Page 9 of Bound By Deception

“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 hatedallwarrior-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 thisweak,” 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 behumbling.”

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 roletakes 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.

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.

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