Page 54 of Ashes of Betrayal

The woman hunched, sobbing in the doorway, weeping. A man comforted her, stroking her back.

Halting before them, Cailean met the man’s eye. “What happened?”

Heavy clouds hung overhead when Bree and Cailean left the ale-hall and made their way down to the fighting enclosure. Walking at her husband’s side, Bree had marked the pale and strained faces of the locals she passed. The atmosphere in the fort this morning was subdued; a strange hush had settled.

“A botach forced its way in last night,” the man replied, his voice raw with grief. “It jumped the salt and took our child.”

“We shouldn’t have been so stingy with the salt,” his wife choked out. “It’s our fault!”

“I’m sorry,” Bree murmured, even as the woman began to sob once more, louder now.

The man nodded, although it was clear he barely heard her.

Glancing at each other, Bree and Cailean moved on, leaving the grieving couple behind them.

Her husband stalked now—purpose in every stride—and she struggled to keep up with him.

“It was an eventful night, by all accounts.” Her hand strayed to the new dagger she carried at her waist, under her cloak. That a trow would carry such a weapon was mystifying—and worrying.

“Aye.” Cailean glanced her way, blinking as he yanked himself free of his thoughts. “Gateway has grown increasingly dangerous over the years … do you think your people could be responsible?”

Bree frowned, considering his question. “It would be unusual,” she replied. “We don’t control The Slew. And apart from fae hounds, we have little to do with the faery creatures beyond the veil.”

“Are the tales true then … that they were cast from Sheehallion?”

“Aye, although that was a long time ago.”

Cailean swung his attention away, focusing on the wide space up ahead before the gates of the fort. Warriors were sparring here, their grunts and curses rising into the damp air.

Ignoring them, he strode around the edge of the area, his shoulders set, to the archway that led to the fighting enclosure.

Bree slowed her pace slightly, allowing him to draw ahead. He was preparing himself now—for a long overdue reckoning.

Within the enclosure, she stepped into a sawdust-covered arena marred with large dark spots: blood from the previous evening’s fight. Bench seating, where the spectators watched, ringed the arena. There, she halted a few steps behind Cailean, surveying the scene within.

A big man with chiseled features, a thin scar across one cheek, and close-cropped grey hair, his bare arms blue with tattoos, was taking four fighters through drills.

The iron collars each of the warriors wore gleamed dully in the pale daylight. They were all heavily-muscled, scarred individuals, with grim faces and dead eyes. Slaves.

Although it wasn’t them that Cailean was focusing on, but the fight master who snarled instructions, as they fought each other with bound blades.

“Move your arses!” he roared. “I’ve seen cripples move faster than you lot!”

At that moment, the fight master noticed they had an audience. Scowling, he turned from his still dueling slaves. “The next show’s tonight,” he barked. “Fuck off until then.”

“I’m not here for that” —Cailean stepped forward, his hands flexing at his sides— “but for you.”

His pulse thumped in his ears now.

Gods, he couldn’t believe it, Eilig mac Frang was standing in front of him, within killing distance. How many times had he lain awake after he’d begun his training upon the Isle of Arryn, imagining this moment? Of course, as the moons slid into years, he’d stopped himself from thinking about taking revenge againsthis former master—but once he’d dredged the old hate up, it wouldn’t let him go.

The older man’s grey brows drew together, confusion flickering across his face. The scar Cailean had given him on the day he’d learned the fight master was bedding Enya was silvered with age now.

Heat stirred in Cailean’s gut. “Don’t you recognize me, Eilig?”

The fight master’s pale-grey eyes widened. “Cailean?”

“That’s right.”

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