“We have legions heading to his castle to surround it,” Izzy told them, sitting on the big table with all the maps. Éibhear sat on the ground, his head resting against the side of her leg. He hadn’t been himself since word came down that Branwen and his three Mì-runach brothers were missing, last seen heading to one of the mountains to take on a small group of Zealots. Most believed them already dead but bodies had yet to be found.

Then again, the debris from the fallen mountains went on for miles. They might never know what had happened to their kin and friends when everything was said and done. But Fearghus was sure that if Branwen could, she’d return to her soldiers.

Talwyn sat down on the armrest of Fearghus’s chair and rested her head against the top of his. She didn’t say anything, but she knew how he felt. Father and daughter had always understood each other.

Fearghus worried about the boy, though. He was as close to his mother as Talwyn was close to Fearghus. If something happened to her at the hands of the Zealots . . .

No. Best not to think of that, either. Not now. Not when they had plans to make, Zealots to kill. The idea of his only son becoming an evil necromancer kept him up some nights, but he hadn’t worried too much because Annwyl’s love had always kept their son from falling too far. But without her during his formative years . . .

They sat with their own thoughts for a long while until Rhi abruptly asked the room, “Anyone else worried about what Grandda is going to do once he gets here?”

“Gods, yes.”

“Blood will soak the lands for centuries.”

“The world is doomed.”

“I’ve given up hope. Just seems saner.”

She nodded. “Okay. Just wanted to make sure it wasn’t only me.”

The tent flap pulled back and a dirty and bruised Gwenvael stormed in.

“Bastards!” he roared. “They threw me into an endless pit!”

Rhi shook her pretty head at Briec. “Oh, Daddy.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Briec insisted. “It was Fearghus’s idea.”

Fearghus shrugged. “He asked for it.”

* * *

Dagmar Reinholdt stood on the top step of the stairs leading into the queen’s castle. Even though it was late, she gazed out over the courtyard and wracked her brain, once again, about ways she could protect Garbhán Isle and the family she had inside.

As things spiraled out of control around them, Dagmar had been determined to not only keep Garbhán Isle as safe as possible for all those within but to keep it as much the place she’d always known so that when Annwyl and the others returned, they’d have something to return to.

On Dagmar’s left stood her only son, Unnvar. On her right, her loyal nephew Frederick.