“We head north,” Bee said, hustling them to get moving. They stared at her, transfixed. “Move.”

  “You were howling like a wolf,” Bren said.

  “Move!”

  Bee needed to get them heading north, for sure, but she also needed to distract herself from what had just happened. Was the inner scream ‘My brother!’ for Bren or the wolf? She thought she knew the answer, which was scaring her. And not a little.

  Running into the grass, she didn’t wait to see if the men followed but found some comfort in the crashing noise that announced them. She didn’t care if the wolves could hear. The beasts would smell them long before they heard anything.

  They’ll mourn their loss first, she told herself and then cursed the certainty of it.

  Why didn’t Bren feel the same loss, the same connection? They came from the same mother, with only half a day separating them; surely they should feel the same.

  The question kept repeating in her head as she ran; rhythmic was the only way she might frame it before she slowly reduced it to two syllables, like the echo of Marbh’s words in her head: the beat of a ship’s drummer. Why, why? Why, why?

  Ruirech’s shout of, “Bee, wait,” broke the rhythm.

  Turning back, she saw Bren bent double with his hands on his knees. His breath was ragged, and she thought he might pass out from lack of air. Ruirech stood beside him with a frown, his fists clenched.

  “We have to keep moving,” Bee hissed. “The wolves’re mourning. As soon as they’re done, they’ll be after us, so they will.”

  “How do you even know that?” Ruirech demanded.

  Bee shrugged because she had no notion how she knew, only that it was true, and that it had been their mother, despite the red eyes. Only Rhiannon would send a wolf. The question of why she suddenly wanted them dead pressed in at the sides, but she wouldn’t let it in. None of what was happening could be called logical. Besides, the wolf went for Bren. Maybe it was only Bren Rhiannon wanted dead.

  Bee didn’t know how long the wolves would mourn, either. But soon, too soon, the pack would be after them with vengeance on their minds and Rhiannon driving them.

  Mother.

  “I need to rest,” Bren whined.

  “Ye’re a demigod, Bren. Tap that strength. I watched ye kill a wolf with an outstretched hand. Use that.”

  “How?”

  “Just do it,” she snapped, tempted to kick him into motion.

  Perhaps sensing her frustration, Bren nodded, hauled himself upright, and ran past with a slow, painful stride. She watched until the grass hid him from sight. Ruirech shrugged and followed.

  They ran on, and Bee returned to her thoughts. The power that killed the wolf didn’t come from Bren. He was nothing but the conduit. It came from her gut, and she’d never felt anything like it before. She used power to protect Neit’s Maidens from magical attack, but it was nothing compared to that.

  Except that ain’t true, she realised. She’d felt something like it when she climbed the palisade at Breshlech. There had been no bolt the colour of her mother’s piercing, pupil-less eyes, that hue of pulsing blood, which was also scaring her, but it was the same power. The same immense power Dorn had spoken of in the hostel.

  ***

  The tundra grass went on and on.

  They saw nothing but the brown stems before them, or when they raised their heads, the blue sky above. Their rests were few and short. They ate on the run. They drank on the run. They stopped only when nature insisted. Such stops devoured some time, as they needed to hide their spoor. They went on, angling slightly eastwards in the hope of reaching Doilbhe Wood. The morning wore on. The sun passed its zenith. Onwards ever onwards. It was the middle of the afternoon when they heard the first howl.

  “They’re coming,” Bee said, despite it being obvious.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a full moon hanging, blue white in the mid-afternoon sky. The moon had been full only a few days before, and she needed no sage to tell her Rhiannon was one of the chasers. Bee stopped and turned back, staring at the orb. It was a beautiful sight. Magnificent, like the direwolf, the half-brother she killed earlier in the day. And with thoughts of the wolf, the longing that she’d felt on the plains before Dun Ailinne returned.

  What is that?

  Bee suspected her mother was using their connection, but she was powerless against it. She wanted to turn and run, but her feet wouldn’t do as she asked. They remained firmly planted like tree roots, and her eyes remained fixed on the moon.

  I don’t know what she’s doing to me. Mother, hear me. Help. Mother. Help.

  “Bee, come on,” Ruirech said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to face him. His concerned look dragged her out of the trance, and she nodded.

  They ran on, picking up speed, if only slightly. Heartbeats rose when another howl rent the air. As dusk darkened the tundra, and they were cloaked by a threatening half-darkness, Ruirech said, “They’ll have the port guarded, won’t they?”

  Bee nodded but said nothing. She didn’t think it was worth the breath to tell them that there was a little fishing village on the west of the headland and that she’d no intention of arriving at Ceathru and knocking on the gates. She knew the village Chief and was sure he would sail them around the coast and onto the city’s pier. She estimated that they were ten leagues from the forest and they would arrive at the village near dawn. When darkness fell and she saw the polestar shining, a beacon for any nighttime traveller, Bee knew she could lead them to the village without fail.

  “A quick rest,” she said, gazing at the diamond in the sky. Bren plonked himself down without complaint, which came as a relief.

  The stop was all too brief. When another howl split the night, she forced them onto their feet but waited a few moments before resuming the march. It seemed to Bee that the wolves were herding them. The howls were there, constant reminders of the chase, but never closer nor further away.

  They’re driving us to the port. Rhiannon must be waiting there for us.

  The night was the longest of her long life, and when the sun began to rise in the east, the three of them were staggering rather than running. The shadows had only just started to flee the horizon when they came in sight of Doilbhe Wood.

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  “We can’t go on the road,” Ruirech said as they came to the edge of the tundra and caught sight of the trees.

  “No. We head to the west side of the headland. We’ll get a boat in a fishing village I know. The Chief and me used to…” Bee trailed off, not in the mood to get into a discussion about what she and the Chief used to do.

  “You’re full of surprises,” Ruirech said, smirking.

  “What’s that mean?” she snapped.

  “Naught of import. Just the thoughts of you and the Chief…” Ruirech also tailed off and ducked away when she aimed a punch at his grin.

  There was no sign of anyone on the elevated highway, but Bee said they should get under the cover of the trees as quickly as possible.

  “Leave the packs. We won’t need them.” Dumping her pack on the ground, Bee was surprised at how light she felt. The way the men were bouncing on the balls of their feet showed her that they, too, were floating. “Run low. Don’t stop ’til we reach the trees. It’s no more than a hundred paces.”

  After making sure they were ready, Bee crouched low and loped across the gap as fast as she could. She knew that loping wouldn’t protect them from eyes up on the highway, but it might protect them from riders in the grass. In the end, it didn’t matter because no one saw them. The howling kept chasing them at the same distance, making them all as scared as rabbits caught out in the open. However, as the wolves never came closer, Bee started to think that her strategy might work.

  It was close to mid-morning when they reached the coast and discovered the sprawling tent city between them and the village. The slight wind was onshore, blowing the stench of hundreds, if not thousands, of unwashed bodies and latrine trenches in their face.

  “What now?” Ruirech asked. “Shall we go around?”

  “We’ll go through, so we will.”

  “Through?”

  “Aye. That stink will throw even wolves off the scent.”

  Walking through the tents, pitched in muddy lanes with no organisation, Bee had to resist the urge to cry. The depravity in Dun Sobairche’s streets had been bad, but it was nothing compared to this stinking pit of death and disease. The smell from the forest edge had been appalling, but here among the tents, it was making all three of them gag. The dead were everywhere, rotting where they’d drawn their last breath. The living watched the three of them pass with hollow expressions, and Bee felt an urge to howl again.

  “When did ye declare war?” she asked Ruirech.

  “Just before last winter. Thirteen moons. No more.”

  Bee shook her head. It seemed unbelievable that these people could be reduced to such a state in so short a period.

  Always the common folk suffer most in war.

  “Why aren’t they before the walls of Ceathru Rua?” Bren asked.

  “I’m sure they are,” Bee said with a shudder. “My guess, this is just the overflow.”

  When they reached the palisade around the fishing village, the gates were shut and guarded by men with spears.

  “I need to speak with Labhraidh,” Bee said. A burly man leaned over the wooden parapet and demanded their business. “Me business is with Labhraidh,” Bee snapped.

  The walk through the refugee camp had ruined her morning. The Chief had been someone she respected and thought to be sensitive to the needs of those around him. The state in the camp gave her a fresh outlook. Of course, not much could be done, but the villagers could at least have burned the dead.

  “I’m Labhraidh. Who are you?” The question took her by surprise because she thought the Chief would remember her, and his voice would sound a little older. Instead, he sounded the same as he had…

  Looking up, she saw a young and strong-faced man leaning over the parapet. He had a similar look to the Chief she’d known, but as she gazed up, Bee realised it had been more than three hundred summers in the past. She’d forgotten that humans were so short-lived.

  Unsure what to say, she began with, “I’m Bechiulle the witch, I knew—”

  “Bechuille,” the young man interrupted. “You’re famous, so y’are. Saved the village during the last Scourge. Most of these hairy bodaláin don’t believe you existed. Open the gate.”

  Once through the gate, Labhraidh led them to the hostel, which served as his Chief’s hall when necessity demanded. He gave them mead and some cured fish before asking Bee what he might do for them.

  “Why don’t ye burn the dead?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

  Labhraidh looked towards the east and shook his head. “We did. We tried to feed them and give them water and all, but it became too much. Soon, they were fighting among themselves for control over the butts, and then killing for the small amount of supplies we could spare. They became so many we had to stop.”

  “Did they not try to overrun the village?”

  “Twice. But my lads are hardy fighters, and they had no weapons. We fought them off. Then, I think they became too weak. And now they just wait to die. What can I do for you, Bechuille?”

  “We need a boat to take us to the pier in Ceathru.”

  “Oh. That’s all? I will take you myself.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “At this time of day, the prevailing wind is south westerly. Three, maybe four hours. If we leave now, we’ll be there before dusk.”

  ***

  True to his word, they were climbing the ladder onto the pier in Ceathru Rua before the sun had set. Bee’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the massive Sea Wolf docked at the next pier over. The trader was the largest ship Bee had ever seen, and because the captain, Eogan, was a smuggler, it was mastless, allowing him to row it into the caves at Camas Clochai where he hid it.

  “I’ve no idea where this Sailor’s Rest is,” Bee said as she waved Labhraidh off. He was heading out to sea, but soon the wind direction would change, and he would tack and head for home.

  Ruirech turned her, put his forearm on her shoulder, and pointed at a sign swinging in the afternoon sea breeze between two of the warehouses that lined the docks. Bee felt her heart leap as she studied the sign: a sailor in thigh-high boots, holding aloft a frothy mug of ale.

  “That’s handy, so it is,” she said.

  Unlike the dingy appearance of the hostel in Caisel, The Sailor’s Rest was a two-floored wooden structure with brightly painted walls and a balcony above the open doors. Bee could hear singing, laughter, and general revelry from within. The smell of meat cooking over an open fire reminded her she’d only eaten hard tack, walking or riding, for the last several days, and the dried fish from earlier. A mug of mead and a slab of boar suddenly seemed the most pressing issue.

  “Come,” she said. “Dorn will be inside.”

  “What makes you say that?” Ruirech asked.

  “Because he said so. I don’t think he says stuff unless he means it.”

  But she was wrong. When they entered, there was no sign of The Smith. Despite the noise of revelry, the hostel was quite empty, and all but one of the patrons were sitting. Opposite the door, a squat sailor with an abundance of red hair and beard stood with clenched fists on his hips, watching them. He was as wide as he was tall. Bee couldn’t be sure because of his beard, but he seemed to be grinning.

  “Eogan,” she called, running into his suddenly outstretched arms. When the sailor enveloped her and started rubbing her back, she couldn’t hold back the tears. It was as if she felt safe, and that security allowed her a momentary weakness. Whatever the reason, a great sob started the tears. Once begun, gulping sobs continued until, finally satiated, she leaned back and, wiping a forearm across her face, said, “We’re here to meet Goibniu.”

  “He ain’t coming, Bee,” Eogan said, offering her a handkerchief he conjured from his voluminous sleeves. “I’m to take you to Camas Clochai and wait for him there.”

  “Oh. Where is he?” she asked, returning her head to his shoulder to hide the flush of embarrassment at her show of weakness.

  Eogan patted her on the back and smiled. “He has gone to report to Danu and Dagda.”

  “How can ye possibly know? We left him in Caisel.”

  “I was always his intent. He sent a message while he waited for you to arrive.”

  “You’re Tuatha?” Ruirech asked.

  “Aye. For my sins. I hope that won’t affect our friendship,” Eogan said, putting his arm in the crook of the rebel’s elbow and steering him out the door. “Come, Bee. Rhiannon is nearby. I’ve been listening to her all day.”

  Bee stood at the aft rail of the Sea Wolf and watched the harbour recede at too slow a pace. As she watched, twenty or more riders drew rein on the pier, and in their midst, another direwolf, only this one was as white as a snowdrift. She could see people running in all directions, trying to escape the beast and the riders. The scene caused her to smile, which she quickly masked when Ruirech arrived beside her.

  As Ceathru Rua dwindled, the direwolf reared up on its hind legs, and one of the riders threw a cloak around its shoulders as it morphed into a tall, naked woman. Bee felt a shudder when she realized her mother was standing on the pier watching them sail away. As she watched, Rhiannon drew the cloak tight to hide her nudity.

  Oh, my mother.