Page 4 of Ashes of Betrayal

“Shortly before dawn.”

Weakness flooded through her, and she was grateful that she was kneeling, or her legs might have given way under her.

He’s alive.

Cailean hadn’t been at the camp just before dawn. Instead, he’d taken her south to The Ring of Caith and watched while she walked through the stones at sunrise. He would have returned to the woods, and the camp, to find everyone dead.

A chill skated down her spine then, the brief surge of relief draining from her.

He’ll think I knew … that I lied to him.

He would, but she couldn’t dwell on that now. Not when she could almost feel the wyrm’s hot breath on her back.

“Unfortunately, though, we found no sign of the chief-enforcer,” the queen added. “The bastard must have gone off on patrol.”

Bree didn’t answer immediately. She had to be very wary now, for suspicion glinted in the queen’s dark gaze, while her sinister-looking raven continued to stare Bree down.

Her breathing grew shallow, her limbs prickling in warning.

Mor could never learn about what she’d done—that she’d raced to the Hallow Woods and warned her husband about the coming attack.

“What now, My Queen?” Sage, one of Mor’s advisors, asked as the silence between them grew brittle.

“We’ve had a victory against the Marav … but things will not end here.” Mor’s fingers increased their tempo, a sign that anger thrummed inside her. “Too long has the High King hunted our people. Once, the Shee could roam freely in Albia, yet now we are pushed to the fringes. High Kings of old let us be, but not thisroyal line.” Her fingers wrapped around the armrests, squeezing hard. “Mac Brude and his father … and his grandfather before him … have increasingly persecuted us.” She leaned forward on her throne, a muscle feathering upon her jaw. “Aye, the High King has lost his son and half of his precious enforcers … but that isn’t enough. I will make him rue the day he ever sought to avenge himself upon me.”

Bree stilled.

She should have been relieved that Mor wasn’t currently focusing on her—but misgiving feathered down her nape at the ferocity on the queen’s face. She’d seen that expression before, after one of the queen’s brothers, Grae, had attempted to take the throne. In response, she’d sent Bree to hunt and kill him.

Once Mor fixed her mind on something, or someone, she wouldn’t be thwarted.

Talorc mac Brude had now drawn Mor’s full attention—a foolish thing indeed.

Someone cleared their throat then, and Mor glanced over her shoulder to see that it came from the captain of the Ravens, Gavyn Frostshard. His handsome face wore a hard, hungry, look. “What do you have in mind, My Queen?”

Mor lifted her chin, scowling at the intrusion. “We shall talk of my plans soon enough, Frostshard,” she replied, her tone sharp. “But for the moment, you shall exercise patience.”

Mor glanced back at Bree then, her eyes narrowing. She had a gaze that could melt iron.

“What do you ask ofme, My Queen?” Bree asked, her throat suddenly parched.

“Nothing,” the Raven Queen replied, her voice as cold as an Albian winter. “Your failures outweigh your successes. You ignore instructions and lie when you find yourself backed into a corner … aye, don’t take me for a fool. I haven’t lived two thousand years to be so easily taken in.”

Bree broke into a cold sweat. “My Queen,” she gasped, ready to do whatever it took to save her skin. “I—”

“Enough,” Mor cut her off. “One more insincere word and you’ll be feeding the wyrm at sunset.” Mor halted then, a chill silence rippling across the throne room. “Now get out of my sight … before my merciful mood passes.”

3: ON EDGE

A EWER OF chilled apple wine in one hand, and two silver goblets in the other, Bree gingerly made her way down the winding stairs. Her boots whispered on stone, while around her soft light reflected off the white walls.

In the aftermath of her audience with Mor, her legs were unusually shaky. She’d left the throne room in a daze, stumbling out into bright sunlight and warmth. Quite frankly, she was lucky to be alive. The Raven Queen’s wrath could be deadly, yet she’d survived it. For the moment, at least.

As tempting as it was to lock herself away in her tower, and rage at her stupidity, she’d descended into the bowels of the fortress instead—to the archives.

Bree found her brother up a ladder, rifling through a stack of rolled parchments on the top of one of the high oaken bookshelves that lined the huge space.

“Greetings, Gil,” she said with a breeziness she didn’t feel.

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