23 IRON AND STEEL

NODDING TO THE red-robed sacrificer, Cailean rose to his feet. As he did so, he noted that the strength had returned to his limbs. He was himself again.

He helped Evina, the serving lass from the ale-hall who’d partnered him, up as well. Above, the full moon played hide-and-seek with dark clouds, yet the blood-letting had been successful. The silvery glow of Cailean’s tattoos faded now, as did the rush of elation that the ritual brought.

They stood upon a grassy mound on the eastern edge of the fort, where a circular stone had been embedded into the earth. The sacrificer, a woman Cailean’s age, her auburn hair woven into intricate braids, had been much easier to deal with than Gregor mac Hume. Back at Duncrag, the chief-sacrificer had never missed an opportunity to undermine his rival.

Ever since the early days of their training back on the Isle of Arryn, they’d rubbed each other the wrong way. It was a relief to have this ritual led by someone who didn’t take vindictive pleasure in slicing Cailean as deeply as possible across the palm. The wound she’d made on both their palms had already healed, although he could still feel it tingling.

Earth magic now burned fiercely in his veins once more.

Evina’s gaze was slightly glazed as she steadied herself against him.

“Time to get indoors,” the sacrificer warned, casting a frown at the sky. “I’d walk home fast, if I were you, mac Brochan.”

Aye, just like the guards at the gate, this sacrificer knew who he was. Tomorrow, the overking would likely send for him; there would be no getting around it. All the same, he had important personal business to attend to first—and he wouldn’t be waylaid.

“We will,” Cailean assured her.

The sacrificer turned then, robes billowing, and gestured to the two other druids who’d stood behind her during the ritual, chanting. All three of them hurried away down the slope to the turf-roofed cottage where Cailean had found them earlier.

“Come.” Cailean set off, drawing Evina with him. “Let’s get you home.”

A torpor filtered over him then, a familiar tiredness dragging at his limbs. It was different from the exhaustion that warned him his earth magic was fading though. As always, after blood-letting, all he wished to do was sleep.

“That was … surprising,” Evina said dreamily, cutting him a coy look under long lashes. “So …” Her voice trailed off there as she struggled to find the right word to describe the experience.

“Intense?”

“Aye.”

“I appreciate you joining me,” Cailean said, injecting a brisk note into his voice. The lass had flirted with him all the way to the sacred mound. He didn’t want to encourage her further.

“That woman you were with earlier,” Evina said then. “Why couldn’t she partner you this eve?”

“She wished to,” he answered, his tone cooling. “But … it isn’t possible.”

Evina waited for him to elaborate.

He didn’t. Truth was, he’d hated choosing someone else besides Bree to partner him. His gut clenched then. They’d never be able to share this again.

Leaving the druidic compound behind, Cailean led Evina through a network of wynds in-between tightly packed cottages, byres, and walled gardens where vines crept over lichen-encrusted stone. Upon the southern edge of the fort, the beehive-shaped broch rose up above the turf roofs beneath it. King Ailean resided there, and on previous visits, he’d hosted Cailean, putting on a feast to welcome the High King’s chief-enforcer.

Not tonight though. Gateway provided a welcome distraction.

A wooly sensation clouded his mind then, a response to blood-letting that only rest could take away. He’d be himself by morning though—and ready to take on Eilig.

They made their way through the deserted wynds as The Whistle whined in their ears and tugged at their cloaks. Above, the dark sky looked as if it were boiling now, and when Cailean glanced up, he spied black shapes fluttering across the face of the moon.

The fine hair on the back of his neck prickled.

Over the past few years, Gateway had grown increasingly dangerous for the Marav. As a child, he’d known it was best to keep indoors on the night that the dead came out to dance, but of late, stories of attacks, disappearances, and killings, had become more common.

It was as if The Slew, and the other restless spirits that stalked the night when autumn slid into winter, grew bold, hungry.

Cailean cast a glance at Evina, reassured to see that she still wore a serene expression. Indeed, he’d been relieved she’d agreed to join him, for most folk preferred not to stray from their hearths tonight. Nevertheless, the ale-hall keeper’s daughter appeared confident that she’d be safe in an enforcer’s company—that and she was attracted to him.

Aye, he wasn’t oblivious to such things.

He paid little attention to the looks she kept stealing him though. Instead, the air tonight put him on edge, and he’d be relieved when he safely delivered the lass home.

They turned the final corner before the ale-hall, and Cailean quickened his step. The shrieks in the sky above were getting louder. After his brush with The Slew in the summer, he had no wish to face them this evening, not when they were ravenous.

However, when he fixed his gaze once more upon his destination, he spied a small bent figure crouched upon the dirt-packed lane, feasting upon the tray of honeyed seedcakes that had been left outside a doorway.

Cailean drew to a sharp halt, bringing Evina with him. Her shocked inhale warned him that she’d seen it too.

The creature hadn’t noticed them yet, for it was too busy stuffing a large cake into its mouth.

“The Hag’s tits,” Evina muttered. “A trow.”

Cailean’s mouth compressed. Shit . He was bone-weary and his head felt as if it were filled with porridge. All he wanted to do was crawl into the furs. All the same, a lone trow shouldn’t be too difficult to deal with.

He hadn’t seen many of them over the years. Nonetheless, the wiry imp, which stood around just over four-foot in height, was the sort to take advantage of the cakes left outdoors at Gateway. The Uplands were said to be full of trows. Troublemakers—only coming out at night, for daylight turned them to stone—they dwelt in the hills and on the edges of peat bogs. Over the years, during his many campaigns to the north, Cailean had made a point of choosing his campsites carefully, looking out for the tell-tale knowes —earthen mounds—where trows lived. It was odd to see one here, so far from its burrow.

Pushing Evina behind him, he drew the dagger at his hip. “Back up, slowly,” he ordered. “I’ll deal with it.”

Then, stepping forward, he cleared his throat.

The trow dropped another cake it was about to sink its teeth into and turned.

A sagging face, covered in warts, dominated by a huge hooked nose regarded him. The creature’s deep-set eyes glinted in the light of the brazier burning by the wall of the ale-hall as they regarded each other.

“Move away now,” Cailean greeted the trow, raising his iron blade. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Like most faery creatures, trows were leery of iron, and it drew back its lips, revealing a set of yellowed stumpy teeth. However, instead of backing away, as he’d expected, the trow withdrew a stone-bladed hand ax from its belt, which it then hurled at him.

The imp’s aim was deadly, and only his enforcer reflexes saved him. Jerking sideways, he felt the brush of stone just a whisper away from his right ear. Pushing its advantage, the trow then whipped out a long-bladed knife. It gleamed in the firelight, and Cailean frowned.

Sheehallion steel.

What was a trow doing with such a fine Shee weapon?

With a whoop, the imp launched itself at him.

Cailean met it, the clash of iron and steel reverberating down the empty wynd. Gods, the wee bastard was fast, and it kept trying to drive its blade into his lower legs. Fighting something much smaller than him had its challenges.

Muttering a curse, his temper rising now, he drew one of his fighting knives from across his chest with his free hand and slashed at the trow. It danced back, easily dodging him, its beady eyes glittering with savage joy.

A shape moved past Cailean then, catching him by surprise.

Evina darted forward and, snarling a curse, threw a handful of salt into the creature’s eyes.

The trow shrieked, the sound slicing through the air, dropped its fine dagger, and clutched at its face. It then turned and fled, howling, down the wynd.

Cailean watched it go before casting Evina an incredulous look. The young woman no longer wore a dreamy expression. Instead, she stood, hands on hips, her gaze fierce.

Meeting his eye, and seeing his reaction, she arched an eyebrow and patted the leather pouch upon her belt. “We Cannich lasses never go anywhere without our salt. It’s the best way to send imps running.”

Stepping inside the room he’d taken behind the inn, Cailean found Bree still awake. His wife sat upon the pile of furs, knees drawn up under her chin.

She’d been staring into the mid-distance, her golden eyes shadowed, but upon his entrance, her gaze cut his way. “It’s done?”

“Aye.” Cailean pushed the door closed behind him and dropped the wooden bar to secure it.

“And is your companion safely indoors?” There was no mistaking the pointed edge to her voice.

He nodded, thinking it best not to mention that he’d had to peel Evina off him moments earlier. The Slew and the prowling creatures outdoors weren’t the only ones to be wary of tonight—and the lass hadn’t been pleased when he’d refused a tumble.

Her gaze roamed his face. “It went well?”

“Aye … until we met a trow just outside the ale-hall.” He approached her then, lifting the dagger he’d retrieved from the street outside. “And it attacked me with this.”

Bree took the weapon, examining its hilt and blade in the glow of the candle burning next to the sleeping nook. “You realize it’s a Shee weapon?”

“Aye,” he replied, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the furs next to her. “A fine one too.”

“You’re right about that.” She glanced his way then, a groove etching between her eyebrows. “The dagger has a moonstone pommel and a folded steel blade … it was made in the forges of Caisteal Gealaich.”

Cailean inclined his head. “How does a trow get its hands on such a fine blade?”

Bree glanced back down at the dagger. “I’m wondering the same thing.” She paused then, her features tensing. “When a faery creature of Albia wields Sheehallion steel, it makes them stronger.” She raised her chin, her gaze fusing with his. “A trow can fight in daylight if it grips one of these … without the fear of turning to stone.”