“Pain is only useful if you’re the one choosing to inflict it.” It was my voice, but Cathair’s words.
Irian made a noise deep in his throat. His blade jerked upward. The bracelet fell to the gleaming floor without a sound. He sheathed his black sword, then picked up the thorny bangle. I grabbed for the broken circle of bramble and nettles. But he jerked it out of my grasp, then threw it on the fire. It sparked, then was engulfed. Horror and relief and overwhelming sorrow throbbed through me in swift succession, each emotion more intense than the last. I fought tears as I forced myself not to rub my wrist where the bracelet had once rested.
I made my face expressionless before I looked up—I would not reveal to the tánaiste what he had taken from me.
“Your turn.” My voice was rough.
Irian was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice had smoothed its edges.
“Stars fell from a black sky on the night Deirdre of the Sept of Antlers was born. Her family rejoiced, for her miraculous birth meant Deirdre was destined to inherit the Treasure of their clan. Danu—chieftain of the Sept—sent for a seer to bless the new tánaiste. But the seer brought grim news. ‘This child will bring war to your lands and sorrow to your Sept,’ he whispered. Still, Danu did not have the heart to kill the baby. So she hid her away behind high walls, hoping that in time, Deirdre would outgrow her terrible destiny.”
Impatience grew inside me. I knew the Treasure of the Sept of Antlers had been destroyed—it was of little interest to me. “And did she?”
“For many years Deirdre laughed and danced and played in the walled garden. She grew from a babe to a girl to a woman. Shewas happy, although she had but one friend, almost like a brother. The tánaiste of another Sept—a little boy ten years her junior—who knew a secret way into her garden.” Irian’s moon-bright eyes fastened on mine. “And in all those years, Deirdre never set eyes upon a grown man. Perhaps that was why—when she came of age, rejoined her Sept, and inherited the Treasure of her dynasty—the young woman fell in love with the first man she saw.”
A premonition of sorrow beat cold wings against the back of my neck. “Who was he?”
“He was the king of a distant land, and Deirdre loved him before she knew him. For his curling golden hair; for his long, strong limbs; and for the way he looked at her like she was something precious. She did not understand that he did not wanther—he wanted her Treasure and all the power that came with it. When he lured her away, she happily abandoned her family and her Sept and her destiny. Or, perhaps, fulfilled it.”
The man he was talking about was Rían Ó Mainnín, the high king of Fódla—of that I was certain. But this was not the story I knew—nor even the story Eala had told. “He betrayed her for her Treasure, even though she loved him?”
“Love is rarely anything but a prelude to tragedy, colleen.” I wondered that I’d ever thought Irian’s smilelazy. It was coiled and wild. Perilous. “Danu’s heart was broken. She chased the king and her wayward heir across plain and over mountain. When at last she found them, she killed the young king where he stood. She was still splattered with his blood when she begged Deirdre to return home with her. But Deirdre had loved the king and could not bear her sorrow. She threw herself from a high cliff into the grasping forest. Where her body fell, exquisite flowers grew. Black as the night sky that wept on the night of her birth, and white as the stars that had fallen like tears.”
Irian’s voice faded off, to be replaced by the crackling of the fire.
“Surely that’s not the end of the story.”
“Of this story? Yes.”
My fist clenched in my lap. Ihatedstories. Especially true ones—they never had happy endings. And if this version of the story was indeed true, then the high king of Fódla had seduced and kidnapped a Folk maiden who knew nothing of men, even as he broke his troth to his pregnant queen. His greed had destroyed them both, irrevocably broken the power of the Septs, and set the Gate War in motion. He was as much a monster as the Folk who slew him.
Sudden unease damped my fury. Was I any better? What was I doing here, if not seducing a tánaiste for his Treasure?
The only difference was Irian was no innocent doe in the forest. And so far, I wasn’t doing a particularly good job of seducing him.
“Why have you told me this?” He’d promised me clarity and given me nothing. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I said my story would pertain to your question.” Irian’s plush mouth curved like a blade. “I never said I would tell you how.”
He didn’t give me the chance to ask him any more questions. He touched my shoulder, bending the world around me once again.
I fell to my knees at the base of the hill. When I was finished dry-heaving, I whipped my head around, but I was alone. The field of starflowers climbed to the distant fort, its otherworldly glow dimming as dawn approached. The only sign tonight hadn’t been a dream—or a nightmare—was the spray of my own blood on one of the silvery flowers, and the neat little bandage adorning my ring finger.
As Rogan and I walked back to Dún Darragh in the gray light of dawn, Deirdre’s story haunted me. But it wasn’t the prophecy of her birth, or the alleged ruthlessness of the king, or even their calamitous deaths that needled me. It was Irian’s callous words that echoed in my ears:Love is rarely anything but a prelude to tragedy, colleen.
As Dún Darragh loomed into view, I was startled by a crash in the underbrush. I glanced behind me. Where my footsteps had fallen, flowers had begun to grow. They were sharp and pale as glass. But growing between them were black flowers—dark as the bloom that had bitten me in the greenhouse.
“Something wrong, changeling?” Rogan asked from a few paces ahead.
His eyes were tired. I shook my head.
When I glanced back into the brightening wood, all the flowers—light and dark—had disappeared.
Chapter Eighteen
Luis—Rowan
Winter
