4 OPEN THE GATES
“DID YOU SEE anything?”
Ailsa rushed up to the beggar, panicked.
“I tried to stop you before,” he replied, his voice sullen. “But you weren’t interested.”
“I’m listening now.” She stopped before him, not caring this time about the stench that rolled off his blanket-shrouded body. “Talk.”
In the ruddy light of the lantern she held up, his face was saggy and hollowed, his eyes two deep pits. He was probably a lot younger than he looked, but the drink had aged him. Nonetheless, his expression was now belligerent.
Ailsa pretended not to notice. “Did you see the tattooist leave? Was anyone with her?”
His gaze glinted. “Maybe.”
Pressure exploded behind her eyes, a red haze dropping over her vision.
The same blistering anger that had seized her at Harvest Fire.
There was no time to be cowed by it though.
Kayla had been taken, and he wanted to play.
“I might have seen something,” he went on, flashing her a smile that revealed a mouth of rotting teeth. “If you give me a lusty kiss, you’ll find out.”
Swapping her lantern to her left hand, Ailsa reached down and whipped the blade from the back of her boot. An instant later, its tip pressed against his throat. Hard enough that if he moved, it would draw blood. “Kiss this.”
Ailsa had never threatened anyone like this before, nor was she an expert with a blade. Yet Kayla—who’d been instructed in combat upon the Isle of Arryn as part of her druidic training—had given her some lessons.
A knife to the throat meant business.
The man stared up at her, his throat working. “Bitch.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
Moments passed, and she pressed a little harder with the tip of her dagger. The beggar made a strangled noise in the back of his throat as blood welled.
Ailsa stared at that dark droplet, glistening in the lantern light. Her nostrils then flared.
The rich iron scent of it filled her nose.
A strange sensation fluttered under her ribcage.
Almost like … hunger.
Her heart jolted against her ribs. Surely not?
Tearing her gaze from the scarlet trickle that now dribbled down his throat, she focused on his taut face instead. “Out with it.”
“There were five of them,” he ground out. “Lean men wearing leathers with dark cloaks. They entered shortly after you left. And then … not long after, six of them came out … hauling the tattooist with them.”
“Didn’t she shout for help?”
“She was gagged. Hands bound.”
A chill slithered down her spine. “Who were they?”
He made a wheezing noise. “How do you expect me to know?”
“The Fort Guard?”
“No … looked like sellswords to me.”
“What direction did they go in?”
“Down the hill.”
Her gut started to churn. They’re leaving the fort.
The beggar’s haggard face twisted then, even as sweat beaded on his forehead. “I’ve told you everything I know. Now get that fucking knife away from my throat.”
Feeling sick, Ailsa stepped back before sheathing the blade in her boot once more.
Gods. Gods. Gods.
What did those men want with Kayla?
Was one of them a former customer unhappy with the work done? Unlikely. Kayla was the best. Had the overking discovered her illegal work? No. Those men hadn’t been from the Fort Guard.
Her pulse started to hammer in her ears.
Tonight, she’d planned to have it out with Kayla, to demand more freedom, for them to make plans to travel as they’d agreed. She’d promised herself she’d stand her ground this time, that she wouldn’t let her mentor make her feel foolish for wanting more out of life.
But none of that mattered now.
Kayla was gone.
What was she supposed to do?
She could race up to the broch and alert the Fort Guard.
Never involve the king’s men, Kayla’s voice echoed in her mind. She was suspicious of the man who ruled Braewall and those who served him. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t want to draw attention to her after-dark activities.
King Niall was away at present, visiting King Artair of Baldeen in the neighboring kingdom. Nonetheless, his steward ruled with an iron fist in his absence. All of them were the king’s minions. His spies.
No, she couldn’t rely on the steward or the Fort Guard to help.
She’d have to find Kayla herself.
The thought was absurd. She had no idea how to track kidnappers.
She hurried back indoors on shaky legs, as the beggar’s insults rang through the wynd behind her.
Grabbing a leather satchel, she stuffed a few things into it.
A bladder of ale. Some oatcakes and cheese.
A fresh tunic and some leggings. She then tied a heavy bag of salt onto her belt; essential if she was going to be traveling after dark.
However, her hands trembled, her fingers fumbling.
Gods. Was she up to this? Despite that Kayla had sheltered her, she’d always thought of herself as plucky.
She’d wanted freedom, hadn’t she? She’d longed to test herself, to explore beyond Braewall.
Now was her chance, yet suddenly, all she wanted was to bolt the doors and hide under the furs.
The world was dark and dangerous, and she was ill-prepared for it.
Her belly cramped, and she clenched her teeth, quieting her panic. Coward.
Kayla was in danger. She had to go after her.
There was no question about it.
Kneeling by Kayla’s alcove, she dug under the furs and retrieved the weighty pouch of iron, copper, and silver pennies she kept there. Her mentor didn’t realize she knew about her hiding place.
Of course, she did.
She was about to race back out the door when she paused.
You won’t be back here … not for a while.
The intuition made her still.
Her heart thumped hard against her ribs as she moved through into the shop, nerves getting the better of her once more. She had no plan, no assistance, and no idea how she’d actually rescue Kayla. However, she couldn’t let those men leave the fort without following.
Even if she had no idea what she was doing.
Retrieving her mentor’s bone needles and pigments, she wrapped them in a leather parcel. She couldn’t leave home without the tools of their trade. What if someone broke in here while she was gone?
She glanced around the workshop then. It suddenly felt unfamiliar.
Small and empty without Kayla.
It was hard to think. Hard to breathe. All she could hear was her beating heart. It crashed through her skull like waves pounding on rocks. This almost felt as if it were happening to someone else. But it wasn’t. She couldn’t freeze or let panic take over.
And so, she stuffed the leather parcel into her satchel and slung it across her front. Then, she grabbed her lantern and went out, closing and locking the door behind her.
The Reek lay a short walk from the gates.
Braewall’s poorest area crouched under the shadow of the craggy headland where the fort had been built.
It was north-facing, which meant that during the bitter season, the slum never got any sun.
The broch—a huge windowless building that resembled a massive beehive covered in turf—crowned the bluff, while the rest of the fort tumbled down the various levels beneath.
Emerging from the spiderweb of wynds, Ailsa set off across the market ground.
She felt slightly calmer now that she was in motion, reassured that she was on her way, at least.
She could do this.
The market ground was empty at this hour, apart from a drunk who was staggering about, singing tunelessly.
Ailsa skirted him, breaking into a run as she approached the gates.
“Ho, where are you going?” A guard—clad in boiled leather, an iron helm jammed onto his head—greeted her.
“A party of seven just left,” she replied, wishing her voice sounded steadier. “One of them was a woman.”
The guard’s eyebrows drew together underneath the rim of his helmet. “Did they? Well, they must have sprouted raven’s wings and flown, because I didn’t see them.”
Ailsa’s mind wheeled. Maybe this was good news. Maybe they were still inside the fort. She just had to find them and—
“However, a group of men … mercenaries by the look of them … came through a short while ago,” the man went on. “On foot … although they had a garron pulling a wagon with them.”
Ailsa’s pulse spiked. The beggar hadn’t mentioned a pony and cart, but the description was close enough. “Aye, that’s them. Do you know which way they went?”
“There’s only one way out of the village beyond the walls, lass,” the guard replied, eyeing her speculatively. “After that, there’s a crossroads. East to Muirport. West to Troon. Or northeast to Farnoch.”
Shit.
“Let me through … please.” Her voice cracked.
The guard’s frown deepened. “Friends of yours, are they?”
“Aye. I need to catch up with them.”
“It’s late, lass … and you shouldn’t be out here on your own as it is. Traveling without an escort at night is asking for trouble.”
“I’ll catch up with my friends soon enough.”
It wasn’t a convincing lie, yet she was desperate now. She had to follow those men.
The guard watched her for a few moments longer. It wasn’t a lecherous or scornful stare. It occurred to her that he was likely a decent man who was only trying to look out for a reckless young woman.
He huffed a sigh then before stepping back and nodding to his companion. “Open the gates.”
A short while later, Ailsa jogged through the sprawling village outside the fort’s high walls.
This settlement had grown considerably over the past years, especially since King Niall had drafted more locals into his army.
Many of the warriors he was training lived in cramped roundhouses under the shadow of the walls.
There was no one about, save for the odd stray dog. The Whistle gusted into her out here, pulling at her cloak. The shriek and hiss of fighting cats shattered the night then, and Ailsa jolted, one hand traveling to her pounding heart.
The Mother protect her. She was as jumpy as a botach on salt. She had to get a hold of herself.
She made her way beyond the village, past the last of the squat roundhouses, and stepped out onto the crossroads.
Guttering torches burned here, illuminating the iron cage hanging from a scaffold next to the road, where the king left criminals to die.
Everyone in Braewall knew about ‘the cage’, but Ailsa had never actually seen it before.
Breathing hard, she came to an abrupt halt.
There was a woman inside—gaunt-faced and wild-eyed.
“Cold night for a walk,” she greeted Aisla as she approached, her voice dry and weak.
The cage swung overhead, creaking in the wind. “A group of travelers went by not long ago … men with a wagon and a pony,” Ailsa replied warily. “Did you see which way they went?”
“Aye.” The woman leaned forward, thin fingers wrapping around the bars. It was then that Ailsa spied the dark swirls that had been inked onto her arms and neck. Those tattoos were the same kind Kayla wore. She was a druid. “Northeast.”