Blood pumped in swelling waves upon his eardrums, his wet clothes heavy, cold and clinging, but still he ran on. The goat darted into a dried creek bed, but Padric stuck to the higher ground above, seeing his chance. With a burst of anger fueled speed, Padric pulled even with the fleeing creature and leapt sidelong into the creek bed, raising the axe high. He brought the blade down hard, catching the beast in the flank. The force of the swing and the weight of Padric’s fall buried the blade deep, spinning the goat, kicking as it fell. The axe haft left Padric’s fingers as he plunged hard into the rocky creek bed, his palms skinned raw, his shoulder bashed by the stones. He rolled and slammed into the root chocked embankment, scrambling to his feet. Something, white and naked, was crawling away, down the creek bed. Padric found his axe amongst the mud, plucked it from the ground and stalked over to stand above the thin, wretched, bleeding thing attempting to escape. It rolled over to face him, a little girl’s grime-covered cheeks and pleading eyes staring up.

“Padric…,” she said, her voice hopeful and innocent.

He raised the axe, brought it down, destroying Maeve’s stolen face.

Padric found his way back to the woodsman’s camp, dragging his feet wearily into the firelight. The woodsman lay sprawled face down in the soot, the seax hilt-deep in his back. Padric did not have the will to pull it out and slunk down next to the fire. His clothes were sodden and cold, his nose ran, his throat was sore, his hands scraped and bleeding, his shoulder stiff and aching, every discomfort making itself known in the pleasant warmth of the cook fire.

“I found your pack,” Rosheen said behind him. “Back in the woods a ways…drug it as far as I could.”

“Thank you,” Padric muttered.

Rosheen sat down next to him, said nothing.

Padric tried to keep his eyes from the woodsman’s body, but his gaze kept flitting back to the pitiable sight. A man stabbed in the back by one he thought to love.

He had wanted to kill the man himself, not an hour ago and now he lay there, next to an uneaten supper, boiling over to sizzle in the flames.

“He was careful,” Padric said wearily. “Had me touch iron when I came.” He snorted bitterly. “Never thought to test his own daughter.”

“It is the gruagach way,” Rosheen said sadly. “Force men to distrust strangers while wearing the face of a friend.”

Padric nodded, suddenly very drowsy. “Not all Fae have forgotten their hatred, I suppose.”

“None have forgotten,” Rosheen replied. “But most have forgiven. The gruagach never will.”

F OUR

FOUR