Sitting on the throne at the back of the arena, Marbh frowned and stared at the pentagram in the floor’s centre. She’d been called… they’d been called… from their cells—one through each of the Arena’s arches—by the witch who claimed Dhuosnos had sent for him. It annoyed her to be at the whim of this man, but there was no choice. They needed him to call the Lord of Darkness. She wondered why they couldn’t talk directly, and not for the first time, despite their Master telling her it was an element of Danu’s pact with the Creator, one of the checks they placed on the Four to ensure scourges were not too frequent, not too successful. It was all nonsense. Humankind decreed when a scourge would come by their excesses, and restricting Dhuosnos played no part in that, or, at least, should play no part.

  Danu and the Creator made a pact and never deviated, but is it still valid?

  History had repeated itself for millennia, but this time was different. The Master was weaker than he’d ever been, which meant they, too, were vulnerable because, like every magic user, they derived their power from him. Life’s patterns continually morphed into something new; therefore, so should the pacts the Creator and Danu, the mother of the Tuatha, made, or so Marbh thought.

  Is Dhuosnos losing control?

  Each scourge weakened him, and he would remain in a state of semi-hibernation until the time approached for a new one. When the time drew near, Dhuosnos’s Coven would begin channelling Earth Power to rebuild his strength. This time, the King of North Kingdom’s hunts had stopped the witches just when the Master should have been returning to full strength and releasing the Four into the Kingdoms hunt for the Summoner. Without the Four searching together, there was a huge chance they would fail. Concaire’s discovery of a Summoner in Caer Scál was nothing more than a lucky twist of fate.

  Frowning at the thought, Marbh watched the witch as he chanted and stirred the contents of his foul-smelling cauldron. “Can you summon the Master with only three here?” she asked.

  The witch ignored her.

  This one needs someone to put him in his place.

  “Did you not hear me? I spoke to you. Answer me or face the consequences.”

  When he lifted his head, she frowned. There was such malice in his eyes she felt something about him was out of place. Instead of the fear he should show her as leader of Dhuosnos’s vassals, he was disdainful. Despite realising it made her seem weak, she repeated the question.

  “There are four,” the witch hissed his attention back on his cauldron.

  “Concaire is not here,” Marbh said, shaking her head and feeling her powerlessness in the face of this man. If he were not the last witch, he would feel her wrath. She would give Plasgorta a new human femur to whittle on.

  Or is he aware of our weakness? Is that what emboldens him?

  “We are but three,” she tried again.

  “No, I’ve returned,” Concaire said from the doorway.

  He was leaning against the carved-stone archway that marked the stairs to the outside, grinning at her, staff in hand. Conquest was supposed to embody stern fatherliness, not boyish cheek and mischief. She shook her head and raised her eyebrows at the others in the Arena.

  “Are you not supposed to be out bringing the Summoner here?” Archu asked.

  That is an astute question, Marbh thought. The Master is so weak that he has the strength to support only one of us out there, and he chose this infantile specimen.

  “For now, I’m unable to reach him. He’s too far. There are those working to bring him nearer. As well as some working to keep him away, I suspect.”

  “So, what have you been doing?” Marbh asked with a frown. Because of his weakness, the Master had to keep his servant near the tower. He selected Concaire because he could float free of his physical self, invade the dreams of humankind, and use that power to coax the boy to Bull’s Head.

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  “Using your likeness to tempt him nearer.”

  “My likeness?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “He’s a lad of an age where the lure of flesh tends to be too much to resist.” Marbh frowned, and Archu chuckled. “So, I showed him a leg and the shadow of a nipple and, using your sweet, irresistible voice, told him to call a demon.”

  “You are insufferable,” Marbh said and then laughed.

  “Soon,” the witch said before Concaire could spit out the clever riposte she saw building in his eyes.

  The single word had an effect that never failed to astound Marbh. The Four wasted no time assuming their positions around the pentagram. It was a mixture of an overriding need to please and fear of causing anger. Dhuosnos’s temper was short and crossing him was best avoided.

  The witch turned his back on them, and Marbh closed her eyes to await the pressure that would indicate the arrival of the Master. When it came, she shuddered. Despite the millennia, she still could not get used to the heaviness pressing down on her head, on her shoulders, on her entire body, like the weight of some monstrous demon. It was as if The Four were trying to hold up the Master’s weight by force of will.

  She saw their eyes even though hers were closed.

  I called you here because there is reason for caution.

  Dhuosnos’’s voice echoed through her head.

  “Caution, Master?” she asked.

  When you last called me, I was distracted by Concaire’s news about the Summoner and forgot to tell you to be aware of a new power. You especially, Concaire.

  Marbh heard the others hiss in a breath. A new power might explain why the Master was unable to protect the Coven as fully as he had in the past, which led to their executions. Some escaped, but they were few and only the most adept.

  “Which power, Master?”

  When the hunts began, I was at my weakest. Someone, or something perhaps, knew it. They attacked the Coven because they know it is my most vulnerable point, and without the witches, I could not regain my strength. I suspect there is something afoot because apart from the Creator and a select few Tuatha, no one is aware of the weakness.

  Again, Marbh heard the others hiss in a breath.

  “Could it not have been one of the witches, Master? They were aware.”

  Marbh felt a surge of anger pressing against the inside of her skull. White light flashed behind her eyes, and she thought her head might split open. She felt the Master’s anger as waves of white heat pulsing through her. She thought her head would explode as his voice thundered through it.

  I created the witches. They are loyal to me. Do you think I would create creatures who would turn on me? Are you turning on me, Marbh?

  “Sorry, Master, I meant no offence.”

  Answer the question. Are you turning on me?

  “No, Master. Forgive me.”

  So intense had the pressure become that she felt like puking. Never before had Marbh felt such anger from the Master. It was as though he was threatened by this new power. With the thought, the pain became so intense that she fell to her knees.

  I am the Lord of Darkness. Nothing threatens me. Not even the Creator.

  With difficulty, Marbh cleared her head of thoughts, and slowly, the pain lessened. Eventually, she was able to drag herself back to her feet. She could feel sweat beading on her top lip and in the small of her back.

  What news of the boy, Concaire?

  “There’s nothing, Master. It’s as if some power is holding him back. I have shown myself to him. I have even shown him how to summon, but still, he lingers near Caer Scál.”

  However, the boy did summon a demon.

  “Then he should come soon, Master,” Marbh said. “Will the demon not bring him?”

  Perhaps not. It is a small creature, Bábdíbir. The boy’s pentagram was so small I could only manage a little one. Bábdíbir will grow as it nears, so we must bring the boy closer and quickly.

  “Can the demon not coax him here?”

  I doubt Bábdíbir has made itself known to the boy. It is timid. Small and timid. No, we must rely on the usual methods to get him here.

  “Yes, Master,” Marbh said.

  Of more import, however, someone is using power—lots of power. So much, in fact, it is draining the last vestiges of my strength. Normally, I would welcome such enterprise because it would guarantee my release, but I am sure this time, it will not. It feels wrong. I created the witches, but this magic does not stem from any who remain—it is a new source and worries me. Concaire, you must fly and discover who it is.

  “Yes, Master.”

  Treat finding the source of magic as your priority. My other… My other resource will concentrate on the boy.

  After returning to her cell, Marbh sat on her throne and wondered what was happening. For the Master to talk of another resource was a hard tincture to swallow. As far as she could recall, Dhuosnos had never used another to aid him. His Four had always been enough.

  Except there was another time when we had help, she remembered with a frown.