36 ONLY ONE WISH

THE AFTERNOON SUN cast a golden veil over the world when Bree reached her destination at last.

Stopping at the edge of the woods, where Gavyn and his warriors had waited for her nearly three moons earlier, she swung down from her pony's broad back. Her gaze then slid over the hill before her, where the stone circle rose against a pale-blue sky.

Bree's pulse skittered at the sight of The Ring of Caith.

Even bathed in sunlight, this place gave her chills .

She'd arrived earlier than anticipated, for apart from rain on the first day, the rest of her journey had been under fair skies and the garron had shown great endurance. Now she'd have to wait until dawn before she could travel home.

A familiar tightness clutched at Bree's throat at the thought. She should have been looking forward to the moment she'd leave Albia, to returning to one of the Shee.

Why then, did it feel as if an iron band were tightening around her throat?

Swallowing hard, Bree turned to her garron and stroked his furry neck. "Well done, Flint," she murmured. "Let's get that saddle off you." The pony snorted, nudging her with his nose, and Bree huffed. "Just wait … you'll get your treat soon enough."

She removed Flint's saddle and bridle before digging into her pack and feeding him an apple. She'd bought a few at the last village they'd passed through. She then rubbed the pony down with a twist of grass.

"You've done your part." She watched Flint's strong jaws work as he crunched his treat. "But if you wish to keep me company until tomorrow morning, I'll not be sorry."

Swallowing the apple, the garron gave a soft whicker.

Despite the tension that rippled through her this afternoon, Bree's mouth curved. Flint had proved to be a fine companion over the past days. After being attacked by powries, she'd been more vigilant, especially when it came to choosing where to camp. Fortunately, there hadn't been any further incidents. All the same, she sprinkled a circle of salt about her and made sure to tether the pony close to where she slept each night, just in case they had to depart swiftly .

Setting the saddlery up against a nearby birch tree, Bree sat down against the trunk and pulled out an apple for herself. She ate most of it, leaving the core for Flint, who took it from her open palm.

The sun was warm on her face, yet she couldn't relax. Not this close to the stones.

Tapping her foot restlessly, she sat there for a while, leaning against the tree trunk. Her muscles were tired, her limbs heavy; five long days of travel had taken their toll. Bree's body cried out for rest, yet her mind churned.

Eventually, her gaze shifted north. The High King's army would have reached the Hallow Woods by now. The Ring of Caith lay a few furlongs east of the road that led into the northern Uplands.

Mac Brochan and the prince would be readying their warriors to ambush the Shee.

Her heart kicked painfully against her breastbone then, and she reached up, rubbing at it with her knuckles.

Iron smite her, she was tired of battling with this … guilt.

"Don't feel sorry for him," she muttered under her breath, cutting her attention away from the northern horizon. "The bastard has it coming."

Maybe he did, but her words sounded feeble, as if she was merely trying to convince herself. The truth was that with each mile she covered, the tension within Bree had coiled tighter. She couldn't stop thinking about her husband.

Her throat started to ache.

Soon, he'll be dead.

Cursing, Bree stood up. She needed to keep busy. Just one more night in Albia, and she could leave the mess she'd made behind .

She shivered then. The sun had disappeared now, for clouds had rolled in from the north. A wind had sprung up too. The Whistle, high and shrill, swept down from the Goatfell Mountains to the east.

Bree pulled up the collar of her cloak. Without the friendly face of the sun, this place had a sinister, watchful atmosphere. She'd gather some wood and light a fire. It would keep her occupied and help chase away the shadows.

Moving back into the trees, she started picking up fallen twigs and small branches. Despite the dry weather, much of the wood she found was too damp for burning; as such, she wandered farther in than intended. Presently, the trickling of water reached Bree, and she ducked under a low bough to find herself on the mossy bank of a burn in a grassy glade.

Clear water bubbled over ruddy stones, and Bree set down the wood she'd gathered and unfastened her empty water bladder from her belt. It made sense to refill it while she was here. But she'd just filled the skin, and was stoppering it, when a mournful keening sound cut through the woods.

Bree jerked upright, dropped the water skin, and drew the dagger at her hip in one smooth movement.

Still crouched, she swiveled left.

A bent figure, with its back to her, knelt at the water's edge a few yards away. It was a crone with wispy white hair, and she appeared to be washing something.

Bree stilled.

Where had the old woman come from? This clearing had been empty when she'd come across the burn.

Bree tightened her grip on the dagger. A weapon wouldn't help her though. Even without spying the woman's face, she knew who she was. The crone was neither dead nor living, but the Ben Neeya—the spirit of a woman who'd died in childbirth. It haunted the waterways of Albia, often appearing at dusk.

The Ben Neeya had never been sighted within the Shee realm, yet Bree remembered the tales. As such, a cold sweat broke out across her skin.

She was fortunate though, for the crone hadn't seen her. She was too absorbed in her washing, in singing her dirge.

Indeed, if the Ben Neeya had caught sight of Bree first, it would be her clothing she'd be washing—a portent of her imminent death. But if Bree caught the Washerwoman unawares and spoke to her first, she would grant her one wish.

Heart pounding, Bree cleared her throat. "Good evening."

The woman's body jerked, and she turned her head, revealing a hollowed face, rheumy eyes, and protruding yellowed teeth. As the stories told, the crone was hideous.

Bree rose to her feet and forced herself to stand her ground.

Moments passed, and then the Ben Neeya gave a bitter, wheezing laugh, her chapped hands clutching at the clothing she washed. "Ask me then," she rasped. "But choose carefully … for you get only one wish."

Bree's mind scrabbled, her heart slamming against her ribs, before she blurted, "Spare Cailean mac Brochan's life."

White-hot panic surged through her the moment the words left her lips. Of all the things she could have wished for, this was it? The Great Raven forgive her, she was a traitor to her people. She'd fallen hard for the man she'd been sent to deceive.

The Washerwoman stared back at her before a sad smile eventually twisted her lips. "I cannot grant you this wish."

Heat flushed over Bree, and she started to sweat. "Why? "

The Ben Neeya's gaze glinted. "Because I sense your conflict … your indecision. If you truly wish to change your man's fate, you must be the one to save him."

Bree dragged in a ragged breath. "Me?"

"Aye."

Dizziness washed over Bree then. Backing away toward the shelter of the trees, her pile of firewood forgotten, she shook her head. She wanted to deny the old woman's response, but she couldn't.

The Ben Neeya always spoke the truth.

An instant later, she lost her nerve, spun on her heel, and plunged blindly back into the trees. She crashed through the undergrowth, heedless of the low-hanging branches that smacked her in the face.

All she cared about was escaping the crone, and what she'd just told her.

By the time Bree burst from the trees, her breathing tore from her chest in ragged gasps and hysteria beat inside her like a caged crow.

Flint's head jerked up, his nostrils flaring, at her sudden appearance. But Bree paid the garron no mind. Instead, she paced before the single birch, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

She had to breathe—to calm down.

But she couldn't.

If you truly wish to change your man's fate, you must be the one to save him.

The Ben Neeya's rasped words echoed through her head, slicing deep each time.

Bree ground out a curse, squeezing her eyes shut. Finally, her reckoning had come .

Many years earlier, when she'd become the Raven Queen's assassin, Gil had warned Bree that her choice—her rebellion—would one day have its price. Full of arrogance and desperate to free herself from her father, she'd sneered at Gil's comment.

But she wasn't sneering now.

Was this punishment for all the lives she'd taken? Aye, she'd killed Mor's enemies without hesitation, not caring whether they deserved death or not. It was cruel, yet fitting, then that the Washerwoman had denied Bree her wish.

If she wanted to save her husband's life, she'd have to sacrifice herself. That was the truth of it. If she went to Cailean now and told him the truth, she'd be done for.

She swiveled to where The Ring of Caith loomed above her. The day was fading, the sky deepening to the color of a bruise, and the stone circle had an ominous look now: a king's broken crown.

It was her only way back home, back to her old life, but she wouldn't be taking it.

Bree gathered up the saddlery and stalked over to where Flint grazed a few yards distant. The pony lifted his head as she approached, his eyes gleaming in the half-light.

Sucking in a deep breath, she tried to calm the violent thudding of her heart. I can't believe I'm doing this . Reaching out, she slid her hand down Flint's muscular neck to his shoulder. She then swung the saddle onto his back and deftly cinched the girth before slipping on his bridle. "Sorry about this, lad," she muttered. "But there's one last trip I must make."

Mounting the garron, she urged him forward. Flint lurched into a jolting canter, and they circled the base of the hill. Chunks of turf flew out behind the pony's heavy hooves, and then they struck out north, toward The Hallow Woods.