The guard glanced swiftly between Rogan and me. He hadn’t realized we were together—he’d thought we were merely walking nearby. He stepped back to his post, hung his head.
“Sorry, m’lord.” His eyes flicked to me before fixing on the middle distance. “A mistake. These halls are awful narrow, y’see.”
“Apology accepted.” Rogan didn’t hesitate before clapping him on the shoulder. “Just see it doesn’t happen again.”
Rogan stepped aside and gestured for me to precede him into the feast. But I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder at the guard, who—behind Rogan’s back—was making the sign against the evil eye. I fought the urge to bare my teeth and hiss at him.
But Rogan wouldn’t understand. Rogan never understood—not any of it.
The joy is in the thrill of the fight, not the promise of a kill.
Easy for a prince to say. How many walls had he been thrown into? How many feet had tripped him as he rushed through the halls? How many curses were whispered at his back? And for what? Simply being born who I was.
The hall was already raucous with food, firelight, and alcohol-fueled conversation. Rogan bowed me to my seat at the queen’s left hand, then sauntered over toward his own family’s place, greeting fellow lords and warriors as he did. I readied myself to apologize to Mother for my tardiness, but she was deep in conversation with her brother, the under-king of Delbhna, who sat on her other side. A servant placed food and drink before me, but I didn’t touch them, sweeping my eyes over the gathering instead.
The high queen’s table was U-shaped, dominating the feast hall. On one end, Rogan sat with his half brothers, Cillian andCallum, and a handful of their oath-men and vassals. They represented Bridei, the southernmost kingdom of Fódla, best known for its rich grain. Beside them, on my left, sat Derg O’Breithe, under-king of Eòdan. Middle-aged but hearty, he doted on his daughters and bred the finest cattle on the isle. Delbhna’s delegation sat to Mother’s right. Known for its fine steel, finer warriors, and rocky landscape, the birthplace of the queen relied on other kingdoms for most of its food—through either trade or raid. Last came Fannon, Connla Rechtmar’s birthright and the longtime rival of Bridei.
My eyes slid reluctantly to Connla, and I was not entirely surprised to find him already watching me. He boasted a livid broken nose and a huge bruise on one side of his head. He caught my eye and smiled—slimy and savage—over the lip of his cup. Then he bent to whisper in the ear of his rígfénnid drinking at his side. A moment later, the other man stared over at me too. Briskly, his fingers made a sign—the same sign the guard outside the hall had made. The sign against evil.
A thicket of dread closed around my heart. Connla had neither forgotten nor forgiven what had transpired last night. No—he had only realized that as I was the queen’s favored fosterling, he would not be able to attack me directly. He would have to undermine me more cunningly—by poisoning hearts and minds already disposed against me. There were always the looks, the whispers, the rumors. But tonight I swore more eyes trained toward me, more hands raised to cover gossiping mouths…
A palm fell on my arm. I jumped, nearly spilling the wine goblet at my elbow. Power embroidered green through my veins and pricked thorny needles along my wrists—
“A stór?” Mother was looking at me askance. “Is something wrong?”
I wrapped my hands together in my lap and willed my Greenmark away. “No, Mother.”
She stared at me a moment longer before sipping her wine. “How was your conversation with Cathair this morning?”
She was talking about the Treasure, in terms she did not mind being overheard. I glanced around for the druid—her shadow, herwhore—but didn’t see him. Cathair must have made himself scarce for the evening—the queen’s brother did not approve of the druid.
“Illuminating,” I replied carefully, remembering the intricate drawings of eerie Folk and elemental magic. “I will endeavor not to fail you in this, as in all things.”
“I know you won’t.” She leaned forward, squeezed my shoulder with a cool palm. She lowered her voice. “You have never complained about being kept to the shadows, although I know you do not enjoy it. Return my daughter to her home and return magic to our lands. Then you will no longer have to keep your talents hidden. You will be publicly sworn into my fiann as an honored fénnid, and when your beloved sister someday succeeds me as queen, I promise you will be her respected war advisor.”
Mother’s words thundered through my chest, jolting my heart out of its thicket of dread. They were the antidote to Connla’s toxic whispers and venomous glances.
Fiann. Fénnid. Sister. War advisor.
If I succeeded in Mother’s tasks, I would no longer be the strange little mouse who sat silent behind the queen. I would no longer even be the little witch—thechangeling—who gathered whispers wherever she walked. I would be part of the queen’s army. Her household. Her family.
Beloved.
I bowed my head. “I want that, Mother.”
“One other thing, a stór.” The queen’s fingers tightened around my arm. Her ice-blue eyes pierced me. “Know this—were there any other way, I would not have paired you on this mission with Rogan Mòr. But you both must go to Tír na nÓg to save my daughter. To save Fódla. It is the only way, but know I am sorry for it.”
Not as sorry as I was. Almost against my will, my eyes sought Rogan down the length of the table. He was laughing at some storyhis younger brother was recounting, his head thrown back and his shoulders easy.
“Do not tell him of your secondary mission,” Mother continued. “Princes are weak—their heads easily turned by thoughts of power. I don’t need notions of powerful magic distracting him from saving my daughter. Rogan may one day be king, but only when I am done with the throne and ready for Eala to become queen.”
I hated the thought of keeping such a secret from Rogan. But I agreed nevertheless. “I understand.”
“And keep your head around that boy.” She paused. “Do not let him fool you into giving him your heart again, Fia. He doesn’t want it and wouldn’t deserve it if he did.”
Her words were so close to Cathair’s—although much gentler—that I knew they must have discussed it. Shame crept through me on greasy feet. I longed for this conversation to be finished, but Mother was looking at me like she expected an answer.
“He is not meant for me. Even if I still loved him—which I don’t—I know he could never love me back.” My lips felt numb as I repeated the words she’d said to me—once, twice, a hundred times. “I was made of dusk and leaves and hidden places. I was not made to be loved by men.”
