Chapter One
Gort—Ivy
Autumn
Ishould not have drunk the blackberry wine. It slid violet through my veins and pricked sharp thorns at the nape of my neck. I’d thought it would calm me—focus my mind on the task at hand—but the opposite was true. I felt loose and reckless, jittering with nerves. I curled my hands tighter around my cup, fighting the brambles nettling at my fingertips.
Served me right for drinking on duty.
“More wine?” Connla Rechtmar, prince of Fannon, leaned forward in his fur-draped seat. He sloshed a carafe of purple liquid and flashed me an expectant smile. “Or do I need to offer you something stronger to make you take off that cloak you’re hiding under?”
By now, the wine had traveled to my face, and I fought a flush—not of girlish embarrassment, but of fury. He had the audacity to speak to me like I was some timid strumpet? I could break his neck without breaking a sweat.
My wine-spiked blood pounded between my ears, hot with the prospect of violence.
I reminded myself that Connla didn’t know what I was capable of. And if I had any sense, I’d keep it that way.
The tent was too warm, the fire roaring to ward off late autumn’s chill. I would’ve preferred it cold—a bite of frost to keep me alert. I forced myself to count off the steps of my mission through the fevered muddle of my thoughts:
One.Get to the carafe of wine.
Two.Drug the wine.
Three.Smother Connla’s unconscious face in his mound of seduction furs. (If I had time.)
Four.Find the prince’s captive darrig.
Five.Bring the wicked creature to my mother.
I took a deep breath, even as I pressed a thumb against the bracelet I wore around my wrist, a woven circle of dried poison ivy, nettle, and bramble. It dug into the tender ring of irritated skin below it. The flare of pain untangled the snarl of my thoughts.
I undid the clasp of my heavy woolen cloak, dropping it to the floor before my skin could prickle with sharp thorns. Without the outer garment, the air was blessedly cooler on my bare arms and exposed collarbones. I looked up through my lashes at Connla, gauging his reaction to my kirtle—or lack thereof. The sheer forest-green silk was striking against my pale skin and did little to disguise my physique. The thin shoulder straps were unnecessary considering how tight I’d cinched the bodice, accentuating my modest curves and slender waist. The high slit in the skirt left little to the imagination.
It achieved the desired effect. Connla’s eyes widened, then darkened. He shifted in his chair. I fought the urge to shudder at the vulgar anticipation slicking his gaze.
Truthfully, I could have worn a grain sack or a few judiciously placed oak leaves. Connla wanted me, with or without the clinging dress, and I’d known it since that morning.
For the past fortnight, all the under-kings and noblemen of Fódla had been camped near Rath na Mara—the high queen’s capital—to participate in the Áenach Tailteann, funeral games heldto celebrate and mourn kings of Fódla. This year’s assembly honored the late under-king of Eòdan and crowned his heir.
For the first few days, the high queen, Eithne Uí Mainnín—my adoptive mother—had presided over the creation of new laws, followed by a great funeral pyre in the king’s honor. Then the games had begun—trials of physical and mental prowess that allowed young warriors and poets the opportunity to prove their strength, valor, and wit.
Connla Rechtmar had represented his father’s household in a few categories—archery, horse racing, blades. He’d won all his matches—an odd bit of luck, considering he was lazy and slow, even for a prince.
Mother had not allowed me to compete. No—I was her secret, her instrument, herweapon. Flaunting my skills before her nobles was of no use to her—not if she wished me to spy on them, tease out their secrets, hunt down their weaknesses. So, as always, she kept me beside her in the queen’s box, demurely dressed and diffident. The queen’s favored fosterling—a strange, quiet little mouse.
That was where Connla noticed me. It wasn’t unusual to feel eyes on the side of my face—even though I looked chaste and obedient, there were the rumors. There werealwaysthe rumors—about where I’d come from, why I looked the way I did, why the queen took particular interest in me. But Connla’s regard was different—an oily kind of interest I didn’t find particularly flattering. I was debating whether I could surreptitiously give him the two-fingered salute across the ring, when Mother leaned over to me. She pretended to tuck an errant lock of sable hair beneath my veil.
“Rechtmar’s son desires you,” she murmured to me, too quiet for her other attendants to hear.
“I noticed,” I grumbled. And then, hopefully: “May I kill him for it?”
“You may not.” She almost smiled. “Cathair?”
Ollamh Cathair—the queen’s druid, chief advisor, and long-term lover—moved from his place behind her. He slid onto thebench beside me as Mother returned her attention to the archery contest below. His unwanted closeness chased away my cheekiness, but I forced myself not to flinch.
Cathair was a slender middle-aged man with a mild bearing. But his looks were his best deception. He had trained me in many things these past eleven years. Folklore. Ciphers. Poisons. Espionage. But first and foremost, he had taught me never to show my enemy how much I hated him.
“Fannon has been exceptionally lucky in their border skirmishes this year,” Cathair muttered. “Flash floods sweeping away enemy troops, falling trees blocking supply wagons. That kind of thing. My informants believe they may have captured a darrig.”
