* * *

Once the Breeton-Holmeses made their hasty exit, Keita had Aidan drag the priest into the castle and leave him in the middle of the floor, far from weapons or anything he could use to kill himself. While the man screamed and writhed in utter, devastating pain, Keita sat at the main hall table, her feet up on the wood, a chalice of wine held in one hand.

When the priest wasn’t screaming and begging for an end to his misery, Keita yawned and sipped from her chalice.

It became so bad and went on for so long that Brannie had to leave for a bit so she could hunt down some fresh meat. It—thankfully—took a while before she found game worth the effort.

She had the animals skinned and put on the spit by the time the priest finally reached his breaking point.

Standing close enough to stare down at him but not close enough to be grabbed, Keita asked the same question she’d been asking for hours. “What happened to the Eastlander you followed out of that pub?”

“We . . . we tried to take him,” the priest, covered in sweat and his own blood, vomit, and excrement, panted out. “But he fought off my guards . . . and disappeared . . . into the forests.” He reached out for her but even her bare feet were too far from his fingers. “Now please. Please . . . end it.”

“Don’t evade, priest. You followed him out of that forest. To where?” He shook his head, trying to fight, but there was nothing left but his suffering. “Answer me, priest,” Keita said, her voice almost soothing. “Answer me or I will enjoy watching you suffer for days.”

He curled into a ball. “We followed . . . followed him to about ten leagues ... leagues . . . northeast of . . . Port . . . Cities.”

“And?”

“And . . . he suddenly . . . disappeared just when . . . we got . . . got close.”

Keita smiled. “That was very good.”

She turned from him and walked back to the table. Once she was again situated in the chair, her feet up on the table, a chalice of wine in her hand, Brannie asked, “Well . . . ?”

“Well what?”

“He told you what you wanted. Aren’t you going to finish him?”

“No.” Brannie, disgusted, stood, but her cousin snapped, “Sit down, Branwen.”

Without really thinking about it, she did. “Keita—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Branwen. Unless you’ve actually seen their idea of a cleansing . . . I don’t want to hear anything.”

“I’ve seen their cleansings,” Brannie told her, clearly remembering finding rows of those who refused to take Chramnesind as their one and only god. Staked to the ground in the kneeling position, molten silver poured into their eyes so they were frozen in sparkly horror. It had been one of the most appalling sights Brannie had ever been forced to witness and the first time during a nighttime battle break that her and Izzy had ended up so drunk they couldn’t even stand.