The cave mouth faced east, so when the sun broke the distant horizon, it almost immediately eased the chill of the desert night air. Bee stood and rolled her shoulders to loosen the stiffness. Finn’s bedroll was empty, and she assumed he’d moved around the mountain a little to find some privacy. The corpses of the assassins were still where they’d fallen, which wasn’t a given considering where they came from—someone or something else could have arrived and removed them. Not that there’d been any further activity from the cave. Bee’d spent all night mulling over who sent the women through the portal, and the hole in the mountainside had been devoid of slapping noises. Now, with the tooth bathed in morning light, she felt a little better, if somewhat tired. The more she thought about it, the further she seemed to get from an answer, but with the warmth, the lack of an answer became a challenge instead of a worry. The only conclusion Bee had reached was that the arrival of the women at the cave was not a coincidence. Bren’s coming, An Dagda sending Finn and her, and the two dead women—had to be connected. The first and the last were definitely linked, and Bee couldn't see the middle being any different. In her experience, there was no such thing as coincidence in real life; the Fáithe always made sure things happened for a reason.

  Now it’s light, I’ll look for clues.

  Entering the cave, she knelt to study any sign the Fae women might have left. Apart from scuff marks in the dust, there was a single bow and a quiver of arrows behind a rock from where the archer must have loosed her arrows. One bow explained why there was only one shot at a time, something she’d fretted over during the night. Two arrows coming together would have been much more likely to succeed.

  We were lucky they weren’t both carrying bows, she said to herself, picking up the bow and quiver.

  But then, considering it, she realised it wasn’t luck. They were evidently Neit’s Maidens, women who often formed pairs, each with their skill—an archer with a swordmaster, a tracker with a scout. They usually became lovers, too. Returning to the bodies, she walked over and stared down at the first to die, Ebui, the other one called her. The Maiden lay on her back, glassy eyes staring at the new morning sky. Dried blood and flies covered her mouth, the buzzing a constant noise that Bee hadn’t identified until she stood over the dead woman and the insects rose in a cloud.

  “Who sent you?” Bee asked, crouching beside the body. There was a tattoo of a swallow behind the elongated ear on the side nearest to her—confirming her suspicions. She tried to turn the head to look behind the other ear, but the body was rigid with death stiffness.

  “You don’t need to look. There’s one on the other side, too,” Finn said as he jumped down from the ledge. The most advanced Maidens wore two swallow tattoos. “Before you ask, the other one has two, too.”

  “Ye were up early, it seems.”

  “Aye. Always rise with the sun. Summat to do with coming from a line of trackers, I reckon.”

  “A line?”

  “Aye. Da was a tracker, as was his Da. Probably his Da too. Though I don’t rightly know about the last if I’m being truthful. Might have been a pig farmer.”

  “What were Neit’s Maidens doing in the Fae Realm?” Bee mused. “They should be with the Whitehead sitting atop Slíabh Culinn.”

  “Some of our more illustrious masters use them as guards—especially between Scourges. It’s a couple of centuries since the last—”

  “A couple of centuries. Are ye sure?” Bee interrupted, feeling her chin where the stitches should have been. Instead, she felt a ridge of raised flesh.

  Should have looked in a glass, she thought. Not that she’d had any time for vanity. The God had hurried her through the gate. She only just had time to breathe, never mind looking at herself in a mirror.

  “Aye. More or less two hundred summers. Why?”

  “It just seems so recent,” she said, lamely, she thought. “So, what about the Maidens acting as guards?”

  “It’s a status thing, I reckon. Having them around with their swallows and their swords. Especially the more illustrious like the symbology of it all.”

  “Any idea who might have hired these two?” Finn shrugged and turned to look over the inlet before spitting in the dust.

  “They weren’t very good for Two-Swallow Maidens,” he said. “Lucky for us.”

  Bee shook her head. None of it was good fortune or bad. Neit’s Maidens were highly trained warriors, even those with only one tattoo, and the ease with which these two died didn’t sit right with her. She suspected someone sent the Maidens through on an errand, and they were no doubt surprised by the presence of a couple sitting around a roasting hare. Whoever sent them knew Bee and Finn were travelling but expected them to have been long gone.

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  “We took them unawares,” she said, thinking about the hissed argument she’d heard from the cave. They’d been arguing about how to proceed. “We shouldn’t have been here, and then the heat hex threw them some more.”

  “How so?”

  “They arrived two days after me. They expected us to be long gone.”

  “So, they weren’t sent after us?”

  “No, their mission was another. When they found us here at the cave, they decided to act. Maybe because waiting for us to leave would have delayed them. I’m guessing they didn’t know who we were when one of them loosed that first arrow.”

  “In a hurry and thinking us strangers and human?” he asked with a shudder.

  “Aye. Night time. No light except that from the fire. No idea we were Fae. Probably thought we were worshippers from Bacca. Me heat hex would have changed that, only adding to their confusion.”

  “All right. That makes sense.”

  “How long is it to reach the ferry?” she asked, despite already knowing.

  “What, you ain't goin’ ta use Earth Power?”

  “Apart from the interest such a surge would inevitably create, moving the physical from one location to another is something only the Gods can do. The surge of power needed for such a feat would kill me.”

  “Pity,” Finn said. “It’s about a league of slog through soft sand. Half a day, all going well. Hope you brought a clean undershirt. You’ll need it when we get there.”

  “So, if we go now, we’ll get the evening sailing,” Bee said, ignoring his attempt at humour.

  “Aye. What do you want to do with these two?”

  “Leave them. The wolves can have them.”

  “The wolves won’t come on the mountain. Scared–or wary–of the cave, I reckon.”

  “I thought ye said they’re silent hunters? Don’t move yer bedroll too far from the fire, ye said.”

  “Did I? Can’t imagine why I’d say that. Must have been in shock.”

  ***

  As Finn had said, the trek to the ferry port was a hard slog. Climbing dunes with the sand shifting underfoot was never easy. Doing it during the blistering heat of a desert morning put it at another level. When the sun reached its zenith and the heat was the worst she’d ever experienced, Bee suggested they halt and wait for twilight. They could camp on the shores of the Sáilín and take the boat in the morning.

  “There’s not much to go,” Finn said. “A hard push, and we’ll meet the ferry.”

  Bee would have argued, but their master had stressed how pressing it was for her to find Brenós, so she let it drop. Saying nothing, she nodded, and they pressed on. It was a further hour of struggle before the sand became wet and firm, lapped by the gentle swell, and they turned north to head for the ferry port.

  When they arrived at the pier, the ship’s master was already casting off.

  “Keep yer hood up,” Bee said, suspecting that if the sailor knew they were Fae, he would try to fleece them, and she wasn’t in the mood.

  “Just in time, youse are,” the man said with a frown, eyeing the bow slung over Bee’s shoulder.

  “How much?”

  “This one’ll tell yuh, seein’ as he’s been on the Sáilín Bridge twice in three days.”

  “A silver each, I reckon,” Finn said, jumping aboard and waiting for Bee to open her purse.

  “The Sáilín Bridge?” she asked in a hushed voice as soon as they were underway.

  “Aye. Man’s got ideas way too big for his little boat. More of a rickety old tree fallen across a stream than a bridge.”

  Their crossing was uneventful. When they arrived at the settlement of Bacca, Bee wasted no time heading into the teeming streets to find a hostel. The night would soon be shrouding the land in darkness. They needed to buy horses and supplies, so they couldn’t begin the onward journey until the next day. She supposed their route was south. If Brenós were seriously searching for the sage, eventually, he would head for Indber Sceine. An Dagda told her to head for the Great Forest to recruit the Whitehead and her Maidens, but Bee was no longer convinced it was a wise choice. Having no idea who the dead women were working for, they could not trust the Whitehead—there was a gate in her fortress, after all. The Whitehead could be in and out of the Fae Realm at whim. It was a severe blow because she thought the search for Bren would be far easier with two thousand Maidens at her disposal.

  “The Boiled Cock is probably the least disreputable place in Bacca,” Finn said, adding, “As in a male fowl,” when Bee raised an eyebrow.

  “I heard all the hostels here are best avoided.”

  “Aye. I don’t disagree. But when your choice is limited, what can you do?”

  The Boiled Cock turned out to be as bad as Bee’d feared. They got a room and, after seeing its state, decided to spend the night beside the firepit, drinking mead and feeling sorry for themselves. A few Fae were in the room, but most of the revellers were human and drunk. The tables were in deep shadows, and Bee felt uncomfortable because she couldn't see those making all the noise.

  “Don’t look now,” Finn said around his mead cup, “but there’s an ugly whoreson over in the corner who can’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Fae?”

  “No. Definitely human. Judging by the flowery nature of his lugs, used to be, or still is, a ring fighter.”

  Bee had to fight the urge to turn and look. Although she’d never met one, she’d heard of the ring fighters, men who’d batter each other bloody for money, surrounded by a ring of warriors bearing shields. The ring—hence the name—would force them to remain within until one of the fighters knocked the other senseless. Apparently, the crowd would lay wagers on who would prevail.

  “Is he feeling amorous, d’ye think?” she asked.

  “No. Wait now. He’s seen we’re talkin’ about him. He’s coming over. Ain’t looking too pleased, either.”

  Turning, Bee watched the brute approach. She’d thought Finn was exaggerating when he said the man’s ears were flowery. The reality was the tracker had understated. The man’s face was scarred and pockmarked. His nose was so badly crushed it was hard to distinguish it from the rest of his face. He wore a leather vest, and his arms were bare. Bee didn’t think she’d ever seen arms as big, except on a demon.

  “Can I help ye?” she asked as the brute arrived at their table.

  “Well, now, that’d be something I might consider,” he said in a surprisingly cultured voice. “What I think, though, is we might benefit from each other.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s my guess, we’re both looking for your brother, Brenós.”