“Could we?” Drust sighs. “Some believe it’s not too late—even as they retreat from the world of man and hide in caves or deep in forests. I don’t agree. Our time has passed. We’ll survive in some form or other, I’m sure. But we’ll never be this strong or fly so high again.”

He says nothing after that, and I know better than to disturb him. Lying on my back, watching the stars until my lids grow heavy and close, I think about his words and try to imagine a world where druids and magic have no place. And I realise, just before I fall asleep, that in such a world I would have no place either.

Marching. Eyes half closed. Feeling power around me—power from the stars and those who drift among them. Trying to absorb it. Muttering the words of a spell which Drust taught me. I’m holding a small rock. If the spell works, the rock will float for a second or two.

I stutter on a key word and lose my place. Drust’s hand instantly connects with the back of my head. “Concentrate!” he snaps.

“I am!” I snap back. It’s the seventh or eighth time he’s hit me in the last hour. I’m sick of it. “I can’t do this stupid men’s magic! Teach Bran, why don’t you!”

Bran’s head rises. He’s been walking along just behind us, humming a tune.

“He couldn’t do any worse than you,” Drust snarls, slapping me again, harder this time. That’s it! My right hand comes up. I’m going to slap him back—see what he thinks! But before I can…

“People often say I’m too small to be a smith.”

Drust and I look up, startled. Fiachna, who was marching ahead of us, has stopped and is smiling.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Drust growls.

“I never said it had,” Fiachna replies. “I’m just remarking—people often say I’m too small to be a smith. They think smiths have to be large, burly men who can swing two heavy hammers at once and bend iron with their hands. And most are. But they don’t need to be.

“My master was a gentle man. He had a bad leg. He broke it when he was a child and it didn’t heal properly. So he never fought. But he made some of the finest weapons imaginable. He knew iron, how to bend it to his will and get the best out of it. He’d always talk while he worked, happily chatting away, seemingly to himself. People thought he was mad but he wasn’t. He was talking to the iron, learning from it, easing and teasing it into the shape he wanted—the shape it wanted.”

“I don’t see—” Drust begins but Fiachna talks over him.

“He taught me to work that way too. He never beat me or shouted or lost his temper. I wasn’t his first apprentice or his last. He’d take boys on for a while, teach them his ways, observe them, then let them go if he felt they couldn’t learn from him.” A short pause, then he adds, “Apologies for telling you your business but that might be the best way to teach Bec. Unless you think she can’t learn.”

“She can!” Drust shouts. “She has potential. I can feel it.”

“Then hitting her won’t help, will it?” Fiachna says calmly. “My master always said you couldn’t beat a skill out of somebody. They had to learn in their own way and time. If you rushed them, you only delayed them. You had to be firm but not cruel. Cruelty is a barrier and barriers slow people down.”

“My masters beat me unconscious whenever I made a mistake,” Drust says and he sounds like a bitter child.

“Did you learn anything while you were knocked out?” Fiachna asks.

Drust starts to roar a retort, then stops and frowns.

“Hard to learn when you’re dead to the world,” Fiachna says, nodding slowly. Then he turns and starts walking again.

Drust looks at me and catches my smile. He scowls. “I don’t like being spoken down to by a smith,” he huffs and my smile fades. Then his expression mellows. “But only a fool ignores good advice simply because it comes from an unlikely source. Very well, Bec MacConn. We’ve tried it my way. Now we’ll try it Fiachna’s. No more beatings for a few days. If you improve, well and good. If not…” He grins tightly. “I’ll have to whip you all the harder!”

I gulp, torn between the relief of the present and the threat of the future. Then I take a breath, relax and start again, drawing in power from the sky, chanting the words of the spell, focusing on the stone, willing it to rise.

AN UNINVITED GUEST

Another night in the open. No trees, so we sleep in a field littered with rocks.

It’s been a day of disappointment on the magic front. Drust stopped hitting me but that’s all that changed. I can’t get the hang of this new magic. It’s too different. I wish Drust would focus on natural magic and help me improve that way. I learnt a lot from Banba but my powers have grown rusty. I think we should work on the type of magic I grew up with.

But Drust is firm. He says he can’t teach me the way a priestess could, since he doesn’t work that way. And even if he could, he wouldn’t.

“You’re no good to me the way you were!” he snaps when I question the need to learn new spells. “I need more!”

But what for? Why does he need me? What’s he grooming me to do?

Sleeping deeply. Dreaming of happier days—Banba alive, no demons, safe. Enjoying the dream, but midway through an inner voice whispers, “Wake up.” Connla’s been guarding us for the last few hours. Now it’s my turn to go on watch.

I’m excellent at waking myself. I never need to be called. It was one of the first spells Banba taught me. A priestess has to be able to control her dreams. Otherwise she can cause chaos while asleep.

I’m lying on my back, next to Orna, cloak drawn across my body and over my head. I turn slightly, careful not to break Drust’s masking spell. I look across to where Connla is. And see a demon.

For a second I think I’m still dreaming, because the demon doesn’t appear to be attacking Connla. It’s crouched beside him, bent over, head close to his, as though talking. And when I prick my ears I can hear it whispering.

A drop of rain hits me square between the eyes. I blink—then snap out of my stupor. Leaping to my feet, I roar at the top of my voice, “Demons!”

Everyone comes alive in an instant, on their feet, weapons in hands. Ronan notches an arrow to his bow, takes aim and… stops as the demon turns to look at him. I see Ronan’s fingers quiver, his face twitch, his eyes narrow. He wants to unleash the arrow but he can’t. The demon’s controlling him.

Lorcan attacks, sword and axe a blur, screaming a challenge. The demon points with a lumpy, pale red hand. And Lorcan stops too, not frozen in place exactly, but hovering beyond striking distance of the demon, unable to advance.

Goll and Orna are about to leap forward when Drust shouts, “No! Leave him!”

The druid is sitting up. His hands are joined. His lips are moving quickly, gaze fixed on the demon. He looks more purposeful than frightened.

Nobody moves. All eyes are pinned on the demon and the druid. Now that my sight has adjusted and there’s time to observe, I get a clear view of the monster. It’s tall, with eight arms, roughly shaped hands, dangling strips of flesh instead of legs and feet. Hovering in the air, not touching the ground. Pale red skin, flecked with blood. At first I think it’s Connla’s blood—I’m sure he’s dead— but then I notice scores of cracks in the demon’s skin, from which blood oozes, giving the lumpy flesh its unhealthy crimson tinge. No hair. Its eyes are dark red, with a black circle at the centre of each globe. No nose, just two gaping cavities in the middle of its face. No heart either—just a hole in its chest filled with eel-like creatures, which slither over and under one another, hissing and spitting.

The demon cocks its head and smiles sadly at Drust. “You are powerful, druid. The girl too, if she could only learn what you teach her.”

Complete shock. I’ve never heard a demon speak like this, in words of our own. It—he—has a deep, sorrowful voice. Not entirely human, but the words are clearly formed. A demon who can speak as a human must also be able to think as a human. Drust’s prediction—and our worst fear—has been confirmed.