They would pay for it. And the way to that payment, she saw clearly, lay west.
Vengeance required power, and an ally with it. She knew Odran likely had spies scattered here and there—or so her father said when she persuaded him to speak of council business.
But rooting out spies would take more time than she believed she had.
Far too many looked for her now.
She heard whistling, and though it hurt to move, she clutched a rock with her good hand before merging herself with the stable wall.
She watched the boy come, pail in hand, and the tethered horse turn her head in anticipation.
“It’s a downpour for certain, isn’t it now, Mags? But you’re tucked up dry in here.” He poured the grain into her trough, stroked a hand down her as she buried her head in it.
“Hungry, are you? I’ve got a treat in my pocket, so you’ll have a carrot, since I’m in charge today. And wouldn’t you know it would rain buckets and more when I’m minding my brothers instead of in school while Ma and Da are off helping to find some loony woman.”
Shana’s teeth bared at the insult. She leaped forward, striking with the rock, striking again as the boy fell and the horse shied. Snarling, she reared back for a third blow, but calculation replaced blind fury.
He was near to her size, and he had a cap. It had fallen off so there wasn’t too much blood on it. And the jacket looked warm.
Tossing the rock aside, she yanked the fat carrot out of the jacket pocket. The first greedy bites woke more hunger, so she gobbled it all before she dragged off his boots, his trousers.
She’d be a boy, she thought as she discarded the dress, pulled on the trousers—a bit snug, but they’d do. And she’d take the horse. She could run faster, but she tired of running, so she’d ride for now, her hair under a cap.
Just a boy, riding in the rain. Riding west.
Breen blocked out the world and wrote until someone knocked on the door.
“It’s Brigid with some tea for a wet day if you’d like.”
“I would.” She got up to answer as Bollocks trotted over, tail wagging.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I thought you’d welcome some tea and a bite to eat. I brought enough for two, as I thought Marco might be with you.”
“He’s napping—I think. I’ve lost track of time.”
“We’ve two hours or so before sunset. Oh, I see you were writing,” Brigid added as she set the tray on the little table by the fire. “So I’m disturbing you after all.”
“You’re not, and I do welcome the tea. Would you like some? Do you have time to sit?”
“It’s kind of you to ask, but I don’t want to be in the way.”
“You’re not.” To solve the issue, Breen poured two cups, then sat. “Is there any news?”
“Only they’re looking for her. There’s talk around the castle, in the village, and so on. This one thinks they saw her here, another thinks there, but in truth no one’s seen her since yesterday. I was so shocked when we found Kiara. Not shocked that Shana would hurt someone, but that she’d hurt such a friend.”
“You didn’t like her. Shana.”
“Ah, well …”
“It’s all right. Neither did I.”
“I can say she’d never be one to say sit yourself down a bit and have some tea. She was more: I don’t want red roses by my bed. Take them out and get pink, or, I need my riding boots cleaned by noon. She treated us who give our work to the castle like servants, and we’re not.”
“No, you’re not. You give your work here because you enjoy it, and you have a gift for it. If she didn’t appreciate that, it’s her lack.”
“My heart hurts for her parents, for Kiara, and for Loren, as it’s clear he loved her. Loves her still, I’m thinking. So, well, Hugh says you did well with the bow today.”
“He did?”
“He did, aye. He’s in the way of family, as I have cousins in the north and he’s good friends with one of them. He says you’ll improve with more practice.”
“I can’t get much worse. He gave me a leather guard for my arm, and it saved me from a world of bruises.”
Marco gave a tap-tap before poking his head in. “Hey, Brigid. Hey, cookies!”
He made a beeline for them as Brigid rose.
“I should get back to doing. Thanks for sharing the tea. Rain’s letting up a bit,” she commented with a nod to the windows. “We’ll have a clear evening after all.”
“Did I run her off?” Marco asked when Brigid went out.
“She strikes me as someone who doesn’t sit still for long. Good nap?”
“Solid, baby. I was hoping Brian would be back when I woke up, and the elf from hell would be in, like, the dungeon or wherever. Guess not.” He sat, grabbed another cookie. “Did you write?”
“Solid, baby. I’m going to get out of this chair in a minute—or two—and take my very good dog for a walk in the rain.”
“I’m in on that.” He switched to bread and cheese. “They’ll find her, and that’ll be that. Then we can concentrate on taking out the Big Bad.”
They walked through what was more a fine mist than rain while spots of blue cracked through the gray. The sun dipped west.
Dragons flew through the mist, through the gray and the blue. She spotted Cróga, but Bran, the boy Keegan promised, rode him.
So he was back, she thought, or had gone out again on a horse. But since they still searched, Shana continued to elude them.
They walked to the village and back as the mists faded, as dusk lowered. As they started back in, Brigid ran out.
“Girl, you’re everywhere,” Marco commented, and she laughed.
“Do you think? Well, I’m here to tell you the taoiseach sends for you. He’s in his tower workshop. I’ll take you.”
She led them to the tower, up the winding steps to the floor below Keegan’s bedchamber.
Brigid knocked, opened the heavy door at Keegan’s “Come.”
Breen saw a room as large as his bedroom and sitting rooms combined. Fires snapping on either side, worktables, shelves holding cauldrons and bowls, candles and jars.
And she saw Marg.
“Nan!”
She all but flew across the room, but Bollocks still beat her to wag and rub his body against Marg’s legs.
“Ah, there you are.” Marg returned the hard embrace. “Mo stór, what a time you’ve had.”
“I’m so glad you’re here. How are you here? Why are you here?”
“We’ll get to that. Marco. Let’s have a kiss.”
When he’d obliged, she gave the dog the attention he begged for, and topped it off by pulling a biscuit from her pocket.
“There now, take that and sit by the fire awhile. Keegan came to fetch me, and so we traveled back on dragons. And I’m here, I hope, to help find this lost and wicked girl.”
Keegan, the sleeves of his black sweater shoved to his elbows, stopped his work with mortar and pestle. His face, Breen realized, looked both weary and grim.
“We have others coming, and we’ll see if we can make it work.”
“Make what work?” Breen asked.
“A finding spell,” Marg told her. “Not near as simple as it may sound. We are, the Fey, born to block and resist such spells. They take away choice, and no spells for finding, but for lost objects, are written.”
“You’ll have wine. I’ve not given you a moment to catch your breath since we arrived. Sit and catch it now.”
“Well then, I will, and give you time to explain what we know now, and why you came for me.”
“She’s done something.” Breen’s stomach clenched. “She’s hurt someone.”
“A boy, barely twelve. Sit, sit. I want some of this myself,” he added as he poured wine. “A little farm in the midlands near the banks of the River Shein. He stayed home from school to mind his two young brothers—not yet school-age—as his parents joined the search.”