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“Bring a mop and bucket. Sounds like a good idea.” I rose and dusted off my hands from the pine needles and dirt. “We should stop in the Fómhar territory. I might have a friend who can help us.”

The three of them exchanged looks.

“Ard Tiarna Brittle Spear was a . . . friend.” That was right, wasn’t it? A friend?

Violet rose and set a gentle, porcelain hand on my forearm. “Lamb, I’m sorry to be the one that breaks this to you, but Ard Tiarna Brittle Spear was executed for the attempted assassination of the Ard Rí. If he was your friend, he is your friend in magic only now. He has returned to the well he was born from.”

I smiled at Violet. “We shall see.”

Green Man proved an excellent navigator. Moving us through the forest until he felt sure the villagers of Havenhome would not find us before eventually moving to the packed earth of the roads. Sometimes, we hazarded a ride on a cart here and there. Questions were never asked of us, and we never had to lie. I paid with a bead for their silence, keeping the ones the Bandrui had pointed out as different to myself.

We were exhausted by the time we found the ten thatch-roofed buildings, having walked for three days without seeing anyone else.

“This is the Crossroads,” Green Man whispered from our hiding spot behind a bush.

“A little on the nose, eh?”

“Sometimes the Fae don’t bother with fun names for things they’d rather forget.” He looked back at the two-story building standing directly in the center of the four roads like a spider in the middle of its web. “It’s no man’s land. Veer off in one direction and it’s the Fómhar territory, and the other direction is the Dúluachair. You get the idea. Four courts’ borders. And all of them have deemed one inn and its collection of houses as the single place of neutrality between them. They want to forget it exists because none of them have absolute power here.”

“Sounds like some Fae bullshit.” I rose from my crouch and clucked to Goose who snapped into a solid shaggy form of an Irish wolfhound. We’d been working on his transitional forms, getting him better at crafting a convincing dog. “Mud too, buddy. You’re too clean.”

Goose huffed his disappointment. He’d been a cat’s body long enough to become fastidious and was always taking our breaks from walking to clean himself. He flopped onto the ground and began rolling and rubbing in the dirt.

“I’ll go in, send a message to the Fómhar, and tell them to send Brittle Spear to the Crossroads. I’ll wait three days. You have enough stores to last until then. If you see trouble, run. If I’m not back in three days, run. If anything at all happens—”

“Yes, we get it. Run. Stay safe. Stay hidden. We know the drill by now.” Violet crossed her porcelain arms over her chest and glared at me. “What about you?”

“I’ve got iron to protect me. If someone wants to get froggy? Well, they can fucking jump.” I winked.

“That makes no sense. Frogs are cowards, they run away the moment you get close to them.” Green Man scowled into the words.

“It’s an expression.” I rolled my eyes. “It means I’m ready to fight if anyone wants to test me.”

I left them with Goose at my side, a secret doubt twisting in my stomach. Would I see them again? Was I being foolish and leaving them as sitting ducks? I worried my bottom lip as I made the trek up to the door of the Crossroads Inn. Each side of the building had its own door, pointed out into the direction of the road that it faced.

I hesitated at the door, doubt eating at my courage. Goose turned his head up to me and then rammed it into my hip.

“Fine!” I snapped at him and pushed into the inn to send my message to Ard Tiarna Brittle Spear and hope that our interlude had endeared some sense of loyalty.

Chapter 15

Ard Tiarna Emrys of Breacadh an Lae, The Raven of the Dawn

The thunder of giant hooves against the rough stonework of the barbican gatehouse drew me up from my inspection of a cartload of fabrics coming into the palace in preparation for the ball. I had taken over the regular guard’s shift, hoping that with the influx of new Fae from all over Magh Meall I might catch some hint at her whereabouts. If she was truly alive, perhaps one of them would have some morsel of information for me to pursue. It was a foolish errand—foolish and desperate, but it was all I had.

The court had employed enough seamstresses and tailors that a city of grand pavilions were now occupying both the inner and outer baileys, keeping my soldiers from their drills and duties. The strain of the additional Fae teeming around the palace had given me more than one headache, and I was glad to have found an excuse to slip past the walls and into the more open air of the barbican.

Even if it was just to check the caravan of supplies streaming in to feed the hive.

Silvertree was grinning down at me from the back of his leggy hobbe pony. She was his favorite, and he took every opportunity to bring her out scouting. She spun on her back legs, tossing her head and whinnying at the urge to ride hard in the forests again.

I waved the merchant on and reached out to gently lay a hand on the horse’s short muzzle. “Easy Venom, easy.” I crooned, drawing my hand up her snout and petting at the sides of her neck as Silvertree slid down.

“You. Me. Corner. Now,” he barked through exhausted breaths.

“You’re not my type, Silvertree,” I grunted as Venom settled and leaned into my hand, idly nipping at the air as I scratched her neck.

“I’ll be your type before the end of the day.”