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Pushing the thought aside, Ailsa dipped her bread into the stew and took a bite. All the while, she eyed the man opposite.

Niall had taken precautions.

A ring of warriors, blades unsheathed, gazes wary, also stood on the high seat, tracking her every movement. Maol stood just behind Niall’s right shoulder. The warrior watched her with a hooded gaze.

Ailsa had been given no knife.

Her pulse thudded then.

She didn’t need one.

Her gaze lowered to her hands, to the nails that grew into wicked points. They gleamed pearlescent in the light of the hearth that burned a few feet away. She’d taken a file from the workshop, one they used to sharpen and shape the iron needles they worked with. She filed her nails nightly these days, and yet, they were still long enough to draw the eye.

They were weapons.

“You have a nasty bite, I hear.” The king’s voice gave little away, yet his blue eyes never left her face.

“Only when cornered,” she replied.

During her captivity, Niall hadn’t called her to him once. She’d now drawn his attention, and that wasn’t a good thing.

“The warrior in question will be punished.” The king bit into the boiled egg and chewed. He then picked up his cup of wine and took a sip. “He was out of line.”

Ailsa didn’t reply as she dipped her bread into the stew again.

Surely, the king hadn’t dragged her out here to tell her this? What did he want?

She didn’t trust his words. He was too amiable, too reasonable. This was a man who’d gathered an army by force to take on the High Queen. A man who’d taken her and Kayla captive against their will and was using them.

He was anything but reasonable.

Silence swelled between them.

Reaching for her own cup of wine, she lifted it to her lips and took a sip. It was sour, strong. Swallowing, she set the cup back down. “How long are you going to keep us here?”

Niall picked up his eating knife and sliced some cheese from the round in front of him. Then, without asking her, he placed it on a separate trencher, sliding it across the table to her.

“As long as I need,” he replied.

Ailsa clenched her jaw. The bastard wasn’t giving anything away.

Niall’s gaze met hers then, and his lips lifted at the corners. “I’m sorry, Ailsa, but you and Kayla are both too precious to let go. For the moment at least.” He settled back in his chair. “We’ll be departing Craeg Aonaranach at the end of this turn, to march on Duncrag. You will both travel with us, of course. You can continue tattooing as we make our way south … I want my army invincible by the time we storm the capital.”

“You don’t care that none of the Circines follow you willingly?” She’d seen the binding sigils Gregor had etched on the underside of their right forearms, a smaller version of the mark on Niall’s own. The design reminded her of a spider crouched at the center of its web. Kayla had said she’d never seen anything like it.

“I never forced them to take that mark,” Niall replied.

Ailsa’s brow furrowed. Liar. He must think her a half-wit. She’d seen their faces. Their eyes. None of them—not even the brutes like Nech—looked as if they’d chosen this.

“However, I’ll admit they were tattooed under false pretenses.” He lifted the cup of wine to his lips once more, although she noted how his grip on it tightened. “I needed a vast army … they wouldn’t have followed me otherwise.”

Heat sparked in Ailsa’s belly. You’re right about that.

Filing the detail away, she broke off a piece of cheese, popped it in her mouth, and chewed slowly. Swallowing, she met his eye once more. “And what of your brother?” It was dangerous to be this direct. She risked riling him, but this was the first time she’d had a chance to ask anyone about Darach. “Where is he?”

Niall stiffened. An instant later, he masked his reaction with a knowing half-smile. “Soft on my baby brother, are you?”

Ailsa didn’t dignify that with an answer. “Is he dead?”