29 KEEP YOUR DISTANCE

“YOUR IDEA IS shit.” Bree folded her arms before her and lifted her chin. “Try coming up with a new one.”

Cailean shook his head, a groove etching between his eyebrows. “It’s the best … the only … chance we have.”

“It’s madness.”

They’d returned to the ale-hall—pushing their way through smoky streets, and dealing with more powries and trow too, before reaching their destination. They were standing inside the stables, next to where Feannag snorted and pawed at the straw in his stall. The chaos raging close by, the clang of metal and screams, had put the stallion on edge.

In response, Cailean lifted the loop of rope he’d just taken down off the wall. “Only if we don’t put on a convincing show.” He stepped close then, challenge gleaming in his eyes. “Come on, Bree. Show me your courage.”

Heat swept over her. “I’m not afraid for me,” she whispered. “I can lie my way out of this if need be.” She broke off then, swallowing. “But the High King’s chief-enforcer is a prize, indeed. You don’t want Mor getting her hands on you.”

“She won’t. Not if we play this right.”

Her pulse leaped into a gallop. “You want me to take you prisoner?”

“Aye.” He thrust the coil of rope out to her. “Go on.” Impatience crept into his voice, his brow furrowing once more. “We don’t have time to stand here arguing. This must happen now … or not all.”

Growling a curse, Bree took the rope, her fingers tightening around it. She then raked her gaze over him, taking in the array of iron weapons strapped to his body. “You realize that you’re going to have to take all of that off?” she pointed out, her voice hardening. She had to make him understand what he was asking—just how vulnerable he’d be soon.

But Cailean didn’t hesitate. Instead, he nodded and started unbuckling the knife belt across his chest.

“Stand aside!” Bree yelled, her voice cutting through the din. “I’ve got the High King’s chief-enforcer!”

Yanking hard on the rope, she urged Feannag forward. She didn’t glance over her shoulder to see how Cailean was faring. She didn’t dare.

The only way this would work was if she pretended to be an assassin with a prize for her queen.

Her shout drew stares from the Shee warriors she approached. They were a fell sight: faces and silver scale armor smeared with grime and blood, their long hair rippling down their backs. The warriors wielded longswords, daggers, and longbows, but Bree faced them down.

And they watched as she rode straight for them, their eyes widening in surprise.

“The chief-enforcer!”

“By the Great Raven … what’s he doing here?”

“The queen’s assassin has him.”

It didn’t take long for word to spread, rippling down the wynd like a stone thrown into a still loch.

“Keep your distance,” Bree warned them. “Even without his iron blades, he’s dangerous.”

A Shee warrior—a tall, rangy male with cold eyes and oaken hair—pushed forward, drawing the slender dagger at his side. “Time for this Marav butcher to taste steel,” he snarled.

“Get back!” Bree snapped, blocking him with her sword. “This prize isn’t for you, but for our queen.” She cast a warning look around her, even as she urged Feannag on once more. Keep moving, lad . “Mor will have the guts of any of you foolish enough to touch him.” Her lip curled then. “She has plans for this shitbag.”

Scowling, the warrior drew back.

The stallion plowed forward, and the crowd gave way.

Dawn was breaking, a blaze of gold that gilded Cannich. The fort was overrun now. The Shee had broken through the gates and bested the garrison. The fighting had moved to the broch itself, where the overking and his warriors and druids were making their last stand.

The clang of iron against steel and hoarse shouting echoed behind them, mingling with the sobbing of those who’d been captured by the Shee. Nearby, a woman started to keen, no doubt weeping over the death of a loved one.

Jaw clenched, Bree rode on.

She’d betrayed her people before, but not like this. The old Bree would have answered her queen’s call, would have helped her take Cannich—without hesitation, or pity for those who lived here.

But she’d changed.

She followed the Raven Queen no longer. Instead, the man she towed behind her had her loyalty. She didn’t care about this war. Let the Shee and Marav kill each other; she wanted no part in it. All she wanted was to get her and Cailean out of Cannich alive—then they could start afresh and put all of this behind them.

As they crossed to the gates, which now hung off their hinges, walking over the bodies of those who’d fallen, she glanced over her shoulder at Cailean.

Hands bound before him, the rope tied around his neck, her husband wore a fierce look. Meeting her eye, he snarled at her—and in response she gave another, hard, jerk of the rope, nearly bringing him to his knees.

There were many eyes still upon them; she had to make this convincing. She bared her teeth at him then. “Keep moving, scum!”

“Vicious Shee bitch.” He spat on the ground.

“Dog-humping Marav.” Bree hauled on the rope once more and was rewarded by a choking sound.

“Fuck,” he wheezed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Not at all,” she muttered.

Moments later, Feannag passed between the gates, and they began the descent down the road that wound its way to the bottom of the rock. However, a steady stream of foot soldiers climbed to the fort, to assist those already inside. The way was narrow, and those traveling up had to pull into passing places to let them by.

“Keep back!” Bree shouted once more, waving her sword before her. “I’ve caught the High King’s chief-enforcer … and I’m bringing him to our queen.”

And they heeded her, even if Bree’s throat was raw by the time she reached the lower ward at the base of the rock. It was a mess down here. Her people had razed the camp, leaving it a smoking ruin. The ramparts were smoke-blackened. Bodies littered the ground amongst tattered Cannich banners, many of them bristling with raven feather-fletched arrows.

Angling Feannag through the gap that had once been the gates into the lower ward, Bree’s heart started to hammer against her ribs.

This was where things got dicey—the part of Cailean’s plan she’d balked at the most. Somehow, amongst the excitement and chaos of a successful siege, she had to slip away.

Sheathing her sword, she stopped announcing her presence now. Instead, she rode south, through the swirling press of Shee astride stags and elks. Amongst them, she spied trow and powries perched upon the backs of rams and mountain goats—blades of Sheehallion steel clutched in their clawed hands. To her shock, there were also tattooed warriors, their bare limbs smeared with woad, upon sure-footed garrons.

Iron, she’d never thought she’d see the day Marav sided with fae against a common enemy. She knew that the hill-tribe warriors hated Talorc mac Brude that much, but what had Mor promised them?

And amongst the army stalked huge fae hounds, their hackles raised, golden gazes hungry.

Bree’s breathing grew shallow. She’d thought the Shee army large before—but with Mor’s new allies, it was vast. Her blood chilled then as realization dawned. This was a force meant for more than taking one fort. It was one designed to conquer.

Just a short while earlier, she’d told herself that this conflict between Shee and Marav didn’t matter to her, yet now she wasn’t so sure. If Mor was planning something huge, there wouldn’t be a soul, on either side of the veil, who wouldn’t be touched by it.

Bree’s stomach twisted. And if that happened, it wouldn’t matter how far or fast she and Cailean ran, this war would affect them.

Keep moving, Feannag. The stallion had slowed his stride, snorting nervously as a trow seated upon a large black ram with curling horns leered at him. Don’t let them cow you .

“Where are you heading with him?”

A commanding voice pulled her up short. Spine straightening, Bree shot an imperious look at the Shee warrior, one of Mor’s captains judging by the fine silver cape that rippled from his shoulders, who strode toward her.

“I’m taking this prisoner to the Raven Queen,” she answered, her voice clipped.

The male’s tawny gaze narrowed as it settled on Cailean. “Shades, isn’t that—”

“Aye. It’s the chief-enforcer himself,” she cut him off haughtily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must—”

“You’re going the wrong way, Fellshadow,” the captain growled, making it clear that although she didn’t know his face, he recognized hers. He then jerked his head left, toward where the crowd was at its thickest, where raven banners snapped in the morning breeze. “Mor is over there.” His eyes glinted. “I shall escort you.”

It was hard to keep her nerve then.

Iron smite her, this was what she’d feared. Her mind scrabbled, looking for an excuse, a way out. But there wasn’t any.

Nodding, she reined Feannag left, falling in next to the captain. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, to try to catch her husband’s eye.

“Clear the way!” The captain shouted. “We must see the queen.”

The crowd parted, allowing them through, and up ahead, Bree caught the gleam of sunlight on obsidian. Mor’s crown. The Raven Queen was there, at the heart of her army, astride a great white elk, a fine cloak of crow feathers rippling down her back. Eagal hunched upon her shoulder.

Gavyn was there too. Tall and proud, resplendent in black like his queen, the Captain of The Ravens rode a leggy elk.

Neither of them had spied Bree yet. But any moment they would—and when they did, it was over for Cailean. And her.

Panic slammed into her chest. Shades, she couldn’t give him to them. She had to do something. Her fingers clenched upon the reins, sweat sliding down her back now.

Eyes fluttering shut, she silently asked forgiveness from the Ancestors, for she was about to draw a blade against her own people. Aye, she’d killed Shee before, at Mor’s instruction. But this was different.

Her breathing quickened and grew shallow.

Aye, she could fight like a cornered fae hound, but she was surrounded. At least this way, neither of them would be taken prisoner.

They’d die as they’d lived—as warriors.

A horn’s loud wail ripped through the morning then, causing the cold, smoky air to shiver.

Bree’s eyes snapped open. That wasn’t a Sheehallion trumpet.

Her gaze swept over the sea of silver armor around her. They were on higher ground here. She could see across the bulk of the Shee army. It spread out upon the grassy meadows around the foot of Cannich’s rock, to the edge of the woodland to the south—and the highway.

And there, a dark line of iron helmets and standards—spears bristling against the pale sky—approached. And as the army marched toward them and the ground shook under its weight, the morning sun illuminated a fluttering wolf’s head banner.