33 MERCY

THE SHIVERING STOPPED, and a head rose. A single eye glinted in the shadowy darkness before a voice rasped. "Who are you?"

"My name's Bree Fellshadow … Mor sent me."

"Mor's assassin?"

"Aye."

He made a choked sound that might have been a sob.

Sheathing her dagger, Bree began trying keys in the lock then, moving deftly, and the third one released the door. Yanking it open, she rushed inside, going to the prisoner's side .

The stench in here was eyewatering. They'd left him to lie in his filth.

Heat ignited in her gut. Bastards .

Shoving aside her disgust, she sank down on her knees next to him.

An emaciated man with pale hair that was clumped with filth and dried blood stared up at Bree. The High King had torn out his right eye, and only an oozing socket remained. But the left eye—the color of slate—was fever bright.

"Iron," she whispered. "What have they done to you?"

"The High King … is … creative," Bryce Elmsong said hoarsely, a cracked tongue wetting ruined lips. "There isn't a part of me that isn't broken." He made a wheezing sound then. "But they don't know I was once Shee—they're still not aware we can pass through the stones. Talorc thinks I'm a Marav traitor."

Bree nodded. That was a relief she supposed. Nonetheless, it was hard to concentrate, what with the foul stench in here and the sight of this pitiful creature.

Bryce's hand—filthy and trembling, his fingers twisted—emerged from the blanket then and rested upon her wrist. His touch was surprisingly firm. "Are you here to kill me?"

Bree decided not to answer that question. "When you disappeared, Mor sent me to discover the High King's plans," she murmured. "I posed as a Maid of Albia and wed the chief-enforcer."

Bryce's single eye widened. "You're mac Brochan's wife ?"

"Aye." Her mouth pinched then. "Did he take part in torturing you?"

She wasn't sure why it mattered, but it did.

"No." The word was barely a sigh. "I've not seen him since the High King's men dragged me down here. "

Their gazes fused for a heartbeat before Bree placed her hand over his. It was scalding to touch. Indeed, a fever had him in its grip. "How did Talorc unmask you?" she whispered.

Bryce's cracked lips twisted. "I was careless."

Silence fell then, and Bree waited for him to continue. Eventually, he did. "The prince and I were lovers." His throat bobbed. "One night … after we'd lain together … he told me that Talorc's overkings are building him three great armies with one single purpose … to take on the Shee." Bryce paused there, his breathing labored as if even speaking taxed him heavily. "At dawn, I rose early and rushed up onto the wall with a silver acorn. But I'd just handed it to Eagal, and was watching him fly away, when Kennan stepped up next to me."

Bree stilled. "He saw the silver acorn?"

"Aye … and he betrayed me to the king." Pain flared in Bryce's gaze, and his grip on her wrist tightened then. "You should flee this place. Mac Brude enjoys torture. If he ever discovers … who you really are …" His voice choked off, his body going rigid.

"Don't worry … I'm going." Bree paused, leaning closer to him. Her chest constricted then. Bryce was in a pitiful state, and yet he was worrying about her welfare. "But first, I need to know what you told the High King."

Silence followed her question.

"Bryce." Her hand squeezed his. "After interrogating you yesterday, he's mobilized a war band. They set out at dawn. Where?"

His breathing hitched, despair flaring in his single eye. "I told them that at mid-summer, we gather outside Dunmorth Barrow to dance under the Strawberry Moon." His breathing hitched then, his chest rising and falling sharply. "I withstood him for so long … but in the end … he broke me." Bryce's thin throat convulsed. "I'm sorry."

Bree's heart lurched, alarm eclipsing the pity that stirred deep in her chest. Aye, he was sorry, but Bryce had told the High King where their people celebrated Sheathan. The festival took place the eve after the Marav observed Mid-Summer Fire. Dunmorth Barrow lay to the north, in the heart of the Hallow Woods—an area the Marav avoided. At Sheathan, the Shee, including the Raven Queen herself, emerged from the ancient barrow, bringing with them offerings of sweet mead and summer fruit. They then spent the night feasting and dancing in their sacred place.

So, this was where mac Brochan had been sent.

In six days, there would be a slaughter.

"You must let our queen know," Bryce rasped.

"I will," she replied firmly. Her gaze held his then. What was she going to do about him? On her way down to the dungeon, she'd flirted with the idea of rescuing her predecessor. But it was foolish to even consider it. No, she couldn't take Bryce with her—and Mor's instructions had been clear. They couldn't risk letting the High King extract more details out of him.

As if reading her thoughts, the prisoner moved his hand from under hers and gripped the edge of the blanket. He then drew it back to reveal the ruin beneath. Oozing sores and cuts covered Bryce's naked body, some so deep she could see bone. His guts bulged from a hole in his abdomen.

Bile stung the back of Bree's throat. How was he still alive?

"Don't give him another chance to play with me," Bryce whispered, a plea in his voice. "I don't want to give him anything else. "

Drawing in a deep breath, Bree nodded. "You wish for mercy then?"

He let out a deep sigh. "Aye."

"Then you shall have it." She drew her dagger.

Bree watched Eagal take flight, winging his way into the enshrouding mist.

She then exhaled sharply. It's done.

Aye, it was, and she should have felt a heady rush of relief. But she didn't. Instead, she felt sick.

Curse her Marav woman's body and its unruly mind.

It had made her weak.

Bree turned from the wall and made her way toward the nearest set of stairs. And as she did so, her pulse stuttered.

Once Mor received word of what the High King was plotting, she'd move swiftly. And when Prince Kennan, the chief-enforcer, and their band of enforcers and warriors converged on Dunmorth Barrow, carnage would follow. Only, it wouldn't be the Shee who fell, but the Marav.

Cailean mac Brochan would die.

Bree's heart kicked hard against her ribs, and she yanked her cloak close.

He spared you, and this is how you repay him?

She clenched her jaw so tightly that pain darted through her ears. No, this was the way it had to be. She'd been sent to use him. She shouldn't care about his fate.

But that was before last night. Before they'd lain together. Before he'd let her go .

Reaching the yard below, Bree struck out toward the gates, basket looped over one arm. She greeted the guards as she passed through, flashing them a smile, even as nausea churned in her belly.

She had to keep moving. She couldn't let her conscience bother her. In all her years as the Raven Queen's assassin, she'd never struggled with remorse.

Until now.

Aye, she needed to remind herself that the High King was planning an unprovoked assault on her people, and that Cailean was his weapon. From now on, she'd be a fool to think about the chief-enforcer with anything but hatred.

She'd changed her plans though. There was no need to track the High King's enforcers and warriors. She knew where they were going. North, like her. The Hallow Woods lay just a short ride beyond The Ring of Caith.

But Bree was done with the Marav now. She had to focus on getting back to the stones in time for the morning of Mid-summer so she could go home.

Home.

Her already churning stomach clenched then. What was waiting for her there? A brother who disliked her. A queen who would need to be appeased. The silver acorn Bree had just given to Eagal would please Mor greatly. Nonetheless, Bree wasn't supposed to return home yet.

Mor had made it clear her spy was to remain at Duncrag until she decided otherwise.

Bree walked briskly down The Thoroughfare, weaving her way through a flock of unruly goats that a shepherd was attempting to drive up the road. Farther down, she passed the open doors of ironsmiths. Steam billowed from the forges, and the acrid tang of forging metal greeted her, mingled with the reek of open drains nearby.

Screwing her nose up, Bree hurried on. Even after nearly three moons living at Duncrag, the smells inside the fort were an assault on the senses.

Halfway down the hill, she stopped at a stall and bought some bread rolls, along with some cheese and dried plums. A few yards on, she purchased a skin of ale and then a pouch of salt.

Bree had taken note of Mirren's use of salt to ward off malevolent spirits. Her journey north would take five days, and this time, she didn't have a Shee escort to protect her. She needed to prepare herself.

Reaching the bottom of The Thoroughfare, she ducked into the stables behind an ale-hall. There, she surprised a lad who was mucking out stalls and clubbed him over the back of the neck with a broom. He crumpled onto the straw-strewn floor, and she dragged him into an empty stall. She hadn't killed him, although the lad would eventually awaken with a splitting headache.

Moving quickly now, Bree tossed her basket into the back of an empty stall and shouldered her pack. She then saddled the only pony stabled here: a stocky, feather-footed garron.

They rode out onto The Thoroughfare, and she pulled up her hood, just in case anyone recognized her. They'd surely wonder what the chief-enforcer's wife was doing, dressed for travel and riding a garron.

Pony and rider crossed the wide dirt-packed clearing at the bottom of the hill, and Bree urged her mount toward the gates. Moments later, they were past the guards and trotting down the causeway, to where a wooden bridge spanned the River Lethe .

Exhilaration swooped through her then, like a diving swallow.

She'd made it.

Bree had come close to failing numerous times since adopting her new identity. Making a living as an assassin wasn't easy, yet the life of a spy had turned out to be a far greater challenge.

She'd always thought she had nerves of steel. Now, she wasn't so sure. Aye, Mor wouldn't be happy to see her back so soon, but Bree had still managed to deliver vital information to her queen.

It had to be enough.

It would be enough.

Duncrag was now behind her, and Bree didn't look back.