24 KILLING DISTANCE

brEE WATCHED CAILEAN butter an oatcake. His movements were deft and hurried. His brow was furrowed as if the oatcake had done him a personal injustice. Ever since awakening, he’d been on edge, taciturn.

They sat at a small table in a corner of the room they’d taken, knees brushing as they broke their fast. It was a companionable moment, one Bree would have usually enjoyed—if Cailean hadn’t been so tense.

Nonetheless, his face was far more rested. They’d curled up together in the furs the night before, wrapped around each other. He’d fallen asleep within moments—slipping into a deep, exhausted slumber—although Bree had lain for a long while, listening to the steady beat of his heart against her ear.

She hadn’t questioned him further about the blood-letting. In truth, she was still sore about it. No, it wasn’t jealousy that chafed at her now—for she’d been impressed to hear about Evina throwing salt in the trow’s eyes—but the knowledge that this would be repeated, many times, if she and Cailean remained together.

She’d never be part of the blood-letting with her own husband.

“Can I join you today … when you face Eilig?” she asked finally.

Cailean glanced up, his frown sliding into a scowl.

Seeing his reaction, Bree’s jaw tightened. “I won’t interfere.”

Her husband quirked a dark eyebrow. “Can I trust you to keep your blade sheathed … even if things don’t go my way?”

The oatcake she’d just eaten churned in her stomach at these words. “Of course, things will go your way,” she scoffed. “You’re the best warrior in Albia.”

“ One of the best,” he corrected her. “Eilig was once an enforcer too. He served mac Brude’s father but decided the life wasn’t for him. He never liked taking orders from anyone but himself.”

Bree pulled a face. Her husband didn’t need to worry though—she wouldn’t intervene. This was his reckoning, and she’d let him have it.

“Will he still call on earth magic?” she asked after a pause.

He nodded. “Even if an enforcer leaves the service of an overking, or the High King, he remains a warrior-druid,” Cailean replied. “We are bound to earth magic … which was why I had to undergo the blood-letting last night.” He paused then, his blue eyes shadowing. “There’s no getting rid of it.”

Apprehension fluttered up in the cage of Bree’s chest. “Aye, well, you’re younger than him,” she replied. “And I swear I will stand back.”

Their gazes fused, the moment drawing out before Cailean replied, “Very well.”

“Why did it have to take him? My boy!”

The woman hunched, sobbing in the doorway, weeping. A man comforted her, stroking her back.

Halting before them, Cailean met the man’s eye. “What happened?”

Heavy clouds hung overhead when Bree and Cailean left the ale-hall and made their way down to the fighting enclosure. Walking at her husband’s side, Bree had marked the pale and strained faces of the locals she passed. The atmosphere in the fort this morning was subdued; a strange hush had settled.

“A botach forced its way in last night,” the man replied, his voice raw with grief. “It jumped the salt and took our child.”

“We shouldn’t have been so stingy with the salt,” his wife choked out. “It’s our fault!”

“I’m sorry,” Bree murmured, even as the woman began to sob once more, louder now.

The man nodded, although it was clear he barely heard her.

Glancing at each other, Bree and Cailean moved on, leaving the grieving couple behind them.

Her husband stalked now—purpose in every stride—and she struggled to keep up with him.

“It was an eventful night, by all accounts.” Her hand strayed to the new dagger she carried at her waist, under her cloak. That a trow would carry such a weapon was mystifying—and worrying.

“Aye.” Cailean glanced her way, blinking as he yanked himself free of his thoughts. “Gateway has grown increasingly dangerous over the years … do you think your people could be responsible?”

Bree frowned, considering his question. “It would be unusual,” she replied. “We don’t control The Slew. And apart from fae hounds, we have little to do with the faery creatures beyond the veil.”

“Are the tales true then … that they were cast from Sheehallion?”

“Aye, although that was a long time ago.”

Cailean swung his attention away, focusing on the wide space up ahead before the gates of the fort. Warriors were sparring here, their grunts and curses rising into the damp air.

Ignoring them, he strode around the edge of the area, his shoulders set, to the archway that led to the fighting enclosure.

Bree slowed her pace slightly, allowing him to draw ahead. He was preparing himself now—for a long overdue reckoning.

Within the enclosure, she stepped into a sawdust-covered arena marred with large dark spots: blood from the previous evening’s fight. Bench seating, where the spectators watched, ringed the arena. There, she halted a few steps behind Cailean, surveying the scene within.

A big man with chiseled features, a thin scar across one cheek, and close-cropped grey hair, his bare arms blue with tattoos, was taking four fighters through drills.

The iron collars each of the warriors wore gleamed dully in the pale daylight. They were all heavily-muscled, scarred individuals, with grim faces and dead eyes. Slaves.

Although it wasn’t them that Cailean was focusing on, but the fight master who snarled instructions, as they fought each other with bound blades.

“Move your arses!” he roared. “I’ve seen cripples move faster than you lot!”

At that moment, the fight master noticed they had an audience. Scowling, he turned from his still dueling slaves. “The next show’s tonight,” he barked. “Fuck off until then.”

“I’m not here for that” —Cailean stepped forward, his hands flexing at his sides— “but for you.”

His pulse thumped in his ears now.

Gods, he couldn’t believe it, Eilig mac Frang was standing in front of him, within killing distance. How many times had he lain awake after he’d begun his training upon the Isle of Arryn, imagining this moment? Of course, as the moons slid into years, he’d stopped himself from thinking about taking revenge against his former master—but once he’d dredged the old hate up, it wouldn’t let him go.

The older man’s grey brows drew together, confusion flickering across his face. The scar Cailean had given him on the day he’d learned the fight master was bedding Enya was silvered with age now.

Heat stirred in Cailean’s gut. “Don’t you recognize me, Eilig?”

The fight master’s pale-grey eyes widened. “Cailean?”

“That’s right.”

Eilig dragged his gaze over him, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’ve followed your career over the years,” he drawled. “Your sister is so proud.”

Is . Cailean’s heart kicked against his ribs. “Enya’s alive?”

The fight master’s smile widened, malice flickering in his eyes. “Aye … she’s borne me three sons.”

Cailean’s blood started to roar in his ears. The Reaper take him, he wanted to draw his broadsword and cut Eilig’s head off right now. The fire that smoldered in his belly flared hot. Aye, he wanted reckoning for every beating. Every humiliation. For his mother, father, and sister. For the innocence Eilig had stolen. For the family he’d ruined.

“Draw your sword, Eilig.”

The fight master gave an incredulous laugh, the abrasive sound drifting over the arena. Meanwhile, the four slaves had stopped sparring. Gazes sharp, they were now watching the two men who stood around five yards apart.

The fight master’s attention strayed over Cailean’s shoulder, to where Bree was standing, glamored as a Marav woman. “Who’s this pretty thing?” he murmured, licking his lips.

Cailean didn’t reply. Moments passed, and when it was clear that he wouldn’t be making introductions, Eilig shook his head mockingly. “It’s a bit late for retribution, lad .” The fight master drew the sword strapped to his back in one smooth, easy movement.

Cailean’s lip curled. Suddenly, the years fell away, and he was thirteen, dripping blood into the dirt as Eilig loomed over him, fists raised, daring him to rise. “It’s never too late,” he said softly.

He then drew his own blade and lunged.