6 RETURN TO DUNCRAG

THEY REACHED GOLVAL Barrow just as dawn was breaking. Drawing her stag up in front of the large grassy mound that rose before a stand of sycamores, Bree glanced nervously over her shoulder.

She shouldn’t worry yet—for Mor hadn’t placed any restrictions on her movements and was focused on preparing for war at present—although she was on edge, all the same.

Sliding down from Tivesheh’s back, Bree cast her gaze around the barrow. As always, her skin prickled at being so close to one of the portals that bridged the veil between this realm and Albia. A faint buzzing sound filled her ears.

Are you ready, Tiv?

The stag snorted, letting her know that he was.

Placing a hand upon his warm, damp neck, she moved forward. Follow me then .

They hadn’t often traveled through the veil together over the years, for most of Bree’s marks had been in Sheehallion. However, there had been a male—one of Mor’s servants, who’d tried to poison her—whom she’d hunted in Albia. The servant had been working for Mor’s brother Grae.

Vyan, that had been his name. He’d begged for mercy in the end but hadn’t received any.

Bree’s mouth thinned. Some memories were best not dwelt upon.

She strode toward the barrow’s entrance, a stone archway that was just big enough for Tivesheh to follow her through. It was a bottleneck—and one that only admitted travelers at dusk and dawn. Indeed, when Mor’s army was ready, it would take a while for all the warriors and their beasts to travel through the portals their queen chose.

Entering the barrow, Bree breathed in the damp, musty air before whispering, “Sleeping dead, let us pass. We tread lightly.”

And her people did. The Shee walked in long, gliding steps and could blend with the shadows when it suited them—an ability that would come in useful when she emerged in Albia.

Nonetheless, the fine hair on the backs of her arms prickled as she walked along the passage that led through the heart of the barrow. The dawn light only reached inside a few feet, and after that, the darkness was impenetrable. It was always tempting to bring a torch, to light the way, but that was ill-advised.

The wights that dwelled here didn’t like to be disturbed. Aye, they suffered the Shee passing through their resting place—whereas none of the Marav with their heavy tread, bright torches, and rough voices had ever managed it. These barrows, tombs of the Ancients, resisted druidic magic too, something else that kept the Marav away.

The buzzing in Bree’s ears increased, the deeper she walked into the barrow. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, yet it wasn’t like when she’d passed through The Ring of Caith. That had been painful, especially on the second occasion.

Her boots whispered on smooth stone as she walked, and the air became ice-cold. Behind her, the gentle thud of Tivesheh’s hooves broke the silence, and the hot blast of his breathing feathered across the back of her neck.

Bree touched his mind. Just a little longer.

The dead are waking up.

Aye, but they won’t touch us.

Around her, the hiss and wheeze of labored breathing filled the darkness, followed by the rattle of bones.

“Sleeping dead, let us pass,” Bree murmured once more. “We tread lightly.”

She kept walking, ignoring the thin whispers that now echoed against the stone, and gradually the chill of the tomb eased. And then, up ahead, light beckoned.

Bree quickened her pace, hurrying toward it, and moments later, she emerged into a grey Albian morning.

Mist wreathed through the surrounding oaks and elms, which were all losing their leaves, and the clouds hung low overhead. Wonder wreathed up as she cast her gaze around, taking in the fiery cloaks of gold, bronze, and red the trees wore this time of year.

It struck her then that she’d never ventured into Albia in this season.

Gateway, the Marav celebration that heralded the start of winter, was no more than a moon’s turn away now. Behind the barrow, she spied the dark waters of Loch Caith. Tivesheh drew up next to her and tossed his head, clearly relieved to leave the suffocating darkness of the barrow behind.

Raising her face to the soft rain, Bree’s breathing hitched. A savage joy twisted deep inside her chest.

I’m back.

Her time away from Albia had felt like an eternity. She was now breathing the same air as Cailean mac Brochan, and just three days' journey away from setting eyes on him again.

Bree’s breathing quickened, anticipation drawing a tight knot in her stomach.

Cailean was in there. So close now. Shades, she ached to see him again.

Sitting astride Tivesheh, she looked up at the broch perched at the summit of the promontory. Made of stacked stone, windowless, and shaped like a beehive, Duncrag cast a shadow over the surrounding hills.

But things weren’t as she’d expected at Albia’s capital—for a large army, one that equaled the size of that before Caisteal Gealaich—camped on the hills outside the fort.

The knots in her belly twisted.

Mor hadn’t been the only one making plans. The High King had also been busy. Both sides were preparing for imminent war.

Talorc mac Brude had reacted swiftly when he’d learned that the warband he’d sent north—to slaughter his enemies—had been massacred. That the heir to his throne was dead. Over the moons Bree had resided in this fort, she’d marked the High King’s complex relationship with his only son—both close and combative.

She wouldn’t have been surprised if grief, and an intricate web of guilt, had added fuel to the need for revenge.

Bree’s brow furrowed. She had no sympathy for the High King of Albia. After all, he’d persecuted her people for years—and if the bastard had his way, the Shee would be banished from this realm forever.

And yet, you’ve fallen for his right hand . Something twisted deep in her chest. Aye, she had, and she wasn’t sorry.

It was early morning, not long before sunrise. Ever since leaving Golval Barrow, she had been careful. They’d traveled swiftly, but once they left The Uplands behind and entered the lowland area known as The Wolds, she’d slept during the day and journeyed at night.

It was safer to travel shrouded by darkness, for a white stag with a rider would only draw unwanted attention. The Marav didn’t ride stags and elk as her people did. As one of the Marav, she’d have been cautious of traveling after nightfall, for that was when the most dangerous of the faery creatures roamed. But as one of the Shee, they left her alone.

Sliding down from Tivesheh, Bree glanced around. She’d deliberately stopped a safe distance from the fort, on the edge of a birchwood. They were far enough away from the tents that spread out beneath Duncrag. Nonetheless, she’d been cautious. Amongst the silvery trunks of the trees, she caught sight of flickering lights.

Corpse candles, spirits that drew the unwary into bogs and swamps.

But as a Shee, she was impervious to them. The sight of the golden flames reminded her of just how much had changed since the last time she’d been here. It felt odd to be standing before Duncrag once more—this time, in her real form.

Her chest tightened as she considered her situation.

She was a Shee female in the heart of the Realm of Albia. The last time she’d entered Duncrag, she’d been one of the Marav. But she hadn’t traveled through the stones on this journey. She couldn’t have anyway—for they only allowed her kind to pass through at equinoxes and solstices—even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t.

She was stronger and faster as a Shee, and yet there was a part of her that quailed at the thought of meeting her husband again.

Suddenly, Bree was unsure of herself.

What if he prefers my Marav form? The woman he’d married was shorter and curvier—comely, but not as beautiful as she was now, in her opinion. Once, Bree’s lip would have curled at having to compete with one of the Marav, yet it felt strange to compete with … herself.

Shaking herself free of confusing, and troubling, thoughts, she turned to her stag then and patted his shoulder. I don’t know how long I’ll be.

It doesn’t matter … I’ll be waiting.

Her heart kicked hard then. Duncrag loomed before her; she needed a plan. There was a good chance Cailean wouldn’t be pleased to see her—especially after returning to The Hallow Woods that morning only to find his warband slaughtered.

He likely thought she’d deceived him.

Misgiving tightened her chest. Aye, she had to tread carefully here.

The High King couldn’t know she’d returned either, for she’d departed suddenly and left three dead bodies behind her. And if mac Brude had been cruel before the death of his son, he’d be vicious now.

Mastering her nerves, Bree moved to Tivesheh’s head and ran an affectionate hand down his long face. As always, she was loath to be parted from her stag. Hide yourself in the trees. I will whistle if you’re needed . She paused then. But if I don’t reappear within a turn of the moon, you are to make for Golval Barrow … and return home.

Tivesheh dipped his head, acknowledging her.