5 NO MATCH FOR YOU

CRESTING THE LAST hill before Albia's capital, Bree drew up her pony.

She'd never ventured this close to Duncrag before, for the fort lay around two and a half days' journey from the nearest barrow. Nonetheless, it was as grim as she'd envisaged.

Perched high upon a rocky escarpment, and catching the last rays of the setting sun, the vast broch—many times larger than the ruin they'd passed days earlier—commanded over the pinewoods and grassy knolls beneath it. Even the serrated, snowclad mountains that reared to the north couldn't intimidate it. The broch was windowless, and from this distance appeared like a giant grey beehive crowned by a turf roof. Below the broch, terraces packed with squat dwellings and lined by high stone walls wound their way down to where a bridge crossed the swiftly flowing River Lethe.

Mist wreathed up from the river, giving the fort an otherworldly appearance.

Bree's mouth thinned. This crude place could never compare to Sheehallion's ethereal beauty.

Tearing her gaze away from her destination, Bree glanced over her shoulder at her companions and frowned. "You'd better put your glamors in place now … before we near the gates," she muttered. "Faces as pretty as yours will give us all away."

Her comment drew smirks from the Ravens, yet they heeded her. Relations between Bree and her escort had been strained during the journey south. Gavyn was the only one who'd bothered to converse with her; although every time he had, she'd seen the distaste in his eyes. And each time, his reaction had vexed her.

She didn't need reminding of what she'd become.

A breeze whispered over the hilltop, bringing with it the sweet scent of rose—Shee magic. Moments later, the sculpted features of the four males, who were now mounting their horses, altered to resemble the more rugged, flawed, faces of Marav men. And instead of eyes with slitted pupils, like a cat's, their gazes were mortal. Just as Bree's was. Unlike her disguise, her escort's glamors wouldn't hold up under close inspection, especially if a druid approached. However, it would get them through the gates and into the fort.

"Come on then." Gavyn urged his horse forward. "They'll shut the gates soon. "

Silently, they all followed him, closing the final furlongs to their destination at last.

But as they made their way back onto the road, Bree caught sight of something on the low hill that lay northwest of Duncrag. A cluster of figures wearing crimson robes stood atop the mound, their arms raised to the sky.

Bree's lip curled, while the Raven who rode behind her hissed a curse.

Sacrificers.

There were five paths a druid could take, and those who donned the red robe carried out ritualistic sacrifices to keep the Gods happy. They also conducted the blood-letting ceremonies, rituals that were said to refill a druid's well of power.

Bree and her escort were a distance from the sacrificers, although she caught the drone of their voices, carrying through the still, damp air.

Jaw clenching, she tore her gaze from the hilltop and kicked her garron into a brisk trot. Such sights would be commonplace here. She would have to get used to them. All the same, she now kept her gaze firmly focused on the high stacked-stone walls encircling the lowest level of the fort.

A short while later, the pony's hooves thudded across wood, crossing the wide bridge toward the gates leading into Duncrag.

The gloaming was upon them, and the guards, clad in leather and fur, were about to draw the heavy iron gates shut for the night.

Iron . A chill feathered over Bree's skin. She'd be surrounded by it here. In this form, iron couldn't hurt her—but the sight of it was unnerving, all the same .

"What's your business in Duncrag?" One of the guards at the gates greeted them. Like many mortal men, his features were lumpy, his cheeks high-colored.

"We're escorting this woman up to the broch," Gavyn replied, his voice rougher than usual. "Her name's Fia mac Callum. She's to marry the High King's chief-enforcer tomorrow."

Bree's pulse sped up at this announcement. Suddenly, it all seemed too real. This time tomorrow, she'd be married to a warrior-druid, living a lie while she hunted for the secrets Mor needed.

The guard's manner swiftly altered from aggressive to respectful. "Aye, we've been expecting you," he replied with a nod, curiosity gleaming in his eyes now as he studied Bree. "Just follow The Thoroughfare up to the broch."

Gavyn nodded, and their party moved on, clip-clopping over packed earth under the long shadow of the guard house and into a wide dirt space. Squat stone buildings lined the area, with awnings in front of them, where vendors were shutting up for the day. A group of youths was brawling in the center of the clearing, their coarse shouts echoing high into the damp air as they grappled with each other.

Ignoring them, Bree looked around. She wrinkled her nose then as the reek of piss, dung, and rotting food hit her. The stench was so foul that her stomach churned. Changing into a mortal had wrought many changes upon her body, including dulling her senses. But it hadn't dulled them enough.

How could these people live in such squalor?

Behind her, one of her escorts made a choking sound. Of course, Gavyn and the others would find the stink in here unbearable .

Urging her garron forward, Bree made for the road that led off the dirt square, and her escort swiftly followed. The same squalid low cottages with turf roofs lined The Thoroughfare—the wide main street that wound up from the gates to the broch. Along the way, Bree and her escort passed narrow wynds—dark lanes between the dwellings—where dogs skulked and washing lines hung like spiderwebs.

Another smell hit her then, one that caught in the back of her throat: iron.

It was late in the day, but they passed several forges where ironsmiths still labored. The glow of forges illuminated the gloaming from doorways while the clang of hammers echoed out into the street—as did the hiss of hot metal being plunged into water.

Bree's nostrils flared, and she resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder, to see Gavyn's reaction. She knew that he and the other Ravens would be struggling. The Shee wielded steel blades, which were stronger than iron. However, the Marav favored the latter, for they knew just being near iron drained their enemies of strength. Just the touch of iron to the skin of one of the Shee would leave a fiery burn.

Bryce was right , she thought as she suppressed a shudder. The ironsmiths of Duncrag were indeed working hard, forging iron weapons to use against the Shee.

They were halfway up the hill when a woman stepped out of a cottage and threw the contents of a bucket across the road. Liquid splattered to Bree's right, and her pony snorted, side-stepping.

Bree glanced down at her cloak, but she couldn't see if whatever that bucket had contained caught her. The daylight had almost faded now, braziers illuminating the fort. Disgusting place. Mouth thinning, she urged her pony into a brisk trot.

Fortunately though, the higher they climbed, the fresher the air became—and by the time they rode up the final incline before the huge iron-studded gates in front of the broch, Bree sucked sharp, cold night air into her lungs.

Once again, Gavyn introduced them, and again, they were ushered through, riding into a large open space, lined on three sides by low-slung buildings and stone walls, with steps on the fourth side leading up to the great doors of the broch itself.

Bree drew up her pony and vaulted off, landing lightly on the stones.

"Careful," Gavyn muttered from where he'd dismounted next to her. His voice was rough, betraying his tension. Being amongst the Marav and in such proximity to iron was taking its toll. "You're Fia mac Callum, remember. Move with a bit less grace."

Bree bristled at his command before she reminded herself that Gavyn had a point. Her new body didn't feel as nimble or strong as her Shee one, yet she still carried herself with the same confidence and elegance as the rest of her people—not a bumbling Marav.

Nodding, she handed her mount's reins to the captain. They both still had their hoods up, although she caught the glint of his silvery eyes as he watched her. "Good luck," he said finally.

Bree's brow furrowed. "I don't need it."

Their gazes locked then. The closeness Bree and Gavyn had once shared was in the past, but the ghost of it still lingered. For a moment, she thought the captain might say something else.

But he didn't. She could almost taste his impatience to be away .

Two heavyset figures approached from the gatehouse, big men clad in dark leather with fur cloaks around their shoulders.

"Give us your bags, lass," one of them greeted Bree. "We'll carry them up to your quarters."

Bree nodded, motioning to the large leather packs strapped behind her saddle. "This is all I have."

One of the guards collected her things, while the other, who'd greeted her, motioned to the enormous broch that loomed above them. Braziers had been lit by the doors leading into the round tower, ruddy firelight flickering on dull stone. "I'll take you to meet the chief-enforcer now."

Bree's belly clenched. She'd thought she might be given time to prepare herself for meeting her husband-to-be.

She glanced at Gavyn again, but he'd turned away, mounting his horse once more.

Standing in the midst of the yard, flanked by two mortals, her breath steaming in the chill, Bree watched him go. The other Ravens followed. None of them bid her farewell. They merely favored her with lingering glances, their expressions veiled beneath the shadows of their hoods.

That's it , Bree thought as her gaze tracked her escort through the gates leading back onto The Thoroughfare. The main gates would be closed now; they'd have to find lodgings for the night in the lower levels of the fort. I'm on my own .

"The Hag's nails," the guard who'd shouldered her bags muttered. "What have you got in here … rocks?"

Bree didn't answer. Instead, she lowered her gaze demurely. Best she started behaving like a meek maiden right away.

"Not a chatty one, are you?" His companion eyed her .

The guard holding her belongings snorted. "The chief-enforcer is a surly bastard. The last thing he'll want is a mouthy wife."

"She's comely though." Bree glanced up to see naked appreciation flare in the other guard's pale-blue eyes. A note of envy had crept into his voice. His boldness made her itch to punch him.

"A Maid of Albia isn't going to have a face like the Ben Neeya, is she?" His companion replied, impatient now as he nodded to Bree. "Come on, lass … it's cold enough to freeze The Warrior's balls off out here. Follow me."

Bree did, relieved to get out of the chill.

They crossed the wide yard and climbed the stairs toward the heavy doors above. Bree noted that she walked differently now—she no longer moved in supple, stalking steps as she once had. As she mounted the steps, her thigh muscles strained slightly. Her body definitely had lost some of its former strength.

Two more guards, these clad in chainmail with domed helmets upon their heads, flanked the oaken doors. Wordlessly, they drew them open for Bree and her escort.

Sighing as she stepped in out of the cold and damp onto a rush-covered floor, Bree pushed back her hood and glanced around. She'd expected to enter the vast hall within, but this space appeared to be the entranceway, with another set of doors ahead of her. A single brazier burned in the center of the chamber, the flames casting long shadows over the damp stone walls, while to the right, worn stone steps led upstairs. To the left was another, shadowy, set of steps. These led underground.

"This way," the guard, who wasn't carrying her things, grunted. He took the stairs up to the narrow landing on the floor above .

And, as before, Bree followed—even as her belly started to pitch.

Irritated by her reaction, she curled her fingers into fists. Curse this mortal body and its weakness. What had happened to her nerves of steel? Ever since passing through the stones, her emotions had run wild.

The guard she'd been following halted then and turned to the curtained entrance to his left. "Mac Brochan," he called out roughly. "Your bride is here."

Meanwhile, his companion, who lugged her bags, continued up the stairs.

A heartbeat followed before a low, powerful voice replied. "Show her in then."

Bree's breathing caught. That voice rumbled like thunder through the curtain, and it had a rough, aggressive , edge to it.

Ancestors forgive her. She hadn't even set eyes on her husband-to-be, and she was quailing.

Pull yourself together , she snarled inwardly. The Queen's assassin doesn't shake in her boots before one of the Marav. He's no match for you.

Repeating these words to herself, she waited while the guard stepped away. Then, Bree pushed the curtain aside and walked inside.