“Which Treasure am I to steal?”
“He is said to be tánaiste of the Sept of Feathers,” said Cathair. “The Sky-Sword.”
“What does it look like?”
“That, I cannot say.”
“Then how am I meant to find it?” Frustration and fear made my skin tight. “How will I know it from any other Folk-damned sword?”
“I’ve given you many tools these past twelve years.” Cathair’s voice was passionless. “Use them against this Gentry heir. Stalk him, lie to him, ingratiate yourself with him. You’ve grown into a pretty little thing—perhaps you could seduce him. It matters not how you ferret out his secrets. All that matters is you bring us back the magic this land so desperately needs. Do you understand me, little witch?”
“I understand.” The tender skin of my wrist itched like ant bites. “But I’m not ready—I’ll need weapons, tinctures and poison, books—”
Cathair set a large oilskin bag on the table with a thunk. Inside were sheaves of parchment, bundles of herbs, glints of metal.
“I have already prepared some things you’ll need. Incantations to cross the Gate. Iron spikes dipped in antimony, although those will only protect you against the lower Folk.” Cathair made a sweeping gesture toward his chamber. “Take whatever else you need.”
I rose to my feet, eager. But the druid’s cool palm gripped my elbow, stealing the nervous energy propelling me away from him. “One more thing.”
What more could he possibly ask of me?
“I have not forgotten what happened with the prince, all those years ago.” His hazel eyes were shrewd on my face. “Neither have you, I think.”
I had certainly tried to forget.
It had been a blazing hot summer day when I was sixteen. Rogan and I had run away from our archery practice, snuck down to the swimming hole while the rest of the fiann sweated in the training yard. Dizzy with mischief, we’d dived deep and swum until our limbs trembled, then sunned ourselves on the grassy banks. As afternoon burned into evening and fireflies flickered in the dusk,he’d kissed me. His lips on mine had tasted like all the things I’d told myself I didn’t want. And even though I knew—Iknew—I could never have him, I kissed him back. When his hands roamed lower, I’d arched myself to meet him. We’d slid together, wet and hot and wild with wanting, until we came apart at the seams in a way that made me never want to put myself back together again.
He’d been my first. And much as I’d tried to convince myself it had been nothing—two striplings playing at passion—I knew I’d loved him then. As I loved him now.
I still don’t know how Mother found out. Maybe she’d already been watching us, sensing our relationship begin to shift. Maybe Cathair’s birds saw us, and he snitched on us for his queen’s favor. Regardless, soon after, Cairell Mòr called his eldest son home to Bridei.
“What of it?” I ground out, shaking off Cathair’s grip. “I do not love him—not anymore.”
“You must think me daft, little witch. I see how you look at him.” He cocked his head like one of his pet starlings. “You should know, no matter how much you might wish it, he will never be yours. He will marry a princess—if not Eala, then some other king’s daughter. Perhaps you’ll get lucky, and she will die in childbirth, and he will choose not to marry again. Then, at least, you will be first in his heart.” His casual malice churned nausea in my gut. “But most likely, he will never choose you—you will never be more than an afterthought to him. And you will spend the rest of your miserable life being nothing more than his mistress. His shadow. His whore.”
“Is that what you are to the queen?” I lashed out, thorns of fury prodding me to recklessness. “Her whore?”
“Perhaps I am.” Cathair’s smile was born from a malevolent kind of pride. He enjoyed it when I lost my temper—enjoyed it like a smith might enjoy cutting his finger on a newly forged blade. It proved to him how sharp he’d made me. “Be glad you are not. You are a weapon, little witch. You were made to hurt. And men only know how to use weapons—they do not know how to love them.”
“Are you sure? I’ve certainly known men who were a little too fond of polishing their swords.” I painted honey over my grimace and didn’t care if it looked like a smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to pack.”
I grabbed the oilskin sack off the workbench and fled Cathair’s dungeon, taking the steps two at a time. His laughter chased me into the light of the morning, but so too did his words, although I’d never let him know it.
No matter how much you might wish it, he will never be yours.
Much as I hated him for saying it, he was right. And to the two near-impossible tasks I’d been set today, I mentally added a third: to steal back my own heart from someone I should never have entrusted it to.
Chapter Four
Abrisk tap on my bedroom door dispelled my concentration. Irritated, I looked up from cataloging my socks and calculating how many times I’d reasonably be able to wear each pair before having to wash them.
Candlelight haloed Rogan as he pushed open the door and ducked beneath the jamb. Even when he straightened, the top of his head almost brushed the low ceiling. I stepped away from my pile of socks, fighting a burst of ancient embarrassment.
It wasn’t the first time the prince had been in my room—not by a long shot. But I’d never liked having him here. After my unexpected arrival in the castle twelve years ago, I hadn’t lasted long in the princess’s bedroom. Mother had reserved those spacious chambers for Eala’s awaited return—each doll carefully placed, each pillow regularly fluffed. Me, she’d moved to a higher floor—a floor for high-ranking servants; merchants without titles; secret changelings. I normally didn’t mind the drafty shutters or the tallow tapers or the chinks that let the mice in. But with Rogan looming here, the walls seemed unpleasantly bare, the bed unconscionably narrow. So unlike Rogan’s own royal guest chambers, which boasted richtapestries and beeswax candles and feather mattresses.
“There you are.” His mouth quirked up in a smile that tore at my heart. His hair had gotten long in the years since I’d seen him—it fell in golden waves past his shoulders, braided and knotted back from his face as was the fashion among young warriors. “What are you still doing up here? You’re going to be late for the feast.”
“Packing.” My voice was stiff. “You may have heard of it?”
