The trees outside my bridal chamber—where I was deposited this morning by a priestess—glow golden in the sinking sun. I am supposed to be using my time before the opening sacrament to meditate, pray to Danu, the Eternal Mother, make peace with my mortality before giving myself to my husband.
There are many things I should make peace with, but that is not one of them.
As soon as Sabre proposed and the ring summoned us back to Tír na Dubh, Lachlan handed me over to Aowen with a soft, “Take care of her,” before bowing and taking his leave. I didn’t even say goodbye, could barely watch as he and Tula chargedaway from the estate. As I turned from the window, a sharp pain stabbed the base of my skull, like I’d been skewered with a knitting needle. It throbbed for a moment, and then…
Nothing.
Lachlan had dissolved thediamrhán. As I’d requested.
I wanted to scream. Wanted to rend my garments. Wanted to beg the gods from every world to deliver me a miracle to fix this, one that would make Desmond king without me.
I’ve been in that raw, exposed nerve state ever since. While I was led to this chamber. While I was stripped of my traveling clothes. While I was bathed, scrubbed, and perfumed in oils meant to enhance my natural pheromones, provide the dukes and their beasts a scent to track.
The priestesses are now arranging my hair into a braided crown, studding it with white camellia flowers. A symbol of my innocence and purity. I nearly laugh in their faces, despite my mental state. They wrap me in white silk—more a length of fabric than a proper gown; easier for my king to tear away—then pin it closed at my shoulders and hip before sliding gold slippers onto my feet.
They ask me if I’d like to look in the mirror, to assess their handiwork, but I don’t need to. I know what costume I’m wearing—a virgin ripe for the claiming. A vessel from which my husband will drink his power.
Another priestess opens the chamber door. “It is time, Your Majesty.”
The title—which they’ve used since I arrived—fills me with nothing but dread as we spiral down stone stairs into the nave. A small crowd has gathered. Timothy Hopnell, his hands tied in his lap, is seated in the back row next to a celestial knight, and I recognize a few courtiers from House Macán and House Áine.
Two acolytes run their fingers along the rims of bronze bowls, beginning my processional—a series of deep, low notes that pulse like the heartbeat of the Otherworld itself.
The crowd quiets, every head turning to me as I pad behind a priestess scattering camellia petals.
The head priestess, covered head-to-toe in robes so dark green they appear black and wearing a smooth gold face mask, waits on the altar surrounded by my three suitors and their seconds.
Torvil is on the far left, his silver hair gleaming against his charcoal and purple hunting gear. He glances down to my wrist, then smiles when he sees I’m wearing the bracelet he gave me. Standing beside him is a celestial knight whom I don’t recognize, decked out in silver armour. He’s heavily armed with a birchwood bow strapped to his back.
Why do they have weapons? They’re supposed to find me and claim me, not kill me, so?—
Fear cramps my belly. They’re for each other. Weapons to kill the other dukes.
I shift my gaze to Sabre, a gathering storm in all black with those two curved daggers at his hips. He’s not looking at me or his second, a bulky knight in a necrowolf helmet. His attention is anchored to a woman seated in the front row whose night-dark hair I’d recognize even if Sabre weren’t staring at her.
Aowen.
Seeing her in the flesh gives me the courage to study the final pair on the altar.
Desmond is elegant in maroon and midnight blue. Strapped to his back is a broadsword with a seven-pointed star on the pommel, familiar. He looks regal; the idealized notion of a benevolent faerie king.
I force myself to meet Lachlan’s gaze—which I felt upon me the moment I entered the nave—and his sad, soft smile hurts more than if I’d found anger or jealousy there.
He’s resplendent. In his gleaming white armour, every falling sunbeam in the sanctuary is inexorably drawn toward him. Or maybe that’s just my perception.
I bite my tongue so hard to stop tears that I draw blood. I swallow the coppery tang as my interminable procession ends. The priestess has overturned the basket of camellia petals, a makeshift rug for me to kneel upon at the feet of my suitors.
“Gathered hunters,” the head priestess intones, her voice clear as a bell beneath her mask, “we wish you luck on the cusp of your pursuit. May Danu guide you to victory.” She sings something in the fae language, and my ring heats. All three symbols throb faintly as she turns to me. “Majesty, as your hunters are allowed seconds, you may choose a companion to assist you during the campaign.”
“I choose Lady Aowen Macán, Your Benevolence.”
“Impossible,” Torvil spits. “She’s the sister of one of the hunters! She’ll put the rest of us at a disadvantage.”
The priestess cants her head. “Are you sure, child? It is an unorthodox choice. Queen Caer’s companion had no tie to any of the great Houses.”
I lift my chin. “I am sure.”
She turns to the dukes. “Your Graces? Do you approve?”
