Night had fallen over Barrik an hour past. The ancestral seat of Darron’s family, it was a fortified town of hardy stone buildings and hardy people. It had changed little in the ten years Brenna had been gone.
She moved through the shadows, almost one with them. At the keep’s side entrance Steyr stood watch, but his chance of spying Brenna as she flitted through the shadows was beyond slim.
Keep, she scoffed mentally. Barrik Keep was little more than a jumped-up holdfast. Still, Darron held court here, much as his ancestors before him had, all the way back to the eponymous Barrik of bygone years ten generations ago. If the rumors could be believed, of late he’d taken to styling himself as Lord Darron,
Although the selection of Barrik’s headman hadn’t always followed a strictly patrilineal path, eight of those that the clan had chosen to lead had been of Barrik’s blood. And if tradition held, as Darron’s only son had fallen in battle, the man who married Honnhig would be headman. That man, Brenna mused, was Vaedhal. Vaedhal, who had been a stripling when last she’d seen him.
She crept to the side of the stone chimney, wary of Steyr in the distance. May the gods bless their union. He’d need as many blessings as possible if he was to be tasked with bedding the hatchet-faced bitch for the rest of his days.
The scream died in the young woman’s throat, and the look on her face altered between fear and surprise. “B-b-bren…” she managed, in choked tones.
Brenna advanced purposefully, her drawn sword forcing the woman to her knees. “You know why I’m here. Take off the dress.”
The tip of the razor-sharp sword hovered less than a finger’s breadth from her neck. “Gods, Brenna! Do not do this thing. By the gods, I beg you.”
“Less talk. More tits.”
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