26 SUMMONED

THE MOMENT THEY stepped onto the wynd outside the dwelling, Bree turned to her husband.

“Cailean,” she said softly, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. Instinctively, she knew she had to be gentle with him, for she sensed his brittleness, like a sheet of hide left out too long in the sun.

“Aye,” he replied hoarsely. He blinked then as if he was having trouble focusing on her.

Bree swallowed. She didn’t know what to say. Words couldn’t fix what was broken. Nothing could. “The Gods played a cruel trick on you today,” she whispered.

The weak mid-morning sun gleamed on the sweat that still slicked his face and bare arms after his fight. His chest rose and fell sharply, revealing that he was in the grip of strong emotion. She wasn’t surprised. The scene she’d just borne witness to was harrowing indeed.

She’d thought blood would be shed in the end, for the glint in those lads’ eyes had been murderous. However, the sight of their uncle’s blades, and her own, had checked them. And when their mother had started to weep—deep, harrowing sobs—they’d lowered their weapons.

Cailean and Bree had left the cottage without another word.

But now, Cailean had halted in the middle of the lane and stood there, as if his feet had just grown roots.

“The Gods aren’t to blame,” he replied hoarsely. Lifting a hand, he dragged it down his face. “I brought this on myself.” He broke off then, cursing. “I can’t believe she’d fall for Eilig … after everything that prick did.”

“Time changes people, Cailean,” she whispered.

A nerve flickered under his right eye. “Aye … some more than others.”

Silence fell between them before she gently squeezed his arm. “What now?” They needed to continue this discussion, for the pain inside her husband had to be lanced or it would poison him. Nonetheless, this wasn’t the time or place.

He heaved a deep, ragged breath. “Now, we leave … let’s get back to the ale-hall and collect Feannag.”

“Mac Brochan.” A gravelly male voice intruded then, making them both turn. A group of leather-clad warriors, domed iron helmets jammed onto their heads, stood behind them.

Bree’s stomach clenched. Releasing her husband’s arm, she stepped back from him. Shades, was the Fort Guard going to arrest Cailean for killing the fight master?

“What?” Cailean snapped.

“King Ailean wants to see you,” said one of them, a tall, rangy warrior with a leathery face.

“Now?”

“Aye. You’ve been summoned.”

Bree fought a frown. So, they weren’t going to question him about Eilig?

Cailean didn’t reply immediately, and Bree wondered if he’d refuse the order—not a wise idea since they were outnumbered and surrounded by high stone walls. Getting out of Cannich wouldn’t be easy.

All the same, she readied herself to act, her pulse quickening. If her husband decided to slash his way out of this fort, she’d fight at his side.

Moments passed, and eventually, Cailean muttered a curse under his breath. He then turned to Bree, his gaze meeting hers. “Wait for me at the ale-hall … this shouldn’t take long.” He stepped in close then, lowering his voice as he added. “Perhaps the overking has learned why mac Brude marches north.”

Stepping inside the smoky hall of the overking of Cannich’s broch, Cailean choked down his churning irritation.

Ailean mac Nairn was vexing at the best of times. Even so, there was a part of Cailean that was curious to hear what he had to say. As the High King’s chief-enforcer, he’d once been the first to know when something was afoot. But now, he was in the dark—and it frustrated him.

Focusing on the looming conflict also helped distract him from the self-loathing that had dug its teeth into him like a rat and wouldn’t let go.

Watch yourself with mac Nairn , he warned himself as he crunched across the dirty rushes toward where the king awaited him on the high seat. He can be a tricky bastard.

The Upland king had always reminded him of a spider. He was a swarthy man with a short, thick body and long gangly limbs. A shock of black hair crowned a large head, and deep-set brown eyes tracked Cailean as he approached. Beside him sat Queen Dalria, a pretty, if petulant-faced, woman who wore her golden hair in two long braids.

“Mac Brochan,” the king greeted him sourly. “Since when do you arrive in Cannich and not announce yourself?”

“Apologies, sire,” Cailean replied. “But I was on leave and am here visiting kin.”

King Ailean pursed his lips at this response, his dark brows knitting together. “With the High King’s imminent arrival here, I imagined he’d sent you ahead.”

Cailean didn’t reply to this grumble. He merely halted a few yards back from the high seat and waited for the king’s questions. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to answer any of them.

Impatience thumped in his chest as the moments slid by, and his belly started to ache. You have made a Gods-damned mess of things, mac Brochan . He knew how lust for revenge blinded people yet had thought he was different. He wasn’t.

He really was the same as his High King.

The overking’s wolfhound, a lean dog with a wiry coat that sat beside its master, began scratching itself then. Scowling, mac Nairn kicked it. The hound yelped, stopped scratching, and slunk away.

“Our High King is being secretive,” the overking muttered, tapping his long fingers upon the carven armrest of his chair. “And I don’t like it. He tells me to ready my army … to recruit as many hill-tribe warriors as I can get my hands on … but refuses to tell me why.”

Cailean shared the overking’s confusion. However, he couldn’t admit such to him.

Mac Nairn heaved himself forward then, his gaze spearing Cailean’s. “Why is he marching north? Does he know something I do not? Do the Shee plan to attack us?”

“I cannot say, sire.”

“Cannot … or will not?”

Cailean remained silent. Curse mac Nairn, he had nothing useful to offer, after all. His gut cramped then, as the memory of the look on his sister’s face moments before he left the cottage intruded. Her anguish. Her grief. Striking off Eilig’s head had been satisfying indeed, but in killing the fight master, he’d ruined Enya and her sons’ lives.

Gods, he wished he could claw back time and change what he’d done.

Retribution had initially tasted so sweet, but now it was bitter enough to choke him.

“Why would he bring the armies of Duncrag, Braewall, and Baldeen north?” the overking went on, oblivious to the fact that Cailean was barely listening to him. “Unless he has gotten wind of something.” He paused then, resentment smoldering in his peat-colored eyes. “I tire of being the last to know, whenever there is something afoot. I’m an overking, not some rabble-rousing chieftain.”

“Our High King will be in Cannich soon,” Cailean replied, unable to prevent his voice from hardening. “You’ll be able to take your grievances up with him then.”

Mac Nairn scowled at this response, a muscle bunching in his jaw.

Cailean wasn’t entirely unsympathetic.

The truth was that the High King didn’t treat Cannich’s ruler well. He didn’t like the power that the overking held, for The Uplands bred the strongest warriors in all of Albia and governed the various chiefdoms in the north.

In the past, before mac Brude’s time, The Upland overkings had risen against their High King a few times, and bloody wars marked Albia’s history. As such, mac Brude was wary of mac Nairn and had deliberately excluded him from meetings he held with his other two overkings.

“In his last missive, he said that he’s bringing his family north with him,” Queen Dalria spoke up then, her already high-pitched voice shrill with disapproval. “Does he expect us to provide accommodation for them?”

Cailean drew in a slow, deep breath, praying to the Gods for patience. Did he look like a courier? “I cannot say, Your Highness,” he replied coldly.

A tense silence fell in the hall. It was a large circular space dominated by one enormous hearth in the center. Servants and slaves moved quietly around the fringes, leery of disturbing, or vexing, their liege.

“And how far away is the High King?” the overking ground out eventually, his voice rough with anger now. “Surely, you can tell me that, mac Brochan?”

“Two days at most.” It was a guess, although, after his conversation with the warriors bound east the day before, it seemed probable. Like the overking, he was mystified by the High King’s behavior—although mac Nairn’s incessant questioning was starting to vex him. All the same, a sage voice whispered to Cailean to keep his temper in check. He couldn’t let his inner turmoil turn him reckless—not if he wanted to walk out of here without a fight. The overking’s warriors lined the hall, watching them. He could take them on, yet he’d done enough damage today. “As soon as he makes camp outside Cannich, mac Brude shall call upon you.”

King Ailean scowled. “I’m sure he will.”

Pacing the yard behind the ale-hall, Bree glanced up at the darkening sky. Dusk was settling. Where was Cailean?

When he’d assured her that his meeting with the overking wouldn’t take long, she’d thought him overly optimistic. Even so, she’d expected him earlier than this. And as the day drew out, and her husband didn’t appear, she started to worry.

Maybe mac Nairn had arrested Cailean for beheading the fight master.

Perhaps word had reached them that the High King’s chief-enforcer was supposed to be dead.

Bree swiveled on her heel and stalked another circuit of the yard.

A strong wind had whipped up from the northwest. The Sweeper, which scattered the straw that littered the yard and tugged at the lumps of turf on the surrounding roofs, just added to her disquiet this afternoon. Gateway was over now, yet there was a different kind of tension in the air.

If Cailean didn’t appear soon, she’d go looking for him.

“Bree.”

Whipping around, she found her husband striding into the yard. His face, which had softened after their night together in Morae, had regained its former hardness. His jaw was set, his brow furrowed, and his blue eyes steely.

Bree’s stomach tensed. She’d hoped the afternoon might have allowed him to cool down. But remembering the scene with his sister and nephews that morning, she wasn’t surprised he looked so forbidding.

Even so, she ached to reach for him. She hadn’t ever been overly tactile; she’d been brought up in an emotionally distant household and wasn’t comfortable with displays of affection. But despite that, the urge to step into him, to wrap her arms around his torso and bury her face against his neck, was almost overwhelming.

She prevented herself though. Now wasn’t the time.

Cailean halted before her. “King Ailean is a burr up my arse,” he growled, raking a hand through his short dark hair. “The bastard kept pelting me with questions I couldn’t answer.”

Bree cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t learn anything useful from him then?”

He shook his head and pulled a face.

“You held your tongue, I hope?”

“I wouldn’t have returned to you if I hadn’t.” He glanced around then before muttering a curse. “I wanted to get out of this fort … but the king insisted I remain for the noon meal … followed by an afternoon meeting with his warriors.”

“What’s another night?” Stepping close, she reached out then and caught his hand in hers. Actually, she’d have preferred to move on from Cannich—for them to get away from this brewing conflict—but it was too late in the day to move on; dusk was almost upon them. “Right now, neither of us has anywhere we need to be.”