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“General.” The woman spoke over him. Still frustratingly calm. Unfazed. “It is all right. He is Duinedon—mortal. He does not understand.” Then her gaze swung to him, and if he hadn’t been sitting, his knees would have buckled at the weight and power in her limitless black eyes. I know you hear me. And I know in your heart you see the truth of my words. The men of Caithness have long been friends of the Fey.
Cam almost bolted out of his chair. It was her voice. But in his head. He looked wildly from the general to Eddis. Neither one seemed the least bit concerned. Couldn’t they hear her? Or was she poking into his brain alone. This can’t be happening. I’m losing my mind.
No, not your mind. But you do walk a razor-thin path that will lead you further into darkness do you not turn aside.
Had this woman been talking to his aunt and uncle? He’d had enough carping from them to last a lifetime. Sober up, boy. Look at yourself. Remember your name. Your position.
His gaze narrowed, anger making him face her without flinching. Don’t talk to me of things you know nothing about.
She is dead, Sinclair. And the war is over. You can begin again. Or is that what you fear?
This was crazy. He tried ignoring the voice, but it was insistent. He’d swear it was a drunken hallucination except he was stone-cold sober. Unfortunately.
He shook his head, trying to clear the snaky feeling of having her there. Seeing things he’d hidden from everyone. But fighting it only made his temples throb. A sharp pain lanced the space behind his eyes.
“Scathach, why don’t you tell the lack-wit what’s going on?” The general’s voice when it came—overloud after the soft vibration of the mind-speech Cam had been focused on—startled him back to the present. “He mayn’t believe, but he’ll sit for it”—he shot Cam a warning glance—“if I have to bind him to his chair.”
Shaken and still refusing to acknowledge the woman’s power, Cam decided to humor the general. The man had suffered enough in the last few months. Not one but two sons killed in Belgium. Another lost in the early days of the war. It was no wonder he’d cracked.
Mayhap Cam had cracked as well. He’d been riding close to the edge for months now, he’d not be surprised if he’d started to hear voices.
The woman—Scathach the general called her—closed her eyes as if summoning patience before she spoke. “Have you heard of the Other, a race of mortals bearing Fey and human traits?”
“My grandfather told me stories.”
Your seanair knew the old ways. It is not his fault he could not make you accept them as true. Times have changed. And the mortal world has moved beyond us. And we have let them.
There she was again. This time, he gave in. Let the words wash over him. It didn’t hurt so much that way.
“They are more than stories,” she said aloud. “The Order of Amhas-draoi is home to many of these. Men and women trained in weapons and magic. Bound to protect both realms; Fey and Duinedon.”
“Does anyone else realize how insane this sounds?” He looked around for support.
“You would not be the first to deny our existence. But belief will make your task easier.”
“And what is my task? Dragon slaying? Virgin rescuing? Mayhap pulling a sword from a stone?” Cam looked from Pendergast to Eddis waiting for them to laugh and begin the real meeting. But both men were grim-faced. Not a chuckle between them.
She ignored his mocking tone. “You know of Neuvarvaan, the great sword belonging to the warrior-goddess Andraste.”
Cam shrugged. “I know the legend. The sword’s touch gives immortality.”
“The tale has been twisted like so much of our history. It requires more than a touch to gain the gift of undying. Neuvarvaan must deliver the ending stroke. The wound that kills. And it must be done in accordance with the laws of the Fey. But ’tis not just undying the sword bestows, but great strength. Agility. Speed. All skills a soldier would covet. Any army would long for.”
“You’re telling me the soldiers were killed with this sword?”
“Aye. Someone wields it. Someone who knows the truth of its power but does not fully understand how to harness it. These deaths were his attempts at mastering the weapon. Experiments, to put it crudely.”
“It’s Fey legend,” Cam argued. “A faery story.” He stood up. Enough was enough. “If this is your way of showing your displeasure at my work, General, I’ve got it.”
“General Pendergast,” the woman snapped. Her first hint of annoyance. Her first hint of any emotion, for that matter, “you told me this man would do what we asked. No questions.”
“He questions everything. But he knows his duty. And he’ll do what the army asks of him. For king and country.”
Sinclair felt the sting of the general’s reprimand even through his anger.
For king and country.
Words he’d lived by for over fifteen years. Words he’d clung to for the last seven when everything else had gone to hell.
