what looked like two trees twisted together to form one. From the branches of the strange joining, strips of brightly colored cloth were tied to it in a strange yet complementary contrast to its ancient, gnarled limbs.
The longer Stark stared at it, the odder it made him feel.
“I’ve never seen a tree like that, and why is all that cloth tied to it?” he asked.
Seoras braked, coming to a stop in the middle of the road. “ ’Tis a hawthorn tree and a rowan tree, grown together to make a hangin’ tree.”
When that’s all the explanation he gave, Stark shot him a frustrated look, saying, “A hanging tree?”
“Yer education is sadly lackin’, laddie. Ach, well, ’thon tree is a tree of wishes. Each knot—each strip of cloth—represents a wish. Sometimes it’s parents wishin’ for the well-being of a wain. Sometimes it’s friends remembering those passed on to the next life. But most often it’s wishes of lovers, tying their lives together and wishin’ fer happiness. They’re trees grown by the Good People, roots fed by passin’ on their well wishes from their world tae urs.”
“The good people?” Stark looked exasperated.
“The Fey—Fairies tae you. Do yie no know that’s where the sayin’ ‘Tie the knot’ comes from?”
“That’s romantic,” Aphrodite said, her tone—for once—totally devoid of sarcasm.
“Aye, wumman, if it’s truly romantic, then it must be Scottish,” said the Warrior as he put the Range Rover into gear and pulled slowly away from the wish-laden tree.
Distracted by the thought of tying a wish with Zoey, Stark didn’t notice the castle until Seoras stopped again. Then he looked up, and the blaze of light reflecting off rock and water filled his sight. The castle sat a couple hundred yards from the main road, down a single lane that was really a raised stone bridgeway over a boggy field. Torches, like those that lined the bridge from the mainland, lit the lane, only here they were easily three times in number, illuminating the pathway to the castle and the walls of the huge edifice itself.
And in between the torches were stakes, as thick around as a man’s arm. On each stake was a head—leathered, mouth grimacing, eyes missing, the macabre things at first appeared to move and then Stark realized it was just the long, stringy hair from each shriveled scalp that floated, ghostlike in the cold breeze.
“Gross,” Aphrodite whispered from the backseat.
“The Great Taker of Heads,” Darius said, his voice hushed with awe.
“Aye, Sgiach,” was all Seoras said, but his lips curved up in a smile that mirrored the pride in his voice.
Stark didn’t speak. Instead, his eyes were drawn from the grisly entryway up and up. Sgiach’s fortress perched on the very edge of a cliff that overlooked the ocean. Though he could only see the land side of the castle, it wasn’t hard for Stark to imagine the sheer face that must present itself to the outer world—a world that would never gain access to her domain, even had the queen’s protective spell not already repelled intruders. The castle was made of gray stone interspersed with the shimmering white marble that littered the island. In front of the thick, double wooden doors was an imposing archway that sat before the narrow, bridgelike entrance to the castle.
As he got out of the Range Rover, Stark heard a sound that drew his gaze even farther upward. Lit up by a circle of torches, a flag flew from the uppermost turret of the castle. It rippled in the cool, brisk breeze, but Stark clearly saw the bold shape of a powerful black bull with the image of a goddess, or perhaps a queen, painted within his muscular body.
Then the doors to the castle opened, and Warriors, male and female, poured from within, crossed the bridge, and jogged together toward them. Stark automatically stepped back as Darius moved up beside him in a defensive position.
“Dinnae look for trouble where nane is meant,” Seoras said, making a calming motion with his callused hand. “They wish only to show proper respect to yer queen.”
The Warriors, all dressed like Seoras, whether they were male or female, moved quickly, but without any sign of aggression, to Stark. They came in a column of two, holding a leather litter between them.
“ ’Tis tradition, respect, laddie, for when one o’ us falls. It is the responsibility of the Clan tae return him, or her, home tae Tír na nÓg, the land of our youth,” Seoras said. “We never be leaving behind one of our own.”
Stark hesitated. Meeting the Warrior’s steady gaze, he said, “I don’t think I can let her go.”
“Och aye,” Seoras said softly, nodding in understanding. “Yie dinnae have tae. You be takin’ the foremost position. The Clan will do the rest.”
When Stark stood there, unmoving, Seoras walked to him and held out his arms. He wasn’t going to let Zoey go; he didn’t think he could bear it. Then Stark saw the gold chieftain’s torque glittering at Seoras’s wrist. It was the torque that touched something inside him. With a jolt of surprise, he realized he trusted Seoras, and as he passed Zoey to the Warrior, he knew he wasn’t giving her up but sharing her instead.
Seoras turned and carefully laid Zoey on the litter. The Warriors, six on each side, bowed their heads respectfully. Then the leader, a tall, raven-haired woman who held the foremost position of the litter, said to Stark, “Warrior, my place is yours.”
Moving on instinct, Stark walked to the litter, and as the woman stepped away, he grasped the well-worn handhold. Seoras walked ahead of them. As one, Stark and the other Warriors followed him, carrying Zoey like a fallen queen into Sgiach’s castle.
The interior of the castle was a major surprise, especially after the gruesome “decorations” on the exterior. At the very least, Stark had expected it to be a Warrior’s castle—manly and Spartan and basically like a cross between a dungeon and a guys’ locker room. He was seriously wrong.
The inside of the castle was gorgeous. The floor was smooth white marble veined in silver. The stone walls were covered with brightly colored tapestries that depicted everything from pretty island scenes, complete with shaggy-haired cows, to battlefield images that were as beautiful as they were bloody. They’d passed through the foyer, walked down a long hallway, and come to immense double stone stairs when Seoras halted the column with a wave of his hand.
“You cannae be a Guardian of an Ace if you cannae make a decision. So yie need to decide, laddie. Do yie wish to take yur queen above and use some time tae rest and prepare, or do yie choose to begin yur quest now?”
Stark didn’t hesitate. “I don’t have time to rest, and I started preparing for this the day Zoey accepted my oath as her Warrior. My decision is to start my quest now.”
Seoras nodded slightly. “Aye, then, it’s to the Chamber of the Fi-anna Foil we will be going.” The Warrior turned from the stairs and continued down the hallway. Close behind him, Stark and the others carried Zoey.
To Stark’s complete irritation, Aphrodite quickened her step until she was almost even with him, and asked, “So, Seoras, what exactly did you mean when you called what Stark has to do a quest?”
Seoras didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder at her when he said, “I didnae stutter, wumman. I named his task a quest, and that it is.”
Aphrodite snorted.
“Shut up,” Stark whispered to her.
As usual, Aphrodite ignored him. “Yeah, I got the word. I’m just not sure of the meaning.”
Seoras came to a huge set of arched double doors. Stark thought they looked like
