Page 61 of Bound By Deception

Bree eyed him. He really did look ill. “Shall I fetch Eldra?”

He shook his head. “What ails me can’t be cured by usual means.” Mac Brochan drained the last of his ale. “Only a full moon and sacrifice can heal me.”

Cold washed over Bree, and she shivered. The Great Raven save her, she’d been dreading this, ever since Princess Lara had described how the blood-letting ritual worked. There was an intimacy to the blood-letting that she feared. And the worry that the ceremony might somehow lay her bare lingered.

Meanwhile, her husband’s gaze settled upon her, his already strained features tightening further. It didn’t appear as if he was looking forward to partnering with her during the ritual either. “The moon is full tonight … and I require your help.”

Moonlight frosted the world, making Albia look like the realm Bree had left behind. Yet as she walked, barefoot, at the chief-enforcer’s side, Bree was only too aware of how far she was from her own people.

Lights flickered in the stand of willows near the river, corpse candles hoping to lure the unwary. A screech echoed through the darkness—an owl perhaps—or something more sinister.

Mac Brochan wasn’t the only one climbing the grassy hill behind Duncrag. The shadowy figures of the other enforcers who’d returned from the north surrounded them. And like the chief-enforcer, they hadn’t made this journey alone. Women, barefoot and cloaked like Bree, walked at the warrior-druids’ sides. The enforcers had all traveled out of the fort before leaving their weapons and boots at the foot of the hill.

Meanwhile, Bree found it increasingly difficult to concentrate over the thunder of her heart. She silently cursed Mor too. Had the queen known that she’d have to take part in blood-letting and let foul druidic magic course through her? It would be an invasion, and she’d have to be careful to ward herself against any probing.

The sacrificers mustn’t discover who she really was at her core.

Bree struggled to slow her quick, shallow breathing. Somehow, she knew Mor had known. And she’d deliberately not told her.

A semi-circle of scarlet-robed figures waited at the brow of the hill.

Gregor mac Hume stood among his sacrificers, waiting for the enforcers. The big rawboned man was an intimidating sight, with the moonlight gleaming off his high cheekbones and bald head. His dark gaze gleamed as it fastened upon mac Brochan.

Dizziness swept over Bree as she breathed in the pungent smell of druidic magic. The cool night air was heavy with the scent of pine and campfire ash.

Mac Hume stood at the edge of a large flat stone that had been etched with a woven, circular design. Moonlight gleamed dully off iron then—the chief-sacrificer gripped a knife.

Bree cut a glance at her husband. “I don’t like the look of that blade,” she hissed.

To her surprise, mac Brochan reached out and took hold of her hand. Despite that his breathing was labored, and his hand damp with sweat, his grip was firm and oddly reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he said, a rasp to his voice now as he towed her forward. “Gregor isn’t going to cut your throat.”

26: MOONLIGHT AND SACRIFICE

“READY, MAC BROCHAN?”

The chief-sacrificer’s voice had a goading edge.

The two men locked gazes. Watching them, it occurred to Bree that they weren’t friends. Aye, they were both members of the High King’s druidic council, but the animosity that crackled through the air made the fine hair on the back of her arms prickle.

“Aye,” the chief-enforcer grunted. “Do it then.”

“On your knees … both of you,” mac Hume gestured to the flat, carven, stone. “Facing each other.” He cast Bree a sharp look then, for the instructions were clearly for her benefit.

Forcing herself not to scowl at him, Bree complied. Meanwhile, the sacrificers standing in a horseshoe around them started to chant.

“Hold your free palm up, above the center of the stone,” the chief-sacrificer ordered.

Bree did as bid once more. Meanwhile, her other hand was still locked in mac Brochan’s firm grip. She didn’t look his way though. Instead, her gaze was fixed upon the chief-sacrificer and the iron blade in his hand.

Her pulse quickened, dizziness sweeping over her. Princess Lara had assured her the blood-letting ceremony wouldn’t harm her, yet the sight of iron made her flinch. Loathsome metal, a bane to her kind.

The chief-sacrificer bent over then and drew the blade sharply across mac Brochan’s hand.

Her husband’s body jolted, his breath hissing between his teeth. “Fuck. That was deeper than necessary, Gregor.”

“Was it?” mac Hume chuckled before the fingers of his free hand wrapped around Bree’s wrist. “Hold still, Lady mac Brochan.” He gentled his voice then as if he were speaking to a skittish horse. “This will sting.”

Holding her wrist fast, he drew the knife blade across her palm, although much gentler than he had with her husband’s.

---