Cain lowered her, and she yanked her black leather jerkin into place. “Where is my mask?”

“Ye do not need it,” he said. “And ye will tell me who branded ye.”

“He is dead,” she said, frowning over the idea of giving Cain any information at all.

He made a disgusted sound. “A pity.” He seemed to shorten his step so she was next to him, and they walked across a second drawbridge designed to slide over the chasm instead of being raised and lowered.

Across another bailey, they entered the tall stone fortress to step through a darkened entryway. The small antechamber opened up into a large room with a two-story ceiling made of timber and chiseled granite. Glass-paned windows were situated up high in the thick blocks to let in light. Tapestries adorned the walls, and a large cold hearth stood at the far end where another archway led beyond. The largest tapestry was made of bright threads and showed the four biblical horsemen riding down from the illuminated clouds of Heaven on steeds of four different colors: white, red, black, and a pale green.

Ella’s gaze slid to two women standing near the table that held the wrapped body of George Sinclair, the sadistic monster of Girnigoe. Her strategy had worked—cut off the head of the snake and the rest of the armies pulled back. But now, instead of readying for the inevitable siege, she was imprisoned in the snake’s den with his lethal son.

The room was silent, except for the whispered prayers of the younger of the two women near the head of the table. She was dressed in white, her light-colored hair draped about her shoulders as if she were an angel. An older woman with white hair stood next to her. Was she the Sinclair witch? The woman’s sharp gaze crossed over the prone body to squint at Ella. Did she need spectacles like Kenneth or was she casting a spell on her, condemning her for the death of their chief, her brother?

Several other warriors stood about the room, their battle armor streaked with mud and blood. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat when two large men walked out of the alcove. One had a bandaged arm, but it was the other who made her forget to inhale. He wore the dark robes associated with death, and a large human skull covered his face, its white bone polished, his eyes peering from the empty sockets. Hefting a bloody scythe over one shoulder, he was certainly the fourth of the Sinclair brothers. The horseman of death.