Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Iemit a small, choked laugh, then look to Sir Cathal again.
This time, he’s staring straight at me, pinning me to my chair like a moth in a shadow box. I suspect he has a plan for whichever way I react.
I would hunt you down. And return you.
My mind stumbles over his promise before landing on the least discombobulating piece of Desmond’s information.
I am in the Otherworld, the mythical home of the Fae. Faeries. They’re real. Or so the solid metal chair beneath me, the warm cup heating my fingers, and these two very real faerie men would have me believe.
Either that or heartbreak has driven me mad, tempting me with dreams of a title and a proposal. I realize with a jolt that this is the first I’ve thought about George in hours. How pleasant.
I take another bolstering sip of coffee, banishing him from my mind. “Does the Otherworld not already have a queen, Your Grace?”
“The greater Otherworld has several. But here in the celestial kingdom, we’ve been without one for quite some time. And it’s Des, remember?” His sly wink makes my pulse skitter.
“How much time?”
“To your human perception? Nearly fifty years. Feels like a bit less on this side.”
“What does that—”
“Lesson number one, Charlotte.” Desmond sighs dramatically, picking at his shirt cuff. “If you want useful answers, you must ask useful questions.”
I pluck a cherry scone from the basket between us, then slather it with butter, buying myself some time to think of a useful question.
“Why has the celestial kingdom been without a queen for…?” I trail off, hoping he might supply the rest.
Desmond leans back, contented. “This is the seventh year since Queen Caer’s passing. She died in the same breath as her husband, King Aengus, to whom her human life was bound when they married.”
I run a quick calculation—a year in the Otherworld is equivalent to seven years in the human realm, or thereabouts. “And why has no one succeeded them? Did they have no children?”
“Our monarchy is not built upon primogeniture. And anyway, a human and a faerie cannot produce a child together. We have a different system for selecting our rulers.”
“I see,” I mutter, not really seeing at all. “So I am to be queen, and you will be my king.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? Are you rescinding your proposal already, Your Grace?”
He snorts a laugh. “You’re witty, darling.
Keep that up. No, I say perhaps because I will not be your sole suitor, as much as I’d wish to be.
Your king will hail from one of the three celestial territories: either myself, Duke of Tír na Strelle, Land of the Stars; Duke áine of Tír na Lune, Land of the Moon; or Duke Cernunnos of Tír na Dubh, Land of the Void.
” The mood on the veranda chills at the final name.
“Whichever duke wins you will also win the crown.”
“Wins me? Is there to be a campaign for my heart?” I bite my lip to cage a smile, excitement zipping down my spine. Men vying for my affection? What a welcome turn of events.
Desmond’s cruel laugh snuffs out my burgeoning enthusiasm. “No, nothing like that. You won’t have a choice in the matter. We will be hunting you.”
I swallow a lump of dry scone. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“That ring upon your finger belonged to Queen Caer and every mortal queen before her. When she and her husband passed, the ring returned to his house. My house. It is my responsibility to find a suitable candidate for our next queen, a task at which I’ve failed for the past seven years.
I send the ring off into the human realm and once a woman puts it on, she accepts a proposal from the Otherworld itself.
She, in this case, being you. You are now betrothed to the celestial kingdom, and a seed of novillum, light from the first star ever born in our sky, lives within you. ”
I glance down at my fingers, my chest, my thighs. I feel nothing but ordinary. My usual over-thinking self. Not a new twinge or tingle anywhere.
“Your task is this: find and re-assemble the pieces of the Bannrhorn, a relic of our gods that initiates the Wild Hunt. You will have nearly three months to do so, from now until dusk on Mabon, the autumnal equinox. Once the Hunt commences, you will be the quarry, Miss Fitzroy. The kingmaker. One duke will claim you—and the seed of novillum within you—and our monarchy will at last be restored.”
“Claim me?”
“Oh, darling,” he purrs. “Please don’t tell me I need to explain those mechanics.”
Right. Well. That zippy excitement dulls with each new layer of information. “This Bannrhorn. How I am supposed to … How will I know where to find the pieces?”
Desmond picks apart a flaky pastry, popping chunks in his mouth, unaware of or unbothered by my agitation. I look toward Sir Cathal again. Still staring at me. But this time, something softens the hard lines of his face. It almost looks like sympathy. Or … regret?
Desmond brushes the crumbs from his hands. “The novillum will assist you. And each duke will offer a clue that may guide you to the fragment’s location within his territory.”
“Come now,” I croon, leaning across the table to stroke the back of his palm. “You can’t just tell me?”
“Sweet thing.” He smiles, then plucks up my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“Trust me, I would if I could. As soon as I hid my fragment and composed the clue, a geas was placed upon me. I am forbidden from revealing the location to anyone. And if I try to use trickery—say, writing it down or providing additional clues or accompanying you on your search, well … ” He slides a finger across his throat and makes a frog-like croak.
“My quest for the kingship would end before it’s even begun.
The geas will only allow me to recite my clue to you, nothing more. ”
I nod, trying to wrap my head around all this … frippery. What an absurd method of choosing sovereigns.
Although, upon further reflection, is our human system much better? Is a son born of a king always the best choice to lead a people? A question to ponder another day.
“Let’s hear it then,” I say, ready to note the clue and reaching for the pencil behind my ear. Of course, there’s not one there. And I don’t have my sketchbook either. I feel more naked than when I realized I’d lost my dressing gown.
Desmond clears his throat and his ice-blue eyes go glassy. An unrecognizable monotone plods from his mouth, stripped of his playful flirtation.
“The swan lands in a pond turned to stone.”
I blink at the short string of nonsense masquerading as a clue. “That’s it?”
Desmond’s eyes brighten and he rubs his forehead. “Did you get it? I’ll say it again if you’d like, but give me a moment to recover. The recitations give me an awful headache.”
“No, I got it, thank you. Very helpful.” I force myself to smile. “When will I meet the other dukes?”
“Tomorrow,” Desmond says cheerfully. “At the presentation ceremony. If they approve of you, they’ll invite you to their territories where they will share their clues. I don’t see any reason they won’t. You have something no other candidate possessed.”
“And that is?”
Desmond’s brows pinch, as if the answer should be obvious. “You were named Favourite. A woman with enough grace, sophistication, and wit to charm a king in the human realm. Faerie men are not so different.”
I survey both him and Sir Cathal—their wild beauty, their pointed ears, the undercurrent of power crackling through them.
A different breed entirely.
“How many candidates have there been?”
“Six.”
“And how many have gained invites to the other territories?”
“Well, it’s not … that is to say, we’ve … It’s quite a bit more complicated than—”
“Tell her the truth,” Sir Cathal says without looking at me.
Desmond mumbles something under his breath, then says to me, “Only the first.”
Only one in six women gained the approval of the other dukes? I don’t have a chance. I’ll be home by nightfall tomorrow. I hide a smile behind my coffee cup.
But there’s a trace of disappointment mingling with my relief. Though I’m doubtful of my abilities to decipher clues, comb enchanted lands for shattered instruments, charm powerful faerie dukes, a question lurks in the cobwebbed corners of my once hopeful heart.
Might it be worth the risk?
I am surprised to encounter the query, especially after years and years of rejection. Not to mention the very fresh, very painful one that landed me in this mess in the first place.
Still, the thought of wearing a crown, of being wed to a faerie king, for goodness sake … I cannot deny it is an alluring fate. A complete reinvention.
I blow out a resigned sigh. It may be alluring, but it is also quite impossible.
“Well”—I rise from my chair—“I will certainly do my best at tomorrow’s ceremony, Your Grace. If, for whatever reason, the dukes see fit to deny me, please know that I will be forever grateful for your hospitality and will think of you fondly when I return home.”
Sir Cathal is glaring at Desmond, who’s dragging a palm over the back of his neck.
“I apologize if I’ve given you the wrong impression, Miss Fitzroy.
Your life is now tied to the Otherworld through that ring.
If you do not find all three Bannrhorn fragments and initiate the Hunt before dusk on Mabon, the ring will fall off.
“And you will die.”