32 A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

HE WAS A fucking idiot.

If Cailean had been thinking straight, he'd haul that lying bitch down to the dungeons and interrogate her himself. He'd show her that he wasn't averse to torture—that, when necessary, he could be just as cruel as the High King.

But he hadn't.

Instead, he'd plowed the woman and then, to compound his mistake, opened the door to her cage .

He should go back upstairs and have his reckoning with her, but he wouldn't.

He'd let her go.

This is Talorc's fault, the bastard . Aye, the High King had cornered him, threatened him. Rage had pulsed within Cailean as he'd suffered being humiliated before his peers, and he'd stormed upstairs when the meeting ended, looking for someone to unleash his fury upon. Maybe he wouldn't have acted so rashly if he'd been thinking straight.

Cailean descended the steps before the fog-shrouded yard outside the broch. Halting at the bottom, he surveyed the large company of enforcers and warriors that filled the wide space, readying their horses to ride out.

Dawn was close to breaking, although the enshrouding mist would block out the sunrise. This summer had been cool and damp so far, the light dim. The sun had shown its face rarely over the last moon, and it looked like this journey would be another bleak one.

Cailean's mouth pursed. Their departure was at short notice indeed. Nonetheless, it was the High King's will. They had a decent ride before them and needed to reach their destination before Mid-Summer Fire. They couldn't delay, and so Cailean had spent the night marshaling the men and organizing supplies.

Glancing up at the sky, he let the misty rain kiss his skin. A sleepless night had left him exhausted. Nevertheless, he welcomed the fatigue; it blunted the edges of unwelcome emotions and uncomfortable thoughts.

Lowering his gaze, he surveyed the yard once more. He spied Prince Kennan then, leading his horse from the stables. The prince wore a pinched expression this morning. The eve before, he'd tried to get out of leading this attack .

"Are you sure, father?" he'd asked woodenly when the High King had made his announcement. "Don't you want to claim this victory as your own?"

"I'm getting too old for combat … but you will do me proud," Talorc had replied with a hard smile. "And since it was you who unveiled the traitor in our midst, I shall give you this triumph, my son."

But the prince hadn't looked overjoyed about the gesture—and he still didn't.

"There you are." A tall, lanky enforcer strode toward Cailean then. Torran wore a grim expression this morning. "I thought the High King had hauled you in for another meeting."

Cailean grimaced. "No, thank the Gods. I just had to check that our supply wagons were properly equipped." He met Torran's eye then. "As always, I leave the enforcers here under your charge."

Torran nodded, even as his brow furrowed. "Are you sure you don't want me with you on this campaign?"

In truth, Cailean could have done with his assistance. Torran was his best fighter, and they'd always worked well together. However, he didn't trust any of the other enforcers he was leaving behind to look after things in his absence. "No, Torran … I need you here."

One of the stable hands approached then, leading Feannag. Cailean nodded to the man and took the stallion's reins, deftly checking that the girth was tight enough and the stirrups were the right length. He then set about looking over the contents of his saddle bags.

He was armed with enough iron to bring down the Raven Queen herself, with a double-edged broad sword strapped across his back and full sets of daggers and knives; yet with such a swift departure, he worried he'd overlook something.

Especially since thoughts of his wife kept distracting him.

He'd never lost control of himself like that. The sight of Fia sitting naked amongst the nest of furs, her oaken hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, had made him ache to return to their sleeping nook, to plow her until they both collapsed from exhaustion.

It had taken all his will to put on his clothes and leave.

The woman was full of surprises. A Maid of Albia was supposed to be unsullied, yet Fia was no blushing virgin. He hadn't cared though. Cailean liked a woman who owned her pleasure.

Tension rippled through him then as he reminded himself that this was just another lie, another secret. His wife had layers of them. He couldn't believe he was letting this be. The woman could be a spy like Damhan. Lust had robbed him of his wits.

Skaal padded up to him then, waiting next to Feannag.

Shoving aside the suspicions that screamed at him now, he swung up onto the stallion's back and gathered the reins. He then met Torran's gaze once more.

His second's smoke-grey eyes glinted. "May the Gods be with you."

Cailean grunted. "They'd better be."

As he made his way onto The Thoroughfare, riding at Prince Kennan's side, Cailean made the mistake of glancing up at the walls.

The last time he'd ridden out of Duncrag, he'd seen his wife standing there, watching him go. But Fia hadn't come out to see him off this morning. He hadn't expected to catch a glimpse of her, and yet something tightened deep inside his chest at her absence.

Dragging his gaze from the wall, he clenched his jaw. The Reaper's scythe, he needed to tear himself free of this weakness .

Curse the High King. This was all his doing. He'd never wanted a wife. Fia had been trouble from the beginning, challenging him and chipping away at his defenses. He'd managed to avoid speaking of his past—for it was a locked vault he refused to open—but she'd somehow pierced his armor, all the same. And his hunger for her, a need that still pulsed like an ember in his gut, would be his undoing if he let it.

Cailean urged Feannag down The Thoroughfare, past turf-roofed cottages that lay in darkness.

A raven's caw echoed through the mist then. A storm bird, reminding him of what lay ahead. Misgiving stirred in his gut. Over the years, he'd always done the High King's bidding without question, had hunted and slain the Shee without mercy.

But this mission was different. This time, it would start a war between two races. Finally, Talorc mac Brude would have the revenge he craved.

Cailean didn't share the High King's excitement though. Instead, thinking of the conflict to come made a heaviness sink into his bones.

"Can you take the washing down to the laundry?" Bree asked casually, motioning to the wicker basket in the corner.

Mirren stopped sweeping and glanced up. "I washed the clothes yesterday. "

"Aye … but I spilled wine on my tunic yestereve, so it'll need a good scrub." Indeed, Bree had deliberately marked the garment before her handmaid arrived.

Mirren nodded, putting aside her broom and heading toward the laundry basket. "I'll get onto it now."

Bree watched her handmaid cross the alcove, pressure building in her chest. "Thank you, Mirren," she murmured, hoping she didn't hear the emotion in her voice. "I appreciate everything you've done for me … it's been good to have a friend here."

Mirren halted before casting her an embarrassed smile. "I'm glad you came to live at Duncrag," she replied. Her expression sobered then, her sky-blue eyes shadowing. "You've been a light in the darkness."

Bree swallowed at these words, at a loss for how to respond. Meanwhile, Mirren observed her silently for a few moments. "Is everything well … between you and the chief-enforcer?"

Bree's stomach clenched. Following the evening before, she wasn't surprised her handmaid was concerned—especially after mac Brochan had stormed into their alcove. Letting out a slow breath, she forced a tight smile. "It is now … we just had a misunderstanding, that's all."

A groove formed between Mirren's eyebrows, and Bree suspected she didn't believe her. However, she didn't push the matter. Their gazes held for a few moments longer, and then Mirren turned away, grabbed the laundry basket, and departed.

Alone in the chamber, Bree drew a deep breath.

Enough wallowing in emotion. Her husband had told her to leave, and she would. His merciful mood wouldn't last forever. She needed to disappear before he had second thoughts and sent someone back to deal with her .

Not wasting any time now, Bree pulled on a pair of woolen leggings under her dark-blue tunic. She'd chosen her dress carefully at dawn, for this one had slits at the sides, allowing for ease of movement and riding. Instead of the sandals she usually wore, she pulled on the ankle boots she'd arrived at Duncrag in.

She'd already decided that she'd track the company of enforcers and men. The glint in the High King's eye the previous evening—before he dismissed his druids' spouses from the hall—had warned her that wherever he was sending them would be of interest to Mor. As an assassin, Bree was an expert tracker, although a company of that size would be easy enough to follow.

She'd find out where those bastards were going—but before she set off after them, she had to find Bryce.

She crossed to where mac Brochan's weapons hung on the wall, helping herself to a dagger, which she fastened around her hips. After a moment's hesitation, she also took down his spare knife belt and strapped it across her chest.

Wearing so much iron made her skin crawl, and she'd need to cast the weapons aside before returning through the stones; nonetheless, she wasn't about to travel unarmed. The High King's warriors and enforcers aside, Albia was filled with many dangers. The iron wasn't just to fight with, but to ward off the creatures and wayward spirits that stalked the land.

Bree pulled on Fia's blue cloak. She then dug a few items out of her trunk and stuffed them into a leather pack. Among them were a small coin purse, her pouch of silver acorns, and Fia's diary. She wasn't sure why she brought the journal—only that she couldn't bring herself to leave it behind.

Bree's jaw tightened. Ancestors, she'd gone soft .

She focused then on provisions. Retrieving food and drink from the kitchen would attract too much attention. She'd need to make a stop somewhere before leaving Duncrag.

Plotting her way out of the fort, Bree drew her cloak around her and fastened it with a girdle. She didn't want it gaping open on the way out and giving the guards at the gate an eyeful of iron. She then pushed the small pack into a wicker shopping basket and covered it with a square of cloth.

If anyone asked, she was off to do some shopping.

Emerging from the chief-enforcer's quarters, she walked confidently across the landing, past the guard stationed there, and descended the steps to the wide entrance hall. She'd picked the moment of her leaving well, for the unexpected departure of the chief-enforcer, the prince, and a number of enforcers and warriors, had thrown the broch out of its usual routine. As such, there weren't any guards lingering in the entrance hall as Bree crossed to the stone stairwell leading underground.

Remaining here was risky, and a wiser individual would have stridden from the broch without looking back, but Bree couldn't go without finding Bryce Elmsong first.

Assassins never left loose ends behind. And yet, she was conflicted.

Mor had instructed her to kill Bryce once she'd spoken to him, but couldn't she just take her predecessor with her?

Lips thinning, she shook her head to clear it of such foolish thoughts. After months as the High King's prisoner, her predecessor was likely to be in a terrible physical state. Killing him would be a kindness.

Bree descended the stairs quickly, her boots whispering on the damp stone. She didn't bother to help herself to a torch, for it was best she kept to the shadows down here. Reaching the entrance to the dungeons, she veered left, plunging into the dank stairwell that took her deep into the earth.

Halfway down, she set her basket against the wall and drew the dagger at her side. If she stumbled on Torran again, she'd have to kill him. Her senses were sharp. Aye, she was slower and weaker in this mortal body, yet she was still an assassin. She moved like one now, careful not to warn anyone of her approach.

Bree's fingers flexed around the bone hilt of her knife. She didn't know how many guards kept watch down here at any given time, but she'd deal with them.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she crept along a dimly lit passage where cressets flickered against wet walls. The musty smell of damp, mixed with far fouler odors, made her breathe shallowly. Of course, it was a dungeon—she hadn't expected it to smell like lilacs down here.

A few yards farther, she discovered two warriors playing ‘Liar' in the guard room. A pile of bronze coins lay on the table between them. However, Bree didn't focus on the coins, but on the heavy ring of iron keys that hung on the wall next to the table.

Her mouth thinned as she watched the guards.

One of them rattled his wooden cup and peered at the dice inside. "Two sixes," he announced with a smirk.

"Liar." His companion snatched the cup from him. He then growled a curse. "What's this … three double-sixes in a row? You must be cheating."

The warrior opposite snorted. "No, but you're a poor loser. That's all three of your lives gone … I win." Reaching out, he went to gather the coins. However, the loser's hand snapped out, fastening around his wrist. "Not so fast, shitweasel. "

Bree struck.

She killed the winner first, drawing her dagger blade swiftly across his gullet in a practiced swipe.

The second guard's mouth gaped in shock. But he didn't have time to react before Bree was on him, and he too suffered the same fate.

Leaving their bodies slumped across the table, their blood spilling over the pitted surface, Bree grabbed the ring of keys and hurried from the guard room.

The dungeon wasn't large, just a collection of dank alcoves with iron bars that led off one passage. And most of them were unoccupied. Bree passed two prisoners—one a bald man with a thug's face who sat hunched against the wall, and a wild-haired woman who hissed at Bree as she stalked by.

Reaching the end of the passage, Bree halted before the last alcove. Her attention settled upon where a slender figure shivered under a blanket. She then dropped to a crouch, peering into the darkness, and whispered, "Bryce?"