34 A CHAFING CONSCIENCE

THE MISTY RAIN was still falling when Bree urged her pony into the woods. The day's end was near. They'd ridden northwest, keeping to the road for the most part. However, as the gloaming settled, she decided to look for a safe place to rest overnight.

In truth, she was concerned someone would come after her and had spent most of the day glancing over her shoulder. The two dead guards in the dungeon, a prisoner with his throat cut, and the disappearance of the chief-enforcer's wife would cause a stir. And sooner or later, they'd learn that a pony had been stolen .

Suspicion would likely fall upon her.

Luckily though, the first day's journey hadn't given Bree any unpleasant surprises. The only faery creature she'd spotted was a skulking wulver in the shadows of coppicing limes where she'd stopped at noon. She'd been watering her pony in the burn by the road when she spied the creature.

Wulvers were shy. Indeed, this one—a wolf's head upon a gangly body clad in filthy rags—loped away as soon as it saw her.

Nonetheless, Bree had kept an eye out as she consumed a meal of bread and cheese, and she was relieved not to encounter anything else as the day drew on.

When she left Duncrag, she'd been giddy with relief at her success. She'd discovered valuable information and managed to get out of the fort alive. But, as the day wore on, her mood darkened, and she started to feel hollow.

If her husband hadn't shown her mercy, she wouldn't have made it out.

Cailean mac Brochan had saved her life, and in return, she'd let him ride to his death.

The light was fading when the oakwood opened up before Bree, revealing a small grassy glade with a dark wall of brambles and blackthorn at its western edge. Glancing around, she decided this spot would do for the night.

Sliding down from the pony's back, she removed his saddlery and then rubbed the beast down. "We're going to be traveling together for a few days, lad," she murmured, stroking his damp neck, "so you'll need a name." Her mouth curved then. "How about Flint?" It wasn't original, but since the garron's coat was dark-grey, it suited him.

The garron whickered and nuzzled her .

"You approve then?" Bree combed her fingers through his thick mane. If she were in Shee form, she'd be able to touch minds with the gelding. It would have helped pass the time and made her feel a little less alone, like when she traveled with Tivesheh. Yet despite the limitations of her Marav body, she felt a kinship with the hardy pony all the same.

Leaving Flint to graze nearby, Bree lowered herself down in front of a twisted oak. And then, heaving a deep sigh, she leaned her head back against the rough trunk.

Moments later, her thoughts returned to Cailean—and guilt clutched at her belly. She'd been hungry at noon, yet her appetite was poor again this evening. Curse it, she couldn't let this churning remorse go.

"Put him from your mind," she muttered, unstoppering her skin of ale and lifting it to her lips, drinking thirstily. There was a village just north of here, and she would replenish her supplies at first light before continuing her journey. "Don't you dare start pining for an enforcer . His kind are scum."

Her words fell heavily in the silent clearing, although they had a brittle ring to them, as if she was merely trying to convince herself.

Taking another gulp of ale, Bree shifted position on the mossy ground. Her muscles ached after a day in the saddle, yet she welcomed the discomfort. Nearly three moons at Duncrag had turned her soft.

Dragging in a deep breath, she savored the sweetness of the woodland air. It was nectar after the reek in Duncrag. The oakwood was peaceful, with the patter of the rain above her and the chirp of song thrushes nearby. The lush green of her surroundings reminded Bree of home .

Just four days , she reminded herself, closing her eyes, and all of this will be behind you .

Her thoughts treacherously turned, once more, to her husband then, to the feel of his hands on her, the slide of his hot skin against hers, and the brand of his lips. Bree's breathing quickened as she recalled the deep timbre of his voice, the way a room always shrank in size the moment he stepped into it, and the smell of him—leather, ash, and a hint of clove—that never failed to make her pulse flutter. He was the chief-enforcer, but he wasn't the callous brute she'd taken him for. Instead, he was—

Fuck. Bree's eyes snapped open. She couldn't let her mind keep traveling in this direction. She had to think about something else, anything but Cailean mac Brochan.

Growling a curse, Bree dug into her backpack. She needed something to distract herself. She hadn't finished reading Fia's diary; now seemed like a good time.

Jaw clenched, she leafed to the final entry. Despite the rain, it was dry under the sheltered oak, and there was just enough light to read by.

I received a response to my letter today—just two sleeps before I set off for Duncrag.

When Mother Gelda handed me the scroll with the wolf seal, I was giddy with excitement. The other Maids waiting for mail from their families were tight-lipped with envy. I didn't need to be a seer to read their thoughts. "How has a plain creature like Fia drawn the eye of the High King's chief-enforcer?"

Of course, we've never met .

I hurried away to my favorite spot in the gardens and opened the letter with trembling hands.

By the Gods, he is cold.

He wants a wife who holds her tongue, one who asks nothing of him. I'm forbidden from asking anything about the High King's business. He's a busy man and will have little time for me. I am to keep our quarters neat and remain industrious during his frequent absences.

I sat in the garden for a long while after reading the letter from my future husband. Suddenly, the bright day seemed dull … all excitement drained out of me … and as I write this, a heaviness settles deep into my bones.

I'm a foolish woman for dreaming of love. That will not be my story. Instead, I shall wed a man who will treat me like his servant.

The diary finished there. It was an abrupt conclusion, and Bree turned the page to make sure there weren't any other entries. There weren't.

Staring down at Fia's final words, Bree traced a fingertip over the cursive writing. Her belly twisted once more. Fia was dead because of her—because Mor needed a spy deep within the High King's household. No one, not even Bree herself, spared any thought for the life they sacrificed.

The woman's death had simply been a necessity.

But during her time at Duncrag, as she'd read Fia's diary, Bree had come to know her. And despite everything, it pained her that the woman had departed from Baldeen filled with dread and sadness, believing that she was to be wedded to a man incapable of caring for anyone.

"You might have liked him in the end," she whispered. "You'd certainly have caused him less trouble than me."

Putting the diary away, Bree forced down a crust of bread. The gloaming was deepening now, and soon darkness would cover the land. She thought about lighting a fire, but the wet weather would make it difficult to find dry wood. It was warm and dry under the boughs of the ancient oak. She'd be comfortable enough here overnight, and a fire might attract too much attention to herself anyway.

She was dozing against the tree trunk, close to falling asleep, when a chattering noise brought her sharply awake.

Blinking, Bree glanced about her.

Nearby, Flint had raised his head. The garron then snorted.

Slowly, she reached for one of the iron blades strapped across her front. A moment later, she caught sight of a silhouette creeping toward her through the shadows. It was shorter than an adult Marav and thickset. And as the figure drew closer, she caught sight of a pikestaff gripped in its left hand and the outline of a cap upon its head.

Bree rose into a crouch, her gaze narrowing. Shades, was that a powrie?

A chill slid down her spine then as she glanced about her. Powries were known to hunt in packs, although they usually never strayed far from ruins. Bree was in the midst of woodland and hadn't seen any buildings nearby.

Iron slay her, she should have checked properly before making camp. Tiredness and a chafing conscience had made her careless .

And as the powrie crept closer, three more shadows detached themselves from the dark wall of bramble and blackthorn on the western edge of the clearing.

They resembled stout old men, and they grinned as they approached, revealing long prominent teeth. Flint squealed in warning, but the powries ignored the pony. Their fiery-red eyes glowed in the gloaming, and lank grey hair streamed down their shoulders. The caps upon their heads were a dark red—stained from the blood of their victims—and long thin fingers tipped in claws wrapped around the hilt of their pikestaffs.

In their free hands, all four of the powries gripped rocks.

Bree's pulse quickened. She knew the tales, of how they'd stone their victims first before stabbing them with their pikes and setting upon them with their nails and teeth.

No one who fell foul of powries got a clean death. And only a fool tried to outrun them, for despite their thickset appearances, powries were said to be fast. They also liked the hunt, and a fleeing victim just excited them even more.

Bree's mouth twisted, and she drew a second blade from her knife belt.

She wasn't running.

And then, before they drew any nearer, she flung both knives. They hit two of the powries in the throat.

The creatures gave strangled squeals, reeling backward. Two bright bursts of flame illuminated the clearing, and the powries she'd hit disappeared, her knives thudding onto the wet grass.

Upon seeing their companions felled, the remaining two powries let out screeches of rage and hurled their stones at Bree.

One hit her on the shoulder, and the other grazed her right ear .

However, Bree had already drawn two more knives, and moments later, another two bursts of flame lit up the gathering dusk.

Cursing, Bree crouched there, waiting for more powries to emerge from the shadows and attack her. But none did.

Rubbing her sore shoulder, she rose to her feet and moved forward, retrieving her fallen knives. Then, she crossed the clearing and pushed her way through the brambles and blackthorn.

On the other side was the ruin of what had been a small tower with a few outbuildings. The stone was blackened with soot, indicating that the tower had been razed by fire. The four powries had likely lived here, and she'd just unwittingly stumbled into their territory.

Jaw clenched, Bree returned to the clearing and resaddled Flint. The pony was skittish now, and she didn't blame him. She'd sleep within a circle of salt tonight, with an iron blade clutched in her hands.

But it wouldn't be in this clearing. It looked as if she'd killed all the resident powries, yet she couldn't be sure.

"Come on, lad," she said, shouldering her pack and then swinging up onto the garron's broad back. She'd let thoughts of the chief-enforcer distract her, dull her instincts, but she couldn't let that happen again. "Let's find somewhere else to spend the night."