“They would have come out tomorrow—on Samhain. Not like simply spirits or wraiths, but reanimated. She would have to sacrifice a fawn, a lamb, and a child—human or Fey—to work that spell. And even then …”
Tarryn nodded. “A great draw of power needed, and for one night’s work.”
“So they could attack the valley while the Pious who turned opened the doors to Odran’s followers in the south. Ambushing on two fronts, all while they believed we didn’t have a clue.”
“Good tactics,” Tarryn said simply while they walked back to Marco and Minga and the horses. “But we have a great deal more than a clue.” She paused by Eian’s grave. “He would be proud of you.”
Then she reached out her hands, one to Minga, one to Marco. “Well now, that’s more than enough excitement for one pretty afternoon, isn’t it then?”
“They were trying to get out,” Marco managed. “Minga said you had to break a spell and cast a new one to keep them inside.”
“So we did.”
“And it’s hardly a wonder you were both pulled here on this day, at this time,” Minga added. “The work you did spared lives. And you.” She leaned over to stroke Bollocks. “What a bright light you are. Do you want to send a falcon to Keegan?”
“I think we don’t risk the writing. I’ll speak to him directly through the mirror.” She mounted and sat a moment studying the ruin. “Thinking this is done, they’ll concentrate their attack on the south, but still, best to post guards here.
“Well, I’m after a strong gallop to blow that stench out of my nose,” Tarryn continued, “I’ll tell you that for certain. And we’ll hope for something stronger than tea from Marg.”
After his conversation with his mother, Keegan paced the room he currently shared with Mahon. He’d arrived before first light at the southern barracks with only a handful knowing he’d come.
“They dealt with it,” Mahon reminded him. “Do you have any reason to doubt otherwise?”
“I haven’t, no. If my mother says they have it in hand, they do. But it tells me, plainly, they intended to push for more than a southern attack, and have more followers. They would raise an army of Un-dead in the valley.”
“Where they believe you are, and your mother—the taoiseach and his strong hand. Where they might hope to find Breen during the sabbat ceremonies.”
“Would they risk cutting her down? Corporeal spirits such as this have no restraint, no strategies. They only seek blood.”
Frustration poured out of him as he paced and calculated, calculated and paced.
“They must have at least one or two of Odran’s closer than we thought. He needs her alive, Mahon. Dead she’s of no use to him, and his line through her ends. Someone close enough to lure her away or abduct her during the confusion, I’m thinking.”
“There’ll be no confusion now. But aye, you’ve the right of it. And we’ll need to root out whoever’s been planted close to home.”
“And here.”
Keegan started to sit, couldn’t. The room boasted a single window, but he couldn’t make use of it without risking being seen.
“Toric, as we both suspected, is surely the leader of this blood cult here. Ah, he speaks in a quiet voice, keeps his head bowed, wears his simple white robes, but he reeks of ambition.”
Mahon poured them both ale. “Sit, by the gods, brother, before you wear me out. I’ve spoken to him about trading with those who train here and guard the south. Very usual and diplomatic, of course, while letting it be known I leave for my son’s birthday tomorrow.”
“We’ve given him his freedom to worship as we must, as is just. And he twists that freedom to take that choice from others, and take lives with it.”
From a cautious distance, Keegan stared out the window. “He won’t know the balmy breeze from the sea for much longer.”
“What I’ve yet to tell you, as the news came from the valley before I could, he plans a ritual sacrifice to Odran on Samhain.”
Keegan whipped around. “He would dare?”
“He would. They’ve stolen a child, a little girl, have her under a sleeping spell, locked in the bowels of the round tower. They plan to offer her up to Odran once his soldiers come through. To help keep the portal open. She’s to be burned at the stake in the last hour of Samhain.”
“And this is what they deem worship.” Keegan slammed his tankard down, shoved up again. “How did you come by this?”
“Two of ours, elves, slipped in and, one with the stone walls, heard clearly. I can tell you, with confidence, Toric has no more than a score with him.”
“There’ll be others across Talamh. Others here in the south as well who don’t wear the robes. How many guard the girl?”
“None.” Mahon shook his head. “Such is their arrogance—or what they call faith. She sleeps and deep, and is locked away.”
“Let’s be sure of that. We’ll send elves back in to watch over her until tomorrow, when we’ll get her to safety. To take her out now reveals too much. Toric and those of Odran’s who live through the night will be taken to the Capital for the Judgment.”
“They pray. I heard their chanting prayers for peace and bounty when I spoke with Toric. What makes them think burning young girls and slaughtering Fey is the way to peace?”
“Their peace means power over all. They won’t have it. I need the air.”
“Keegan—”
“And I want to walk through the village, the markets, pay a visit to the Prayer House.” So saying, Keegan covered his face with his hands.
His hair went gray and sparse, his face lined, sagging at the jowls. On his chin grew a small, pointed beard.
Amused, Mahon gestured with his ale. “Your face will work right enough, but there’s the rest of you.”
“Ah, so there is.”
His body thinned to gaunt; his shoulders stooped. He wore roped sandals, a cloth cap, patched trousers, and an aged tunic. His sword became a crooked cane.
“All right, Old Father, we’ll get some air. I’ll say, should anyone trouble to ask, you’re an old friend of my family, newly arrived in the south for the sea air.”
Keegan rubbed a hand at his throat so his voice came out in a wispy croak. “Sean, it is. A holy man and hermit who’s come to spend his final days by the southern seas.”
He had to remember to slow and shorten his gait as Mahon walked with him through the village known for its pretty fruit and fresh fish. Those who bartered had a cheerful air. Many came south, he knew, for holidays.
To take to the water or sail boats over it, to watch their young ones play in the deep gold sand of the beach.
They came, he thought, without knowing a battle would rage in little more than a day.
There could be no warning, or the dark would skulk back to its hole. So he could only protect, defend. And fight to bring those who invited that dark to justice.
He studied the roll of the sea, as lovely as any he’d seen in any world. He heard children laughing, watched lovers stroll along the surf, smelled the sea and the fish and sweets fresh baked.
The world, his world, was a bright and peaceful place, full of joy and plenty. And even now a young girl slept, bespelled so she could be sacrificed to one who wanted dark and blood.
“Do you want to rest, Old Father?”
“I have a thirst, boy, but I would pay respects to the Pious before I slake it. I would add a prayer to theirs for the peace of Talamh and all the worlds.”
Keegan hobbled his way from the village proper and its markets, from the balm of the sea air, away from the near woods to where the tower and the Prayer House stood on a rise.
There, they’d pledged to devote themselves to the needs of any who came, to spend their lives in prayer and good works while they rose over the village, the sea, the farms, the boats.