25 DRAWING TOO DEEPLY

"THEY'VE RETURNED!"

Mirren's gasped announcement made Bree glance up from her noon meal. The bread she was swallowing caught in her throat, and she coughed, reaching for a cup of ale to wash it down.

Eyes smarting, she blinked at her handmaid. Mirren stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed from her run up the stairs. "My husband?"

"Aye … and he has a prisoner with him."

Bree's heart kicked hard at this news .

A full moon's turn had passed since mac Brochan had departed with his enforcers. She'd waited for news that they'd been ambushed by the Shee and slaughtered—but none had come. The lengthy silence had been wearying, and as the days passed, Bree had grown frustrated that she still had nothing more to give Mor.

At this rate, she'd be stuck here for years. If I survive that long.

But now the enforcers had come home, and they might have brought news.

Pushing back her chair, Bree rose to her feet, her bread and stew forgotten. Leaving Mirren to clear up the remains of her noon meal, she made her way downstairs. But as she approached the heavy oaken doors that would let her out into the yard below, her stomach fluttered.

Iron bite her, she was nervous about seeing him again.

Seven crows in a yew tree.

The princess's dream still haunted her. Lara wasn't a seer, although the vision that had come to her while she slept made Bree feel as if she'd been unmasked.

It had taken all her will to keep the guilt from showing upon her face, and she'd been wary around the princess ever since.

Bree's stomach turned over once more. She wasn't ready to deal with the chief-enforcer. Ever since Torran had returned with that damning missive, all she'd done was kick the stone down the road. Sooner or later, she'd trip over it.

Of course, she could have scribbled a letter of her own, rewriting Mother Gelda's response. Nonetheless, she couldn't have recreated the wax seal easily, and her husband would likely spot a forgery.

She'd dug herself a deep hole and was now stuck at the bottom of it .

Jaw set, Bree strode to the doors and pushed her way through, emerging into a drizzly day. Heavy clouds enshrouded Duncrag this afternoon, the rain falling in a gentle mist. She made her way gingerly down the slippery steps, her gaze traveling across the crowd of men and horses amassed in the center of the yard.

Fewer of them had returned. She now counted fourteen, instead of the twenty who'd ridden out with the chief-enforcer.

The High King had also come out to greet his enforcers and their captive. Talorc stood a few steps below Bree, the prince at his side, his gaze riveted upon the man two brawny enforcers were dragging toward him.

The prisoner was young—no older than twenty winters. Naked to the waist and barefoot, his body streaked with blood and grime, his black hair knotted, the man's dark eyes burned with hate.

Instinctively, Bree knew this was the rabblerousing chieftain.

However, her attention didn't linger on the prisoner. Instead, it shifted to the tall, muscular figure that stood a couple of yards behind him.

Her belly swooped then, and she quashed the ridiculous urge to tidy her hair and smooth her tunic.

Instead, she observed her husband. A moment later, her gaze narrowed. The chief-enforcer might have completed his mission, but he didn't look well. Even from this distance, his skin had an ashen cast, and his face was strained.

At that moment, mac Brochan spied her as well, and his big body stiffened. Across the yard, they stared at each other, and the nervousness that Bree had managed to quell earlier took flight once more. She was suddenly breathless and lightheaded .

"Cailean!" The High King's deep voice boomed across the yard. "Have you brought me Domnall mac Bridei?"

"Aye," the chief-enforcer replied, his voice more gravelly than usual.

"Well done." Talorc moved down the steps, leaving his son looking on behind him, and crossed to where the prisoner struggled between the two enforcers. Like mac Brochan, the other warrior-druids were pale and drawn, and Bree wondered what had befallen them. "I knew you wouldn't fail me."

Mac Brochan bowed his head. "I live to serve, Your Highness."

Bree's jaw clenched. Of course, he did. He was the High King's hound.

" However ," Talorc went on. "It does vex me to see you've lost enforcers." There was a harsh edge to his voice now. He wasn't half as powerful or wise as the Raven Queen, yet Talorc mac Brude had a core of tempered steel. Like Mor, he wasn't one to accept failure—from anyone.

The chief-enforcer's features tightened at this reprimand, although he didn't offer any excuse.

"We will talk in private about your trip to the north," Talorc said after a pause. "But first, I must know … have you retrieved the coin this wretch stole from me?"

Mac Brochan shook his head. "We could find no trace of it."

"And you never will!" the prisoner shouted, his voice, rough with defiance, ringing across the yard. "Greedy maggot! That coin belongs to my people … you will not bleed us dry! You will not yoke us to your cause like oxen!"

The High King moved swiftly then, with surprising speed for a man of middling age. An instant later, he reached the prisoner and backhanded him across the face. "You are my subject and will kneel before me," he snarled, looming over the chieftain. "Those taxes are mine. Tell me where to find the coin."

A lesser man would have cowered under such wrath, but mac Bridei spat in the High King's face. Despite that Bree had no love for mortals, she felt a grudging admiration for him. The man had balls. "Go rut your mother!"

Bree thought Talorc might lose his temper then and attack the chieftain.

But he didn't.

Instead, the High King drew himself up and wiped the spittle off his face, his expression shuttering. A heavy silence fell over the yard before his gaze shifted to one of his personal guards, who'd stepped up to his side. "Ready a torture chamber in the dungeon."

"Are you unwell, husband?"

Mac Brochan shook his head. "Just drained."

Pouring her husband a cup of ale, Bree crossed to where he sat, slumped in a chair by the fire. Skaal lay at his feet, her fur clumped with dirt and what looked like blood.

Bree wrinkled her nose. The beast reeked. "Drained?"

She handed Mac Brochan a cup. Taking it, the chief-enforcer heaved a sigh. "Summoning druidic power comes at a cost," he replied wearily. "I drew too deeply this time, and I'm paying the price … we all are."

Bree marked the sheen of sweat that covered his face. She'd noticed it outdoors too but had thought it was the rain. But no, the man had a fever. She'd heard that a druid's magic wasn't inexhaustible—and knew they relied on the blood-letting to keep their power strong—but hadn't realized wielding it could weaken them so in the aftermath.

"Hunting the rebels wasn't easy then?"

The chief-enforcer shook his head. "They ambushed us." He lifted the cup to his lips and drained it in just a few gulps. "Somehow, they seemed to know we were coming."

Bree's skin prickled. She wondered if Mor had interfered in Marav affairs—had somehow gotten word to the rebels about the enforcers' imminent arrival. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd used them to do her bidding.

"We were in a pass deep within the Goatfell Mountains," her husband continued, "when a horde of Circine warriors descended upon us."

"A horde? How did twenty enforcers fight off such numbers?"

Mac Brochan grunted. "With difficulty."

Bree eyed him. He really did look ill. "Shall I fetch Eldra?"

He shook his head. "What ails me can't be cured by usual means." Mac Brochan drained the last of his ale. "Only a full moon and sacrifice can heal me."

Cold washed over Bree, and she shivered. The Great Raven save her, she'd been dreading this, ever since Princess Lara had described how the blood-letting ritual worked. There was an intimacy to the blood-letting that she feared. And the worry that the ceremony might somehow lay her bare lingered.

Meanwhile, her husband's gaze settled upon her, his already strained features tightening further. It didn't appear as if he was looking forward to partnering with her during the ritual either. "The moon is full tonight … and I require your help."

Moonlight frosted the world, making Albia look like the realm Bree had left behind. Yet as she walked, barefoot, at the chief-enforcer's side, Bree was only too aware of how far she was from her own people.

Lights flickered in the stand of willows near the river, corpse candles hoping to lure the unwary. A screech echoed through the darkness—an owl perhaps—or something more sinister.

Mac Brochan wasn't the only one climbing the grassy hill behind Duncrag. The shadowy figures of the other enforcers who'd returned from the north surrounded them. And like the chief-enforcer, they hadn't made this journey alone. Women, barefoot and cloaked like Bree, walked at the warrior-druids' sides. The enforcers had all traveled out of the fort before leaving their weapons and boots at the foot of the hill.

Meanwhile, Bree found it increasingly difficult to concentrate over the thunder of her heart. She silently cursed Mor too. Had the queen known that she'd have to take part in blood-letting and let foul druidic magic course through her? It would be an invasion, and she'd have to be careful to ward herself against any probing.

The sacrificers mustn't discover who she really was at her core.

Bree struggled to slow her quick, shallow breathing. Somehow, she knew Mor had known. And she'd deliberately not told her.

A semi-circle of scarlet-robed figures waited at the brow of the hill .

Gregor mac Hume stood among his sacrificers, waiting for the enforcers. The big rawboned man was an intimidating sight, with the moonlight gleaming off his high cheekbones and bald head. His dark gaze gleamed as it fastened upon mac Brochan.

Dizziness swept over Bree as she breathed in the pungent smell of druidic magic. The cool night air was heavy with the scent of pine and campfire ash.

Mac Hume stood at the edge of a large flat stone that had been etched with a woven, circular design. Moonlight gleamed dully off iron then—the chief-sacrificer gripped a knife.

Bree cut a glance at her husband. "I don't like the look of that blade," she hissed.

To her surprise, mac Brochan reached out and took hold of her hand. Despite that his breathing was labored, and his hand damp with sweat, his grip was firm and oddly reassuring. "Don't worry," he said, a rasp to his voice now as he towed her forward. "Gregor isn't going to cut your throat."