Conor and his men stayed at their posts as night fell, the temperature plummeting with it. They’d watched for hours from every angle, but they’d seen no indication of warriors or watchmen on the crannog, nothing but the cold structure of earth and stone that made up the old keep. Had Niall perhaps prepared the location for a fallback position or designated it for some other use? Or were they missing something important?

Of his nine companions, only seven could swim. That left two men on the shore as lookouts to alert them of approaching enemy with the Fíréin’s birdcall signals. Conor was all too aware of how vulnerable they would be on the approach, precisely the point of the fortress’s design. Less vulnerable, of course, than had the boat still been attached to the pulley between the two docks. Someone must have decided that offered far too much access. Another indication there was something inside worth protecting.

Conor wrapped the ink and brush inside a square of waxed canvas and tucked it into the top edge of his sword’s sheath, hoping it was enough to keep the ink dry. So far they had experienced little from the sidhe but a vague sense of unrest, which could have just as easily come from their own worries. Ideally, Conor would simply play the shield around the fortress, but when stealth was their only advantage, he couldn’t afford to give up their position that easily. They would instead have to face their opponent blind. The harp was too delicate to risk getting wet and far too heavy to hold over his head as he swam. If the boat that belonged to the pulley system had been stored somewhere on the crannog as he hoped, he could send it back across and have the remaining two members of the party bring his harp with them.

“Ready?” Conor pitched his voice low and waited for the answering nods from the other seven. Concentrating on fading into the surroundings, he led the party at a swift run across the open space to the edge of the loch.

He’d chosen the back edge of the lake for the crossing. It had the least amount of open space and the most amount of concealment from the probable watchpoints on the island. Still, he imagined he felt archers sighting him down arrows as he darted across the field in the dim sliver of moonlight overhead. As he reached the edge of the lake, he pulled the sword harness over his head and plunged into the water.

The lake water —colder than it should be even at this time of year —slid over his skin and immediately started an unpleasant numbness in his limbs. He ignored it and trudged deeper into the water, the mud at the shoreline sticking around his boots and hampering his forward motion. Finally, he was deep enough to push off into a slow, one-armed breaststroke, keeping his weapon just barely above water.

Only the faint sounds of movement around him said his companions were making the same slow progress across the lake to the crannog. He tried to breathe evenly, measuring each inhalation and exhalation so he didn’t fatigue, but by the time his feet hit solid ground a handful of yards from the shoreline, his breath was coming in gasps. He emerged from the water just enough to slide his sword back on and free his hands, then climbed the bank in a crouch.

Despite his fears, no shout of alarm came. In fact, there was no indication anyone had noticed their presence.

The air had felt cold before, but soaked to the skin, it felt downright arctic. The uncontrollable shivering began, so much worse than Conor had expected. Maybe the fortress didn’t have watchmen. If the temperature kept falling, anyone who crossed with this method would die of exposure within an hour.

Water sloshed behind him as the rest of his men emerged from the lake. He signaled for them to fan out as they’d planned, dividing into four pairs to check each corner of the seemingly deserted fortress. Ailill took up his assigned position to his left. Conor drew his own blade and led the way forward directly to the fort itself.

The sensation of cold subsided a little as they moved through the open space, senses tuned to the signs of impending battle. And yet none came. In fact, there was no sign of life anywhere on the island. No torches, no glimmer of light from the arrow slits in the fort. No guards on battlements, at doors, or on the dock. Nothing to indicate there was anything here but silent stone.

Except the sidhe. The first wave of dread hit him, so overwhelmingly repellant even with the charm that he could barely stay on his feet. Why were they even here? They would die here. That’s why there were no guards. They needed no guards. If they didn’t leave now —

No. That was the sidhe’s influence. He had to resist it.

“Comdiu, protect us,” he murmured, his words barely audible. “Comdiu, watch over us.”

The sidhe’s oppression eased a bit, though he still had to brace himself against the emotions their presence dredged up. The urge to stop and draw the rune on his skin was nearly irresistible, but that would take more time than he had, not to mention the fact he was still dripping wet from the swim. He’d planned to enter with the softening rune through one of the side chambers Aine had told him about, but because there didn’t seem to be anyone watching, that would be more dangerous than simply going through the front door.

He signaled to Ailill before fading into the shadows by the wall. Four other men joined them, the remaining two taking up watch positions on the edge of the crannog. His partner moved forward, his hand on the latch, shoulder to the door. Conor expected Ailill’s shove to be useless —surely it was locked. Instead, the door swung inward, letting out a dim red light, like the low glow of coals.

Ambush, his mind screamed in warning, turn back now! That might or might not have been the sidhe, but he was once again aware of his exposed position as they flowed through the door, weapons ready. But the only thing that greeted them was silence.

Only then did Conor understand the reason for the quiet, the lack of warriors. What remained at Dún Eavan needed no guard.

Bodies.