Bec

It’s clear the twins like the idea of journeying with the druid and facing extra dangers and demons. They’re young and bloodthirsty. They care more about notching up kills than the welfare of the clan.

“I’m of two minds,” Fiachna mutters. “Our people will think the worst if we’re gone too long. Perhaps one or two of us should go back. Bec, for instance.

I’m about to protest but before I can, Drust does it for me. “No!” he snaps with unexpected force. “If you stay, the girl stays. Her powers might come in useful. She’s weak and undisciplined but I can work with her. She’d be an asset.”

“Co

Held by the spell, Co

“And if hordes of demons attack by day?” Fiachna says softly. “More powerful than any we’ve fought so far? Organised, brutal, unkillable?”

“Why should we believe that?” Co

“The ring of stones and the church,” I remind him. I shouldn’t involve myself in this without being invited to share my thoughts, but I can’t keep quiet. “We’ve seen the work of clever, cu

Co

“It would be a great honour,” Fiachna says wryly. “If Drust succeeds, and we play a part in that success, we’ll be hailed as heroes throughout the four provinces.”

That’s the clincher for Co

“Very well,” Co

Goll nods reluctantly. “Then it’s decided.”

“I thought it might be,” Drust says with a self-satisfied smirk. Then he turns his attention to the meat boiling in the water and adds a few more hot stones to keep the heat constant.

POTENTIAL

A quiet night. No attacks. The demons think everyone here is dead, so they’ve no reason to bother with the cra

Fiachna searches the village for a forge, smith’s tools or other weapons like Bran’s knife but he doesn’t find any. The rest of us go on a quick search too, for weapons or food. We kill the remaining chickens, take the eggs they’ve laid and some slabs of cured pork. But there’s little else worthwhile.

We’re ready to go but Drust says he needs to pray first. He finds a place where he can face the rising sun, then kneels, closes his eyes and meditates.

“How long will he be?” Co

“Five or ten minutes.” Actually, I don’t have a clue but I don’t want to look ignorant in front of Co

“Time enough for a quick shave,” Co

Bran—it’s hard not to think of him as Run Fast—watches Co

Bran holds the hairs up proudly, gri

The rest of us fall about with laughter. We know Co

Bran edges up to me, timidly holding out the hairs. “Giblets,” he says, handing them over. I give the boy a delighted hug. Goll claps him hard on the back—the old warrior is crying with laughter.

“I’d keep him out of Co

“Don’t worry,” I grin, squeezing Bran tight. “I’ll look after him.”

“Giblets,” Bran repeats, stroking the hairs fondly, as if they were petals, making us all laugh again.

Shortly after the sun rises, Drust stops praying and we depart. Bran trots along beside us, unaware of the scowling Co

I study Bran as he jogs, smiling at the countryside, squinting up at the sky and birds, perfectly content. I assume he had family and friends in the cra

Heading due west, we make good time. After a while Drust drops back and walks beside me, nudging Bran out of the way. The druid asks lots of questions about my past, Banba, my training. He wants to know what I can do, how powerful I am. He sneers when I tell him about my remarkable memory—that doesn’t interest him. When he asks about my family, I tell him I’m an orphan of unknown origin.

“You’ve no idea who your people were?” he presses.

“No.” I pause. “Do you?”

He frowns. “Why should I?”

I shrug, not wishing to tell him about my vision and the possibility that my mother might have been sending me out to find my original clan.

Drust continues asking about my magic, what spells I know, where my strengths lie. His enquiries fill me with unease. They shouldn’t. It’s natural for a magician to be interested in the abilities of another. But this doesn’t feel like simple curiosity. He seems to be testing me, probing for weaknesses. I recall what he said back in the hut—“You’ll do”—and worry burns in my stomach like a fire.

At midday we take a short rest. Drust sits slightly apart from the rest of us. Instead of eating, he pulls a board out of the bag which he carries on his back. A strange board, the surface divided into an equal number of black and white squares. It’s the thickness of the length of my thumb, made of crystal. He sets it down on the ground, then spills small, carved shapes out on to the grass. When he starts to position the pieces on the board, I realise it’s some sort of game.

“Chess,” Orna says as Drust moves the first piece.