Page 50 of Ashes of Betrayal

Reaching up, he wrapped a steadying hand around her wrist. He wanted her to know he understood, and that he’d help, where he could. His throat tightened then. What had happened to him? For years, he’d told himself life was easier when you didn’t let others in. Wasn’t he happier on his own? He’d tried hardening his heart, to send his wife away, yet Bree’s sorrow had torn through his defenses. He couldn’t keep lying to himself. He cared for her. Deeply. There was no denying it now.

The night before had changed everything, and he was still reeling from it.

“King Aileanhasbeen busy,” Cailean noted, reining in the sensations that scared him a little. He guided Feannag toward the road that wound its way up to the summit of the rock. “None of this was here when I visited in the summer.”

“He’s clearly eager to please his High King,” Bree replied.

Cailean snorted. “King Ailean is rarely ‘eager to please’ … it’s fear of mac Brude’s wrath that keeps him in line, little else.”

The road up to the fort was narrow and perilous, just wide enough to travel up single-file, and with a few passing places dug into the rock. However, the views were spectacular, and Cailean couldn’t help but cast looks out across the blanket of wintry woodland—skeleton trees interspersed with dark-green conifers—where Skaal and Tivesheh would be waiting.

Reaching the top of the rock, they passed through another set of iron gates, with high stone walls rearing up either side, and into the fort proper.

The roar of cheering voices reached them then, and Cailean’s attention cut to a space ringed by spiked wooden palings. A banner hung over the entrance, showing two half-naked fighters locked in mortal combat.

A moment later, another roar went up, and then voices started to chant as if urging someone on.

Cailean drew Feannag to a halt. His pulse quickened as he listened to the fight taking place just yards away.

Bree’s hold around his waist tightened. “That’s the band of fighters you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

“Aye.” His belly clenched then, violence igniting in his veins. He couldn’t believe it. Finally, Eilig was just a few yards away. “I should deal with him now.” Gods, he itched to ram his blade through the fight master’s throat.

“Cailean.” Bree put a hand over his, drawing him out of murderous thoughts. “You need the blood-letting first, remember?”

Tension rippled through him.

Curse it, he hated being so reliant on earth magic for his strength. This was the price he’d willingly paid to become an enforcer. But there were times when he resented it. Now was one such occasion.

“Aye,” he ground out, leashing the urge to leap off Feannag, draw his sword, and wade into that enclosure. “I do.”

Eilig would have to wait, as planned, until tomorrow. He’d be ready then.

Dragging his gaze from the entrance to the enclosure, he urged Feannag across the wide space, the stallion’s hooves clip-clopping over dirt and stones. There was an ale-hall nearby where they’d find lodgings for the night.

The wynds—narrow lanes—of the fort were emptying out as daylight faded. Wisely, the inhabitants of Cannich had hurried indoors. They’d be sprinkling salt around the hearths and acrossthresholds tonight and donning iron protection charms, to keep the dead at bay. Already, the locals were setting up braziers and lamps outside doorways—for firelight warded off malevolent spirits—and women laid out trays of freshly baked cakes and pies as offerings.

As hoped, the ale-hall had space for them. It had two wings out back connected by a yard, where the proprietor hired out accommodation. It was expensive, for Cailean had to pay to have his horse stabled as well, and he handed over the three silver pennies to the proprietor’s daughter with gritted teeth. His coin reserves were seriously dwindling these days, especially after the items he’d bought for Bree in Morae.

Impatience thrummed through him then. The day was waning. He had to seek out a sacrificer before nightfall. He needed to refill the well, so he could focus on dealing with Eilig.

Pocketing the coins, the lass watched him with interest, ignoring Bree, who waited behind him. Pretending not to notice the flirtatious smile she gave him, Cailean met her eye. “I require a favor.”

“Oh, aye?” she replied, inclining her head.

Bree made a warning sound in the back of her throat.

Resisting the urge to look his wife’s way—maybe he should have warned her he’d need to do this first—Cailean nodded. “A partner for blood-letting.”

The ale-hall keeper’s daughter’s eyes widened before she tossed her long walnut-colored hair over her shoulder. Of course, it was an honor for any woman to be asked to partner with an enforcer for the ceremony. “This evening?” she breathed.

“Aye … now.”

Casting Bree a veiled look—her gaze full of questions—the young woman nodded. “Let me fetch my cloak.”

Outside in the yard, between the accommodation wings, while they waited, Cailean turned to his wife. Her expression was veiled, yet the hurt look in her eyes made his chest tighten. “You know why I couldn’t ask you, Bree,” he reminded her softly. “I can’t delay this.”

Indeed, as if sensing the rising of the full moon, his entire body had started to ache. He was also sweating now, despite that it was a cool evening.

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