Volt pushed the hood of his cloak back and scanned the patrons in the hostel. The usual mix of farmers and the discontents crammed the small space, red-eyed from the firepit’s smoke and loud from the mead. A scélaí was vainly trying to make herself heard over the din of an uninterested audience. He didn’t blame the crowd. They probably knew the stories she was telling as well as she did, if not better. Stories about the Creator’s Great Flood when the waters washed humanity’s filth away, or at least so the stories went. Volt was sceptical. It seemed to him that the Creator should be able to think of something better for putting the fear of… well, of the Creator in them than floods.

  “Secure me a table,” he ordered no one in particular. Kathvar scoffed and covered his mouth as if suffering from a scratchy throat. Volt would have glared at the man if he thought it was worth the effort. Instead, he watched two guards walk to the back of the room and demand a table from a group of loud drunks arguing about the possibility of another war.

  The captain wondered why they were arguing because war was an ever-present threat. The reality, he supposed, was that talking about the eventuality of battle was like talking about the weather, the primary source of arguments in hostels all over the Kingdoms—something they could discuss because it was safe. No one would accuse them of sedition if they said it was cloudy when the sun shone. And war was the same, being the one thing that united the kings of the Kingdoms: a love of blood and of death and destruction. A love of the suffering of the common folk.

  The way of our kings would almost be enough to make me believe in the Scourges. Enough to turn me into a believer of the faerie stories ma would spin of a night. It was not the first time Volt had thought such. In fact, every time he thought of war, he thought the same, quickly followed by wondering why he was a horse warrior.

  The kings couldn’t see their constant fighting was killing the land and its people. Each time conflict was declared, the farmers became warriors and swapped their hoes for battle weapons and mail shirts. They gathered in opposing hosts and trampled the fields in their eagerness to start the killing. Crops became mud, and then the warriors fed it with their blood. The current reason for contention between Connavar and Eochaid was the trade between North and Middle kingdoms. Each kept raising the taxes paid to land goods.

  Trade is the excuse. A love of blood is the reason.

  The merchants were not happy, which made the kings nervous enough to start thumping their shields with their ancestral swords. North Kingdom needed the southern grain. Middle Kingdom needed the northern iron. Neither would suffer the ignominy of backing down. Volt shook his head. Thinking about the kings made his bile rise almost as much as the witch hunts had.

  “Get moving,” he shouted, causing those around the table to glare at him.

  Kathvar crossed his arms and grinned. The grin often struck Volt as one teetering on the rim of the madness pit. Not that any would be foolish enough to think the Summoner sane. Mad as a bag of worm filled apples, his ma would have said.

  Grumbling, the drunks moved nearer to the smoking firepit, coughing to make a point, unhappy but unwilling to risk his wrath. Volt was a known White Cloak. They knew he’d hunted witches and brought them to Tayvir so Connavar could watch them hang and clap his hands at the sound of each snap after Kathvar pulled the lever.

  “Bring mead,” Volt called, taking off his cloak and slinging it over the bench.

  He frowned at the garment and wondered at its veracity: white indicating the purity of driven snow. King Connavar ordered its design to contrast with the black robes worn by The Coven. It had been futile ten summers ago but was even more so now. The Coven was no more, but all guards were still required to wear the white. It was as if Connavar wanted his warriors to remind the people of their fate if they questioned his authority because that’s what The Coven did: challenge his right to rule. Oh, they claimed they were servants of Dhuosnos, but that was just more nonsense, more jostling for power by a group of people who would otherwise have none. They hadn’t deserved to hang for their foolishness, but it was still foolish.

  “You are deep in thought,” Kathvar said as he took the bench opposite. “You seem on the edge of anger. What’s angering you? Not the boy, surely.”

  “Hmm.”

  Volt would not give the man the satisfaction of responding to an attempt at making conversation. The bundún killed for fun. At least Volt only killed when necessary or the King ordered him to.

  The King or Chief Magón. Does that make it better? he wondered.

  When the mead arrived, Volt poured each man at the table a cup and sat back to wait.

  Unlike when first entering the drinkery, he could now hear the scélaí talking about the incessant rains that flooded the world and the chosen whom the Creator saved by sending them to the highest point where the floods wouldn’t arrive. The patrons had quieted or left, the usual reaction to the arrival of Volt’s White Cloaks.

  ***

  This time, the seas were less turbulent.

  That didn’t make the Bull’s Head less threatening or less fear-provoking. If anything, the stillness gave it an edge, a silent menace. The gaping black doorway—more visible in the clearer sky—appeared carved from the rock of the bull’s snout; the horns were granite stacks, one on each side. Sharp mountains rising on the headland behind were holding up roiling grey clouds with intermittent streaks of blue. The gaping hole was still uninviting, except this time, the alabaster-skinned woman was standing with her hands on her hips with a floating dress billowing around her legs like a demon’s wind was blowing from within the rock, as if the Lord of Darkness was behind her, shouting encouragement with soundless words.

  The other red-eyed demon was there with the ruby. It was nearer this time, standing with a stave in the crook of its crossed arms and head tilted.

  I AM WAITING, SCAMP.

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  WE’RE WAITING, the female said from the hole. Despite the distance and the darkness behind, Scamp could see the detail of a figure through the cloth—the shadow of nipples and the darker vee where legs began. The jewels of womanhood which, heretofore held no interest for him.

  You’re chasing the wrong fox if you think that’ll work.

  Once again, neither of them had spoken, the words pressing into his mind behind his eyes, making his forehead bulge as though about to burst asunder. The same headache began to pulse.

  “Who are you?”

  It was the woman’s words that pressed into his mind.

  WE’RE THE FOUR. BUT YOU KNEW THAT. ALL IN THE KINGDOMS KNOW US.

  “There’s only two of you,” Scamp pleaded.

  YOU’VE SEEN THE OTHERS. IT IS USELESS PRETENDING OTHERWISE. ARCHU AND PLASGORTA ARE WITHIN, AS I THINK YOU KNEW.

  He knew the names well enough. Which child of the Kingdoms hadn’t heard of The Four? Marbh was Death. She didn’t have the appearance of Death unless Death was beautiful. She seemed to be more like Life on a diet lacking red meat despite the colour of her eyes.

  “You ain’t real. You’re scéal me Ma used to tell me so’s I’d sleep and let them at it.”

  The male’s words had a pouting tone.

  IS THAT SO?

  SHOULD I OFFER PROOF, CONCAIRE?

  The way she spoke made Scamp realise she wasn’t asking permission. There was no misunderstanding of the relationship between the two. It was Marbh who led. The words were like a planned ruse to make it all seem more… More what? he wondered. More real, except the Four were just a tale tied to the Fomorii and the Tuatha, beings of legend no more real than the Creator or Dhuosnos.

  “What proof is there?” Scamp shouted though he was sure they would hear him if he whispered during a gale. “You ain’t real.”

  AYE, MARBH. TELL HIM HOW TO SUMMON.

  DO YOU KNOW WHAT A PENTAGRAM IS?

  Scamp nodded. He had no recollection of how he knew, but he did.

  DRAW ONE USING THE BLOOD OF A VIRGIN AND CALL FOR DHUOSNOS. BE SURE TO REQUEST AN IFREANNACH. THE PHRASE IS, A THIARNA, TABHAIR DOM DIABHAL.

  “Cac. If it was that easy, we’d all be at it.”

  NO, BOY. ONLY A SUMMONER CAN SUMMON.

  “I’m no Summoner.”

  YOU ARE THE NEW SUMMONER, DESTINED TO FREE US FROM TECH DUINN. REPEAT THE WORDS TO ME NOW, IN YOUR DREAM.

  Scamp turned away as he repeated the words the woman told him. He had no trouble remembering. He’d never had trouble remembering. Like his fascination with fire, it seemed to be something he was born with.

  STAND AT THE PENTAGRAM’S POINT AND RECITE—

  “I don’t know any virgins,” he interrupted.

  The woman laughed.

  I THINK YOU DO. GO, NOW, TRY IT. GO…

  ***

  Scamp opened his eyes, and they started to water.

  “What’s that stink?” he asked, screwing up his face. If he’d eaten anything lately, he thought he would puke.

  “That’s Rosie, Boy. That sort of talk is apt to hurt her feelings, so it is. Ye should say yer sorry.” Scamp could hear laughter in her tone.

  Why did I come to her, he wondered, suspecting it wouldn’t be the last time.

  He felt disoriented but was sure the words came from the front. The ground was swaying no more than two hand spans below him, a pair of hooves clopping along a wooded path. “I’m tied to a donkey.”

  “Aye, Rosie, like I said.”

  Upthog’s words confused him. Despite murdering a couple of trackers and knocking him unconscious somehow, she seemed cheerful. He wasn’t sure how she’d knocked the sense out of him because she wasn’t carrying anything but a bow. The bow was sturdy but not heavy enough to send him to sleep. He’d felt pressure on the back of his neck, and that was it, but pressure from what?

  “You knocked me senseless and tied me to a donkey.”

  “Aye. There was no time for a long debate. Ye’d have got us both hanged.”

  “Where’d you get a donkey?”

  “Rosie’s mine. She’s the one I offered ye before.”

  “I guessed that. How’s she here, is what I meant.”

  “Ye’re too heavy to carry so far, no? So I went and got her. Tied ye so’s ye wouldn’t keep sliding off.”

  Scamp frowned. If anything, he was more confused than before he asked the question. It was not far from her glade, but collecting her donkey must have taken some time. He hadn’t been out for long enough, had he?

  But that was a question for later, “You going to let me up, now then?”

  “Not yet, Boy. I need answers first.”

  “What answers?”

  “Ye were shouting in yer sleep, demanding proof. Proof of what is me first question? And from whom is me second.”

  “Where’re you taking me?”

  “Back to the roundhouse. I need some stuff, and ye need yer bag. Now, answer the question, and I’ll tell ye more.”

  “Let me up. I’m gonna puke.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Cac on you. It was just a bad dream.”

  “Who were ye shouting at asking for proof?”

  Scamp hesitated before answering. He knew he would answer; it was just that it all seemed so babyish, dreaming about the Four and dark towers and all. “It was Marbh.”

  “I can’t hear, Boy.”

  “Marbh. Leader of the Four. Death. I wanted proof they’re real.”

  The donkey stopped, and Upthog crouched before him, pulling his head up by the hair. “Who else was there?”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Who, Boy?”

  “Concaire. She said Plasgorta and Archu were inside.”

  “Inside the Arena? Under the Bull’s Head?”

  “Aye. The rock looked a bit like a bull. Dunno where it’s supposed to be—but it’s just a dream.”

  “I already said there’s no such thing. Learn to listen, Boy.”

  She let his head fall against the donkey’s flanks, but not before he saw something unexpected on her face. Instead of the fear that should have been there, she was satisfied. It was as if she’d finally achieved a long-sought-after goal.

  “Come, we must prepare for our departure,” she said after a short walk, pulling him upright and cutting his bonds.

  Standing a little shakily, Scamp wasn’t surprised to see that they were back in the glade with her roundhouse.

  “Where’re we going?” Scamp asked, sure she would still refuse to answer.

  “He knows ye’ve arrived. the Four are coming for ye. We have to go to Sceine’s Cove.”

  “That’s a long way south. What’s there?”

  “Yer only hope. The last of the éigeas, Myrddin.”