murmured, ignoring the knight.
Ennio swallowed hard. “I will, Cardinal Vicar.”
Cormac nodded and clutched the dead Seer close. That night, he would call Finn Arne to his chamber and prepare him to become the instrument he needed. It would be easy. The captain burned for a chance to confront McAllister again. Once the son of Ardall was his, the Church would regain the Heliwr—with Cormac as his superior. When that happened, the person responsible for killing his oldest friend would suffer unlike anyone in the history of the world.
Sorrow rolled down his cheeks.
Donato was dead.
And as when he learned of his murdered family, Cormac wept vengeance.
Slowly gaining the Carn Cavall, Deirdre rode upon Willowyn with Bran at her back when the faces in the mist quizzically materialized, just as she knew they would.
“Deirdre…?” Bran said uncertainly.
“It is all right, Bran, they mean you no harm. They are merely curious.”
“What are they?”
“The Nharth,” Deirdre said. The Morrigan, Kegan, and the other fey members in their group ignored them. “The Nharth are friends. Even in the hottest days, they cloak the strongholds of the Tuatha de Dannan, a magical wall to keep the prying eyes of Caer Llion and elsewhere out. When they gather in one place, this fog forms.”
Bran looked closer, now as curious as the Nharth. Deirdre just shook her head. The outworlder still sat behind her but his death grip about her waist had lessened, his safety finally realized. It had come to Deirdre long before, but in its place a pervasive sadness grew. Whereas the plains of Mochdrev Reach were vibrant, the forest now around her died slowly. Fir trees once thick and green were dusty and browned, the evil power of the Cailleach more pronounced. Fog swirled in and out of the branches and the path they were on, hiding most of the ill effects, the colors washed out, brushed over with gray paint. Few animals stirred around them. The heat of the day grew despite the fog, unnatural. Streams reduced to a trickle as they ran toward the plains and the Rhedewyr—all angles and powerful grace—drank from them at rest stops while their riders stretched legs and kept an eye on possible pursuit.
Deirdre took a deep breath, free of Caer Llion and John Lewis Hugo—at least for the moment. She and her father had come to the Tuatha de Dannan city of Arendig Fawr two days earlier to discover what options lay before them. She had insisted on going; Lord Gerallt had agreed as long as he had final say in matters. The Morrigan had been gracious, offering what meager aid she could to those who would defy Philip Plantagenet.
Lord Gerallt and Deirdre had been arguing about their course of action when the two outworlders had entered Annwn.
The whispers from the Nharth began when Deirdre and Bran could no longer see a dozen feet away. The voices were not heard as much felt, a touch of breath on skin, a kiss of ghost lips on the nape of the neck. More faces came into view to disappear just as quickly. Deirdre sat her mount, still unused to the foreign appraisal. The Nharth came in all shapes and sizes, some with horns, single eyes, or almost-human features. More appeared in the misty shadows like smoke given substance, curious glances mingling with animosity. Hundreds visited but all vanished, the beings as insubstantial as the fog around them.
“They are like ghosts,” Bran said. “Creepy.”
“The Nharth are merely different,” she said. “As I said, nothing to worry about.”
“Where are you taking me? And where is Richard?”
“Arendig Fawr,” she said, looking at Bran. “The Queen’s capital. The knight is there right now, with healers. John Lewis Hugo and those halfbreeds hurt him deeply. I don’t know how or why he—or you for that matter—are still alive.”
As the Nharth slowly dissipated into nothingness once more, Deirdre watched Bran rub his wrists where he had been bound. Crimson welts cut deep into them. He said nothing. Deirdre at least respected the boy, no matter where he came from. The outworlder had taken almost as severe a whipping as his companion. Bruises darkened his skin where scrapes and cuts did not, many of them probably lasting for weeks. Like the knight, he would also have to see a healer.
“Ye seem to be faring better, lad,” Kegan said, his own horse a step beside Willowyn.
“I am, thanks to being free.”
“Hungry?”
Before he could reply, Kegan tossed him a green apple from his sack and handed him a