Page 17 of Tair

He’d heard the same rumors from their most trusted allies. “You believe the queen came to command them to carry out a war in her name?”

“’Twouldnae be the first time that evil harlot’s unleashed hell on the mortal realm,” Ivor said, fear plain in his pale eyes.

“Full-blood Fae regard half-bloods as abominations, and slay them as soon as they encounter them,” he reminded him. “The queen rules over all full-blood dark Fae. She wouldnae enlist halflings, even to the direst of causes.”

“As you say, my lord.” The war master rubbed his chin. “I’ll visit my informers and learn what they ken. I but fear they shallnae offer much of use.”

When visiting the mortal realm both dark and light Fae took great pains to conceal their presence from mortal kind. They often came in the night for some mischief, a hunt, or to acquire a mortal to serve as their plaything back in Elphyne. Indeed, they so often disguised themselves as ordinary mortals that no one grew the wiser. The fact that the queen had revealed herself to the MacRune on their clan’s island had to mean she’d come for a purpose so important she couldn’t be troubled to conceal herself or her nightmarish guards.

“Keep me advised,” he told Ivor, who nodded and bowed.

Fifer left them and went to meet with the merchants, all of whom had the same complaint: the new magistrate, who had ignored them and their requests. After listening to their gossip and fears, he promised to personally visit Beiste Duff and set him straight on his new responsibilities. Once he had smoothed their ruffled feathers, he walked out through the back gates into the forest that surrounded Dun Maor. The land on which the stronghold stood had belonged to Ivor’s blood-kin, who had happily sold it for a generous heap of coin to be rid of it.

“’Tis cursed soil, you ken,” Ivor’s uncle, a superstitious but honest man, had warned him when they had struck the bargain. “The home of a great mage who angered the Gods by refusing to aid mortals during a famine. They condemned the bastart in some fiendish manner, and now he haunts the loch.”

As Fifer followed the trail through the trees he heard the sound of axes striking wood, and considered changing direction. A call of “’Tis the MacAlen come” made him reluctantly continue on to the small clearing. There a group of woodcutters had been felling and stripping some hazel saplings. The oldest man hurried up to him and bowed.

“Fair morning, my lord,” the man said. “How may we serve?”

“I’m but out for a walk, so dinnae allow me to disturb you,” he told him.

“We’re halting the work for our morning meal now, my lord,” the woodcutter said. “We’ve bread and cheese, and some good ale, if you wish break your fast with us.”

He hadn’t yet eaten, Fifer realized, but he wouldn’t make them share what little food they carried with them. “My thanks, lad, but I dined earlier.” Because the men of the village often knew much more than he did about their unfriendly neighbors, he asked, “Have you and your men had reason to work near the loch these last weeks?”

The woodcutter stared down at his boots. “We gathered some rushes there near the water’s edge some days past, my lord.”

The man was shaking now, but trying very hard to hide that from him. The others silently gathered behind him, their faces stiff with fear and dread.

“You’ve done naught wrong, lad.” Fifer put a gentle hand on the woodcutter’s thin shoulder. To the others he said, “’Tis your right to gather what you need. I but wish ken if you saw anything that yet troubles you.”

The woodcutter then told him everything that the clan’s watchers had witnessed, but with a curious addition to the disturbing tale: the outlandish arrival of the golden-haired woman.

“’Twas some moments before the demoness appeared that the lass fell from the clouds,” the man said, gesturing toward the sky. “We all saw another tear in the clouds, but ’twasnae black like that which spilled the monsters onto the island. ’Twas made of tiny sparks like polished copper and bell heather, all glittering and bright. She dropped down into the MacRune’s arms, as if the Gods bestowed her on him.”

Fack, another Fae. Keeping his expression kind and understanding took all of Fifer’s will. “Did you see anything more?”

The woodcutter exchanged a quick look with the others before he said, “She came wrapped in a shroud of the costliest silk, my lord. ’Twas dyed every color the eye sees, and some I cannae name.”

Fifer thanked the men, shaking their hands and inviting them to join the clan for their evening meal after work. He managed to keep his smile in place until he walked out of their sight. From there he crossed several leagues of woods and meadows that separated his stronghold from the loch. The remains of the morning mist still hovered over the dark waters, creating a ghostly wall around the base of the towering dark gray monstrosity the MacRune called home.

From the beginning the king had been very clear about the MacAlen Clan’s duties: assure the people of the highlands remained at peace and obeyed the laws—all the people.

If the dark Fae queen had commanded the MacRune to perform some wrongdoing on her behalf, it would likely involve the golden-haired female and her strange cloak. Perhaps she had come to aid them with their crimes. If they carried out such orders, that would leave him with no choice but to follow the king’s command and stop them.

If so, then it would be time for the MacAlen to cease being wardens of the dark and become warriors of the light.

As Lucy walked from the kitchen through a wide hallway the noise of several hundred voices steered her toward a large open arch. Through it she saw the gigantic, badly-lit room the cook had called the great hall. As long as a cricket field, with soaring ceilings and walls lined with blazing stone fireplaces, it had been decorated with weapons, dusty tapestries depicting naked women being hunted by beasts, and crudely-made picnic-type wooden tables and chairs, around which the slovenly maids circled with jugs and platters of food. It made a convincing medieval version of a biker bar.

Why would Tair want to live like this?

Around the tables sat a hundred or so men, each dressed in dark garments and wearing the clan’s black and gray tartan. They all had shaggy black hair and heavy, muscular builds; many looked like sets of twins and triplets. Some had different eyes and features, and a few were shorter or taller than the others. She saw no sign of the blindfolded Lochran or anyone who looked friendly.

“Right, then, here we go, Gods,” Lucy said under her breath before she walked through the arch.

The sight of her sent a sea of dark scowls racing across the face of every man present. Instead of staring most of them stood and came toward her, forming a gauntlet on either side of her that closed behind her as she moved forward. Those in the back shoved aside others to get a better look at her, and all of them were muttering to each other or under their breath. What they said wasn’t in English, but she was fairly sure it wasn’t variations of “Hi, how are you?” They’d pass as a pack of murderous, semi-rabid wolves waiting to converge on her after the pack leader took the first lunge, Lucy thought.

“Do you need a man, wench?” one of the bigger ones asked, openly leering at her. “We’re happy to take turns.”