Bee stared over the desert.

  Everything shimmered through the haze caused by the sun’s relentless heat. From sunrise to sunset the glare was so intense that the few trees once growing on the mountain had long since surrendered. Even the lizards had given up basking and sought shelter in the little nooks and crevices of the ravaged terrain, searching for shade and cool, despite no heat in their blood.

  In a foul humour, she was sitting in front of the cave halfway up the slopes of Corran Tuathail, looking at the surrounding sand dunes over the ashes of her night fire. Despite many summers of life, she’d never experienced such contrasting temperatures: iron smelting heat during the day, and nights shivering as close to her fire as she dared get. Aside from her, the only living thing visible on the mountain was an old tree with limbs cruelly twisted to form the shape of a writhing demon, desperate to break free from its roots.

  At least the dead trees give me firewood, she thought, wiping sweat from her forehead.

  It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed her mind because she’d been sitting in front of the entrance to the Cave of Cats for two days; far too long. Soon, she would need to climb off the rock in search of food and Dhuosnos take the tracker. The lump showing in the side of her bag was a solitary piece of stale bread, and her water bottle no longer rattled when she shook it. The sense she’d got from her Master was one of urgency. Something worried him. If Dagda was worried, then so was Bee.

  Lack of sleep wasn’t helping her foul humour. Usually, she would blame the insomnia on being too tired to sleep. This time, however, the reason was more sinister. Each time she closed her eyes the dream would surface. The dream of Death and demons, whips and malice. The dream that invariably ended with one word being repeated: duty. Duty. Duty.

  We should be on the road for Sliabh Cuilinn.

  Bee shook her head and wanted to scream into the afternoon heat that she shouldn’t even be in the Kingdoms. She’d asked Dagda why his tracker couldn’t fetch her brother back, only to be told that trackers are just trackers and this task needed a High Priestess as well as the Neit’s Maidens. “As soon as you have contacted the tracker, go to Sliabh Cuilinn,” Dagda had said, not a part of her mission Bee welcomed. She hated the arrogant warrior. Almost as much as she hated sitting around on a rock, overlooking a lifeless desert.

  Despite that loathing, she would be on the road to the Whitehead’s fortress, except that, as well as urging her to haste, Dagda told her she would need the tracker. Trackers were supposed to be punctual, not two days late, which was the reason Bee was thirsty, hungry, tired, hot, and thinking of heading off this forsaken needle to the oasis with its palm trees swaying in the heat shimmer like dancers before a lecherous king.

  I’ll give him ‘til nightfall, then I’m gone. That way, I’ll be in time for the first ferry.

  During her two-day vigil, she’d watched the ferry cross twice daily, once in the morning and once in the evening. Many would ask the sense of having a ferry on the narrow stretch of sea because, on this side, there was nothing but desert. Well, desert and this tooth-like mountain glaring over the dunes. Bee hadn’t been here before, but she knew the folk of Bacca treated the isolated mountain like a shrine. They believed the cave was the entrance to Tír na nóg, the land of Eternal Youth, and left offerings at the watering hole: things their deceased could use when travelling the road, such as food and clothing.

  Where are you? Chief said ye’d be here. “Dagda’s not as all-seeing as he thinks,” she hissed at the rocks.

  After two days, Bee hated this cave more than she hated the orders that brought her here or the tracker for making her wait. When her Master told her Brenos had broken through the portal to the Western Wastes, she’d frowned. Why would he choose the desert? It made no sense to her. But then, her brother’s actions seldom made sense. Despite being older, he’d always trailed behind her like a wolfhound pup. And like a pup, he needed praise and rewards, and she’d been too caught up in Dagda’s Kingdoms to give him any.

  “Why’d the fool choose this gate?” she asked the stones.

  “Because he knew you’d be sent after. Easier to lose someone in the desert, I reckon,” a voice said from the ledge above the cave entrance.

  Bee glanced at the speaker and then turned back to the dead fire with a sigh of relief. Although the look was brief, she caught it all. Everything about the male screamed Fae tracker, from the jaunty feathered cap to the ornately decorated boots. He wore leather pants and a tunic, much like Bee’s, and had a sword and dagger at his belt. His boots stopped just below the knee. A leather bag, belted over one shoulder, made a cross with his bedroll, belted over the other. Because the night was not yet cold, his green cloak with gold trim was probably rolled up and in the bag.

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  He must have come around the rock, she realised. What’s the other side of this place except desert?

  “Ye’re late,” she said.

  “By whose reckoning?” the tracker asked.

  “Chief said ye’d be here two nights since.”

  “Aye, well, I reckon your Master creates stories to cover his ignorance,” he said.

  My master, not our Master? Bee wondered, but said nothing, instead looking around as if to ensure they were alone and telling him to be careful what he said.

  “Why,” he scoffed, jumping down to land beside her. “You think he can hear us?”

  “No, but ye’ve no idea who might be listening.” He put his hands on his hips, shrugged, and then laughed.

  “I’m Finn the tracker. You can call me Finn, I reckon,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

  What have I got myself into? Bee wondered. Standing and wiping the seat of her pants with both hands, she nodded. “I’m Dagda’s High Priestess.”

  Finn whistled and scratched his forehead. “What should I call you, Lady?”

  “No, Bee will do. What news of Brenos?”

  “It’s all very strange,” the tracker said, replacing the grin with a scowl.

  “Strange. Ye think? I’ll tell ye what’s strange: me sitting here two nights freezing me butt cheeks off on this rock, that’s strange. This, what my fool of a brother is doing…” She trailed off, unsure how to describe her brother’s behaviour. “Well, it’s way past strange, so it is. What took ye so long?”

  “What did Dagda tell you?”

  “That ye were looking for sign of Bren.”

  “And so I was. Back and forth between Bacca and here. Your brother is a difficult read.”

  “What were ye doing behind the mountain?”

  “I was responding to a call of natural needs. Anyway, what I meant to say was your sibling has been asking after a druid called Myrddin.” Finn paused, gathering his thoughts.

  “And?” she prompted.

  “It’s like someone sent him to the Kingdoms. Like he has an errand, and it involves the greybeard. And, from what I’ve heard of this Myrddin, we shouldn’t take him lightly. He’s a force in the Druid Elder Council, they say.”

  “He’s definitely a druid, so he is,” Bee scoffed, having heard a different story; something about Myrddin being a mad fool and full of petty jealousy and envy. There was a reason he’d chosen to live in the wilds of South Kingdom, isolated at Sceine’s Cove, and it wasn’t because he was a force in the Druid Council.

  “And always running errands, apparently,” the tracker continued as if he’d not heard her tone. “Although it’s not often clear who for.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s supposed to be one of Dagda’s vassals, but there’s words whispered between the roundhouses.”

  “Like what?”

  “They say he’s in thrall to some other Higher Tuatha, just no one knows which.”

  “It’s funny you should say that. Chief said if Bren hadn’t used this cave’s glyph, he wouldn’t have known someone had passed through the portal. If someone had activated it without changing…” She trailed off, again unsure how to voice her worries; worries that something momentous was coming. Ye’re a witch. Momentous occurrences are in yer blood, she told herself, which did nothing to allay her fears.

  “The Master wouldn’t have known until the next scourge,” Finn finished for her. “You think that’s why he came to this gate, so the Chief would know?”

  Bee shrugged and asked, “How do you know he’s looking for the druid?”

  “Like the fool you called him, he’s been asking everyone he meets. First, the ferryman. Then, the gate guard. Even the hostel keeper in Bacca. Asking them all if they’ve heard of Myrddin.”

  Which is not the behaviour of someone clever enough to manipulate a God.

  “Myrddin has a steading down near Sceine’s Cove. There are closer portals, so why come here to look for him?”

  “Aye. It’s not making much sense.”

  “Except Bren didn’t even know about portals, nor how to set them. He’s working for someone. Whoever they are set it for him,” she mused. “And they did set the portal so we would know.”

  “Aye, I reckon you’re right,” Finn agreed. “But to do what?”

  “That’s what we need to find out, so it is.” The tracker nodded and grinned, an expression that was already grating.

  I can see meself knocking that off his face before long.

  “Not tonight, though, I reckon,” he said. “We should wait for dawn before climbing off this Gods-forsaken tooth. We won’t get a ferry at this time, anyway.”

  “Would walking across the desert when it’s cold not be better?”

  “No. All sorts of beasties hunt in the night. Desert wolves love this area, and they hunt in packs. Better to move in the heat when they’re hiding in the shade, like sensible dogs.”

  I would’ve made a mistake straight away, Bee allowed. Waiting for the tracker was a good idea.

  “Ye’ve meat?”

  “Aye. Wouldn’t be much of a tracker if I couldn’t bag a hare,” he said, taking the leather bag off his shoulder and holding it up.