Bolg narrowed his eyes in her direction, but he did not say a thing. Interesting. So, he let Nollaig get away with things that would cause him to threaten others. Who was that strange shadow fae with her face always cloaked, hidden by a hood knit from darkness?
His father turned his attention back on Lorcan. “You may think whatever you wish, but it is the way of things, and I will not be insulted in my own damn throne room.”
It wasn’t much of a throne room, but Lorcan decided to keep that thought to himself. As much as he could stand there all day, hurling insults at his cruel father, he needed to get out of Olc Fortress alive. His village needed him. And he did not doubt that his own father would slit his throat if Lorcan pushed things too far. He wouldn’t be the first bastard son that Bolg Rothach had killed. There had been others.
“I do not wish to become the Prince of the Shadow Court.Father,” Lorcan said in a carefully-controlled tone.
Bolg let out a long chuckle that rumbled from his wide chest. “You don’t have much of a choice, I’m afraid. Son.”
“Why?” Lorcan asked, shaking his head. “You’ve never shown an ounce of interest in me before. And like you said, you have at least a dozen sons.”If not more.
“I have no legitimate sons,” Bolg said, as if that explained things.
That never seemed to bother you before.
“So, marry. You’ll have your precious legitimized son within a year.”
Bolg sneered. “That is far too long. Things are changing. I need a son. A loyal one. And I need him now.” The king turned to Segonax, who had done nothing more than stand quietly beside Lorcan, like an ever-present shadow, until now. The commander edged closer to him, a feather quill in his gloved hands.
“What’s this?” Lorcan frowned. “You cannot make me do a thing I have not agreed to do! I’m not going to be your prince. Find someone else!”
“It will be you,” Bolg said. “Nollaig.”
The cloaked female shifted on her feet. “The king would like me to tell you that we have been commanded to destroy your village, and slaughter every fae within it, if you do not agree to take this mark.”
“What mark?” Lorcan asked, fury rising within him. He should have known his father would threaten his village—again—to force Lorcan into doing whatever he commanded. It shot a familiar pang of fear through his gut. The very same fear he’d had when he’d stumbled home to Beltane all those years ago, to find everyone he knew and loved dead.
Segonax held up a quill. “It’s just a little mark. Much like a tattoo. It will identify you as our prince.”
Lorcan took a step back but found a wall of shadow fae warriors behind him. He whirled toward his father, fire raging in his eyes. His words came out a strangled hiss. “You cannot force me to do this. I’m an air fae. I will not become your legitimized son.”
“Nollaig,” the king said in a bored tone of voice. “Prepare the troops to return to Tir Na Nog, where they will slaughter those villagers. Make it hasty. I have more important things on my agenda once this is done.”
Lorcan roared, his fisted hands shaking by his sides. “For the love of the Dagda, I will take your bloody, cursed mark. I will be your prince. I will do whatever you want. Just leave them alone. Leave them alone.” His voice broke. “Please. Leave them be.”
The words had rushed from his body like a tornado of torment and pain. His lungs shuddered with belabored breaths, and his entire body slumped forward in defeat. Lorcan’s father had found the only thing that would have forced him to agree to the mark.
It was a death sentence for his soul, he knew. Whatever came next would be a terrible fate in the end.
Segonax pressed the quill to Lorcan’s arm and dug the ink into his skin.
4
“You show promise, but you’re raw,” Segonax said as he circled Lorcan in the courtyard, a crimson light glowing in the misty skies above them. The heat of the midday sun was amplified by the black stone walls that towered all around them. “Your movements are a little wild as if they’re fuelled by emotion rather than the steadiness of steel.”
Lorcan frowned at the commander. Today, Segonax wore simple fighting leathers, painted black. He held a long sword crafted from shadowsteel, a twin to the one he’d given Lorcan. Segonax was a strong and silent type, Lorcan had quickly learned. He rarely showed anything other than an intense dedication to duty. Inwardly, Lorcan could not help but wonder what would happen if he cleaved his father’s closest advisor in two.
But he knew the answer to that. The king would send warriors to murder every last fae in Comharra.
“What is fighting if not the ultimate demonstration of emotion?” Lorcan asked. “For love and honor. For protecting those who cannot protect themselves. For vengeance.”
Segonax shook his head. “Vengeance, love, and honor are understandable emotions, but you cannot let that fuel you when you fight. You must harden yourself and focus on the task at hand. Otherwise, the enemy can easily find weaknesses to exploit.”
“Love is not a weakness,” Lorcan said quickly.
“It is if it gets you killed.”
“Then, you know nothing of love.”
