2 A VEIN OF TRUTH

brEE TOOK THE stairs down to the archives two at a time, descending into the lower levels of the fortress with careless speed.

Cressets burned on the gleaming white walls, illuminating her way, and cool air feathered against her skin. Yet she took little notice of her surroundings; Bree's thoughts had turned inward, and her stomach had clenched.

Reaching the bottom of the curving stairwell, she stalked along a wide vaulted corridor, lined with much narrower passageways, before entering the archives .

Tall shelves made of oak stretched up to a high ceiling, crammed with leather-bound books, and scrolls. Grey-robed archivists worked silently within the space. Some carried armloads of rolled parchments, while others bent over documents at tables at the heart of the archives, quills in hand.

A tall, lean male with long golden hair tied back at the nape sat apart from his colleagues, alone at a table on the edge of the space. Gil squinted as he scratched his quill against a sheet of vellum, writing with painstaking care.

Bree strode up to him. "Brother."

Gil Fellshadow's chin jerked up, his tawny eyes narrowing as they fixed upon her. "Bree," he greeted her warily. "You're back."

Bree halted before him. "Evidently."

She was receiving censorious looks from the other archivists, for they preferred to work in silence down here. Ignoring them, Bree flung herself down onto a chair opposite her brother and leaned back, throwing her booted feet up and crossing them on the tabletop. She then heaved a sigh. "That's better." A moment later, she cast her gaze around. "Do you have any apple wine down here?"

Gil's mouth pursed, and he cut a glare at her dusty boots before shaking his head. "You look terrible."

Bree pulled a face. She could always rely on her brother to be blunt. "Aye, well … this job was harder than most."

Gil's lean face tightened. Glancing around him, he put his quill back in its pot and leaned toward her, whispering, "The prince?"

Bree stilled. She hadn't told her brother of her mark, although rumors must have circulated Caisteal Gealaich in her absence. "Dead," she murmured .

Gil frowned. A brittle silence fell between them, and Bree coolly observed her younger brother. He was disapproving and sanctimonious, but he was all she had—and she needed to tell someone about the mission Mor had just given her.

"I've got another assignment," she said finally.

"Already?"

Bree dragged a hand down her face then as a heaviness settled over her. "I was planning to take some time off," she admitted, aware just how flat she sounded, how weary.

Gil arched an eyebrow. "Getting tired of spilling blood, are we?"

Bree scowled. "Never."

"Come … you can't tell me that hunting Grae didn't prick your conscience. He wasn't some faceless mark … you knew him."

Bree's pulse quickened. As always, Gil knew exactly where to strike. Blades were her weapons, but his were words. Indeed, over two hundred and fifty years earlier, when they'd been younglings, Grae had been a friend. But that was a long time ago—before he turned on his elder sister—and she preferred not to dwell on their past friendship.

"It's just a job, Gil," she replied after a pause, before lifting a hand and gesturing dismissively to their surroundings. "You spend your days with your nose in boring, dusty tomes … and I eradicate problems."

Heat kindled in her brother's tawny eyes, and Bree swallowed a vindictive smile.

"You know who you sound like?" her brother asked, folding his arms in front of him. " Father ."

Bree stiffened. That was a low blow. "I'm nothing like him," she muttered .

Gil huffed a bitter laugh. "Aye, you are. You have the same arrogance … and intolerance."

Bree glared at her brother. "You forget, we were both a disappointment to him," she pointed out. Indeed, both their parents had been warriors to the core and their father hadn't wanted an archivist for a son, or a lowly assassin for a daughter.

"Maybe, but he too never missed the opportunity to belittle my choice."

Bree fell silent, uneasiness shifting under her ribs. Was she like him? Shades, she hoped not. As soon as she'd come of age, she'd done everything she could to break free of her father's oppressive rule—to forge her own path.

Awkward moments slid by, and Bree shoved thoughts of her father aside. It was time to bring the subject back to her new job.

Straightening up, she removed her feet from the table and pulled her chair close to her brother. His nose wrinkled, letting her know that she did, indeed, reek. She pretended not to notice his reaction and murmured, "This assignment isn't like the rest … this time I'm working as a spy ."

Gil inclined his head.

"Mor's sending me to Duncrag … I'm to wed the High King's chief-enforcer." She swallowed then. Ancestors, her mouth and throat were parched. She really needed that apple wine.

Her brother's brows knitted together. "Mor wants you to live amongst the Marav?"

"Aye."

"But I thought she already had a spy at Duncrag?"

"She did … but he's gone silent. Now it seems the chief-enforcer has ordered himself a wife … and I'm to replace her. "

Gil's mouth pursed. "A Maid of Albia?"

Bree nodded, even as her stomach hardened at the thought of impersonating such a fawning individual. Marriage was rare amongst their kind—the Shee preferred to take lovers or long-term consorts—yet the Marav did things differently. And some men, usually those with deep pockets, bought themselves a 'Maid of Albia'—a young woman schooled to be the perfect wife.

The cat-like pupils of Gil's golden eyes narrowed. "Does this mean you'll have to walk through a stone circle as well … to become one of them ?" Distaste laced his voice now. Like her, Gil had little love for the mortal race who lived beyond the veil.

In the old tongue, ‘Marav' meant ‘the dead'. Indeed, their lifespans were pitifully short. Even the longest-lived amongst them rarely reached a hundred years, while the oldest of the Shee was said to have lived six thousand years. Time held a different meaning for their people.

"Aye," Bree replied with a shudder. Her skin crawled at the thought. "Unfortunately."

"Can't you just glamor yourself?"

Bree shook her head. "Not if I'm to wed an enforcer." Her pulse spiked then. She wasn't sure what was worse, being forced to rut with the most powerful of the warrior-druids or becoming a sniveling Marav woman. Once she passed through the stones, she'd be living in a frail mortal body. "He'll see right through it."

Gil sat back in his chair, observing her with a veiled gaze. "So, you're going to pretend to be a loving wife … to ingratiate yourself with the chief-enforcer and wheedle his secrets from him?"

"Aye," she muttered, screwing her face up even as her pulse quickened. "Something like that. "

Her brother gave a dry laugh. "You won't last the distance."

Bree's stomach clenched. "Excuse me?"

"You're as cold as an Albian winter, sister. You're incapable of getting close to anyone … and even feigning it will be a challenge." Gil's gaze glinted. "Aye, our queen holds you in high esteem … but I fear she overestimates you now."

Bree sucked in a deep breath, heat washing over her. Pompous, self-righteous ass. Her hands clenched at her sides as she fought the instinct to lash out and knock that smug look off his face . How dare he look down his nose at me?

Nonetheless, her brother's harsh comment held a vein of truth. She was used to hunting and killing, not cozying up to warrior-druids and pretending to be someone she wasn't.

With just a few words, Gil had exposed the anxiety that had flowered inside her ever since Mor had given her this job.

They both knew the Raven Queen should have chosen someone else.

Dusk was settling as Bree made her way up to her quarters. When the queen's assassin was in residence at Caisteal Gealaich, she lived in a lofty tower. It was a journey—nearly a thousand steps—to the top, but despite that her mind and body felt unusually heavy this evening, Bree made the climb easily.

All the Shee were blessed with strength and endurance, and Bree was barely out of breath when she let herself into her quarters.

Golden light pooled on the pristine pavers through the open window, gilding the simple yet elegant furnishings within: a large canopied bed and furniture fashioned from oak and moonstone. As expected, servants had been up here already. Despite that it was never cold in Sheehallion, a fire flickered in the hearth. The servants had also lugged up water from below and used the fire to heat it for her bath—a large stone tub of steaming water awaited her before the window.

Bree heaved a deep sigh.

Unfastening the long dagger from around her waist, she placed it on the table by the doorway. She then unstrapped the knives at her thighs and removed the various blades sheathed in her boots and on her torso, before stripping off her stinking leathers and walking naked over to the bath.

As she'd hoped, a goblet and a ewer of apple wine sat upon the low table next to the tub. Moisture beaded on the ewer's bronze surface, indicating that the wine was properly chilled.

Despite her dark mood, Bree's mouth curved. Small pleasures.

Settling into the hot water with a sigh, she poured herself a generous goblet of wine, raised it to her lips, and drained it in a long draft. She welcomed the wine's coolness, its crisp sweetness. Usually, she savored it after a job was done, but not this evening. With another, heavy, sigh, she poured herself a second goblet and drained that too before sinking down into the silky water. The scent of musky rose, from the oil a servant had added to the bath, enveloped her, and she drew it deep into her lungs.

It was a beautiful spot to take a bath, by the large teardrop-shaped window that had a view across the meadows west of the fortress. The setting sun now gilded the sculpted edges of the great mountains beyond. However, the spectacular view, soothing hot water, and numbing wine couldn't make her forget her situation .

"Mor is making a mistake," she muttered then, her voice carrying across the silent chamber. "I'm an assassin … not a spy."

She hadn't admitted such to her brother—and she'd have had her tongue ripped out before doing so—but she had attempted to suggest the Raven Queen select someone with more experience in subterfuge. Nonetheless, Mor wouldn't hear of it. "This job requires spine, Bree," she'd cut her off. "You're the only one I trust not to disappoint me"

Despite being cocooned by hot water, Bree shivered. There had been a warning in those words, for no one disappointed the Raven Queen twice.

Mor hadn't given her much of a reprieve either. She'd be leaving soon, for the spring equinox was just three days away. There were no seasons here in Sheehallion—the climate remained forever warm and springlike—but Albia was different. On the other side of the veil, the Marav were readying themselves to celebrate The Day of the Hag, when the world shifted from winter to spring. The three stone circles that linked the realms only opened at certain times of the year.

Bree's breathing grew shallow then at the thought of going anywhere near a stone circle. Her people avoided them for a reason; these places were infused with druidic magic. However, she needed to put her aversion aside. If she missed the next opening, she'd have to wait until Bealtunn, which was one and a half turns of the moon away—by which time, it would be too late.

The chief-enforcer's bride-to-be had just set off toward the capital. Bree had been ready to intercept her, although Mor had instructed her Ravens—the queen's personal bodyguards—to kill the woman instead. They'd then meet Bree in Albia, at The Ring of Caith.

Everything was already in motion.

Bree slid down in the tub, so that water lapped her chin, and closed her eyes. Numbness settled over her then, and a heaviness pulled at her limbs.

Here we go again.

She'd hoped for a break, but she wouldn't be getting one. Most of the time, she lived under the illusion that she was in control of her destiny—that if a job didn't suit her, she could decline. But today had shown Bree that she couldn't say no to the Raven Queen. Despite the generous payment she received for each kill, she was Mor's servant, her weapon .