His mother was dead.
2
Ten Years Later
Lorcan sat in the village hall, staring down at his meagre plate. For this year’s Beltane feast, he’d managed to rustle up a single loaf of bread, and he’d traded their leftover wheat for some potatoes from a nearby village. A small roast duck was the only meat on offer, and between twelve it wouldn’t go far.
It was the best Beltane feast they’d had in years.
“May the Dadga be merciful on us this night,” Cadman muttered wearily as he stood at the head of the table, carving the duck. Lorcan lifted his chin, giving the old fae a grim smile. Their eyes caught, and memories of that night passed between them like battle scars that had never fully healed.
Only a handful of villagers had survived the attack, Cadman being one of them. He had chased young Lorcan to the cottages and found him screaming on the floor, drenched in his mother’s blood. Lorcan could barely remember the rest of the night after that. He knew he’d refused to flee to the sea, even when Cadman had begged. In the end, the old male had stayed behind to protect him.
Ten years, Lorcan thought. Ten years, and nothing had improved. Half of the survivors had up and left, fearful that their village would come under attack again. No one else had seen the Fomorians. They did not realize what had destroyed Comharra and that there was nothing to fear anymore. The Fomorians had already burned this godforsaken place. They had no reason to strike again.
Now, Comharra was no longer the bustling market that it had once been. Selma had died in the attack, and no one had wanted to bake bread ever since. Jeffrey had survived and still sold his blades, but he scared off his potential customers most of the time. Regardless, most fae did not dare step foot anywhere near the place. It was cursed, they said. Lorcan couldn’t argue with that.
The fae of Comharra had never fully recovered. The stench of death was impossible to wash away.
A fork clattered onto a plate. Lorcan glanced up from his meal to find Aoiffe shivering in her chair, her long grey hair hanging like a curtain around her frail face. She hadn’t eaten a bite of her food. “It feels wrong feasting like this. Celebrating. Have you all really forgotten how they died?”
Lorcan ground his teeth. “Not a single one of us has forgotten.”
Ten years, and the pain was as fresh as a loaf of poor Selma’s newly-baked bread.
“Beltane is to remember them,” Cadman said gravely.
“For us,” she countered, furrowing her brows. “But what of the rest of the realm? They’re all laughing and drinking and revelling the hours away. They don’t care what happened here. The royal family, they never even came.” She let out a bitter laugh and gestured at the table. “Look at our feast. It’s a mockery of of us all.”
Lorcan let out a heavy sigh. He could not say that he had not thought these very things, but now was not the time to air grievances. Now was the time to honor the memories of the dead. His mother had always believed in Beltane, in the promise it brought to the rest of the year. She would be watching them, from her place inside the Court of Death. He did not want to let her down.
“We can discuss your disappointment in the crown on the morrow,” Lorcan said, raising his chalice. They had managed to save some bottles of wine from the stores beneath the tavern. Every Beltane, they opened one to share. They had fourteen left. “For now, let us drink to the souls we have lost. All one hundred and forty-seven of them.”
“Hear, hear.” Cadman raised his glass. Aoiffe scowled, but she joined in as well.
The door flew open. In strode two strangers. A male donned in head-to-toe grey scale armor, and a female hidden beneath a thick black cloak. They both carried swords that glinted with dread with ebony hilts of twisting antlers. Lorcan frowned at the trespassers. He knew who they were. He’d pictured them a thousand times in his dreams. For many years now, he had known that someday they would come for him.
They were shadow fae.
Lorcan ought to know. He was a shadow fae himself, bastard to the current king. But no one knew that. No one except his mother, and she was dead.
Cadman stood suddenly, his chair clattering onto the timber floor. He reached for his sword, but the shadow fae male slammed his own onto the table before Cadman could wrap his wrinkled fingers around his hilt.
“Who are you?” What are you doing here?” Cadman demanded, face blanching.
“We’re looking for a male named Lorcan.” The male stepped in front, clearly demonstrating his leadership among the two. He was tall and slim with ebony skin. His gaze landed on Lorcan. “That would be you.”
Lorcan bristled. He knew he stood out amidst the air fae. Every single one of the twelve had a shade of golden in their hair. Their skin was pale, and their eyes the color of wheat or grass. Not ideal for blending in with the shadows.
“I am.” Lorcan stayed seated. “What do you want with me?”
“We’re here to take you to the king.” The male smiled. “To your father, bastard.”
Several gasps peppered the air, and Lorcan winced. He had never wanted his friends to discover the truth about his heritage. They would never again see him as they once did. He would forever be an outsider, an enemy. Shadow fae were feared and hated in Tir Na Nog. And he did not blame them. Many of them had turned to Unseelie, the god of chaos and death whose magic twisted minds and consumed souls.
He cast a glance at Cadman, bracing himself for the look of derision on his face. But the old male merely gave a knowing nod. Lorcan lifted his brows. Had he known all this time?
Bolstered, Lorcan crossed his arms over his chest, rooting his feet firmly in familiar ground. “You can tell my father that I have no desire to answer his summons. I may be his son, but I was bornhere. In Comharra, in the air fae lands. This is my home. Not some dreary castle in the exiled lands.”
