by M. A. Grant
“Please,” I whisper.
He couldn’t have heard me, not across all this distance, not with all the noise around us. He understands nevertheless, and he gives in.
When he was first training with the belt, the transformation was a horrible, painful thing. Joints would misalign, muscles would bunch and snap as ligaments tried to adjust, and being caught between selves was more common than not. No matter how much pain he was in, no matter how many times he failed and returned to his natural human form, Keiran would grit his teeth, ignore the sweat dripping from his body, and try again. After the worst practice sessions, I would nurse him out of fevered dreams where he muttered strange promises to no one. He spent years suffering to master this power.
No one would ever know the ugliness of his past from this moment. There’s no sudden, jarring movement from man to bear. He seems to stretch into the new form in an effortless glide of dark fur and long claws and flashing teeth that leaves his clothes and weapons shed to the ground around him. Goodfellow’s men freeze in terror. They should. Keiran, as a man, is imposing. As a bear, he’s awe-inspiring. He stands up, more than twice the height of the man nearest him, and for a breath, the battle ceases.
Goodfellow’s men stare up at him, swords raised, hovering with indecision. The Northerners can’t drag their eyes away from the sight of their thegn in his berserkir form. And I smile, because I know what comes next.
Keiran doesn’t give a single warning to our attackers. No sound, no obvious movement. One second, he’s standing above them, the next, he drops forward and crushes the closest man to the ground. The snapping of ribs throws everyone back into motion. A second man tries to swing his sword and help his compatriot, but it’s too late. Keiran’s jaws close around his throat. He makes short, messy work of it, but there’s one less threat by the time he lifts his head and lunges for the next. The rest of Goodfellow’s men wheel their horses around and flee, abandoning their friend to Keiran’s tender mercies.
“Lugh,” Armel says.
The tightness in his voice draws my attention away from the sight of Keiran’s short muzzle rooting through the second victim’s guts. “Huh?”
“We need him back,” Armel says. He tilts his head toward the Northerners, who watch Keiran with a mixture of terror and disbelief. This isn’t pretty magick. It’s unnatural. It isn’t part of their world and seeing Keiran use it now must sow doubts about his loyalty to Mother.
I hand off my spear to Drest, who takes it without a word. From his horse, Kermode calls a warning to me, but I wave him off. Keiran’s not some mindless beast, but they don’t know that. I need to show them that, even like this, Keiran is the leader they need. He’s doing this to protect, not harm, us. “Keir,” I call.
He lifts his head and his ears swivel forward. His nose and muzzle are caked in gore, but I ignore it and move closer, hand outstretched. He gives a deep huff and takes a lumbering step forward, butting his wide head against my hand, and nearly knocking me off balance with his weight.
“They’re gone,” I tell him. “You scared them off. We’re safe.”
He moves even closer, nuzzling against my side, and I stretch my arms wide around his huge neck and shoulders. I dig my fingers tightly into his fur, hugging him to me and wishing I could take away the pain he’ll suffer after transforming back.
“I’m safe,” I whisper. “You can stop now.”
He looses a groan so deep it vibrates through me into the earth, but a moment later, he’s in my arms. Cybel reaches us first. He’s undone his cloak and wraps it around Keiran, protecting him from the cold. Drest and Armel join us a moment later with Dubh in tow. They rummage through Keiran’s saddlebags and pull out a change of clothes. Normally I would demand some distance and privacy; Keiran’s only ever trusted me to help him in this state. With the Sluagh watching though, speed is more important that routine. I stand in front of Keiran and keep him steady while Drest and Armel dress him. Once he’s covered, they retrieve his weapons and collect his cloak from the ground. He’s aware enough to help us with these last pieces, shifting so his sling of knives settles into its normal place across his chest and back, and reaching down to check for his axes on his belt. I make sure the cloak falls without bunching and that the brooch’s clasp is tight before I reach up and hold his face in my hands, checking him carefully for any of the worst signs of the transformation’s sickness.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
His hand reaches up and settles at the back of my neck, pressing gingerly at the base of my skull while he checks me for injuries too. “Hi,” he replies. The word is ragged, as if forming the syllables is difficult and he leans forward to press his forehead to mine. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep inhalation. “Tired,” he mumbles.
“I know,” I whisper. “But we’ve got to keep going. It’s not safe here.”
“I’ll be fine. You go. Need you safe.”
“They’re after you, Keir, not me. They’re looking for—” I trail off, lost to a sudden flash of inspiration. Goddess, Goodfellow’s men know we’re all traveling together. They’ll be looking for a large party of people. They’ll be tracking a group. They probably wouldn’t even notice if a pair of riders slipped away from the rest, especially if several pairs went out at once as scouts to warn their people.
How could I protect him out here though? We’d be in enemy territory, racing to get to safety far in the North before we’re discovered. There’s no knowing where Goodfellow’s strongholds are, or where his seat of power is located. He’s killed all challengers so no one could learn such things and—
He’s killed all challengers. Murdered them and left impressions of his actions across the Wylds. He’s left us shades.
Before the Assembly, those shades led us through these lands, determined to foil Goodfellow’s ascension to power. With their help, I could avoid Goodfellow’s scouts or any troops he sent out to try to quell rebellions as rumors spread. Keiran and I could sneak into the Northern Realms before anyone knew where we were. We could gather our forces and join Mother at the sídhe to prepare for Goodfellow’s attack. We could find a way to survive this after all.
“Lugh?” Keiran murmurs. His lips brush over my skin and I wish we had a moment to stop and breathe, but we don’t.
I give him a gentle shake, trying to coax him out of his post-transformation stupor. “Remember when you said you’d trust me, no questions asked?”
He stiffens. “Yes.”
“Well, I have an idea,” I whisper, “but you’re not going to like it.”
“When do I ever like your ideas?”
“Keir—”
“No questions, Lugh. I promised. Start talking.”
* * *
It shouldn’t have worked. The huscarls had been hesitant when I shared my plan with them, but they agreed anyway. There were no better options. Two disguised decoys from Resnik’s group left with the Hunt, riding Liath and Dubh to add another layer of authenticity to the trick. They’ll head into the worst of the Wylds, hopefully drawing away the majority of Goodfellow’s zealots, before swinging north to join the rest of us. I pray to the Goddess they survive and try to focus on the heartening fact that they’ll be protected by the Hunt. A few hours after they vanished into the forest, scouts from each territory were sent out at the same time Keiran and I left on a pair of borrowed horses. Whoever was left to watch us let us slip through their lines. It seemed our escape to the North would go smoothly.
Now, days later, our last hopes for escape have died in this narrow valley.
The meadow below is already filled with tents and campfires. The Sluagh wandering about wear Chayka’s crest. She must have sent word for her troops to try to block off any last escape routes out of the lands surrounding Krigsmöte. From the scent of roasting mutton and the sight of smoke rising in thin plumes from the burned crofter’s cottage on the edge of the meadow, this g
roup must have beat us here by less than a day.
“There’s too many to fight,” Keiran murmurs.
We lie side by side on our stomachs at the top of the small hill. Our horses are hidden away in the trees, and judging from the troops we’re watching, no one knows we’re here.
Well, no one alive, anyway.
At least six shades wander about, though only one seems nearly corporeal. From time to time, she drifts close to us before circling back to the others. As much as it hurts my heart to think it, there was probably a family living in that cottage yesterday.
“Lugh, we need to go back and try a different route.”
“We can’t,” I whisper. “If they got here before us, there’s no hope to slip by anywhere else. This was our best shot.”
“Then what do we do?”
“I’m not sure. I need some time to think.” When he continues to watch me, worry pinching his brow, I lean in and brush a kiss to the corner of his mouth. I wish I could linger in this moment, but the relaxed days of travel during quests are now impossible. Keiran must reach his loyal territories and I won’t rest until he does. “I’ll figure it out, Keir. Just trust me.”
I eventually coax him to return to the horses so he can settle in and sleep for a short while. He seemed to recover quickly from his last transformation, but I won’t risk him relapsing into any kind of fever. Once he’s resting, I return to the hill and observe Chayka’s forces. Daylight slips away to dusk, campfires create halos of rosy light, and the stars speckle the sky in small patches as clouds promising snow roll in, obscuring the moon.
I almost miss the shade’s arrival in the flat darkness. She brushes a finger over my brow to capture my attention and I have to stifle my yelp against the shocking cold.
Once she’s sure I’ve noticed her, she holds out her hand.
The draugr has grown quiet the farther we get from Goodfellow’s presence, though the other shades wake and move about from time to time. I’m not sure if I want to risk bringing another one with me. I doubt I’ll be able to lay her to rest. There are too many soldiers below to kill in revenge for her and her family’s deaths.
But she stands before me, clearly offering something, and Keiran and I are running out of time. I need to get him away from the Mainland before we’re discovered by Goodfellow or his main army. I need to protect him, and all I have left to me is this cursed power.
“Can you help us?” I ask her.
She stretches her hand out farther.
“He needs me,” I warn. “He has to live.”
Her fingers are gentle and she slides against my mind like night-cooled silk. I wriggle when the world adjusts before my eyes, trying to understand the fresh images now lying over my sight. I see a valley at night, but the shade remembers it during the day as a small flock of sheep roam over the grass.
“Goddess,” I whisper aloud, amazed when I can turn and see perfectly.
In her memory, there’s a tree a few paces behind me. Hidden in the dark, I rise into a crouch and sneak toward the place where the ancient oak should stand. I reach out and feel rough bark, and the shade seems amused by my wonder. The entire valley lies before me, illuminated through her memories.
We could escape. She could lead us past everyone.
“How do we get out?” I ask her as softly as I can.
Paths, she whispers back, and I turn involuntarily to look at the hills around us. Game trails stretch up out of the valley. Most are hidden by brush and trees, but they’re all there in her memory. Years of chasing lost sheep, years of climbing up to go view the stars, and years of loving this place fill me with melancholy joy. Her life here was good, as was her family’s, and she has no intention of leaving it. But she doesn’t want anyone else to die here either.
It’s as close to a promise as I’ve ever had from a shade.
Keiran wakes quickly when I return to his side and shake him. He doesn’t question me when I tell him I’ve found a way past the soldiers. He doesn’t question when we lead our horses behind us and begin the trek up one of the trails. I have to stop from time to time to check the soldiers haven’t noticed us, but each time, it gets easier and safer to move over the dark ground.
Keiran swears when he stumbles every now and then. At the worst spots, he’ll ask me to wait while he carefully leads his horse on the dark trail. The shade’s memories allow me to give him short warnings before we hit those places, though there’s no way to explain the map I hold before my eyes.
We reach the top of the peak we’ve been ascending in time for the clouds to part overhead. The moon shines on us and another trail leads us down to the original path we needed, well past Chayka’s forces.
“By the gods,” Keiran whispers, swinging up into his saddle. “How did you know?”
The shade slips out of my mind as I follow Keiran’s example and mount. In her absence, the world reduces itself back to dark shadows and silver trails promising escape. I silently wish her and her family peace, and look up at the moon. With its glowing light, we’ll be able to see other dangers coming. There’s sure to be struggles ahead, but perhaps with some more practice, I’ll be able to coax other shades into helping us too.
“Lugh, how did you know?” Keiran repeats.
“I didn’t. But it was worth the risk.”
He frowns and opens his mouth, only to shut it. A long moment later he asks, “Was it?”
I can’t answer that. Keiran waits, expecting a response. When I don’t offer one, he shakes his head and begins to pick his way carefully down the trail. He doesn’t look back.
I hate the pang of guilt in my chest over keeping this a secret from him. But if I tell him the truth, he’ll tell me to stop, and we’re not safe yet.
Later. I’ll tell him later, once we’re in the North.
With that decided, I nudge my horse forward and follow after him.
Chapter Twenty
Keiran
Lugh has managed the impossible. We’re tucked away in a ramshackle fisherman’s hut on the coast near the crossing from the Mainland to the Northern Realms, resupplied and ready for the last leg of our journey. No one in the village will learn of our presence until the morning, when they find our borrowed horses in the public stables. It was a risky move, but the creatures served us well on the journey and deserved better than being turned out into the winter landscape without any kind of care.
It’s a miracle Lugh didn’t get caught as he settled them in. He wouldn’t let me sneak into the sleeping village to help him. It’s not because he doubts my strength. I’ve long since recovered from the transformation, in large part due to Lugh’s care the days immediately following the incident. No, there’s some other reason he wouldn’t let me tag along, more than his excuse that he could hide behind glamour while I couldn’t. This evasion is the newest in a strange, growing tally of secrets.
He navigated us through the Wylds without hesitation, though all we had was a rough map. An avoidance of certain areas that ended up housing small groups of Goodfellow’s troops, inconsistent stops at odd hours of the day and night to cross thoroughfares, the bizarre randomness of when we could or couldn’t have a fire...none of these seem odd by themselves. But combined with Lugh’s increasing sleeplessness and moments of abstraction, those warning signs have grown to signal fires and I’m standing so close their heat singes my skin.
Something’s wrong. After dinner, I settle into my bedroll on the dusty floor and wait for Lugh to join me. Hours later, his bedroll remains empty. He sits on the windowsill, barely illuminated by the lone candle we dared to light since the only windows face the sea. He stares out through glass at the swirling snow and dark waves. From time to time, his hand flexes on his knee like he’s been startled by something he sees. If he let me stand near him, I’d reach out and take his hand in mine, coax him to tell me what’s bothering him. But that’s an intim
acy I don’t think he’d offer now.
We haven’t touched since the reassuring kiss he gave me before we escaped that first valley with its nearly invisible trails. Even the casual, familiar contact we’ve shared over centuries stopped. I know my anxiety over stepping into Aage’s role has risen as we close the distance to the North and our potential army, but I don’t think I’ve been pulling away. At least, not like Lugh has. I miss him running his fingers through my hair when we curl up together to fall asleep. I miss drawing him into my arms and feeling him press his face against my chest right before his tension slides away. I miss his mouth and the teasing pressure of his kisses, newly discovered and achingly absent now that I’ve finally had a taste. I miss him, miss him more than ever when the scant distance between us in this shack grows every passing minute.
“Lugh,” I call softly when he rubs at his eyes, “come to bed.”
“I’m fine,” he says, without glancing at me. “Go to sleep. I’ll join you in a bit.”
A lie, an obvious one, and I hate how it cuts through me.
Enough. I drag off the blankets and stand, frustrated by his indifference. His shoulders tighten when he hears me stalk toward the window.
“No. You sleep for a while and when you wake, we’ll trade off.” He starts to protest, but I cross my arms over my chest and stand firm. “This isn’t open for debate. You need rest. I swear, I won’t touch you or bother you. But, please, try to sleep for a little while.”
My show of temper must surprise him. For the first time since we settled in here, he looks at me. My throat tightens from the unexpected moment of connection. He’s a portrait done up in shades of shadow. The deepening smudges under his eyes and his tight jaw catch the candle’s flickering light. He’s hurting and I think it’s my fault, and I don’t know how to fix it.
“You don’t bother me,” he says.
“Don’t lie to me again,” I snap, too tired and unwilling to deal with any of his attempts to argue. “You said you loved me. You said it’s always been me. You said you’d never leave me, but you have, Lugh.”