement gets Lugh to glance at me. Normally I’d pick the weapon up and store it away for him. Normally I wouldn’t call him on the risks of iron poisoning while we had an audience. But nothing about this strange quest has been normal. He clearly doesn’t expect me to put both hands against his chest and push him away from the Sluagh blade as hard as I can. He staggers back a few feet, narrowly avoiding falling on his ass in the mud. The look he gives me is so wounded, I’d apologize if I weren’t past my limits of patience already.
“What are you doing?” I snarl at him. “You said all was well.”
“And it was! I found this beneath the roses and knew it was the proof we needed.”
“It’s iron, Lugh!”
“You think I don’t know that? I was careful.”
“It could have fucking killed you!” This accusation grows harsher, angrier, and bleeds into a growl. I can’t understand how he could do this to me. Over and over, he puts himself in danger and never stops to think what would happen if he left me behind.
The horses stomp at the ground and I think Cybel’s saying something, but I ignore him.
Lugh steps back and raises his hands in contrition. “Keir, they wanted me to find it. They led me here—”