10 NOWHERE OF IMPORTANCE

brEE SPEARED A slice of boar with her knife and placed it upon her trencher.

She then cut off a piece and took a bite, wrinkling her nose.

"What is it now?" Mac Brochan's irritated voice intruded, and Bree jolted. She hadn't realized her husband was observing her—yet it seemed that the chief-enforcer missed little.

Straightening in her seat, Bree forced an apologetic smile. "Nothing. The feast is a fine one … it's just different from what I'm used to. "

His lip curled. "What do they feed the Maids of Albia then?"

Bree hesitated, unsure how to respond. Mortals ate such strong flavored dishes: venison, boar, and hare, seasoned with pungent herbs and served with dark bitter greens and coarse oaten bread. As hungry as she'd been the evening before, her first mouthful of stew had nearly made her gag. In the Shee realm, the food was far subtler; meals consisted of delicate cheeses, nuts, seeds, and fruits, along with custards and light soups.

"Pottage and goat's cheese mainly," she said, careful to keep her voice sweet and low.

He scowled. "No meat?"

"Only on special occasions." Bree took another bite of boar, chewing doggedly before washing it down with a mouthful of wine. It was plum, sharp and tangy, and it made her eyes water.

Everything about this world was an assault on the senses.

The noise in here—the clamor of voices and rough laughter—set her nerves on edge, while the cloying food smells blended with the fug of smoke from the hearths. The heat, coupled with the odor of too many bodies pressed close, was making Bree feel lightheaded.

Taking another bite of food, she surveyed her surroundings. Over the centuries, she'd heard much about the fabled hall of Duncrag. However, upon setting foot inside, she'd been disappointed. This space looked like a gloomy cave in comparison to Mor's fine throne room. Even so, the huge beams that rose above her, blackened from decades of peat smoke, were impressive enough.

Two enormous rectangular hearths dominated the circular hall. There were vents on the back wall to let out the smoke, but like the rest of the broch, this space was windowless. Curtained alcoves lined the hall, although the women who'd helped Bree prepare for her handfasting had told her that the royal family didn't sleep down here. Instead, they occupied the two top floors of the broch.

The tables had been placed to form a square around each hearth. One table was for the High King, his family, council, and highest-ranking retainers, while the second table was for the lower-ranking retainers and warriors.

The High King and his queen sat talking, their heads bowed together, flanked by their son and daughter. Prince Kennan was drinking heavily from his jeweled goblet, while Princess Lara talked animatedly to the woman next to her.

Bree studied the royal family for a few moments before her gaze traveled down the table, sliding across the faces of the druids and nobles seated there. Many of their faces were florid with drink.

Distaste knotted in Bree's gut. The Marav were so coarse compared to her people.

The dull gleam of firelight on iron caught her eye then, her gaze straying to the slaves circling the tables, ewers of wine and jugs of ale and mead in hand. Their faces were carefully blank, their gazes dull.

Bree watched them with interest. There were no slaves in the Shee realm, but she knew that the High King and his overkings all kept them. They were a sign of status among the Marav. However, the sight of those iron collars made Bree tense. If one of the Shee were ever fitted with such a thing, their skin would burn and blister before they choked to death.

"Why do you gawk, woman?" Once again, mac Brochan's deep voice intruded. "Haven't you seen a slave before? "

Glancing his way, she spied the sharp intelligence in the woad-blue depths of his eyes. The man hadn't spoken a word to her before or after the handfasting, but suddenly he wanted to talk. His manner bordered on hostile though, as if her mere presence at his side vexed him.

"No," she admitted. "My household wasn't wealthy enough to buy one … and the House of Maids has servants rather than slaves." Turds—that was quite a story she was weaving; she hoped it was true. She paused then, her attention returning to the young female slave who was being groped by a druid wearing a red robe. He was a tall, rawboned man with high cheekbones and a shaven head. The lass tried to wriggle away, but he pulled her onto his lap, one big hand kneading her breast.

"That's Gregor mac Hume," mac Brochan said, following the direction of her gaze. "The High King's chief-sacrificer." Sarcasm edged his gruff voice now, along with a note of disapproval. "His wife's not here tonight, or he'd mind himself."

Bree couldn't help it, her mouth thinned. If she saw a male handling a female like that back in Sheehallion, she'd cut off his balls. But she had to remind herself that she was in Albia now. The rules were different here.

She shifted her attention back to her husband, to find him scowling at her.

Reaching for her cup of wine, Bree took a careful sip. Focus, she counseled herself. If you don't charm this whoreson, you'll never leave Duncrag.

The reminder was sobering.

"How long have you lived here … husband?" she asked after a lengthy pause.

"A while."

"And before that? "

"The Isle of Arryn."

The largest of The Western Isles, Arryn was where druids trained. The greatest of the three stone circles in Albia, The Ring of Starke, sat at the island's heart. It was said that the druids drew much power from the stones during their initiation.

Bree had never visited Arryn, for there were no barrows upon the isle. To her knowledge, no Shee had ever set foot in the foul place.

"I've heard it said that druidic training is rigorous indeed," she said sweetly.

He grunted.

"How long did you study?" He didn't bother to answer, and heat washed over Bree. Iron choke her, she didn't have the patience for this. Right now, she wanted to grab an eating knife and drive it into his throat. Nonetheless, she plowed on. "Did you always know you'd be an enforcer … or did you choose your path later?"

His mouth twisted at this question, and Bree lowered her gaze so he wouldn't see her temper flare once more. Moments passed, and then she flicked him another glance under her eyelashes.

Mac Brochan's sharp-featured face was even stonier than usual. "It doesn't work that way," he replied coldly. "When your gift manifests … it decides your path."

"Where did you live before Arryn?"

"Nowhere of importance." His eyes glinted. "Do you have any other vapid questions?"

A meeker female would have quailed under the harshness of his tone, but Bree didn't .

She should have looked away, should have lowered her gaze and murmured another apology. But something within wouldn't let her.

He didn't intimidate her.

"It's our wedding eve … don't I deserve to know something of the man who is now my husband," she answered evenly, "before we retire together?"

Silence swelled between them as their gazes remained locked. Mac Brochan's eyes narrowed, and she swore she heard his teeth grind. "I hail from the north," he muttered. "From a village called Harra." He paused, taking another gulp of wine. "My father was a fisherman."

"He's gone then?"

"Aye … all my family are." The chief-enforcer wore a sour expression now, as if he were sipping horse piss rather than wine.

Sensing that he was moments away from losing his patience with her, Bree looked away and helped herself to some braised kale. Getting the chief-enforcer to talk about himself was like wringing blood from a turnip. Killing for a living was so much easier than this new role Mor had thrust upon her.

Fire kindled in Bree's stomach then, stubbornness rising within her.

Mac Brochan was a rude, aggressive whoreson, but she wouldn't let her dislike for him stop her from achieving her goal. No, she'd unpeel his layers, one by one. Eventually, no matter what it took, he'd tell her all his secrets.