Oh, let the Sisters forbid it, she prayed, staring off into the forest, hands on her hips.

  “Watch yerself, bundún,” she said when a loud slap warned her of Bren’s arrival, and he nearly pushed her over in his haste to get through the portal.

  “Well, why did you stop? Only a tóin stops on the threshold.”

  Bee shrugged, unsure what to say to him. She didn’t know how to tell him that begging for help from Whitehead was dampening her love of gambolling through the forest, even if it was as simple as asking her to lower the lift. Their relationship had always been fraught because Bee, as High Priestess, answered to Dagda, and Whitehead liked everyone to answer to her. But more than that, her Maidens, the two thousand warriors tasked with defeating each Scourge’s demon horde and driving them back into Tech Duinn, needed witches to protect them from magical attacks. If Whitehead resented anything more than not being the highest apple on the tree, it was being beholden to witches, whom she considered to be nothing more than the worms infesting each apple. And, during the last Scourge, Bee had told the woman to uncross her legs and enjoy something that would break the rigidity of the spear shaft she used to keep her back stiff and straight. She suspected that was the reason Whitehead made such a ham-fisted go at stitching her face. She might be an unbeatable warrior and a master tactician, but there was a lot less to be said for her needlework.

  I should have gone to a druid, Bee thought, and not for the first time. I wonder if the virgin is still upset. Of course she is. I insulted her maidenhood.

  For some reason that Bee had never understood, Neit’s Maidens took an oath of celibacy. Most ignored it, but not Whitehead. As well as pettiness and small acts of vengeance, like botched stitching, Whitehead was renowned for rigidity when it came to codes and oaths. Usually, Bee would allow people to follow their beliefs, but Whitehead’s arrogance and bigotry towards all those not of the Tuatha warrior caste made it impossible not to tease her.

  “Ye should learn to curb yer tongue,” she said.

  “What was that, Girl?” Dorn asked.

  If he calls me girl once more…

  “Nothing. I was speaking me thoughts, so I was.”

  “She said she’s to learn to keep her tongue,” Bren said, from where he was standing beside The Smith, acting the puppy with someone new. Bee glowered at her brother, thinking he should learn to recognise his allies.

  But then, who are his allies? Certainly not me, she thought.

  “I said curb,” she elaborated and then cursed herself for doing so.

  “So, what have you not been curbing?” Dorn asked, tilting his head and smirking along with Bren.

  “It’s nothing. Just leave it,” she snapped, striding into the undergrowth.

  “This way,” Dorn called to her, laughingly. Looking up, she saw him walking in the opposite direction from her.

  “What are ye smirking about?” she hissed at her brother when she fell into stride beside him.

  “Nothing,” he said, trying to hide the grin.

  “Ye’re a turd, Bren,” she said as the underbrush gave way to the road. “Did I ever tell ye that?”

  Ignoring his hurt expression, Bee gazed up the long avenue. The evening sun was dappling the way with dancing light, illuminating motes and fallen leaves, improving her mood, if only briefly. Sighing, she strode up the road at a pace that prevented any further conversation. It seemed like no time before they rounded a curve and saw the fortress Whitehead and her Maidens called home. Bee would never get used to the way the rocks of Sliabh Culinn looked like a pile of dung a monstrous horse had deposited, which its rider then scythed the top from in a fit of petulance. Lichen covered the boulders, making them the dung-green that horse turds would be, only speckled with grey streaks. Early evening mists were rising from the rocks as the air around them cooled faster, adding to the illusion, as if the horse had lifted its tail so recently the turds still steamed.

  “You seem distracted,” Dorn said as he stopped, placed his knuckles in the small of his back, and stretched.

  “Bechuille is always distracted,” someone said from beside the avenue. Bee knew the voice, so was not surprised when a warrior with a massive axe stepped out from the underbrush and onto the road. “You have returned.”

  Bee wasn’t sure who the warrior was addressing until Dorn said, “I said I would, Whitehead. And I have the boy with me.”

  “He’s not a boy,” Bee and Whitehead said together.

  “Just acts like one,” Bee said under her breath, but not as quietly as she’d intended, judging by the fierce eyes Bren turned on her. “How did you know we were coming?”

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  “My new adviser, Fis, set an alarm on the portal so we know when someone uses it.”

  “Since when have ye needed an adviser?” Bee asked, with an eyebrow hiked.

  “Well, in truth, he’s more an aide than an adviser. Good with his hands, too. The alarm is really clever.”

  “Alarm?” Bee asked.

  “On the portal. Counts the slaps, so we even know how many are coming. There’s a bell in the map room, tinkles at each slap. Come. You can tell me what is happening when we get back.”

  There was little in the way of talk as they walked the rest of the way to the fortress of Sliabh Culinn. Bee was not surprised when a cohort of Maidens materialised out of the forest around them. Whitehead had ever been a cautious warrior and would not answer the alarm her aide had created with fewer warriors than would give her an advantage. Bren clung to his new friend’s shadow. Bee thought she could hear the hiss of whispered words; no doubt her brother was up to his usual mischief. Eventually, they were sitting around the massive table in the map room staring at each other over the mountains of the Kingdoms with evident wariness, if not disdain. As usual, Bee was fascinated by the detail of the relief map and barely acknowledged the aide when Whitehead introduced him, seeing little more than a slight male, his species unclear because her glance was so short, sitting at the head of the table.

  “Why are you here, Bechuille? Should you not be in your mound, deep asleep?”

  Aye, I should, Bee wanted to scream. She wanted to tell Whitehead that the scar she’d stitched during the last Scourge was still itching, despite being the ugly scar she’d obviously intended. Three centuries between Scourges was unheard of. They tended towards every millennium, sometimes two. So, why was she here? Why had the Chief woken her?

  “If only I knew,” she said, not much above a whisper.

  “Of course you know,” the warrior snapped, punching the tabletop with a closed fist.

  “I’m sworn to secrecy, Whitehead. Ye can bluster all ye want, I won’t tell ye.” The iron-grey hardness of the Tuatha warrior’s stare pierced Bee to her core.

  When she spoke, though, her voice was calm. Perhaps too calm. “I am entrusted with the safety of the humans in this realm. So, I repeat, what do you know, Bechuille?”

  Shaking her head, Bee said, “Happens, I know little, so it does. As I know nothing, what can I tell ye? I’ll say this, though. The Chief sent me after Bren to stop him from meeting Myrddin. I can only guess at the reason. Guessing, mind, I’d say Dagda somehow learned that Archu had possessed that mad druid, Myrddin.”

  “Archu?” Whitehead asked.

  “Aye. The Demon of War is using the druid as a vessel. He’s in Breshlech Mor, where he’s reanimated the Fomorii warriors who died during that infamous siege.”

  “You had better tell me what happened since you arrived,” the warrior said.

  Bee could see no reason not to tell her the story from The Cave of Cats onwards. And as she told the tale, she realised that her Master really had told her nothing. He’d said Bren stole through the portal, which turned out to be only a half-truth. He had come through the portal, but it was looking ever more likely that Dagda sent him. Or Danu, maybe. Perhaps both of them, she suddenly thought for the first time.

  “The demon said Bren was carrying a scroll from Danu,” she said as the story ended, “but I think Dagda gave it to him. Archu said that Bren knows where Lia Fáil is hidden, which is a stretch because I don’t believe Dagda would tell anyone that secret.”

  “Where is it, Brenos?” Whitehead asked, turning to where Bren had been sitting only moments before. “Where did he get to?”

  “Him and The Smith left a little while since,” Fis said.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Whitehead asked.

  Bee frowned when the aide shrugged his shoulders, saying nothing, watching her through half-lidded eyes. Why is he watching me? “Imgel, please go and find them and tell them to return here.”

  Turning back to Bee, Whitehead asked, “What do you think the demon’s doing?”

  “Preparing to release the Dhuosnos and his horde. What else would a demon be doing?”

  The warrior sat watching her for several moments before she asked why Bee believed that to be true, which surprised Bee. The leader of the Maidens was aware of the implications; aware that the birth of a summoner every millennium or so, caused a scourge.

  “Why the Lord of Darkness?” Whitehead prompted.

  “Archu said I was to act as the witch to open the bridge. Strange thing, though, he has no summoner, so I don’t see how that would have worked.”

  “There have been murmurs between roundhouses,” Whitehead said, an expression of worry crossing her face.

  “Murmurs?”

  “Aye. Rumours that one of the other Gods has created a summoner. They are trying to force a Scourge.”

  “But why would they want a scourge out of cycle?”

  “They are mounting a coup. They want to rule the Fae Realm.”

  “But how does releasing the demon horde here give them the Fae Realm?” Bee demanded. “They’re on different planes.”

  “There is only a portal and the paths between to stop the horde,” Fis said.

  Sitting at the head of the map table with long, talon-like fingers steepled under his chin, the aide shrugged and continued to grin. Something about his slightly hooded eyes made Bee wary of him. He was like a serpent preparing to strike, hooding its eyes to hide its intentions.

  “Ye think it likely?” she asked Whitehead.

  “Who knows, Bechuille. What is your feeling?”

  If she were to be honest, she would say she felt like a fish washed ashore by a strong wave. She thought that Whitehead probably didn’t want to hear that, though. The last thing anyone around that table wanted to hear was that the High Priestess of Dagda’s coven was not as strong as they needed her to be.

  “These murmurs ye’ve been hearing; where precisely?”

  Whitehead shook her head slightly, as if to say their origins were unimportant. The glance she gave to her aide, though, gave Bee a big hint as to who it was who told her. She was about to ask the aide what he knew when the warrior, Imgel, returned, punched her chest, and said, “They’re not in the fort, Captain.”

  “I must admit, I’m not surprised,” Whitehead said. “I’ve been suspicious of Dornalai for some time now.”

  “And you said nothing,” Bee snapped.

  “I do not answer to you, witch.”

  “No. But I do answer to the Chief, so I’ll return to the Realm and tell him what’s happening.”

  And just as the words were out, the little bell beside the aide tinkled. Everyone stopped and stared at it, holding their collective breath. After a few moments, it tinkled again.