Page 82 of Fang & Fury

Gregor cut him a veiled look. “It’s a disappointment, sire … but it’s not the end. Far from it. Lara won’t have an army like yours.”

No, Niall thought bitterly. All those fighting for her are willing.

Suddenly, he wished he’d been more cautious when Gregor had approached him in Braewall. A rogue sacrificer with a score to settle against the High Queen. It had been too tempting, and he hadn’t asked enough questions.

Draining the rest of his wine, he turned to Gregor. “I never understood … why you sought me out all those moons ago. Why did you come to me rather than Artair of Baldeen?”

Something deep in his chest knotted as he asked the question. He hated exposing vulnerability in this way, but he had to know.

The druid favored him with a half-smile. “I saw something in you, sire.”

“And what’s that?”

Gregor’s dark eyes glinted. “I saw a man prepared to do what others wouldn’t … no matter what it cost him.”

Duncrag

Darach grunted as the needle pierced his skin.

He held still, nonetheless, lying on his side upon a table with his breeches down around his ankles.

Fuck, it hurt.

He should be used to it by now. When that idiot in Troon had given him the clag-doo tattoo, it had taken two sessions to complete. And then, when Ailsa had inked that circle of thorns, it had burned.

But the magic that Kayla wielded was something else. She was working on that same tattoo Ailsa had given him—developing and strengthening it.

Each prick of the needle was agony, and all the while, his beast snarled and snapped.

It knew what the tattooist was doing, what she intended.

The strong odor of pine and campfire hung heavily in the air. Earth magic rippled over his skin.

He hadn’t thought Kayla would want to work on him so soon. After bidding Fern goodbye at the gates, they’d joined everyone for supper in the hall. Retiring to their alcoves, they’d washed and changed clothing—and then Kayla called him to her. They only had three days before marching out. No time could be wasted.

She worked now in a large alcove somewhere in the bowels of the broch, surrounded by burning cressets and extra oil lamps to enable Kayla to see properly.

The tattooing needle stung once more, and Darach clenched his jaw, lifting his gaze to where Ailsa and the queen’s chief-sacrificer, Mairead, looked on.

Ailsa watched Kayla work, her gaze tracking each movement.

She’d been subdued ever since bidding Fern farewell, as if she was turning things over in her mind.

The low strains of the sain that Kayla crooned echoed against stone.

Darach’s gaze shifted then to the woman of middling age in crimson robes who stood next to Ailsa. She had curly black hair threaded with strands of silver and a proud face. Like Ailsa, she tracked every movement Kayla made. Nonetheless, he marked her frown.

She didn’t approve.

Kayla paused in her singing for a moment, and the cloying scent of ash and pine lifted a little. Reaching for her pot of woad paste, she dipped a small brush in before pushing the dye into the marks she’d just incised.

“You wield earth magic too aggressively,” Mairead said then. “You always did.” The druid huffed an oath under her breath. “Although, I’ll admit you’re good. Better than half the druids here in Duncrag … and I’d say that to their faces too.”

Kayla glanced up, her lips quirking. “You haven’t changed a bit, Mairead.” She paused then. “How long have you been at Duncrag?”

Mairead drew herself up. “Five years … the High Queen invited me herself.”

Darach’s attention flicked between them. “You two know each other?”