16 IN SEARCH OF EILIG

brEE AND CAILEAN didn’t speak during the journey to Morae. Their silence wasn’t companionable, but strained.

She wondered if he already regretted allowing her to accompany him to the crannog. Bree didn’t question him about it though. Best to let his decision settle. She’d find a way to make herself useful at their destination so trust might bloom between them.

All the same, worry tugged at her, as did a nagging voice in her head. Pushing your way into his life won’t work, it whispered . Coming back to Albia was a mistake .

Quiet . Bree shut the voice down firmly. Just give me time. In returning here and searching for her husband, she’d followed her gut. She just hoped it hadn’t steered her wrong.

As they traveled west, the road became increasingly busy; it had been wise for her to send Tiv into hiding. From the moment the first traveler approached, a bent-backed farmer with a cart full of noisy caged fowl, Bree glamored herself.

However, she didn’t choose the guise she’d used when she’d traveled alone through Albia—that of the stern-faced farmer’s wife with straw-colored hair—instead, she glamored herself as the Marav woman she’d once been: Fia mac Callum.

The thick woodland drew back, and villages—scatterings of turf-roofed cottages—popped up like mushrooms on either side of the highway. Men, women, and children worked the fields, hoeing the dark earth, and harvesting the last of the cabbages and neeps before winter.

Many of them glanced up as Feannag thundered by, their gazes tracking the large crow-black stallion with its two riders—and the huge fae hound that ran at the horse’s side, tongue lolling.

They reached Morae at noon. Skaal left them shortly before they did, disappearing into the hazelwood that hugged the shore of the loch. Bree wasn’t surprised; she’d marked how Cailean left Skaal behind when he ventured into Rothie. Tales of the High King’s chief-enforcer and his fae hound were no doubt far-spread throughout Albia. It made sense not to draw more attention than was necessary to himself.

After all, he was supposed to be dead.

A scattering of squat round huts with conical roofs encircled the lake edge, where women were bringing in washing and children played knucklebones in the dirt.

“No sign of the company of fighters out here,” Cailean muttered, breaking the long silence between them. “Yet.” His tone was all business, making his focus clear.

“They’ll be residing inside the crannog then,” she replied. “What should we be looking out for?”

“An enclosure with a banner … cheering.”

“They should be easy to find.”

He grunted in reply. “You’d think so.”

They rode onto a wooden causeway. Peering over Cailean’s shoulder, Bree’s gaze settled upon the turf roofs within the crannog—a large island encircled by a high wooden palisade—in the midst of the wide loch. The blunt-edged Ben Morae rose to the north, a majestic peak with deep-green and purple slopes, reflected in the still waters beneath.

He raised a hand then to acknowledge the pike-wielding guards who flanked the gates on the way in. Bree noted the respectful nods they answered him with. Despite that he’d walked away from his old life, Cailean carried a commanding air about him that others couldn’t ignore.

He angled Feannag toward a long, low-slung building to the right of the guard house, threw his leg over the pommel, and slid off his horse. He then strapped on his weapons. Bree was also about to dismount when he turned. His gaze sharpened as it traveled over her then, taking in her glamored form.

“I chose this face because we’re both familiar with it,” she murmured, even as her pulse took off. Iron bite her, this man’s glare could flay the skin off a boar’s hide. “Do you have a problem with it?”

“No,” he replied brusquely. “One face is the same as another.”

Anger pulsed to life in Bree’s belly. His mood had been tolerable at dawn, but it seemed the ride to Morae had soured it. Aye, he was impatient to go in search of Eilig, but that didn’t mean he had to be a prick about it.

Bree slid off Feannag’s back to find herself standing too close to Cailean. The iron strapped across his front made her ears buzz in warning. Edging away from him, she waited while he unstrapped the saddle bags and handed over a bronze coin to the lad who emerged from the stables.

After making sure the lad would rub Feannag down well and feed him a generous nosebag of oats and plenty of hay, Cailean turned on his heel and strode out onto the wide street. Bree followed him.

Her husband walked with long, purposeful strides. He bristled with impatience, his shoulders tense. Of course, even without his hound, Cailean drew stares—many of them from women. His tattoos, size, and bearing made it impossible for him to pass unseen.

A company of warriors marched by then. Armed with iron-tipped pikes and axes, they were a sign of the unrest that had plagued The Uplands of late. Their rough voices mingled with the clucking of fowl that pecked at grain outside the dwellings, and the squeals of children chasing each other through the wynds that led off the main thoroughfare. At the far end of the isle, Bree spied the conical roof of the chieftain’s roundhouse, where smoke drifted lazily into the pale sky.

They walked down the main street, gazes sweeping left and right as they looked for a fighting enclosure or a banner announcing the next duel. However, when they reached the large dirt square before the broch, there had been no sign of either.

After that, Cailean scoured the crannog, lane by lane, with Bree walking silently at his heel. And as the afternoon inched by, she watched her husband’s face gradually darken. By the time they found themselves back at the gates leading out of Morae, a deep scowl creased his face.

“The Mother’s tits,” Cailean growled, stopping before the stables where they’d left Feannag. “He isn’t here.”

Bree winced, sympathetic to his frustration. He’d been building up to facing Eilig all day, and the man had eluded him. “What now?”

Cailean huffed an irritated sigh, raking his fingers through his hair. “I need to ask around … and find out if he was here, and if so, where the bastard went.” He glanced about him then as if he’d only just noticed that dusk was settling. “But first, I’d better get us lodgings for the night.”

An elderly couple rented them a lean-to behind one of the tightly packed cottages within the fort and promised to provide clean furs to sleep on, hot water, soap, and drying sheets.

However, embarrassment swept over Bree when Cailean made sure that there were two sleeping nooks inside—a request that earned a surprised look from the old woman. Of course, she’d assumed they were a couple, and Cailean had just made it clear they weren’t.

Cheeks burning, she ducked inside the lean-to, glancing around the dim interior. Cailean entered a moment later, and she avoided looking at him.

The elderly woman bustled in then, bringing fresh drying sheets and soap, followed by her husband shortly after, with two large buckets of water. “We’ll heat these in the cauldron over the fire,” the old man instructed before lighting the logs waiting in the fire pit. His wife then tipped the water into the cauldron.

“Just ask if you need anything else,” his wife sang out as they departed.

In the cramped lean-to, Bree eyed the iron pot full of water that now simmered over the flames. “Curse it,” she muttered. “I can’t escape iron.”

“You won’t in Albia,” Cailean replied. “But I’ll pour the water into the washbowl when it’s ready.”

Bree nodded, still avoiding his eye. Nonetheless, she was grateful he wasn’t being obstructive.

She let her glamor fall then, for they were alone now.

Feeling his gaze upon her, she shrugged off her cloak and hung it from a hook on the wall. She then moved over to a stool, pulled it back from the hearth—so she wasn’t too close to the iron cauldron—and waited. As awkward as this situation was, it was a luxury to have proper lodgings for the night.

Once the water was warm enough, Cailean used the thick leather gloves the elderly couple had left to heave the pot off the flames and pour some steaming water into the earthen washbowl on the nearby table.

Bree watched the way his heavily muscled arms rippled as he swung the pot around as if it weighed nothing. The sight made her chest grow tight. In the past, she’d never thought the brawn of Marav males was attractive. But that was before him .

Cailean hung the pot back up over the fire and headed for the door without a backward glance. “I’ll be back later.”

The wattle door rattled shut behind him, and Bree let out a deep sigh. She then rose to her feet and started to undress. The clipped edge to his voice warned she wouldn’t see him for a while. In the meantime, she’d bathe and look at the wound on her arm.

He agreed you could accompany him as far as Morae, a voice whispered to her then. But what will you do if he continues without you tomorrow? You can’t keep stalking the man.

Bree’s breathing grew shallow. No, she couldn’t. Instead, she had to find a way to convince him he needed her at his side.

“Aye, the fighters were here.” The smithy wiped a meaty arm across his forehead, leaving a streak of soot behind. “But they only stayed a day.”

Cailean’s gaze narrowed. “Why was that?” He stood in the doorway of the smoky forge. Outside, night was settling over Morae. He’d asked at a few places, and no one had been helpful. Until he’d stopped here.

“Our chieftain refused to throw any of his men into the ring.” The blacksmith cast Cailean an assessing look, no doubt taking in the enforcer tattoos that covered his arms and snaked up his neck. “With war looming, he doesn’t want to waste resources.”

Cailean nodded. That made sense. Even so, frustration pounded like a fist against his ribs. He was still one step behind Eilig.

“Do you know where they went?”

“They took the highway west … heading to Cannich presumably. My wife passed them on the road. A ragged group they were too.”

Cailean took this in with interest. Once, Eilig mac Frang had led the most successful fighting band in Albia. No wonder his former master had been so difficult to find. His fights no longer drew crowds.

At first light tomorrow, he’d make for Cannich.

In many ways, The Upland capital was the best place for him to face Eilig again. It was big enough for him to move about without drawing too much attention to himself, and the sort of place where his former master would linger a few days. He’d be getting desperate to earn some coin now.

However, there was another reason why Cannich suited him.

The overking would have druids working for him—and at least one sacrificer among them. The following evening would be a full moon. Gateway was upon them. The fight with the hill-tribe warriors had drained Cailean, he could feel exhaustion starting to pull at his bones, a sign he needed to take part in a blood-letting.

It would be best if he was at full strength when he took on Eilig.

The fight master would be aging now, and by all accounts was lame these days. It had been twenty years since he’d seen him last. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him.

Bree was sitting a few yards back from the fire, wrapped in a drying sheet, when the wattle door creaked open and Cailean ducked inside.

However, upon seeing her half-clad state, he halted abruptly, his gaze raking over her. “I thought you’d be dressed.” His tone was almost accusing.

“I washed some of my clothes earlier,” she replied, gesturing to the garments hanging on the wall next to the fire. “They’re almost dry.” Pausing, her gaze settled upon his face. “Did you find out what happened to Eilig?”

“Aye.” His eyes glinted then.

“And where are they?”

“They’ve headed for Cannich. And by tomorrow evening, we’ll be there too. The prick’s days are numbered.” He unslung a cloth bag from over his shoulder and set it down on the table. “Here ... I bought you a couple of things”

Bree stilled. “You did?”

“Aye.” He pulled out a long-sleeve woolen tunic. “I thought you’d need a new one of these.”

Bree’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking the tunic.

His gaze dipped to the bandaged cut on her arm then, his brow furrowing. Returning to the bag, he fished out a stoppered clay jar and a roll of linen. “The crannog’s healer has dried whin flowers … so, I asked her to mix up a paste for you.”

Warmth washed over her. His unexpected kindness was disarming. A moment later, the backs of her eyes started to prickle. Ancestors give her strength, she couldn’t humiliate herself by weeping.

“That’s … thoughtful,” she replied, wishing her voice didn’t sound so hoarse.

He made an embarrassed noise in the back of his throat. “Aye, well, let’s dress your arm and find ourselves an ale-hall,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”