FROZEN SOIL PARTED as Aon burrowed through the earth. As much as he and his fellow famhair needed to gather the sun’s energy, the cool, dark ground felt like home. Though he sped toward the woods of the McAra castle, he did not hurry. Too great a speed would melt the icy dirt and coat him with mud. Not that he minded being dirty. It was the moisture he must avoid.

But as the familiar roots of the forests of the midlands passed by, Aon slowly rose. As he cleared the surface, the castle stood in the distance exactly as expected, barely visible through the woods. He breathed in the loamy scent of the pile of earth that surrounded him, and slowly let the breath out. Though Hendry would have been satisfied with another of the giants watching for signs of the Skaraven, Aon had taken on the task for just this purpose: to be alone among the trees.

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

Though still half-buried in his furrow, Aon spun, his arms upraised. Between him and the frozen loch stood a young woman. As shocking as that was Aon saw that she was unafraid. In fact, she calmly held up a hand to him.

“So, I meet a famhair at last,” she said, smiling.

Aon quickly glanced around them. Was it some sort of trap?

“We are alone,” the woman said, but glanced at the castle. “For the present.”

His eyes never left her as he climbed from the furrow and put his back to the nearest tree. The little wench stood too near the ice-covered loch to risk attacking her.

“You wait for Aon?” he ventured, wondering if the ground beneath her was water-logged. He might be able to get to her that way.

She tossed her head back and laughed, a brittle sound that somehow reminded him of Murdina.

“No,” she said, getting herself under control. “No. ’Tis another I’m expecting.” Aon realized that she kept one hand behind her, as though she hid something. “But you’ll do. Hendry must have sent you.”

“Hendry?” Aon said, not sure he had heard her right. “You ken Hendry?” he said, cocking his head.

“Me ken Hendry?” she echoed, her smile turning sly. “No. But I daresay he kens me. ’Twas I who acted as acolyte to Bhaltair Flen when the old bastart left a message for Hendry in his cottage.”

Despite the loch behind her, Aon almost lunged at the woman. He remembered the day they had raided Flen’s settlement. Hendry had flown into a rage after seeing a message left in some flour. The corpse of this druidess acolyte of Flen’s would please the Wood Dream to no end.

“Aye,” she said, raising her hand to him again. “I ken your ire, for I share it. Your master and I have that in common. Did ye no’ hear me? I but acted the acolyte. I am called Oriana.”

Though Aon would have grabbed her by the throat and dragged her into the earth, she quickly put a finger to her lips.

“Silence,” she hissed. “’Tis her. Be absolutely still.”

“Gods,” said another woman behind him. “There ye are, Ana. If this secret of yours ’tis no’ worth the bitter cold, I’ll have words with cook.”

As she trudged past him, Aon saw they wore similar clothes, though the new one wore a thin shawl around her shoulders.

“Of that I’m sure, Wynda,” Oriana said, drawing close as though to warm her.

“Out with it then. This secret of the laird’s. Tell me before we freeze.”

“’Tis only you who’ll freeze,” Oriana said.

As she turned to Wynda, Aon saw the metal poker she’d hidden behind her back. Wynda saw it just before it landed with a dull metal clang above her brow. She staggered sideways and onto the frozen loch. As she clutched at the bleeding wound, the ice beneath her cracked. With a whoosh and a great splash, she felt straight down.

Aon took a pace to the side to stay clear of the spray of droplets, some of them pink.

Oriana tossed the poker into the hole in the ice, and dusted her hands off as she turned to Aon.

“I have a message for Hendry,” she told him. “’Twill be of great interest to your master.”