4 HUMBLING

MOUNTED UPON A shaggy bay garron—a pony that had once been ridden by the woman she was now impersonating—Bree followed her escort south. They weren't close to any settlements here; as such, Gavyn and his warriors didn't bother to put their glamors in place.

Nonetheless, the Ravens rode with their hoods up, their bright gazes glinting in the dull morning as they scanned their surroundings. And all the while, the mist wreathed, white and wispy like crone's hair, around them.

During her many visits to Albia over the years, Bree had always noted just how much darker and colder it was than Sheehallion. Even in high summer, it was as if a shadow lay over the land. Despite her warm clothing, she shivered .

Leaving The Ring of Caith behind, they rode through dense woodland—a tangle of sycamores, elms, and twisted oaks that formed a canopy overhead.

The forests of Albia were deep and dark, carpeted in moss and thick growths of nettles and bright-green ferns. The pungent scent of damp, peaty earth filled Bree's nostrils, although rustling in the undergrowth on either side of the road soon drew her attention.

Her instincts flared.

The woods were alive—and many of its inhabitants were dangerous to a Marav woman. Especially one who didn't carry iron. Thanks to Gavyn, Bree didn't have Fia's protection amulet, although she didn't want to wear anything made of that vile metal anyway, especially against her skin.

She didn't need to worry though, for the presence of her Shee escort would repel most of the creatures that lurked in the shadows. They too were of faery origin.

Myth spoke of a time when they'd all resided in Sheehallion together, but the Shee had cast the others out long ago. Some, like wulvers and broonies, were harmless enough unless angered, yet others, such as the Ben Neeya, were an omen of death. Others still, like the aughisky—a water spirit that dragged its victims to a watery death—were outright malevolent.

The day's journey took the travelers through dense copses of woodland, interspersed by meadows, where the first flowers of spring, snowdrops and crocuses, bloomed. They didn't speak to anyone they met on the road—merchants and farmers mostly, carrying their wares to the crannogs upon Loch Glass in the northwestern Uplands—and Gavyn and his warriors quickly put their glamors in place the moment they spied any other travelers .

The mist eventually cleared although the sky remained the color of smoke. And as the gloaming settled, they passed a ruined broch. Conical-shaped and made of stacked stone, it would likely have once housed a chieftain's household. Nearby, the scattered remains of squat mud-brick cottages, their walls covered by ivy and moss, spread out on either side of the road.

Bree slowed her garron and surveyed the broch. It had lost most of its roof, and half of its northern wall was missing. There were signs—charring on the remnants of the roof, walls blackened by soot, and rotting wattle doors hanging off their hinges—that this place hadn't been abandoned, but attacked. A feud between chieftains perhaps, which had resulted in a deadly raid.

It was a sheltered spot, one that would offer travelers protection against the elements. All the same, she knew what lived amongst ruins such as these. It wasn't a safe place to camp overnight.

The back of Bree's neck prickled. A warning.

Urging her pony forward alongside Gavyn, she glanced across at him. "The powries are watching us," she murmured.

His gaze glinted. "Aye, of course they are … vicious wee bastards."

They rode on, leaving the ruins, and the hungry gazes of the murderous imps that lurked there, behind them.

The light was swiftly fading when Bree and her escort made camp off the road, on the fringes of a beechwood. There, the Ravens unsaddled and rubbed down their horses. After seeing to her own mount, Bree picked up Fia's two saddle bags and carried them over to where one of Gavyn's warriors was lighting a fire. There, she settled down on the soft grass .

It was time to find out a little about the woman she was to impersonate.

Bree opened the first of the bags and pulled out the contents: neatly rolled tunics and shifts, and a lovely soft woolen wrap. Even in the murky light, she could see it was a beautiful color—that of the sea in summer.

This was clearly a cherished item, perhaps a gift for Mid-winter Fire from one of the other maids of Albia, or from family. The clothing smelled of lavender, and amongst the contents of the pack, Bree found a small cloth pouch filled with the sharp-smelling flowers. At the bottom of the bag, there was a pair of slippers and a few pairs of woolen tights. Everything was scrupulously clean and folded neatly.

Bree's brow furrowed. Neat . She'd need to remember that.

Hauling the other saddle bag over to her, she repeated the process she had for the first. Only, this bag was far more interesting. Underneath a woolen robe, she found a small leather-bound diary with letters in a tidy bundle. This was a good find—for Bree needed to learn more about Fia mac Callum. Nevertheless, it was getting too dark to read now.

With a sigh of frustration, Bree put the diary aside and withdrew a bone-handled hairbrush and a hand-held looking glass from the pack.

For the first time, she glimpsed what she'd become.

The light was poor, and her reflection was a little distorted, the silver tarnished with age, yet Bree saw herself clearly enough.

A stranger stared back at her.

She'd once had flaxen hair and golden eyes like her brother, but now—although her features still belonged to her—everything had been dulled. Her eyes were hazel rather than dark gold, with strange round pupils, and her hair, although thick and wavy, was the color of oak. Her face was rounder, and her skin had a pinker tone with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She wasn't ugly. She just appeared … ordinary.

Mouth pursing, Bree put the looking glass away. Digging deep into the bag, she retrieved a clay bottle of lavender-scented oil and a large block of lavender soap. Fia had certainly loved this scent; the herby, woodsy perfume filled the air now.

Finally, Bree pulled out a leather-wrapped parcel. Unwrapping it, she cast a jaundiced eye over figurines of four of the five Gods that mortals worshipped—The Mother, The Maiden, The Warrior, and The Hag—all intricately carved out of rosewood and varnished. Unsurprisingly, there was no figurine of the fifth God. The Reaper represented death. It was bad luck to have his likeness drawn, carved, or sculpted.

Bree hastily rewrapped the figurines. These Gods meant nothing to her. The Shee knelt before their Ancestors and The Great Raven. Nonetheless, she was Fia now, and once she arrived at Duncrag, she'd need to put these idols on display.

With a sigh, Bree began to repack the saddle bags.

"Find anything useful?" Gavyn sank into a cross-legged position next to her, casting a jaundiced eye over the bags and their contents.

"Possibly," she replied, putting away the last of the items she'd examined. "There's a diary and letters … they should give me an idea of what Fia mac Callum was like."

"For what it's worth, she was plain of face and as timid as a fawn," Gavyn replied. "The lass froze when we killed her escort and didn't even try to run when I came for her."

Bree's heart sank at this news. "Iron bite me," she muttered. "How am I to pretend to be such a mouse. "

Gavyn snorted, and Bree cut him a sharp look. She'd already weathered her brother's scorn; she wouldn't put up with her ex-lover's disdain as well.

Sighing, she then scrubbed a hand over her face. Just the thought of pretending to be sweet and meek wearied her. "Mor wants me to find out what happened to Bryce Elmsong as well," she admitted after a pause.

Gavyn raised a tawny eyebrow. "She thinks the healer is still alive?"

"Possibly," she replied. "Although if he's being held prisoner, I'm to find out what he's revealed and deal with him. The Marav likely have no idea that we can take their true form … it's a weapon best kept hidden."

"That's wise … but what if he's merely walked out?"

"I'm still to kill him. Desertion is punishable by death … you know that."

Gavyn's gaze narrowed. "Did he send back anything of use before he went silent?"

Bree nodded. "His last silver acorn revealed that the Marav are preparing to move against us. There are more ironsmiths than ever in the realm … and the overkings are building armies. Apparently, in Cannich, they're even drafting the Circines, Druthen, and Lothin."

"Really? I thought the hill tribes kept to themselves."

"Not any longer." Aye, Mor had good reason for ensuring a spy lived amongst the enemy—the Marav High King was a vindictive bastard who'd long nursed a grudge against the Shee.

Gavyn's gaze narrowed as he studied her. "So, it's up to you to earn the chief-enforcer's trust" —an edge crept into his voice— "and get him to whisper the High King's plans into your ear? "

"That's right." Bree glanced away, deliberately dismissive. Nonetheless, dread clenched deep in her chest. Her people hated all warrior-druids, but the chief-enforcer was the worst of them. "Although I'd prefer to kill him."

"Mor will want you to stay at Duncrag a while," Gavyn reminded her coolly. "Try to refrain from cutting his throat in the first few moons."

"I'll do my best," she replied, distracted now—for she'd caught sight of lights in the trees to her right. Beautiful golden flames that flickered in the gloaming and beckoned to her. A soft gasp of wonder escaped her, and she found herself wanting to rise to her feet and walk into the trees, to follow the lights.

"Careful." Gavyn's voice intruded then, jerking Bree out of her reverie. "Don't let the corpse candles beguile you."

Shaking her head to clear it, she muttered a curse. In her Shee form, the candles would never have drawn her in. She knew they led their victims into deadly bogs, swamps, or marshes, never to be seen again. "I hate feeling this weak ," she growled, deliberately keeping her gaze averted from the corpse candles now.

Gavyn's grey eyes gleamed in the flames that curled up from the fire before them, and Bree wondered if he was secretly gloating at her situation. Their story had ended many years earlier, but he'd been bitter over it for a long while afterward. The edge she'd heard in his voice just before warned her that resentment still simmered. "This forced stay among the Marav might do you good, Bree," he said after a lengthy pause. "Who knows, it might be humbling ."

Bree didn't get a chance to open Fia mac Callum's diary until the following noon. They'd stopped on the shore of Loch Caith, where a cold breeze rippled the dark water. Clouds scudded overhead, playing hide-and-seek with the sun.

Seated upon a mossy stone, Bree finished her meal of bread, cheese, and fruit, her gaze scanning the loch. The lochs in Albia were different from those in Sheehallion, for they had a brooding, watchful air about them that set her nerves on edge.

Nearby, her escort watered their horses, leaving her in peace for a short while. It was time to do some much-needed research. Untying the diary, she removed the letters. It made sense to start with these.

The first was a missive from Fia's mother. The lass had been from a well-do-to family, for the woman wrote well. It was a chatty, rambling letter, full of inane details.

Irritated, Bree opened the second letter, and a few moments later, a victory smile tugged at the corners of her lips. This was more like it, for this was a missive from the chief-enforcer himself, sent to his bride-to-be.

The man's name was Cailean mac Brochan. Compared to the wordy letter she'd just read, his style was refreshingly blunt. Nonetheless, there was nothing romantic about his words; it was as if the man was conducting business.

Bree snorted. Of course, he was. Mor's spy at Baldeen had assured her that the chief-enforcer hadn't even met the woman he'd ‘bought'.

Nonetheless, some prospective mates would have included a few pleasantries in his letter, a little … softness. Not mac Brochan. Instead, he'd merely listed his ‘conditions'.

"I require a wife who speaks softly and enjoys silence," she read aloud. "A woman who makes no demands of me. My role takes much of my time and focus, and my wife mustn't intrude." Bree halted then before pulling a face. Arrogant prick . "You are to keep our quarters in order, but you are forbidden from touching any weapons, papers, or books that I bring inside. My role demands that I'm away from Duncrag frequently, so I require you to be independent and industrious during these periods. As chief-enforcer, and a member of the druidic council, I am privy to sensitive information … as such, I will not discuss the High King's business with you."

Quietly simmering, she read the rest of the letter, where he outlined the wedding arrangements—a handfasting on the banks of the River Lethe, with the High King himself as witness, followed by a great feast.

Bree lowered the letter, scowling. She hadn't realized the handfasting would be such a big event.

"We need to move on," Gavyn called from a few yards away. The Ravens were already on their feet and readying their horses.

Nodding, Bree tucked the letters back into the diary. But as she did so, a frown creased her brow. The chief-enforcer's arrogance had rippled off the page. Fia mac Callum must have been desperate for a husband, to accept such terms.

Bree stood up and moved to her garron, stuffing the diary back into her saddle bag.

Iron blind me, I'd rather try and charm a powrie.