“What’s the demon’s name?” Upthog asked.

  “What?” The question surprised him. They’d just eaten, and he was beginning to doze, aided by the stifling atmosphere. Frowning at her, he suspected Upthog had timed the question so it would surprise him.

  “Its name, what is it?”

  He could think of no reason to keep the demon’s name a secret, sure knowing the name would not give her power over it. Much of what he’d thought stories to scare dailtín with had proved true, but not that, surely. A name could not control anyone or anything, could it? Even the thought of it seemed ludicrous.

  “Bábdíbir,” he said.

  “Where is it now?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’m not a fool, boy. You have been speaking with it all morning.”

  She’s got that high and mighty voice again. Which is the real Upthog?

  Scamp knew the answer. Like mead, anger—misplaced or otherwise—was apt to remove facades. People forgot to act when their ire gained a foothold.

  Anger, and when she is delving into the past.

  “It was on the horse. I don’t know where it is now.”

  “Show yourself, Bábdíbir.”

  “It won’t—”

  “Be still, boy. Show yourself, demon.”

  Scamp hissed in a breath when he saw a shimmering in the air beside Upthog. He hadn’t believed Bábdíbir would show itself to her. The demon hadn’t even shown itself to him, its master. Slowly, the air solidified, and the haze took on the form of a monster with muddy red skin, like pottery from the deep south, and yellow eyes, which were at the same level as Scamp’s, even though he was sitting. He saw folded wings over the creature’s shoulders and—as it had intimated—two horns on its forehead, one beside the other, curling backwards over the crown of its head. The demon’s torso was muscular and hairy. Its arms ended in talons. Its legs were as thick as sturdy tree trunks.

  “There you are, Dhuosnos Spawn.”

  “Why are you so angry?” Scamp asked. “Bábdíbir saved your life. Saved both our lives.”

  “You might believe my anger to be wrong, Scamp, but that is because you know nothing about this creature.”

  “Oh, and you do?”

  “More than you could possibly imagine.”

  “She knows much demon lore. I told you. You cannot trust her,” the beast said in his head.

  “But he can trust you, Spawn? You and your master.”

  “You can hear it?”

  “It’s so loud they can probably hear it in Dún Ailinne.”

  “But it didn’t forge a bond with you.”

  “You don’t need a bond, Scamp. All you need to do is listen.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I wanted to see what its intentions are.”

  As she spoke, Upthog kept her eyes on Bábdíbir. Something in her face spoke of past experiences. What Scamp struggled with was how it could be possible. How could anyone alive have experienced demons?

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Not everything’s about you, boy.”

  “I’m the demon’s master. I called—”

  “If you believe that, there’s no hope for you. Dhuosnos sent the demon here. It’s here to do Darknesses’ bidding. You were nothing but the instrument. The crafter of the pentagram.”

  “Anyone could have drawn a pentagram,” Scamp said before remembering Marbh’s words: “Only a summoner can summon.” Can I believe those words?

  “You know that isn’t true,” Upthog said, glaring at him.

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  “It protected us from Nechtan,” Scamp said. Bábdíbir stood utterly still as if it were a statue. Even its eyes were unmoving. That level of self-control sent a shiver up his spine. Despite its size, it radiated power.

  “The beast is tasked with getting you to the Bull’s Head Arena. It will pretend to be your slave until then.”

  “And then what?”

  Scamp thought he knew what she would say. It didn’t make hearing the words any easier. “Then it will give you to the Four.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked, unsure there was anything she could do.

  Is she afraid of Bábdíbir?

  He thought it would be strange if Upthog feared anything. She seemed too strong for that type of emotion. But then she said she had experience of demons and perhaps knew fearing them would be healthy.

  “Me? For now, nothing. Only you can release the beast, Scamp.”

  Only you can release the beast, he mimicked in his head. Somehow, he’d known she would pass on the responsibility.

  Thinking, Scamp gazed over the plains at the lifeless grasses, the clouds of bugs, and the track where they had crossed, which would be evident to anyone who might be following them. Not a single cloud marred the azure sky. He could see a haze floating above the fire, realising that even burning smokeless wood, they were vulnerable to attack. Upthog was a strong woman and good with a bow, but she wasn’t a demon. She couldn’t drive a swarm of bees to their defence or have a beast of a bear rid them of enemies. At least most of their enemies. Some were just too stubborn to succumb to a bear.

  “I won’t release it. It will keep us alive,’ Scamp finally said. “While out on the plains, we need all the help we can get.”

  Watching Upthog’s reaction, he thought she concurred with him, being unsure how much truth was in his words. Did he really want Bábdíbir there for protection or because of the sense of power it gave him?

  “We’ll make for the road,” she said. “Demon, cloak yourself. Last thing we need is a mob of armed farmers chasing us.”

  ***

  Volt was leaning on the railing of the poop deck, staring at the waves rolling smoothly, unlike the norm for the Narrow Sea. They were near enough to Beal Feirste for seabirds to dive and grab food from unwary sailors. Maga stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes clouded by concentration, her cloak flapping in the stiff breeze.

  “We’ll be docking soon,” he said, unsure what else to say. “I feel steadier with a saddle under me.”

  “Aye, I know what you mean. Why south?” she asked.

  We’re going south because Mes is involved in this story, and he told me he was going south.

  “You said you thought Eochaid might have taken Connavar.” Maga nodded without speaking. “So, we start there.”

  “You mean to get in the eineach of Middle Kingdom’s King?”

  “I do. I can read faces. If I ask Eochaid straight, and he lies, I will know.”

  “Knowing won’t help if he lops your head off for your insolence.”

  Volt shrugged and rubbed his bristles. He didn’t want to tell Maga about his fears, not wanting to sound like a small child who was acting up because he felt someone got more meat at the Imbolc feast. Volt was as sure as could be Mes had returned from chasing Kathvar as a changed man. At the time, he thought it was stress. Kathvar disappeared when Mes arrived, Maga said, and that was when the King started acting strangely. Could it be a coincidence, or was it Mes who disappeared?

  Did the witch kill my First Warrior and take his place?

  He knew it was a ridiculous question—one there should be no need to ask. If the witch had swapped places, it would explain everything, perhaps even the gore outside the granary in Caer Droma. If Kathvar were a shape changer, then the improbable became the likely. Or if not likely, then at least possible. Before Maga arrived in the hostel in Lúr Cinn Trá, Volt hadn’t believed in shape-changing, but he trusted the warrior and now had no choice but to accept. Besides her stolid character, he could think of no reason for her to lie.

  And if shape-changing was real, what else?

  Legend says shape changers are witches, so if he’s a witch, why not a shape changer?

  Mes—the real Mes—had implied as much in Caer Droma’s hostel. The boy agreed. Volt no longer knew if he disagreed.

  “Fachta, since when did you groom like that?” Maga called into the ship’s belly.

  Her son was with the Leathdhosaen, caring for the mounts before they disembarked in East Kingdom’s main port. The warrior waved, grinned, and then carried on as before, brushing the horse against the direction of hair growth.

  A horse warrior who doesn’t know how to groom a horse, Volt thought, shaking his head.

  “Gul, show him how, then give him a clout,” Maga called. The Leathdhosaen’s First Warrior did as his commander instructed, and Fachta went and sat on a barrel in a sulk. “It’s time to grow some magairlí, son.”

  Volt shook his head and wondered why he missed leading a troop of horse warriors. He hoped this troop would be capable for the times ahead. Before long, they would be on the road riding for the capital and a confrontation with King Eochaid and after, who knew what. One thing he did know was it would be a hard road; a road requiring warriors capable of withstanding hard knocks. Maga said she hand-picked them so he would trust her for now. Her boy, though, might be there because of some misplaced sense of loyalty.

  “You say Fachta can handle a sword?”

  “It don’t seem so, him sulking there under the gunnels, but aye, he can. You sure confronting the King’s the right way?”

  Volt nodded. Maga might worry that the King would be offended and order his execution, but Volt was not. From what he knew of Middle Kingdom’s ruler, Eochaid would have much more interest in moulding the situation to his advantage, as he had during the witch hunts when he allowed Kathvar a free hand to hunt witches.

  “You met Eochaid before?” she asked.

  Volt hesitated a moment before answering. Her ability to divine what he was thinking was something he’d noticed before. It didn’t raise any questions when it happened occasionally, but Maga was doing it constantly. She’d done it even before he confronted Connavar’s impostor.

  “How do you do that?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking about when I met Eochaid. How did you know?”

  Maga laughed and took hold of his forearm, squeezing it. “Paranoia ain’t your best trait, Volt. I’ve known you a long time, and it’s easy to guess what’s on your mind.”

  Volt shook his head and turned back to the sea. There was a difference between reading someone’s emotions and reading their thoughts. Really, though, he couldn’t summon the will to argue about it.