34 MY WISH IS THE SAME

“HE’S FADING.”

ELDRA’S announcement made Bree flinch. Seated at Cailean’s side, she’d been wiping the sweat from his skin with a damp cloth.

She was still reeling from seeing Gil—and discovering what Mor had done to him—but she couldn’t remain with her brother. Not with her husband so ill.

Beside the sleeping pallet, Skaal stirred. The fae hound sat up and stretched out her neck, nudging Cailean’s arm with her wet nose. It had surprised Bree that Skaal ventured inside the stone circle. Such places were repellent to her kind. Just like her, she’d be suffering. And yet, here the fae hound was—at Cailean’s side.

But he didn’t stir. The flickering light of the nearby brazier illuminated the sickly yellow cast to his skin, and the way his eyes had sunk into the sockets.

Straightening up, Bree turned to look at the healer. The woman’s expression was grim, her mouth pinched. “I’ve used all the cures for poison I know … but nothing is working.” She paused then, her brow furrowing as her pale eyes bored into Bree. “It’s Nightbane, you say?”

Bree nodded, even as dizziness swept over her. “It’s the poison Shee archers most commonly use on their arrowheads.”

“I’ve seen dead warriors with yellow skin after a skirmish with the Shee,” Eldra admitted, her frown deepening. “And with badly festered wounds … however, it killed them long before I could be of any help.” She paused then. “What comes next?”

“Shortness of breath … until you are left gasping for air.” Dread caught in Bree’s throat. “Death comes swiftly after that.”

“Surely, you must know the cure?” Lara spoke up then. Standing behind the healer, arms folded, her gaze cut into Bree. The princess’s eyes were red-rimmed. A bandage wrapped around her throat after her brush with Gavyn’s blade.

Bree’s pulse accelerated. She’d spent most of the afternoon hunting through her memories for one, but the answer had eluded her. “I’m not like you, Lara,” she admitted huskily. Indeed, the princess had spent many mornings with Duncrag’s healers, learning how to mix ointments and tend ailments. “My grandmother was a healer … I should have paid more attention to her.”

“Think,” Lara shot back, her tone steely now. “You’re Cailean’s only chance.”

Sweating, Bree glanced over at where Eldra also watched her, a blend of distaste, fascination, and concern in her gaze. “Surely, your people have many cures to counteract poison’s gall?” she asked.

Bree stilled.

Poison’s gall.

An old rhyme, one her grandmother had sung to her when she’d been a youngling, surfaced then. She hadn’t thought of it for over two centuries.

Breathing fast, she closed her eyes and traveled back through the years to her bower, where an older Shee female with a mane of white hair bounced a youngling upon her knee.

Eyes squeezed shut, her voice faltering slightly, Bree began to sing.

“Whin for iron’s bite.

Mallow for fever’s burn.

Sorrel for the bloody flux.

Yarrow for soured wounds

Wormwood for poison’s gall.”

Her eyes snapped open then. That was it. She swiveled back to Eldra. “Wormwood root, pounded to a liquid and poured into the wound.”

“Wormwood?” Eldra scowled. “Never heard of it.”

Panic fluttered in Bree’s chest. “It’s a common enough herb.”

The healer took a step forward, her tall frame bristling with urgency now. “It’ll go by another name here. Describe it to me.”

Bree raked a hand through her hair. “It’s green and leafy … and appears in large dense growths.”

“That describes over a dozen herbs. Be more specific.”

“Once a year … in late summer, it has pale yellow flowers.”

Eldra’s face was still blank.

“The leaves are bitter … but edible.” Heart pounding, Bree raked through her mind for any other details of the herb. Iron, how she wished she’d paid more attention to her wise grandmother; she’d reached over five thousand turns of the year before The Great Raven claimed her.

“Can you make the leaves into a tea?” Lara asked then. The princess’s heart-shaped face was taut, a nerve flickering in her cheek.

“Aye … it helps stomach ailments.”

Eldra made a sound in the back of her throat. “It’s mugwort you speak of.”

Bree’s heart lurched, hope flowering. “So, it grows here too?”

“Aye … although as it’s no longer in flower; the herb will be hard to find,” Lara replied. “Especially since it’ll be dark soon.”

Bree stood up with a swiftness that made both women take a rapid step back. Even weakened inside the stones, she was fast. The Marav weren’t used to the fluidity of Shee movements. “I’ll find it.”

The warriors guarding the perimeter of the camp, just beyond the ring of stones, stepped aside as Bree stalked past. She carried a flaming torch, for, indeed, the gloaming was deepening. Before long, night would smother the world.

Her stomach was in knots now, even as determination drove her forward.

She wouldn’t give up on Cailean. She couldn’t let him die. She had to make this right.

And as soon as she stepped beyond the wards, out of the circle where earth magic hummed like a hive of bees, the pressure on her skin eased and strength returned to her wobbly legs once more.

On her way out, she passed a tall figure robed in scarlet. Gregor mac Hume watched her, his face twisted into a scowl. She hadn’t spoken to the chief-sacrificer since her return, although like everyone, he’d have heard her story. Luckily for mac Hume, he’d remained with the rearguard; unlike the chief-bard and chief-seer, who’d both fallen alongside the High King in battle.

The chief-sacrificer, who’d just finished slitting open a hare and laying its entrails upon a large flat stone beyond the wards, would likely spend the night making sacrifices to the Gods. He’d be calling on their protection.

“Shee slut,” he growled as she strode by. “I knew at blood-letting there was something wrong with you.”

Bree ignored him, even as she recalled the look on the mac Hume’s face the night of the blood-letting moons earlier, once the ceremony had concluded. It was the only instance when she’d seen the chief-sacrificer appear unsure of himself.

Nonetheless, his hard gaze tracked her as she strode across the valley floor toward the line of trees north of The Ring of Ard.

Two sets of glowing eyes watched her from the shadows between the trees.

Bree drew the hunting dagger at her side. Of course, as a Shee, she was safer out here than any Marav. All the same, it was wise to be wary of the faery creatures—especially since some now followed the Raven Queen.

However, as she neared the trees, she saw that the glowing eyes belonged to two wulvers. They watched her from the shadows, shaggy wolf heads on the sinewy bodies of men. Both wulvers wore nothing but tattered breeches, and knife belts across their hairy chests.

Bree’s gaze narrowed. She’d seen plenty of wulvers over the years, although none of them had been armed. Despite their frightening appearance, they were usually timid unless provoked. Fortunately, there was no aggression in these wulvers’ stances or their gazes now—just curiosity laced with feral cunning. Wulvers had been mistreated by the Marav, especially under the reign of High Kings like Talorc mac Brude, who reviled all faery folk.

But Bree was one of the Shee, and the wulvers let her pass unchallenged.

Striding into the woods, she immediately set about searching for wormwood.

Lara, of course, was right. It was difficult to make out one plant from the next on the woodland floor in the fading light. Fortunately, both sunrise and sunset in Albia were slow, a gradual lengthening of shadows. Bree’s keen eyesight made her task easier as well. Moving carefully now, and sweeping her torch before her, she studied every patch of bracken, every growth of nettle and fern—just in case there was something else nestled amongst it.

In Sheehallion, wormwood grew everywhere. Eldra had assured her that mugwort was also relatively common here, yet as she searched, she found none.

Corpse candles flickered around her, seemingly friendly golden lights, beckoning the unwary. They didn’t affect Bree, although she’d never seen so many out. The woods glimmered with them.

A shriek cut through the trees then, one that made the fine hair on the back of her neck prickle. Something rustled in the bushes to her right, and she swiveled around, lowering herself into a crouch.

Instinctively, she knew the wulvers hadn’t followed her. Something else watched her from the shadows. She felt its malice, its hunger.

Bree flexed her fingers around the pommel of her dagger. “Come out and face me,” she growled, inclining her head. “If you dare.”

But whatever stalked her remained hidden.

Bree continued her search, although now the skin between her shoulder blades prickled.

On and on she walked through the woods, and as her search drew out and the gloaming deepened, desperation fluttered up.

There was no wormwood to be found.

Eventually, as the last of the light faded from the sky above the treetops, she came across a burn, a narrow stream that cut between moss-covered banks and slippery rocks. The sound of trickling water shattered the dusk’s watchful silence.

Bree followed its course for a short while before she halted at the bank and breathed a curse, her voice catching. Time was running out for Cailean. With each moment she wasted out here, looking for this damned herb, he was inching closer to death.

She was about to fail him.

Crouching, she scooped up cold water and drank before splashing her face. The chill sharpened her wits once more, and her pulse started to thump in her ears. No. She wouldn’t. She’d circle back now toward the stones and take another route. And this time, she’d find that fucking wormwood.

Decision made, Bree was about to rise to her feet and turn on her heel when a voice, female and thin with age, intruded.

“You never made your wish.”

Bree’s gaze snapped up, even as she lifted her blade.

A crone knelt a few yards away, upon a swathe of bright-green moss. Wispy white hair framed a hollowed face and milky eyes. Her gnarled hands were in the clear water, washing what looked to be a white shroud.

A chill washed over Bree before she reminded herself that she wasn’t wearing white.

The Washerwoman wasn’t washing her clothes.

“What shall it be then?” the Ben Neeya spoke once more, revealing yellowed protruding teeth. “Choose carefully this time mind … for I won’t seek you out again.”

Bree wet her lips, allowing her pulse to settle. Her belly twisted then. She’d never thought the Ben Neeya would give her another chance. After the crone had denied her that wish—to spare Cailean mac Brochan’s life—when they’d met in the woods near The Ring of Caith on the eve of Mid-Summer, she’d run.

Her breathing grew shallow.

What a bitter irony that the Ben Neeya had found her now, when she was trying to save Cailean’s life—again. She couldn’t help but think that The Washerwoman was toying with her. The spirits and faery creatures that roamed Albia could be cruel.

“My wish is the same,” she rasped. “Spare Cailean mac Brochan’s life.”

Unlike moons earlier, when her heart had been conflicted—when she’d been torn between two worlds—there was no doubt within her now.

Moments passed, and the Ben Neeya threw back her head and gave a wheezing laugh.

Dizziness assailed Bree as she stared back at her.

Aye, the bitch was playing games again. She’d come up with another feeble reason to deny her. Heat washed over Bree then as anger bloomed. Cailean was dying, and she was wasting time bandying words with a vindictive spirit that fed off her desperation. She’d had enough of this game.

Straightening up, she whipped around, intending to stalk away, back toward the camp.

But then, a thick profusion of green caught her eye directly ahead. The plant’s tapered leaves gleamed in the light of her torch.

Bree’s breathing lodged in her throat, and she halted mid-stride.

A healthy growth of wormwood.

Bree whipped back to face the Ben Neeya. “Thank y—”

The words died on her lips, for The Washerwoman had disappeared. Just a moment earlier, she’d been kneeling there in the fading light, her hideous face twisted in mirth. But no longer. Bree stood alone on the banks of the burn.

Pulse racing, she turned once more and rushed to the wormwood. It was the root Eldra would need, and so she thrust into the damp, peaty soil with her blade, digging around the plant.

And as she worked, Bree gave a shrill whistle.

Another shriek cut through the trees, followed by an unsettling chattering sound. The undergrowth snapped.

Bree started to sweat. Her whistle wasn’t for them. She had more stalkers now, and they were closing in. She couldn’t linger here any longer.

Working as fast as she dared, for she didn’t want to leave any of the root behind, Bree continued digging.

Moments later, she rose to her feet, pulling the entire plant from the soil. To the left, she spied silhouettes. All of them were short, although some were broad and stocky while others were thin and wiry. They gripped steel blades. Eyes glinted in the light of her guttering torch.

Bree’s heart lurched. Powries and trow were coming for her—a large band of them. She was a skilled fighter, but a quick glance told her she was greatly outnumbered.

Frantically, she swung around, to see a white shape, ghostly at first, moving toward her through the trees.

As always, her loyal stag had been waiting for her to call on him.

Ready to run faster than the four winds?

Tivesheh tossed his head. Always .

Sheathing her dagger, Bree tucked the wormwood under one arm and vaulted up onto the stag’s back—just as the powries and trow descended upon her.

They boiled around Tivesheh, weapons thrusting, but the stag was faster.

He leaped high, bounding over them, and took off south.