This “can’t-miss historical epic” (Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author) reimagines the legends of King Arthur by resurrecting the real historical figures who inspired these enduring tales. Scotland, AD 580: A queen has risen. A battle has been won. Loved ones who were lost have been reunited. But in a land of power-hungry kings, peace is precarious and cannot last for long. All too soon, circumstance pulls both Britons and Scots back to their own destinies. The warrior Artúr receives a mysterious summons from his father in Dalriada. Queen Languoreth and her brother must return to Strathclyde with the dangerous former bishop Mungo in tow, determined to maintain the fragile balance between the Christians and the people of the Old Way. Meanwhile, the young priestess Angharad must travel deep into the shadowed land of the Picts, hoping to become the initiate of Briochan, a druid who practices the secret Celtic art of weather work. As they rise to meet their fates, they are pushed to impossible new frontiers: each must decide whether they are willing to do what it takes to become the heroes their harrowing days demand. Set in the sprawling historical landscape of early medieval Scotland, Pike’s critically acclaimed retelling of the Arthurian saga thrusts readers into a world of ambition, loyalty and love, revealing truths that have for too long been buried by legend in this “gorgeous, sweeping saga” (Janet Skeslien Charles, New York Times bestselling author). "A legend-steeped story of the real King Arthur and his contemporaries, The Shadowed Land is full of mystery and Celtic magic, shimmering lochs and verdant glens, snow-cloaked mountains and deep forests, fierce battles and fragile love. A deeply researched, sweeping, and utterly compelling tale of magic, betrayal, battle, and destiny, The Shadowed Land is this winter's can't-miss historical epic." — New York Times bestselling author Kristin Harmel Signe Pike is the author of The Lost Queen series, recently optioned for television, and the travel memoir Faery Tale . She has researched and written about Celtic history and folklore for over a decade. Visit her at SignePike.com. Chapter 1: Languoreth CHAPTER 1 Languoreth Dùn Meldred, Southern Kingdom of Gododdin Land of the Britons 2nd of July, AD 580 It began with a dream. Those were the first words my daughter uttered after eight years missing. Angharad was dead. Or so I’d been told. When I sat at my weaving, eyes touched upon me with pity. Look at the woman who has lost both daughter and son. I met their gaze, unflinching. Yes, I am still here. It is a wonder, is it not, what the heart can survive? I heard them whisper, Some say she still keeps counsel with their ghosts. Perhaps they were right. For only yesterday I had watched my lost daughter glide like a specter across a battlefield. Who was this woman who kept company with Pictish warriors, ink marking her body and hair falling down her back in a mass of ruddy coils? She wore a cloak made of feathers, beaded and slick from driving rain. From a distance, I’d not known her at first, my own child. The relentless churn of time can do such things. After all, how could I have imagined the woman she’d become? Now she stood beside me high upon the ramparts of a fortress, her gray eyes somber as we looked out across a field of the dead. On the muddy expanse below, warriors prodded the fallen, hoping to finish any enemies who yet lived. Soon, the corpse birds would come. Lord Meldred’s Hall sat like an eagle’s nest high above the Tweed River Valley, commanding views of the Dreva Hills. Spears of summer sun pierced the blue-black clouds overhead. It was the sort of light that followed a storm, casting the grassy lands of Dùn Meldred in a gilded light that belied the massacre below, where men lay like effigies, eyes unblinking. My body still thrummed from the terrors of war, but I pushed it aside, reaching instead for Angharad’s hand. Along the creamy underside of her wrist, a trail of birds had been pricked in black ink. “Crows?” I asked. Had she remembered what I’d told her of my old teacher Cathan, or how our hearts were like birds, pricked full of feathers? But the look she gave me was veiled, unyielding. “We cannot speak of our markings,” she said. I felt a stab. We cannot speak . My daughter was a stranger, no longer a Briton. Last evening I’d overheard her speaking with the Picts, their tongue rushing from her lips like water. Now, when she spoke Brythonic, it was with the cadence of one who came from the north. I did not want to ask how long she would stay, for I knew she would not. I looked at our joined hands. “You must forgive me. I cannot help but touch you,” I said. “This morning when I woke, I worried it all was a dream, your returning.” Angharad looked at me, her gray eyes taking my measure, but said nothing. If she was angry, she had every right: I was her mother, meant to p