The High King had chosen force as a way to procure the princess’s vow. But Reyna Darragh did not seem the kind of fae to respond very favorably to force.
But finally, Reyna spoke, repeating the words that Tarrah had said. And then finished with, “But these promises are hereby revoked if you harm my sister.”
Tarrah swallowed hard and glanced sharply at the king, who swirled his wine, lips pursed. But then he smiled. “Such a fiery little thing you are for being born in the ice. I should make you repeat your promises, only this time, as you were instructed. But as I have no intention of harming your sister, I’ll leave it be. Thank you for your service, princess. You’re excused now. I have some other matters to attend to this evening, and they do not require your presence. Unless, of course, you would like to join me and my companions in my bedchamber.”
Eyes flashing, Reyna twisted on her heels without another word and headed straight toward the door, her long hair a whirlwind around her shoulders.
“I need to speak with you, Your Majesty,” Tarrah said quietly as Reyna stormed out of the room.
He jerked his attention away from the retreating princess and waved dismissively in Tarrah’s direction. Now that he had what he needed—his throne—he seemed far less interested in what Tarrah had to say. “Go on then. New vision, eh? I hope it involves a head on a spike, preferably the wood king’s ugly green head.”
Tarrah frowned. “Now that Reyna has made her vows, we should tell her the truth about her sister. The lies will only turn to dust in your mouth if you don’t.”
Bolg coughed out a laugh. “What and tell her that she’s not here? That she’s gone missing? That might be the worst counsel you have given me yet, Tarrah.”
“She would do better knowing the truth.”
“Do better at what?” He laughed again and waved at a nearby serving girl to refill his goblet. “At plotting ways to escape so that she can run to her sister? No, I think not. As long as she believes we have the girl, then she will do whatever we say.”
“She made vows that cannot be broken. The magic would kill her before she stepped foot outside this castle. If we told her the truth—that we are not in fact threatening her sister’s life—she might not view us as her ardent enemy.” That was the real truth of it. Tarrah had seen the hate churning in Reyna’s eyes. She’d made her vows, but she would forever hold a deep-seated grudge against the Shadow Court, and Tarrah could scarcely blame her.
When Tarrah had first been blessed with a vision of the ice princess, wielding her sword on a bloody battlefield, she had been full of hope. She’d imagined Prince Lorcan delivering her to the feet of the king, who spoke with ardent, poetic words, convincing her of their need to end the exile.
She had not imagined such trickery.
“Harrumph,” he said, smiling at the serving girl refilling his wine. She was a pretty thing with flowing brown locks and big blue eyes. He likely had plans to take her to bed. In fact, Tarrah doubted that he was paying much attention to her counsel at all. Not with a future conquest in his presence. “Reyna Darragh is more clever than you think. She will spend her nights dreaming up ways to kill me, ways to circumvent her vows. But if she believes her sister’s life will be forfeit if she makes a move against me, she is much less likely to follow through on those plans.”
Tarrah opened her mouth to argue, but then snapped it shut. She could see now that his mind would not be changed. He wished to keep up the charade, and his mind had already grown bored with the conversation. She should have known. He would never release a lie once he had committed to it. Because Eislyn Darragh was not the only false prisoner he had.
6
Thane
Three weeks past, the High King of the Air Court had rushed through the grasslands to escape an ambush from the shadow fae. His mind had run as fast as his legs, trying—and failing—to come to grips with the fact that his oldest friend had betrayed him.
Although, that was not entirely the case, he admitted to himself as he charged past the crumbling fortress to his left. Feurach Fortress, his family’s castle—what was left of it. Only moments before, the Ruin had poured from bulbous, sleet-grey clouds, along with blasts of icy snow. Thane had never seen anything quite like it before. It had looked like a swarm of black-and-white locusts had descended from the Court of Dead where their forsaken dead looked down on them and laughed.
It had been long believed that there was nothing more tragic than the death of a fae. Cursed, they were called. Cursed by mortality. Once, the lives of fae had seemed endless. A king could live three hundred years, or more, unless another took up arms against him. To then watch the light die in eyes that had witnessed hundreds of years…
But Thane was beginning to believe the dead were the lucky ones. The fallen, the ones left behind in these dying realms, they were the ones who were truly cursed. They would have to watch the world burn down, and it was a fire that none would survive.
Not even a High King. Especially not a High King.
Thane reached the docks that lined the shores of the Mag Mell Sea. Feurach Fortress had long been the home and training grounds of many of the realm’s warriors. As such, his uncle had kept the bulk of the warships in the cove just beyond the castle. Thane had visited often when he had been younger, and he had always gaped at the glistening golden ships and their billowing sails. The way the sunlight gleamed on the freshly-polished wooden decks. At the time, he had dreamt up glorious adventures where he was a ship’s captain, off on some grand adventure. Perhaps he would visit the human lands or even beyond. Perhaps he would even sail around the bottom tip of Tir Na Nog and press on to the Empire of Fomor.
As a boy, it had not mattered that no fae ever returned alive from Fomor. He would do it all the same. And survive.
The first fae to see Fomor and live to tell about it.
Now, he could think of nothing worse than sailing to a certain death.
He had slowed to a stop when he reached the docks. The warships were there, same as they always were, but their decks were eerily empty. Even from a distance, Thane should be able to see activity on board. There was always work to do. Cleaning the decks and repairing broken wood. Then, there were the drills. Warriors would clamber on board, and push off with speed, sailing to a position in the sea only provided moments before.
He’d heard footsteps behind him. With hope in his heart, he had whirled toward the sound, imagining that Lorcan had escaped the shadow fae and followed him to the sea. In that moment of hope, Thane had thought he might turn back toward the Air Court after all. If Lorcan had found him, he would not flee.
But it had not been Lorcan.
It had only been one of his uncle’s warriors, one he recognized from his time spent in Feurach Fortress as a boy.
“Oh, it’s you.” Thane had shook his head and sighed. “Apologies, Marlon. I thought you might be someone else. Are you all right?”
Marlon had swayed on his feet, and a thick layer of ash covered the top of his head. The Ruin, Thane had thought grimly. The warrior had clearly been inside the castle during the attack, and he’d likely hoped he could escaped. But none escaped the Ruin.
No one but Reyna Darragh.
“Here, let me help you.” Thane had reached out to clasp the warrior’s elbow, but Marlon’s knees buckled beneath him before he had a chance. The poor fae fell forward, landing heavily on his face. A bone crunched. Thane shut his eyes. The fae shuddered his last breath, and went still.