A chill in the air caused Bee to shudder. For once, it was the winter causing the temperature to drop, not the evil surrounding them. Well, winter with a seething, cold anger tying her gut in knots at the same time as it joined the climate to add to her sense of cold.

  Bee’s eyes were darting around the throne room. She couldn’t look at the rebel, feeling betrayed by his admission. While he performed gnostic miracles on the druid, she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. Now, those nights when they were wrapped in each other’s arms seemed somehow dirty, as if he’d entered her in more than one way. She felt violated and didn’t think she would ever forgive him.

  The group were in stasis, suffering from a numbness caused both by the exorcism and the rebel’s tale about how the possession happened. It was a thought that gave each of the God’s pause, because, if innocents could arrive under the Bull’s Head unwittingly, they would be susceptible to the same treatment as Myrddin. Dagda had warded the arena to prevent the demons’ physical side from escaping, but not so their spirit—their síabraí.

  “What’re we going to do about this?” Bee asked, half to herself, waving at the window. The question evoked nothing but silence. Bee didn’t doubt they all knew what she meant, all except the rebel, anyway.

  “There is nothing we can do for now,” Rhiannon finally said. “We will stay here tonight. We need to rest. Tomorrow, we ride for the Bull’s Head.” Bee nodded. After exorcising the druid, she needed time to recover.

  “It’ll soon be dark,” she said. “We should eat, so.”

  “Not here, though,” her mother said. “I cannot abide this place. Let us go to the marching camp.”

  “What do we do with him?” Bee asked, nodding at the druid.

  “Do you feel strong enough to lift him down to the camp by hex?” Rhiannon asked.

  Bee was about to say she doubted that she could, but Dorn intervened. “I can lift him. There was more meat on the Fomoriiskeletons.”

  “Aye. He looks like a ragdoll,” Bee agreed. She wasn’t exaggerating. Even his eyes had that glassy appearance of a ragdoll with beads sewn on in place of eyes. His robes looked as though a girl child had been playing with him in a recently ploughed field after a torrential rainstorm.

  “Yes. It seems Archu was careless of his host,” Rhiannon said. “I doubt he would have lasted much longer.”

  “D’ye think he’ll recover?” Bee asked as Dorn grabbed a fistful of Myrddin’s robes and threw him over his shoulder with ease.

  “Who can say what damage several moons possessed by a demon might do,” Rhiannon mused. “With time, perhaps, he might recover. However, his recovery is of secondary importance. He brought this on himself, after all.”

  Bee ran a finger along her scar, unsure her mother’s judgment on the druid was entirely fair. In some ways, he had brought it upon himself, but the reality was he was driven to it by his own caste, who ridiculed him and forced him into exile. And he was also meant to be mad. At least as far as she could tell, because she supposed the tale the rebel told was tainted by Ruirech’s interpretation, not necessarily purposely, but nevertheless tainted, and there was little chance they would ever get the real reasons why the druid had driven himself into the demons’ lair by repeatedly hitting himself.

  “I’ll get a fire lit,” Ruirech said, backing out of the throne room, unable to hide his relief when nobody objected.

  Better out than in, Bee said to herself, as the doors swung shut. “Let’s get out of here. The stench is making me breathless, so it is.”

  Following The Smith and her mother down the stairs, she had to admit she’d expected Dorn to struggle at least a little with the weight he carried. She imagined he was strong, but how he danced the ragdoll all the way to the palisade paled her imagination. It was as if there was nothing on his shoulder. Bee shook her head, hoping the God truly was their ally, because if they got to the arena and found he had been less than truthful, she suspected her hexes would bounce off him like a blunt stick off an iron breastplate.

  “I am not sure how to get him over,” Dorn admitted as he dumped Myrddin at the base of the wall.

  “Ouch,” Bee said, with a wince, while she thought he could probably just throw Myrddin over but was unsure how much damage it would do.

  “What?”

  “Ye just dropped him like a bag of provisions.”

  “He’s beyond caring at this point, I reckon,” Dorn said, impersonating Finn. When Bee turned to lash him with her tongue, the God gave her a wink, and a grin, and she barked a stressful laugh.

  “What about respecting the dead?” she asked, half-heartedly.

  “He is not dead yet.”

  “No, I meant Finn,” Bee explained.

  “Do you really think that bodalán deserves respect? I would brain him again, given half the chance.”

  “I brought some rope,” Ruirech called from above. “It was just lying there as if someone knew we would need it.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Toss it down, Lad,” Dorn said without looking up.

  With the rope, it didn’t take them long to get the druid over the wall and into the camp. Ruirech had already started a fire and was banking it when they arrived. Running a finger along her scar, she sat and watched as the sky went from grey to a deep blue. If not for the fire, she knew she would be able to see the myriad dots twinkling; dots that Dagda claimed to have created; dots she knew were there long before her Master stole these lands from Dhuosnos and claimed them as his own.

  When the rebel sat beside her and offered her a steaming bowl, Bee took it, saying nothing. She wasn’t hungry but forced herself to eat. Whatever happened the next day, it was going to be challenging. They would all need as much strength as they could muster before the ordeal began.

  “A silver for your thoughts,” he said.

  “Go talk to Latis, why don’t ye?” Bee hissed, throwing her bowl down and walking away from the fire. She pretended not to look at him, but the hurt that speared through the rebel’s eyes gave her a momentary twinge of guilt. It didn’t last as she tried to remember what she’d been thinking about when they last made the monster with two heads.

  Finally, she found a quiet spot under the palisade’s ladder. Sitting with her back against the rough bark of one of the tree trunks used to build the wall, Bee drew her knees up and put her chin on them. She remembered feeling tired when the adventure started, when Dagda rushed her through the portal on a lie. Considering the short time she’d been in the Kingdoms, much had happened, and she was unsure how much of it could be thought of as good. She’d thought she would remember her time with the rebel as being good, but even that was no longer true. Because he could tell what she was thinking whenever he touched her, Bee didn’t doubt he’d used it to take advantage.

  “What is going on between you and the human?” Rhiannon asked.

  Bee hadn’t heard her mother approaching, but she wasn’t surprised. Wolves could be silent when the need arose, and moonlight made no sound.

  “He never told me he’d the gnostic touch.”

  “Ah. I can see how that would upset you. Can I sit?”

  “Please do, Ma, but know, I don’t want to talk about the cnapán.”

  “Neither do I want to talk about him,” Rhiannon said as she sat. “The human has already fulfilled his purpose.”

  “No. What then?”

  “Could it have been Morrigan you saw on the plains before Caisel?”

  Bee thought for several moments before speaking. In truth, the question didn’t surprise her. She’d been thinking of Morrigan since the attack by a murder of crows. Her memories of the apparition were that the mist and the dark made it hard to see her. The strongest sense she had during the encounter—which she didn’t realise until after—was one of connection. When her mother told her about Dhuosnos, she thought that was it, but now, she was unsure. Something about the meeting had been, well, false, as if her sleeping mind had been playing tricks on her. Dorn listened to her description and immediately decided the visit was from Rhiannon, even though later admitting it could have been anyone. So how could Bee now say it had been Morrigan? She didn’t know the Goddess well. In fact, she had only ever seen Morrigan from a distance and clothed, so she was not willing to say that it was her on the plains.

  “We were both put in mind of Morrigan after the attack of crows, but thinking about it since, it was convenient.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If someone wanted us to lay blame on Morrigan, the easiest way would be to use a murder.”

  “But who? And why?”

  “I’ve no idea, Ma. And there’s always the red eyes to consider,” she mused.

  For Bee, the red eyes told them who it had been, only it wasn’t possible. There was no way out of the Arena. Only, there is, she thought, a sudden image of the possessed druid with his leg casually over the arm of Breshlech’s throne.

  “As Dorn has said, his brother is a bit of a filí at heart. The red eyes might have been for show.”

  “To tell ye honestly, I’m not sure I care.”

  Rhiannon gave Bee a hard stare before suggesting they return to the fire, as the night was going to be cold, and freezing would only put them in a bad humour before their ordeal tomorrow.

  Not long after they returned, someone called from beyond the light’s reach, “Halloo the fire!”

  “Luchta, I wondered where you were,” Dorn said. “Come on in. No one will attack you.”

  Bee was surprised to see a tall, slender Tuatha walk into their camp. Unlike Goibniu with his massive strength, and Credne with his elongated fingers and sly demeanour, Luchta was the closest to a Lower Tuatha she’d encountered among the Gods. If she were forced to describe him, she would say he appeared normal. Something told her she’d seen him before. When he sat opposite her, and she had a chance to study him closely, she realised where. He’d been sitting outside the hostel in Caisel.

  “Ye were in Caisel whittling wood,” she blurted.

  “Only so I could follow our brother when he found you gone,” Luchta said with a smile.

  “What took you?” Dorn asked.

  “Well, now, Brother. You asked me to watch the worm, and so I did.”

  “And?”

  “He entered the tunnel at the Bull’s Head. I had to leave him there, because no disguise would get me into the Arena undetected. They say there is a portal there, so he might have gone anywhere.”

  “He has a dagger and a compass, so he might go anywhere anyway,” Dorn said.

  “Dagda has the arena warded. Credne would be a fool to attempt using a dagger against Dagda’s spells.”

  “Not that it matters,” Dorn said. “I do not believe he intends leaving. Whatever the worm is planning, I think it will be brought to fruition in the Arena.”

  “Did he meet anyone?” Rhiannon asked. Luchta shook his head.

  “As soon as Credne realised he had lost the scent on Talamh Thortuil, he rode south. I disguised myself as one of his human trackers and followed him. We rested in Dun Ailinne for a few days and then rode to the Bull’s Head. We humans were left camped out front, and so I escaped when the chance arose. I saw your fire as I drew near.”

  “You are sure he met no one.”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “Good. I think we should all get some sleep, then,” Dorn said. “Tomorrow, we enter the arena.”

  “Not the human,” Rhiannon said. Bee turned to her mother, wondering what she was about to propose.

  “What do you mean?” Ruirech demanded, reddening so deeply, it was visible in the firelight.

  He’s angry, so he is. Good.

  “Someone needs to take care of the druid. I think among us here, you are the least equipped to enter the demons’ lair. I want you to bring Myrddin to Sliabh Cuilinn. We will provide you with horses.”

  Bee had to fight hard to stop herself from grinning. The rebel looked from one to the other of them, the redness in his cheeks seeming to emit as much heat as the fire. She would have gladly kissed her mother then, because there was nothing Ruirech could do or say to change the simple fact he would be ineffective in the face of four demons and whatever else they found in the arena.