Page 132 of Bride of Mist
Dougal might fail. And if he did—if Laird Deirdre was put in the unthinkable position of having to ransom both Feiyan and Gellir…
Feiyan didn’t think she could live with the shame.
It was bad enough that she’d never measured up to her illustrious cousins. That she’d failed in her impulsive assassination attempt. That she’d caused her clan to march over a hundred miles to come to her rescue.
But to think that the laird might be forced to drain the Rivenloch coffers for her return…
These troubling thoughts kept her awake, staring sightlessly at the bleak cave walls long after Gellir dozed off.
Far past midnight, she finally fell into a fitful sleep. Her slumber was riddled with nightmares of disappointment, dishonor, and disgrace.
When the guards came for her, it was impossible to tell what time of day it was and how long she’d slept. But she awoke with a gasp as ragged as the harsh grating of the prison door. She sat up, blinking raw and gritty eyes against the torch light. She instinctively patted her hip, searching for her missingduandao.
“On your feet, wench,” someone growled.
“Where are you taking her?” Gellir demanded from the shadows.
They didn’t answer.
She straightened, quickly assessing the situation. There were three guards. The one holding the torch had a scar down his cheek. The two behind him wore hoods. One was burly. One was tall. If they were unarmed…
“Where are you taking her?” Gellir asked more loudly.
“Just the wench,” the one with the torch snarled, seizing her arm.
She reacted out of habit, levering her arm free. Then she made a grab for the torch.
But the guard was ready for her. He swept the torch out of reach. “Take her.”
She could have overcome one guard, even unarmed.
Against two, she might have triumphed, given enough space to move.
Even three mercenaries weren’t impossible to vanquish.
She got in a few good blows—slamming her elbow into ribs, driving her knuckles into a windpipe, and kicking at a shin. But eventually two of them trapped her arms. And when the third held a knife to her neck and his torch close to her face, she decided the best option was cooperation.
“Feiyan!” Gellir cried out.
“Stay back!” a guard barked.
“I’m fine,” she said between her teeth as they muscled her forward.
“We’ll come foryelater,” one of the guards grumbled at Gellir, punctuating his dire promise by slamming the gate closed again.
They dragged her up the steps to the great hall, where mercenaries were buckling on armor and strapping on weapons, preparing for war.
She gulped. Had Rivenloch arrived? Was Laird Deirdre here? Where were they? Where was Dougal?
Dozens of servants scurried about, responding to the commands of the soldiers, offering bread and ale to break their fast.
For one brief moment, she spotted a head of marigold hair—Merraid rushing toward the ale cellar—but was unable to catch her eye before the guards hauled Feiyan across the hall and up more steps to the wall walk.
The sun was just peering above the horizon, casting cold morning light through the haze enveloping the keep. At the parapet’s edge stood Laird Gaufrid, disheveled and drowsy-eyed. Flanking him were the Fortanach brothers, the plump boar and the lanky wolf. The boar’s eyes glittered as he glared at her. The wolf sneered, his gaze flat and dull.
Gaufrid beckoned her near. The guards wrested her forward until she was pressed against the stone of the parapet.
Feiyan glanced down, and her heart sank.
