Page 10 of Bound By Deception

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 appearedlike 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.

---