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  Oron nodded. “I will order questions to be asked, but please discourage your mate from taking rash actions. Make a decree if you must. We cannot let Prince Griogair come to harm if he was under some influence we haven’t discovered. Perhaps he has a reason for his behaviour he hasn’t yet divulged.”

  Munro blinked. He wasn’t prepared to order Eilidh around in her own kingdom. No good would come of that. He hoped she wouldn’t force him to. “I’ll do what I can. I suppose our talk of ancient gates will wait.”

  “For now, perhaps,” Oron said, sounding genuinely disappointed. “But not too long. The Bleak is one place we know little of, and I confess to a morbid fascination with that dark realm.”

  Calling America a dark realm seemed a touch melodramatic, but Munro had learned not to tell faeries their superstitions were unfounded. They viewed themselves as logical beings, and nothing could convince them otherwise. “Agreed,” Munro said. “If I can, I’ll come find you after I speak with Eilidh. I want to discuss Maiya as well.”

  “I look forward to our chat,” Oron said. “As always, the conversation promises to be interesting.” He put a lilt on the last word, leaving Munro uncertain what the elder truly thought.

  Munro said farewell and followed the path Eilidh had taken. With each step, he tried to send reassurance through their bond.

  When he arrived at her private chamber, he made himself comfortable in her sitting room. He heard running water and the soft movements of attendants helping Eilidh in the bath. She often bathed when she wanted a moment alone to think. She’d ordered him to follow, but he decided he’d wait, give her a moment to breathe. Slipping a hand over one of the lounge chairs, Munro reflected that had been Griogair’s favourite spot. How many times had the three of them sat in here, enjoying the few private moments they had? They, plus Maiya as well as Griogair’s son, Prince Tràth, had been a family. So much had changed.

  Quinton, please come. Eilidh’s mood had softened, and her telepathic message had a conciliatory feel.

  He stood and went through her immense dressing room and into the bathing chamber. On his arrival, Eilidh signalled her attendants to leave. One by one, they filed out, and Munro took to a seat near the large, round bath and kicked off his shoes. Almost the instant they were alone, Eilidh began to cry.

  Thinking back over the time they’d known each other, he couldn’t recall seeing her cry. Not through all the tragedies and upheaval. Watching the shimmering tracks make their way down her cheeks, he felt lost and helpless. He rushed to kneel beside her and took her into his arms. Water soaked into his clothing as it sloshed over the side of the tub. After a long moment, she lifted her red-rimmed eyes to meet his. With a tender gesture, he used a finger to sweep the tears from her face. “You’re getting salt in the bath,” he said softly.

  She gave a small, unexpected laugh. As quickly as the smile had come to her face, it vanished and she looked away. “I lost you, then Koen, now Griogair too. I admit Koen was no prize, but it’s too much,” she said. “I’ll stand as the only queen in history to have three mates die in less than a year.”

  “Hey,” Munro said, cupping her cheek in his hand and gently turning her face toward him. “I only died temporarily, and now I’m back, so that doesn’t count. I’ll grant you Koen, but nothing is settled about Griogair yet. We will investigate further before you reach a final decision, surely.”

  She sighed. “I’d be forced to order the execution of anyone guilty of such a crime.” When Munro started to argue, she stopped him. “I hate it too, Quinton. You must believe that. But the Andenan population in Caledonia is stirred up about Koen’s death. They treated him as their leader and were perhaps more loyal to him than to me. They demand justice. I left behind additional Watchers at Eirlioc Falls since Koen had so many supporters there. With so much upheaval in the kingdoms after the return of the Father of the Sky and the reunification of the Otherworld, uncertainty is rife.”

  “You’d execute Griogair just to stop a riot?” Munro sat back on his heels, staring at her.

  “I may have no choice. We each disliked Koen, may the Mother forgive us, but he was under the protection of my royal bloodline. The law is clear.”

  “Eilidh, Griogair loves you. He never would do this, at least not without good reason.”

  Eilidh took his hand, her fingers dripping more water on the floor. “My love,” she said, her heartbreak keening through their bond. “Griogair confessed.”

  “What?” Munro’s thoughts buzzed. “But he knows the law as well as anyone. He would have known what would happen, what it would do to you. It’s just not in his character to be violent or careless of consequences.”

  “I agree, but I can’t change the truth.” She glanced away. “I’ve never felt so angry, so betrayed. I trusted him completely.”

  Munro’s shoulders slumped. “Nothing about this makes sense. Griogair must be protecting someone. Or someone is influencing him, forcing him to confess.” He looked into Eilidh’s eyes. “Don’t do anything. Don’t issue any commands you can’t take back. We will get to the bottom of this.”

  Eilidh shook her head. “You aren’t a policeman anymore. I have Watchers, elders, and others investigating. They will do their jobs well.”

  “There must be something I can do,” Munro said. “What if I take him under the protection of the Druid Hall?”

  Eilidh stiffened. Every queen bore some resentment over the way the druids could and sometimes did interfere in their kingdoms. Even Eilidh was not immune to taking a protective stance concerning Caledonia’s sovereignty.

  Sensing her reaction, he quickly added, “I don’t intend to undermine your authority, Eilidh. I just want to protect Griogair until we find out the truth. Your people can’t blame you if I make a command.”

  With a sigh, Eilidh rose from the bath and stepped onto a sodden rug. Using her air and fire talents, she dried herself with warm gusts of wind. “You are a druid lord, but you are also my mate. As such, you are under my authority, at least in Caledonia.”

  He knew she couldn’t enforce her claim and wasn’t convinced she would try. But more importantly, he loved her and didn’t want this to turn into a division between them. She was heartbroken and felt alone. How could he be a good partner to her, remain loyal to his friendship with Griogair, help her maintain stability in Caledonia, and not cede an inch of the authority of the Druid Hall? And what of Huck and Demi? He wasn’t prepared to slow down his search for them. “I love you, Eilidh, but you’re dead wrong about this.”

  “Dead wrong?” she repeated, her voice distant. She shook off her moment of reverie and slipped on a day robe. Even though the sun was hours away from rising, she clearly had no intention of continuing her work for the night. Considering her usual dedication to duty, that worried Munro more than her tears had.

  “I’ll talk to Griogair, then meet with Oron and the other azuri members of your conclave about their options, as well as the concerns that brought me here in the first place.”

  Eilidh gave him a half-hearted smile. “You didn’t come just because I asked you to?”

  He kissed her forehead. “No.” The exhaustion overwhelmed him. He’d been tired more often since returning from death, and this new stress threatened to push him over the edge. Just when he thought he couldn’t cope with one more thing, couldn’t juggle one more ball. “I will do what I can to help you, even if that means countermanding your orders and giving Griogair asylum at Rìoghachd nan Ceòthan.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said, but her voice betrayed her lack of conviction.

  “As always, we’ll both do what we must,” he said.

  She nodded, looking worried at the prospect.

  Chapter 4

  Rory turned the dial on the Mistgate to point to the Danastai rune Ewain had carved on it three months before. The faeries worshipped the geezer, and Munro confirmed he had been, in fact, the same person once known as the Father of the Sky. Still, Rory didn’t trust him. Truth be told, he di
dn’t trust much of anyone these days.

  Placing his palm onto the carved pedestal, he called on his water magic, letting a pool form around his fingers in the hand-shaped indentation. Only druids could open this gate because only they possessed the power to make the sacrifice required. Rory didn’t understand how druid magic was different from fae magic, except that where faeries used magical flows, druids created and stimulated the power.

  He turned to Sheng. “Ready?”

  “Absolutely,” the Aussie druid replied. His brown eyes gleamed with anticipation. Sheng was the newest member of the Druid Hall, having only been with them a couple of months. He’d learned faster than any of them had, and he worked tirelessly. Rory was surprised he’d agreed to leave his current projects at Ceòthan, but Sheng said he didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to meet one of the original twelve draoidh.

  Flùranach entered the garden just as Rory had begun considering whether to leave without her. He wouldn’t, of course, but he indulged the thought anyway. “Sorry I’m late, my lord druids,” she said, lowering her eyes. He sensed in their half-formed bond that she expected to be reprimanded. She seemed to want him to scold her. All this time, and he didn’t understand her one bit.

  Rory turned to the gate. “Let’s go,” he said. With a nod to the Mistwatcher on guard, Rory stepped through. Sheng soon followed, and Flùranach came last. The transition was effortless, unlike journeys through their early attempts at gates. He did, however, require a moment to orient to the new surroundings.

  They’d arrived in a ruin of a city. Rory didn’t know what he’d expected: a forest, a desert, maybe some desolate wilderness, but not this. Grass was interrupted by patches of cobble. The spot where they stood had clearly once been a wide road. The shimmering image of the Mistgate stood and would remain open for a few minutes until Aaron came to shift the runes back to the original destination. Light gleamed from the reflected image of the gate, casting shadows over crumbling pillars and into darkened rooms on either side of the street. Vines and weeds covered many entrances and animals rustled. A cacophony of birds shouted at them from atop a nearby collapsed roof, then they all took flight at once.

  Sheng’s hand went to one of the talismans he wore around his neck. Rory wondered what good he thought they’d do. Neither of them knew how to delve into Flùranach’s magic the way Munro could. Without that ability, they were little more than human.

  The large moon shone blue over the rooftops, casting long shadows across the road. The place seemed strangely alive for a city so obviously abandoned. Rory turned to Flùranach. “Do you sense druids nearby? Or fae?” She had the useful talent of being able to detect druids, even those with dormant abilities.

  She nodded and pointed east, toward the rising moon. “He’s powerful,” she whispered. “His presence shines with the strength of many.” Rory didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. The fae all bought into the idea that the so-called Father of the Sky was a god. Until recently, they’d had no idea he was one of the original human druids, called draoidh, sorcerers in the fae tongue. Over centuries and millennia, the truth distorted. No matter that the reality of his origins had been revealed, the reverence was too deeply ingrained.

  “Let’s go,” Rory said. They followed the wide path between the buildings, which could hardly be called a road anymore, occasionally stepping around a tree growing through the remaining cobbles. He shivered, sensing eyes watching him. The creatures that had reclaimed this city would be unaccustomed to invaders in their home.

  The road darkened when the Mistgate disappeared behind them. Rory steeled himself. No matter what, there’d be no going back for at least twenty-four hours, when Aaron had agreed to reopen the gate to this destination. Rory had imagined them camping somewhere as they searched for Ewain, but he didn’t want to stay in this forsaken place. When daylight came, if Ewain didn’t offer them refuge, Rory would suggest finding a suitable spot outside the city. This place gave him the jitters.

  They arrived at a large intersection. To the north was a wide, open area with a large well in the centre and a stage to one side. It appeared to be some kind of main square or market. To the south stood taller buildings. Even with moss hanging from the windows, he could tell they’d once been quite elegant with balconies and wrought-iron decoration around the windows. One high window even had remnants of glass. How had that survived all this time?

  “Which way?” Rory asked Flùranach.

  She pointed ahead. The eastern road had ended, but a wide stair wended up a hill. At the top stood a temple or palace, Rory wasn’t sure which. He smirked. Of course Ewain would pick the best building in town. On the other hand, having high ground did seem smart.

  As he stepped up, a piece of the stone stair broke off, causing him to stumble.

  Sheng caught his arm. “Careful,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Rory said and went onward. The three of them picked their way up the crumbling stair, not trusting the stone railing on either side. A quarter hour must have passed before they got close to the top.

  Once they were nearly there, Rory saw a figure waiting in the darkness, standing with folded arms below a large, arched entrance. Soft light poured from behind him.

  Rory was about to demand the person identify himself when Flùranach went to her knees. He thought she’d fallen until she whispered, “Have mercy, Father of the Sky.”

  “Get up,” Rory said roughly. “Jesus, Flùr. I’ve told you. He’s just a druid.” When she didn’t make a move to comply, he tugged at her will. She managed to resist for a moment, but then her submission came as always, and she rose. Still, she refused to look up and meet Ewain’s eyes.

  Taking the measure of the ancient druid, Rory was surprised. He looked better than he expected from Munro and Aaron’s descriptions. Munro had compared him to a burned tree. Sure, the guy looked really old with deep wrinkles, but Rory’d half-expected talons and fangs. “I’m Rory,” he said. “This is Sheng and Flùranach.”

  Ewain tilted his head almost imperceptibly. His gaze took in the three of them, registering every detail from each of the talismans hanging around Sheng’s neck to Flùranach’s trembling hands. “Come inside,” he said finally. His voice was deep and rough, as though he rarely spoke aloud. Who would he talk to?

  He led them through the ornate archway toward the source of the light. Something rustled in the vines overhead, and Rory was glad to move out of the abandoned city.

  What once was probably a mere entrance hall had been transformed. In front of the fireplace were two wooden chairs, looking newly hewn and shaped into the reclining style favoured by the fae. On the hearth was a wooden bowl and spoon, as well as a smaller bowl the size of a teacup. On the mantle above rested a collection of plain stones, the perfect size for small talismans. “Sit,” Ewain said and gestured to the chairs.

  Sheng offered Flùranach the second seat, but she shook her head and moved to stand by the fire.

  Ewain watched her every movement. He sniffed as though tracking her scent. “Your blood is quite pure,” he said to her.

  Without meeting his gaze she replied, “Both my parents are astral fae.”

  “Have you skills as well as talents?” he asked.

  “Skills, Father?”

  “Call me Lord Ewain,” he said. “I’m not your father.”

  She blushed. “Yes, my lord druid. What skills do you mean?”

  “Can you hunt? Craft? Write?”

  “I read and write eight script languages, but only a few hundred runes,” she said. “I was born in the human realm to a small colony of azuri outcasts on the Isle of Skye. We all learned to hunt and cook, to mend and build. We left when I was still a child, though, so my skills are not what they might have been.”

  “Flùranach is chronologically less than eleven years old,” Rory said. “An accident with the time stream caused her to grow up prematurely.”

  Ewain went to Flùranach and cupped her cheek. He leaned in and sniffed deeply. “I thought
I smelled something about you. You retained the essence of temporal flows. Fascinating.”

  “Yes,” she said, keeping her gaze averted. Then, with a shudder, she closed her eyes.

  Ewain nodded. “So.” He turned to Rory. “What do you want?”

  Rory shifted. He hated these damned swing chairs. He never felt like he was on solid ground, and in the present circumstance, he felt like a turtle stuck on its back, unable to right itself. “What makes you think we want something?”

  Ewain chuckled, a strange sound like the rustling of dry leaves. “You’re here. I knew your people would seek me out before long.”

  “Aye, well, Munro thought you might know something about an artefact he found in America. The Bleak,” Rory said. The fire popped in the silence as Ewain waited for him to continue. Finally, Rory told him about the strange, ancient gate.