She could have easily executed me. And not even I could have blamed her if she had.
I sighed and squared my shoulders. I would do anything for Mother. Including helping the man I loved find the woman he was promised to marry.
Chapter Three
The high queen’s summons came early the next morning. Too early. My head pounded from wine, adrenaline, and too little sleep. My limbs ached from using my Greenmark—as though I had knotted branches for bones and tough vines for muscles.
But one did not ignore an invitation from the queen. So I braided back my tangled hair and chugged a cup of water to sweep away the tastes warring in my throat—muck, disgust, desire, resentment.
Rogan was waiting at the door to Mother’s audience chambers. He didn’t say anything, only flashed me a private smile.
My head throbbed like a swollen river. I didn’t smile back. Instead, I shoved the door open.
I should have knocked.
Mother’s throne room was austere. No bronze cups or carven shields or glittering weapons adorned the walls—only a handful of simple tapestries depicting the patron gods of Fódla’s four kingdoms. The Morrigan, goddess of sovereignty and war, surrounded by her prophetic ravens. Donn, god of the dead, framed by the black gates of his realm. Brighid, goddess of husbandry and healing, flanked by her prized cattle. Amergin, god of poetry andlaw—and founder of Fódla and its peoples—standing proud with his harp and his staff.
But there was nothing here to flaunt Mother’s wealth, power, or reputation as a brutal war queen. I happened to know she disdained such ostentation. She considered golden embellishments, elaborate hairstyles, and extravagant surroundings vulgar—even dangerous. Such things echoed the insidious glamours of the Fair Folk, hiding the truth behind glittering masks. No—she kept all her treasures locked away in a narrow antechamber off the main reception room. A room known only to a few close allies.
A room whose door was thrown wide open, revealing shelves choked with strange objects and misshapen artifacts. Shards of fallen stars. Vials of onyx sand and argent blood and ruby heartbreak. Blades swirled with shattered glass and hammered nightmares. Relics, all of them—relics from Mother’s violent forays into Tír na nÓg during the Gate War. Relics she kept and studied with hateful, careful, obsessive scrutiny, trying to understand an enemy who was unknowable.
But it wasn’t any of those objects that caught my attention now. It was the spindly gnome strung up from the ceiling, shackled in iron and garlanded with rowan, flanked by Mother and Cathair.
The darrig.
Its arms were like broken branches; its legs, unearthed roots. Green and brown liquid spattered its torso and the floor below it. Its depthless eyes stared at me as they had last night, but now they were blank and flat.
Lifeless.
My stomach bottomed out with regret, chasing away any satisfaction I might have felt at its successful capture. I ran a finger over my bracelet of thorns and nettles, spiking fire against the angry skin beneath it.
What had the darrig said to me? Something about a broken heart. About ending its sorrow. It had asked me for help. And I—I’d done nothing. Not even to put it out of its misery.
I willed my spine straight as hardwood. The creature was beyond anyone’s help now. And maybe that was for the best.
Beside me, Rogan coughed. Mother’s head snapped up. An iron spike disappeared behind her skirts. She said something to Cathair, who kicked the door shut. A few moments later, they both emerged with clean hands and calm faces. The queen climbed the dais to her throne, Cathair a few steps behind. I swallowed the revulsion still crawling its way up my throat and looked up at Mother.
Eithne Uí Mainnín was—in the way of old stories and tall, twisted tales—aqueen.
She looked down at Rogan and me, her beauty a kind of spell. Although she dressed in a simple blue kirtle, wore no jewelry but a plain golden torc around her neck, and sat upon a wooden chair in an unadorned room, she was radiant. The streaks of gray in her long blond hair gleamed like strands of silver amid gold. Her pale blue eyes glittered like diamonds. The set of her mouth hinted at a jeweled tongue.
Mother was never intended to rule. Although she was beautiful and shrewd and the blood of kings coursed through her veins, she was merely banfhlaith. A princess. Her fate was to marry, for the dowries of princesses have always been the alliances of kingdoms. Her bride-price—when she wed Rían Ó Mainnín, the last high king—was peace and unity in Fódla.
But her destiny was always war.
“Rogan Mòr,” Mother said with a hint of a smile. She waited for him to bow to her before rising and embracing him. “You have grown tall and broad as an oak! How is your father?”
“Grumpy as a goat in his dotage.” Rogan laughed. “And his temper is not improved by my brothers surrounding him like stray dogs begging for scraps.”
“So he has not yet named an heir?” Mother already knew the answer to this—she kept abreast of the affairs of all her under-kings.
“No.” Although his smile didn’t fade, I remembered Rogan’sface well enough to notice the way his eyes tightened. “And he will keep us all guessing until his sickbed becomes his deathbed, my lady.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Small talk finished, Mother nodded to me. “You did well last night, a stór.”
My treasure.The pet name she used only for me. Hearing it loosened my tension, and I gave a small bow. “I am only sorry I could not retrieve the darrig myself.”
“You followed procedure, little witch.” Ollamh Cathair glided like a shadow from behind his queen. “We must take our successes where we find them. We cannot all be heroes.”
