To Save a Lost Soul: Tales from the Tiarna Beo, #3

By Tara Saunders

Breag's quiet life as a famly man is endangered when loyalty to a friend drives him to travel North again. Will his family be safe without him there to protect him? Or will the secrets he uncovers in Tearmann ruin everything he has worked so hard to build?

• Language: English
• Publisher: StormChild Books
• Release date: Jul 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393340096

Book preview

1

Dara

Dara didn’t expect to be seasick.

This wasn’t how the adventure stories said it was going to be. A special boy or girl pulled from nothing to save the world – that’s how it worked in the tales.

She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her borrowed dress -– Ma would screech to see it if she was here -– and stepped back from the rail. Her belly ached from retching, but the lump in her throat came more from grief than vomit.

Gerud would have made a better fist of this adventure. Her little brother - his height had topped hers this two years past, much to his raucous glee - had a rare twinkle of a smile that invited every stranger to share the fun with him.

Not any more, not with his body lying halfway up a mountain. Because of this adventure. Because of Dara. She had always wanted better for herself than an early marriage and a farmer for a husband, but those dreams weren’t worth this price.

Are you well? The chill in Paurig’s voice came at odds with his words.

He moved beside her at the unpainted wooden rail, disdaining to lean against it. Such things were for lesser men, his body said. Or lesser girls.

Dara could barely bring herself to nod at him.

It won’t be much longer. You can already see Macha, right there in the mouth of the bay. He pointed into the sun.

Dara tried to follow his finger, but the sun’s brightness blinded her. She squinted and gave up.

Will it be safe? She’d heard stories about Ullach, whispered in the hushed tones an adult used when they didn’t want the children to overhear.

Well she was an adult now, wasn’t she?

Not for two people travelling without guards. That’s why we’re coming in at night. Somebody will meet us at the dock to escort us back to Milis. You’re not to leave this deck until I tell you to. He turned her to physically face him. Do you understand?

Dara tried to shake herself free but his grip was too strong. She shrunk back from his bony hands, his heavy brows, his lips pressed thin as he waited for her answer.

A Dorchadas night version of what a Daoine is.

Maybe there was some truth in those old stories after all. Not the ones her Da told about brave hunters and hidden caverns filled with treasure and magic. The other stories. The ones humans whispered when the fire died and the wind blew harsh, about blood and death and savagery.

Stories about Dara’s people.

Answer me, girl! Paurig gave her shoulder a shake, frustration twisting his lips. A fine thing if you’re a half-wit after all my work to get you here.

Work, he called it. Work to murder Gerud, to drag Dara unwilling halfway across the country.

Oh, she’d agreed to go. With her little brother dead at her feet and Paurig’s thugs closing on Ma and Da, what choice had she?

I hear you. I’ll do what you say. For as long as she needed to.

The iníon gealach would have power enough to make Paurig pay for what he had done.

An image flashed into her mind; Gerud’s eyes wide and empty. So pale, except where his skin was streaked with gore. Killed so the council could have what they wanted.

Dara would pay attention. Paurig needn’t worry about that.

---

When the boat finally docked, Dara expected wharves and warehouses, a jetty, other ships from exotic locations in the far reaches of the Tiarna.

Instead she and Paurig were lowered like sacks of grain into the rowboat, and two burly sailors rowed them to a rocky shore. The land that sloped downwards to meet the Inner Sea looked enough like home that only the low thunder of waves convinced her she wasn’t in Amhan.

The moon hadn’t yet risen, and even with a Daoine’s sight Dara could see nothing. She shivered under the bite of the wind. Ma had always called her a cold creature, and saved the seat closest to the fire for her. Now she stepped onto land that was further from home than Ma had been in her life.

In spite of what she’d lost her heart beat more strongly in her chest. Was it wrong that the thought sparked a shiver of excitement in her?

Where are you, girl? Paurig’s voice nipped at her from behind.

He stood by a small path that wound through dunes of sharp-edged grass. As soon as he saw her turn from the sea to follow, he slipped onwards into the night.

Dara stumbled after him, losing the path again and again in the consuming darkness, her palms and knees shredded by the vivid green blades. Even plant life on the Island was vicious.

For all that it seemed like an eternity, it couldn’t have been more than half an hour’s walking before the land flattened and broadened into green fields. Here an ox-cart waited, and a boy by the beast’s head. The lad’s hair was cropped near short as a convict’s but growing, and he welcomed Dara with a grin that flashed a dimple in each cheek.

Step to it. We’re late. Paurig climbed into the cart and settled on the bench with his arms folded.

How can you be late? You’re the one they’ve stayed up all night to wait for. The boy tipped Dara a sly wink.

Dara didn’t appreciate being drawn into the discourtesy. The only person she would have spoken to in so ill-mannered a fashion was her mother.

Sorry, Ma.

Too little – and much too late – for that.

Well? The boy’s attitude demanded an answer to a question he hadn’t asked. Riding or walking?

Walking.

If her choice was either to sit in the wagon with the man responsible for her brother’s murder or stretch her legs, cramped from long days at sea, her answer came easy.

You better be able to keep up. Paurig leaned back and closed his eyes. And no funny ideas, girl. I’d make you sorry before you even reached the treeline.

They walked for two hours before the first pale fingers of the moon’s brightness broke through the darkness; Dara’s reward for a night of long patience.

The disappointment that came after it was fierce. The cart track they followed could easily have run between two fields at home. Dry-stone walls edged irregularly shaped fields, some were under grass but most had herds of sleeping cattle in them. Once in a while, sheep. A plot here or there grew turnips, or beet, or potatoes. This was poor land, poorer even than in Dealgan, and the silvering of moonlight just made that more obvious.

Was this to be her grand adventure? To travel the Tiarna but never actually leave home?

Soon Dara began to notice buildings interrupting the aching monotony of the landscape. A house here and there, poor and ramshackle. A grain store, more carefully maintained. A cluster of homes close together, and then a stretch of houses with no gaps between them.

It took Dara a moment to understand that they’d reached a town. Dealgan was bigger than this by at least half again, and cleaner twice over. Home didn’t have the scorch-marks on the walls or the piles of furniture and belongings half eaten by flame. Or the quiet chink of weapons that warned of men creeping through the darkness.

When the ox-cart slowed in front of a set of bronze gates, she was close to tears. Gerud had died for this?

I won’t need you again tonight. Paurig dismissed the boy with a distinct lack of gratitude.

Dara had been better raised. Thank you for the company.

The boy grinned at her as though she’d bowed to the floor in front of him. You too, girl. Send word to the stables if you need anything. My name’s Lorcan. Lorcan mac Damh.

She could see from his face that this should mean something to her, but it didn’t. She smiled a quick dismissal and hurried after Paurig.

You’re not to step outside these gates without me, do you understand, girl? I didn’t go to all the trouble of fetching you here just to see you killed by an over-enthusiastic Glór-Hunter or a brain-dead rebel.

He waited for Dara’s nod of agreement which she gave with clenched teeth.

Inside the gates, immaculately tended lawns stretched to the right and left of a cobbled path that wound to a set of white marbled steps. At their top an iron-banded door, done up in copper filigree.

The chamber inside bombarded Dara with all the elegance her dreams could imagine up. The parquet floors laid out in complex abstract patterns, the silver wall sconces cast in intricate twists and curlicues, the spindle-legged chairs and precarious side tables that didn’t invite actual use.

An attendant stood to attention by a set of dark wooden doors, chin high and eyes level. Paurig stopped in front of him, drumming his fingers impatiently against his leg.

What’s keeping you, girl? Come on! He nodded to the attendant, who interpreted this as a signal to throw the doors open and usher them inside.

The room behind them was huge enough to have held Dara’s home three times over. Complex tapestries of interwoven leaves and branches lined its walls, and its ceiling was painted in the image of a summer sky. For all its size, it held only a single long table. Behind the table sat seven men and women aged from middle years to ancient decrepitude.

You took your time. The oldest of them spoke in a petulant quaver.

We were delayed. Paurig slid into an empty eighth seat, adding his own to the pairs of hungry eyes that picked Dara to pieces.

They examined her from her windblown hair to the borrowed tunic that stuck to her body from half a month’s constant wear. Dara flushed and forced her arms to stay by her side. Not her fault she had been stolen without a hairbrush or a change of clothing.

This was the council. Here was the beginning of her life as the iníon gealach.

Dara clung to the idea. She would stand before these old buzzards with her head high. No matter how greasy her tunic.

What was the delay? An old woman spoke from her place at the table’s opposite end from Paurig.

It wasn’t as straightforward as we had hoped. But, as you can see, it’s done.

What do you mean, not straightforward? The question snapped from one of the youngest in the room, a woman of about sixty who was a little run to fat.

There were casualties.

Gerud, he meant. Hate burned in her again, threatening to wrench itself free and sear them all to cinders.

You should have asked. She held her shoulders back.

What? A snapped question from the old woman.

It needn’t have been like this. If you told me about the prophecy, what was foretold, I would have come willingly.

An odd silence gripped the room, one that Dara didn’t understand.

Paurig broke it. Like I said, there were complications.

Stand straight, girl. Let me have a look at you.

Dara could have pointed out that she had been standing all the while. Instead she pushed her shoulders even further back and held the old woman’s eye.

Who’s your mother? The younger woman asked.

Her name is Rilla bean Tearnin.

I don’t care whose wife she is, idiot girl. What bloodline?

The reprimand made Dara blink. My father’s name—

Not your father, your mother. What line is she from?

She’s nic Ailill.

Another snort from the younger woman. Of course she’s nic Ailill or you wouldn’t be standing in front of us, speaking like an idiot when you should be listening. What line is she? Distaff?

Where did your bloodline break from the original? The elderly woman put the question in different words, but it didn’t help. Dara had no idea what they meant.

She’s a half-wit, that much is clear. A mutter from further down the table. You sure she’ll do? Will the Book work for her?

Paurig shrugged. She’s of the blood. More than that I can’t say. My options were limited.

Dara’s certainty leaked away into the inlaid wooden tiles below her feet. You came for me. That’s what you said.

"I came for the iníon gealach. Paurig bared his teeth. Whether you are she remains to be seen."

The whirl of words and questions dizzied Dara, ripping away the certainties that had made sense of Gerud’s death and her taking. If she wasn’t iníon gealach, was all she had lost for nothing?

I’ll see what can be made of her. The crackle of the old woman’s voice. Have her brought to me tomorrow in the early evening. She’ll swim or she’ll sink.

A rumble of agreement from the other council members.

Well, why are you still standing here? A bald man snapped at her. Go. We’ve things still to discuss and I’m long enough without my bed already.

Where will I go? Dara’s anger had boiled away, leaving her lost and helpless.

The old woman waved a palsied hand. Anywhere you like, girl, so long as you come back tomorrow in the evening.

Dara turned a pleading look on Paurig, hating herself for it.

Ask the usher. His tone, no kinder than the old woman’s, was at least familiar.

Dara nodded. She couldn’t bring herself to thank him, no matter what her Ma would have thought of the discourtesy.

The usher listened to her whispered request and stared at her, blank-faced. Only when she had begun to think of creeping outside and finding the cart to sleep in did he nod.

Follow me.

He led her along marbled halls and through a corridor into less sumptuous surroundings. Left past four doors then right past two more. Right at a fork, then along a stretching corridor with nothing of copper or silver in it.

He stopped in front of a battered door, long ago painted blue. Sleep here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll see.

It opened with an unpromising screech of hinges under his push and cold, alone, exhausted, grieving, humiliated, Dara scuttled inside and shut it at her back.

2

Dara

When Dara opened her eyes the next morning it took embarrassingly long for her to remember where she was. Not home, in her snug little bed under the eaves. Not in Uncle Ardal's. Not on the boat.

As the truth seeped like lead into her bones, she found a bitter sort of amusement in the idea that there was nobody here to be embarrassed of. She knew not one soul on this island of Ullach except for Paurig, and she would no more feel embarrassment in front of him then an ox or a gadhar.

She grimaced at the feeling of her stiff and filthy clothing on her skin. A chance to wash them and herself came high on her list of priorities. No wonder the council had dismissed her.

Though their reaction when she named herself iníon gealach was strange. She'd have to prod further into it when she saw the old woman later. Had she said she would be teaching or taking Dara’s measure? The old crone wouldn't be the only one doing some measuring.

Dara opened the small door and followed the smell of breakfast. Fried bacon, fresh potato bread, onions, and the tart bite of tarberry tea. Whatever else these wild people of Ullach did, at least they ate like back home.

Dara wished a polite good morning to the people she passed in the corridors. A few muttered bemused responses, but most answered her with stares.

When she finally came to swinging doors at the end of a long corridor, her nose told her she’d find her breakfast behind it. A steady stream of men and women pushed past her and through the doors, releasing a burst of tantalising food-scent every time they swung.

Dara held back, shy now, until a knot of diners entangled her and pulled her through with them. And then dispersed, leaving her standing alone in her filthy dress under the eyes of twenty men and women dressed a great deal better than anyone she had ever met.

She didn't know what to do next. Invite herself to sit at a table and call for a plate? Or stand until she turned to stone through a combination of time and humiliation.

She was saved from that ugly death by a face that at least held the comfort of some familiarity; the usher who had shown her to her room. Without words he stood and pointed to the long table closest to the back of the room. Each place was set with a white plate, bowl and mug, and the tureens at the table's centre steamed with all manner of good things. Dara hesitated only half a moment before tucking in with a will.

By the time she had finished eating, the room's one familiar face was gone.

The usher wasn’t the only one to have left. Only one or two people lingered over their morning meal, and the kitchen staff hovered with intention. Dara lifted her plate only to have it snatched away by a white-aproned grandmother with an over-laden tray.

Dara chose the only wise course and scuttled from the room.

But now what? She had to move quickly to keep from tangling the feet of hurrying men and rushing women. She grew tired of having no part in their business, yet being embroiled in the Council Hall’s controlled chaos all the same.

Lorcan had told her to find him, hadn’t he? To send for him at least, but Dara had more need of diversion than she did someone to run errands.

Her first task was to find a way out of the twist of endless passages.

A finely carved turtle with chips of seashell for eyes was her first clue. She spotted it recessed on a small shelf near a fork in the corridor, and remembered it from the night before. Here the usher had led her left, to the little room behind the blue door.

More clues followed, a breadcrumb trail that took her deeper into the working part of the building. Tiled floors instead of carpet, plain walls without paintings, definitely no turtles. Here the people seemed just as busy, but were more inclined to walk around her rather than through.

It was in the scullery that she found the door outside. It led to a flagged courtyard, not grand but clean and well-maintained. Arched gates led from it in three directions, and Dara followed the stench of horse dung and the whinny of beasts.

The stable block buzzed with life. Grooms let animals purposefully in and out, others forked hay or shovelled out stables. A scene Dara had no place in.

Neither did Lorcan, seated high in a hay-loft on a construction of square bales. He spotted her almost at the same moment as she saw him and he raised a hand in greeting, his twin dimples flashing.

I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. He moved to climb down from the loft, but Dara signalled him to stay where he was.

She had always been the best tree-climber in Dealgan. She had given up such childishness when the time came to weave her hair, but it always made her nose wrinkle to see the boys make their half-baked attempts to reach the top of Dermud’s chestnut. She could have climbed it quick as a cat.

It didn’t matter now whether she wore the decorum her mother thought so important in a young woman or went about with her stockings on back to front and soupstains on her tunic. She would climb if she wanted to climb.

And she did.

From hay wagon to the notched shelves that held forks and shovels. A swing over the edge of the hay loft’s rim, and finally an easy climb up the pyramid of piled bales.

When she eased herself into place beside Lorcan she was grinning.

He whistled long and low. You’ve impressed me, Dara whatever your name is. I didn’t expect it of you.

People here on Ullach don’t expect much of me. She buttoned her lip. Not his business what the council thought of her.

They’ll learn different soon enough, I’m thinking. The dimples flashed again. What do you have planned for today?

I’m free till evening. That’s why I came to find you. If I have to spend all day fluttering out from under busy feet like a pheasant, I’ll run mad.

Lorcan cocked his head. I don’t see you as a pheasant. You’re more like a magpie -– smart, and hard to ignore. Do you want to spend your day on an adventure?

Dara wasn’t sure she cared to be thought of as a magpie. Thieves, they were, and opportunists. But smart, aye, and striking. She decided to squint sideways at the comparison and consider it a compliment.

What sort of adventure?

My Da wants to meet you. Again that note of expectation in his voice.

And how will that be an adventure?

He’s based in Caislean. It’s half a day’s walk from here, and you’ll get to see the countryside. You’ve seen nothing of Ullach except by moonlight. Don’t you want to change that?

Will it be safe?

It will when you’re with me. He puffed out his chest. Are you really going to do what Paurig ordered and stay inside the gates?

He knew exactly what to say to tempt her. All right then. When will we go?

Lorcan stood up and dusted the hay from his knees. No time like now. He hauled her to her feet.

They left through a postern gate that swung shut behind them with a thunk. Today the town heaved with life.

Carts, pulled by hand and by oxen. Storefronts thrown open in the watery sunlight. Women in headscarves carrying covered baskets scuttling like beetles from place to place, their paths crossing and intertwining. There were men too, but not as many. They walked more soberly, usually pulling handcarts and rarely more than one at a time.

Lorcan saw her looking. It’s best if people aren’t seen to talk too closely. Glór-Hunters will take any excuse to make an example of us. If they point and call it conspiracy, who’d dare argue?

Dara’s joy in the adventure leaked away. Here was reality. Glór-Hunters and death.

Lorcan shook her arm gently. Now don’t get into a pother about it. We’re careful, and we give them nothing to pick at. It’s no different where you’re from, I’m sure.

And it wasn’t, or so Dara’s Ma had always warned her. But those had been stories. Nothing to do with Dara or her life. This was different. Real.

Lorcan led her out of the town of Milis. It didn’t take long. For all its heaving centre, this was a tiny place.

The road eastwards ran wide enough for two ox-carts to pass without fouling axles. Well travelled too, with heavy-laden carts and thick muscled strangers carrying shoulder packs. Lorcan’s lazy stride ate the ground quickly, and Dara had to work hard to keep up with him.

The land here was completely flat. Dara was used to mountains. Steep slopes, gently inclined hills, cliffs and corners and ledges for the goats. Did Ullach even have goats?

What they did have was Glór-Hunters.

The checkpoint lay hidden where the road turned into a fold of trees. Dara stopped when she saw it, but with a grimace Lorcan nudged her to move on.

Give them nothing to point at, remember?

So much easier as an idea than solid in front of her blocking the road. This was Dara's first encounter with Glór-Hunters. They had come to Dealgan when she was a little girl, but Uncle Ardal had warned the People well in advance. Ma made sure they all stayed close to home until the threat was gone.

This was different.

The checkpoint stretched across the road and well into the grass verge on both sides, making it impossible to pass without the Brotherhood’s permission. At least eight feet high, the thing was constructed of unfinished logs, and had a single opening just wide enough for an ox cart to fit through. The opening on the other side was offset, making it impossible to know whether or not the cart was permitted to leave. Dara didn't notice the small pedestrian gate on the verge to the left until Lorcan steered her towards it.

Follow my lead. Agree with what I say. Volunteer nothing. He hissed at her under his breath, though it was impossible to guess it from the dimples flashing in its cheeks.

Well met again to my favourite disciples. He blasted his charm at the bearded brother who sat behind a desk.

Two younger men in Brotherhood light blues stood at the seated man’s shoulders, each about of age with Dara. One was of average height, the other considerably shorter. The contrast would have made a comical sight if any were inclined towards laughter.

Dara certainly wasn’t.

The seated brother smiled much more sourly. My favourite traveller.

The raise of his eyebrows to his assistants gave lie to his words. Lorcan said nothing, only sparkled at him harder.

The bearded Brother opened his mouth to speak again, but his eyes darted past Dara and he shut it with a snap. She turned to see what he was looking at.

Behind her, a grizzled man in warrior's leathers emerged through the trees. When he saw the checkpoint he turned and vanished again between the tangled branches. He was visible for long enough that Dara could see the hilt of a long knife on his hip and a bow strapped tight between his shoulders.

The Glór-Hunter stood. Breannach, you record our young friend Liam's details. Make sure nothing slips his mind this time. With a last, hard look towards Lorcan, he summoned four burly brothers from the checkpoint and set off towards the treeline at a run.

Liam? Dara took in Lorcan's open face with the corner of her eye.

The Brother who took Beardy's place at the small table was dark-haired and slight, with a sharp intelligence in his narrow face. He picked up the pen in long white fingers and cocked his head at them. Name?

You know me, Breannach. Lorcan spread his arms wide. I’m Liam mac Domhnall, the fletcher’s son out of Caislean.

And you, miss? The Glór-Hunter turned his black eyes on Dara.

Behind him, the second Glór-Hunter had wandered away from his post. He crouched on his knees on the grass verge, something held in his cupped hands. Look at this, Breannach. Look what I found.

The dark one ignored him and kept his eyes fixed on Dara.

This this is my cousin, Gobnait. Lorcan waved towards her without taking his attention from the Brother. My mother sent for her to help with the cheese. There’s lot of cheese to make this season.

I didn't ask you. The Glór-Hunter’s voice hardened. Don't push me, Liam.

My name is Gobnait as Ardal. It was the only name that came to Dara in the panic of the moment. I've come from Macha to help my auntie with the cheese.

Breannach! The kneeling Glór-Hunter held up his cupped hands. I've never seen one this colour.

Dara caught a tiny grimace around the dark one's mouth, gone in an instant.

I'll be there in a moment, Olchar. He bent his head and made a note in the journal.

Have you travelled recently off the island of Ullach? Or been in company with any who have? His bright black eyes pinned Dara.

She swallowed, tried to speak, swallowed again. No. The word a whisper.

You keep difficult company. I’d watch out for that if I was you. He held Dara’s gaze for a long minute, then indicated them onwards with a thumb and crossed to his kneeling companion.

Dara walked, straight-backed and conscious, until the checkpoint was a small dot in the distance behind them. She never found out what had happened to the warrior.

That was pretty good. Lorcan grinned at her You're a natural at lying.

Dara didn't feel natural. She felt sweaty and panicked, close to tears. So far she wasn't enjoying this adventure.

Lorcan focused his full charm on lifting her spirits, lacing his conversation with smart quips and funny stories, so that by the time Caislean grew and spread all around them, she was laughing again.

Caislean was a bigger place than either Milis or Dealgan. Cleaner than Macha, more welcoming than Amhan. Buildings of golden red stone lined wide, cobbled streets. Hand carts passed to the left and right, but Dara saw no oxen or other livestock.

Dung. Lorcan answered the question. Townspeople don’t like it in their streets, so they’ve banned livestock. Nothing allowed within the town’s limits except people, and if they mess on the streets they’re out too.

He led her off the main thoroughfare and under a carved archway, again built from pretty stone. The alleyways and side streets here were nothing like Dealgan’s. For one thing there seemed to be some sense to their layout, rather than tangling through each other like skeins of uncarded wool.

Lorcan led her deep into the bowels of the town, the small smirk on his face saying that he didn’t expect that she could find a way back alone. He didn’t know that a girl raised in the warrens of Dealgan learned to count her turns. Second left then first right. Third left and then another right. And here they were.

The building was a derelict, one of the first Dara had seen since coming to Ullach. The roof and two of its walls had tumbled long since, and the pretty golden stone had grown a fur of green moss.

Dara quirked her brow at Lorcan, and he returned a grin. This way.

He led her towards one of the walls still standing. There, a thoroughly solid door stood recessed in a low hollow. From where Dara stood, it looked as though it led into the derelict inside. Lorcan stood square in front of it and thumped it twice, a pause, and then one more time.

The door opened by a crack, with no creak of hinges to betray its movement. The face that loomed well above their heads certainly didn’t offer them a welcome.

He’s expecting us. Lorcan tipped his head towards the darkness behind the gatekeeper.

The man looked them over for a long moment. Finally he nodded and stepped backwards, pulling the door with him. It scraped over the flagstones with a screech that made Dara’s teeth ache. Behind him stone steps dropped steeply into the ground.

And suddenly, with a weight of realisation that made her feel stupid for taking so long to get there, Dara understood who Lorcan was. Who his father was.

"Son of that Damh? Damh mac Breacan?" She grabbed Lorcan by the meat of his bicep.

That’s right. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Dara wanted to stop, to weigh this and decide how she felt about it. At home in Dealgan her friend Bronagh’s father had stolen a chicken once, after a Bealtaine eve’s drinking. Bronagh had cringed with embarrassment every time the word ‘chicken’ was mentioned for years afterwards.

And then there was Niall Croí-Dubh. A man not to be trusted, all the children knew that. He smiled too much, and somehow when they were with him everything in a person’s pockets transferred themselves to his. Niall had no children, but his sisters bent their shoulders under the weight of what he was.

Lorcan hunched under the same second hand baggage. His father's name hung between them in the open doorway.

Dara stepped forward into the darkness. The gatekeeper's massive bicep brushed her shoulder as she passed. With a long, loosed breath, Lorcan followed her.

After three steps she lost the light. After eight, she moved in