Page 147 of Blood & Claw

What can you see?

A voice, croaky and slightly irritated, intruded upon her mind.

She turned, tearing her gaze from the fort, to find a large raven observing her from a snowy branch.

Eagal had once been the Raven Queen’s companion.

He’d sat on Mor’s shoulder and advised her. But she was dead now. She’d fallen five years earlier in the North, sucked into The Threshold. Mor’s cousin, the Elk King Vyrnek, ruled the north of Albia now, but Eagal hadn’t joined him. Instead, to Fern’s surprise, the raven had sought her out, and for the past couple of years, he’d followed her like a shadow.

All is quiet, she replied, huffing a frustrated breath. No sign of an execution, at least. I’d wager they’re still alive.

That is good news.

Another voice echoed inside her mind, low and rough.

She glanced behind her to where a large roan stallion stood.

Rùn. Dale—no, Darach’s—horse.

She had encountered him at dawn that morning. The stallion had been panicked, lathered with sweat, and it had taken time to calm him. But when her hand stroked his shoulder, their minds had touched, and he had told her what happened—that Darach, Ailsa, and the woman they’d tried to rescue had been captured.

The depth of what he knew did not surprise her. The Marav never understood that the animals who served them comprehended far more than they realized.

“Don’t get your hopes up too much, lad,” she murmured aloud, stepping back from the cliff and resting a hand on Rùn’s warm neck. “Your friend may not be alive for much longer.”

She frowned, recalling what she had learned from the stallion. He had been with Darach—aye, she’d learned his real name—for a few years, and the warrior liked to speak to his horse. Rùn had heard at length of how he’d tried to kill his brother, and the retaliation that followed. He’d witnessed the fights with the sellswords his brother sent after him, and Darach’s foolish choice to be tattooed by that rogue tattooist in Troon.

The riddle of the man traveling with Ailsa finally made sense—his smell had the deep musk of a feral cat—although the lass herself was still a bit of a mystery. Rùn had told her how Ailsa fought using her nails, and of the bloodthirsty urges that sometimes seized her. But he had no explanation for any of it.

Your master has gotten himself into a right mess, she touched the stallion’s mind once more. One that neither you nor I can untangle him from.

And what of the lass? Eagal asked.

She’s a tattooist, like the woman she was searching for. Whoever rules this fort has a purpose for them both.

Fern had noted the heavily tattooed warriors guarding the walls and gates earlier. Many were grotesquely muscled, even for Marav males.

Something was wrong about this place.

Wrong about all of it.

And she was eager to learn more.

Fern had always been curious—her mother had told her it was a curse—and after leaving Ailsa and Darach’s company, instead of making her way to Golval Barrow as she’d told them, she’d doubled back and tracked their path into The Goatfells.

They’d admitted they were hunting the men who’d attacked her, ones who’d abducted someone dear to Ailsa.

Fern couldn’t let that go.

She sighed then. Maybe I should go south to Duncrag and tell Alar and Lara about this.

You could, Eagal replied, his tone disapproving, although you shouldn’t meddle in Marav matters. You forget you are one of the Shee. You should be with your own people. Vyrnek needs you.

Fern bit back an irritated retort. It was an old argument. The raven was loyal to the Shee and had no patience for the Marav. Not surprising. He had served Mor loyally, and the Raven Queen had despised the mortal kind.

Fern had once shared her queen’s view.

But that was before she’d spent time with her brother here. Half Marav, half Shee, Alar had surprised her in many ways. She had traveled with mortals, fought alongside them, and along the way, Fern had understood her prejudice was hollow.