“My apologies for interrupting your archery lessons, Princess. But we need to discuss the matter of the Feast and your suitors.”
I breathe in and feign a perfectly composed smile. “Can this wait until after my lesson? Lord Gethin has just left to set up targets along the riding path.”
He purses his lips briefly, then reluctantly bows before turning to retreat. A few heartbeats pass while Tiernan and I stare at Iywan’s back as he moves farther away.
Tiernan finally speaks up. “If you keep putting off this discussion, I’m afraid Lord Iywan will choose a suitor for you. And if he does, I have an inkling it won’t be in your favor. He only cares about image.”
“He can’t do that,” I say.
Gethin arrives before Tiernan can rebut. “Ready?” Gethin asks. I turn away from Tiernan and nod to my archery master.
There aren’t as many candles burning in my mother’s bedchamber today. That apprentice girl—Brenna?—is at my sleepingmother’s bedside. Iywan observes from a short distance, but as he sees me, he bows. Brenna, or Bertie, or whatever her name is, has the audacity to smile at me, and I clutch the tome of fairytales against my chest.
She knows something you don’t,a voice inside me whispers.Don’t trust her.
I stiffen, my breath frozen in my chest.
“No valbane today, Your Highness,” the apprentice girl says proudly.
My mother’s breathing is languid. She’s even paler, if possible. I glare at the apprentice healer. “You’re dismissed, Blawnid.”
She draws a breath to speak but simply curtsies before rushing off.
I approach my mother. “I’d like some alone time with her,” I say to Iywan.
Iywan bows again. “Yes, Princess Carys.”
As the door shuts behind him, I gently set the tome down on the side table and brush my hand across my mother’s clammy forehead. “Mother, it’s me. Carys.”
My mother’s eyes flutter, but they don’t fully open. Her lips part as though she intends to say something. No sound emerges until she clears her throat gently. “Water,” she rasps after a long pause.
“Water?” Her lips are chapped and peeling, though Brigid just walked off with a bowl. I move toward the table and grab the small pitcher of water, pouring some into a teacup before returning to my mother. “Tiernan, help me.”
He nods and leaves his post at the door to help sit my mother up, propping her against the cushioned headboard. She’s barely able to keep her head upright, but Tiernan stabilizes her as I hold the cup to her lips so she can sip the water.
A lump rises in my throat and tears threaten to escape as water drips from the queen’s mouth. But I steel my resolve, gently wiping my sleeve across her chin to catch the water droplets. My mother’s strength lies within her broken body like a trapped flame. When shefinally turns to me, the recognition in her brown eyes both shreds and patches my heart. Would it be easier if that stubborn glint in her eyes ceased to exist? Then, at least, there wouldn’t be much hope to hold on to. I could let her go. But that’s not the case—her illness is as unpredictable as my shifting moods.
I swallow thickly. “It’s so good to see you awake.” My voice sounds strained.
A ghost of a smile appears on her haggard face. “Good to see you too.”
Tiernan’s expression is sympathetic as he takes the cup from me. I nod my appreciation and turn back to my mother just as she reaches out for my face. The little strength she’s mustered wavers, and I take her cool hand in mine, pressing it against my cheek.
“You’re still wearing your amulet,” she says, a calculating look on her face.
I blindly clasp the sun-shaped amulet resting against my chest. Its warmth radiates, as though the sun truly lives within, comforting me as always. “Of course.” My brows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Her smile turns woeful. “Because you’ve outgrown it.”
The necklace fits perfectly fine, but it’s not worth an argument, so I nod. “Alright, Mother. Shall I read you a passage from our favorite book?”
The skin around her eyes crinkles before the smile takes over her lips. “Of course, cariad.”
The term of endearment envelops me like a hug. I sink onto the bed beside her, our shoulders touching. I open the book somewhere in the middle, its weight shared across our laps. Stories about selkies, serpentine beasts that hide within our lochs, and the cunning Fair Folk fill the book’s pages. Every child grows up hearing about the will-o’-wisps that lead lost souls to their deaths—a warning to keep wee ones from wandering away from safety.
I’ve always been intrigued by banshees and, as a child, would so often imagine the keening that foretold the death of a loved one. Around the time of my brother’s death, I’d imagined seeing a dark, wraithlike creature wandering the halls of the castle.
It was perhaps how my young mind coped.
