Warrior, Renewed: Book Two of the Comhairle Chronicles
Eallair had bumped through life, following Tor's lead, but with the date for his own visit to the proving grounds looming, he needs to be sure of his own heart. Unfortunately, with his gift playing havoc with his eyesight, and the glare of others auras ensuring a constant migraine, it's proving difficult to focus on what he wants from life. It seemed easier to down a bottle of absinthe and pass out in a stranger's bed, than to worry about whether or not he should even be taking the trials. But maybe the trials were the answer to his problems; hadn't the Taghadairean taken Deòthas's magic as her sacrifice? Maybe they would take his gift too. And if they found him unworthy? Well, then he wouldn't need to worry about anything ever again.
Tancred couldn't remember the last time he felt happy. Being chief had always been an honour, but after millennia of life, he was beginning to feel tired, stretched thin; his weariness went into his very soul. If he'd been another chief, in another time, he might have fallen on his sword, but as so many people kept reminding him, the Comhairle couldn't afford a change of leadership. The nobles would use his fall to justify the disbandment of the Council, and with evil still gathering, no one could afford that. Even warrior chiefs need something to live for, though.
The lull left in the wake of the Manipulator's death was only ever going to provide a temporary peace. Raghnall had gone to ground. Cailean's demonic sponsors were unlikely to abandon their quest for chaos simply because one minion had fallen. The question? Who was going to make the next move, and can the Comhairle come through the next battle unscathed?
