Page 13 of Ashes of Betrayal

Corpse candles, spirits that drew the unwary into bogs and swamps.

But as a Shee, she was impervious to them. The sight of the golden flames reminded her of just how much had changed since the last time she’d been here. It felt odd to be standing before Duncrag once more—this time, in her real form.

Her chest tightened as she considered her situation.

She was a Shee female in the heart of the Realm of Albia. The last time she’d entered Duncrag, she’d been one of the Marav. But she hadn’t traveled through the stones on this journey. She couldn’t have anyway—for they only allowed her kind to pass through at equinoxes and solstices—even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t.

She was stronger and faster as a Shee, and yet there was a part of her that quailed at the thought of meeting her husband again.

Suddenly, Bree was unsure of herself.

What if he prefers my Marav form?The woman he’d married was shorter and curvier—comely, but not as beautiful as she was now, in her opinion. Once, Bree’s lip would have curled at havingto compete with one of the Marav, yet it felt strange to compete with … herself.

Shaking herself free of confusing, and troubling, thoughts, she turned to her stag then and patted his shoulder.I don’t know how long I’ll be.

It doesn’t matter … I’ll be waiting.

Her heart kicked hard then. Duncrag loomed before her; she needed a plan. There was a good chance Cailean wouldn’t be pleased to see her—especially after returning to The Hallow Woods that morning only to find his warband slaughtered.

He likely thought she’d deceived him.

Misgiving tightened her chest. Aye, she had to tread carefully here.

The High King couldn’t know she’d returned either, for she’d departed suddenly and left three dead bodies behind her. And if mac Brude had been cruel before the death of his son, he’d be vicious now.

Mastering her nerves, Bree moved to Tivesheh’s head and ran an affectionate hand down his long face. As always, she was loath to be parted from her stag.Hide yourself in the trees. I will whistle if you’re needed. She paused then.But if I don’t reappear within a turn of the moon, you are to make for Golval Barrow … and return home.

Tivesheh dipped his head, acknowledging her.

7: A MEETING AT MARKET

BREE STEPPED BACK from her stag, watching as he moved off into the trees. Then she turned, her gaze traveling east, where the sky was lightening behind the broch. The serrated edges of the Shiel Range, the mountains that thrust up to the north, weren’t yet snow-capped, although the Sharp Billed Wind that gusted in from those peaks bit into her cheeks.

Shivering, she pulled her cloak close. Then, jaw set in determination, she headed down the hill toward the tents that barred the way into the fort.

Before she reached them, she flicked her fingers at her side, glamoring herself as a tall woman with straw-colored hair and a long, plain face—a stranger that no one here would recognize. She pulled her cloak tighter still around her, to disguise the sword and the dagger she carried, and rounded her shoulders to make herself look beaten down by life.

She was fortunate this morning, for it was Market Day. A crowd of farmers and merchants was making its way inside Duncrag along the road that cut through the camped army. Once a moon, the fort held a bustling market that attracted vendors from the outlying villages.

Her timing was a stroke of luck, indeed, for Princess Lara usually ventured beyond the high walls encircling the broch on Market Day. If Bree could get close enough, she could plead withher to arrange a meeting with Cailean. It would be safer than trying to get inside the broch.

Bree’s pulse quickened then. Lara would be wary of her now—after her mysterious disappearance in the summer—but she was also a friend. If she was still living at Duncrag, she’d help her. Of course, Lara was betrothed to King Dunchadh of Braewall and their handfasting would be looming.

Weaving through the press of tents, Bree noted the standards bearing the different sigils of Albia’s kingdoms. Amongst the High King’s wolf’s head banner were those bearing a leaping black stag and an iron shield: Braewall and Baldeen.

Warriors gathered outside hide pavilions, some warming their hands over fires while others handed out wooden bowls of porridge.

A couple of them glanced Bree’s way, but they quickly lost interest.

She swallowed a smile.

Good. Her glamor had been well-chosen.

Taking care to make her stride less fluid, her step heavier, she followed the crowd of vendors through the gates. What a difference a few turns of the moon made. The first time she’d entered this fort, she’d been impersonating a demure young woman schooled to become the perfect wife and had been paraded up to the broch to meet her future husband. But today, she slipped inside the fort unnoticed. Her current guise was one she was more comfortable with, for, as an assassin, she was used to blending with the shadows.

Bree made her way across the dirt-packed square, where a lass threw grain for a gaggle of honking geese and a group of rough-featured warriors stood in a knot, arguing. She recognized these men; they were all members of the Fort Guard.

Ignoring their disagreement, she headed up The Thoroughfare, past the open doorways of the forges. The stenchof hot iron wafted across the wide road, and she stumbled, slapping a hand over her mouth.

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