Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
“After you, ladies.”
Lachlan hauls open the heavy stone door for Vesper and me, the pommel of his sword winking over his shoulder like a guiding star.
Despite my candidacy and Aowen’s noble heritage, none of the courtiers she tried to introduce me to today paid us a lick of attention.
Which means I have no more hint of where the next fragment may be than I did when I arrived yesterday.
Which makes searching the áine family crypt as good a place as any to start.
Lachlan hovers a hand at my lower back, ushering me through the crypt’s gaping maw. Before he enters, he pulls a drop of starlight into his palm to provide illumination in the tunnels.
The door booms shut, and Vesper’s trembling with so much excitement on my shoulder that her buzzing wings are knotting my curls.
When she overheard me mention our destination to Aowen, she insisted on joining.
Couldn’t resist the temptation of being deep underground where the dead things are buried.
I make a mental note to keep close watch on her, lest she steal a femur from an ancestral áine and spark an inter-territorial incident.
“Well,” Lachlan says, the light at his waist pooling shadows in the hollows beneath his sharp cheekbones, “where should we start?”
We’re standing in a low-ceilinged foyer of sorts, from which branch four tunnels. Through their arched openings, I spy ghostly parts of statues, severed limbs floating in the darkness.
I shiver, tracing my thumb along the ring. It’s ice cold, none of that flaring warmth it sometimes offers.
Is it giving any hint of which way to go? Lachlan asks, using the diamrhán because … well, I’m not sure. Maybe he doesn’t want the dead to overhear us.
Nothing. I shiver again, which encourages Lachlan to stop hovering and actually place his hand on my lower back. When the heat of his palm warms my skin through my shirt, I’m shivering for a different reason.
“This way, then.” He nudges me toward the tunnel in front of us. “Might as well start at the beginning.”
As we pick our way through the crypt, I become certain of two things.
First, the duke’s Bannrhorn fragment is not here.
And second, no family in the history of the Otherworld was as prolific as the áines.
We’re halfway down the third tunnel and have already passed at least two hundred dearly departed relatives.
Their likenesses grace their final resting places, though not everyone has been granted a statue; some only have friezes on the lids of their sarcophagi.
There’s a distinct pattern to who gets which kind of immortal memorial.
All the men have statues. Of the women, I’ve seen only three. Out of two hundred.
I am annoyed, but not surprised. And I can practically hear Granny Maggie grumble something about the fragility of the male ego.
“Still nothing?” Lachlan whispers, the stardrop bobbing in his palm.
Chittering echoes from far behind us, followed by the insectile hum of wings. Vesper abandoned us about twenty tombs ago, but in her way, she’s letting me know she’s still here.
“Nothing,” I answer Lachlan, dejected. I suppose it was foolish to think that finding the other fragments would be as easy as finding Desmond’s. I twirl the cool metal around my finger. “If anything, the ring’s getting colder.”
I pause in front of the next tomb, whose statue is the only one I’ve seen depicting two people. Even rarer, they are both women.
The shorter must be a knight, in full dress armour similar to what Lachlan sometimes wears.
She’s mid-snarl, terrifying, and the tip of her broadsword menaces the viewer at face-level.
Like she’d run you through if you so much as looked wrong at the tall woman delicately clinging to her shoulder.
And though the tall woman’s grip is light, her face is imperious. Commanding.
Quite the departure from the bland, stately representations of the men I’ve been glaring at all evening.
The fierce protectiveness of the pose, not to mention the possessive curl of the tall woman’s fingers on her lady-knight’s pauldron, suggests the two women may have been in love with one another.
“Alanthe áine and Sir Melloway, her secret lover and chief executioner.” Lachlan ambles up behind me. “Together, they were known as the Scourge of Tír na Lune.”
“That sounds like a story I need to hear.”
“It’s a thrilling one. With an appropriately tragic ending.
Alanthe wanted to be the first faerie queen of the celestial Otherworld.
Didn’t understand why only dukes were allowed to hunt the human quarries and win the crown.
She was an only child, but since she was a woman, the áine dukeship was going to pass to a male cousin while her father married her off to the son of one of the other Houses. She persuaded him to reconsider.”
“How?”
“By sneaking Sir Melloway and a handful of her loyal knights into the castle during the Samhain feast and slaughtering everyone in attendance. Her father included.”
I cluck my tongue. “Love an ambitious woman.”
Lachlan snickers. “She declared herself Queen of Tír na Lune—a title which had never before and has never since existed—and held the castle for several months against a siege from the other territories.”
I study the two fierce women, wishing to possess even a tenth the conviction and courage such a feat must have required.
“The celestial kingdom would look very different today had she succeeded,” Lachlan says quietly.
“Why didn’t she?”
“Sir Melloway was badly wounded during an attack, and there were no healers within the castle capable of saving her. Alanthe surrendered in order to save her lady love.”
“And was she saved?”
“For a short time.” The tightness in Lachlan’s voice makes me dread hearing the rest. “They healed Sir Melloway. Then publicly executed both women for treason. Her cousin carried out the sentence before he took control of House áine.”
“This was how many generations back?”
“Her cousin was the current duke’s father.”
Anger shortens my breath, stings my eyes. “So, she was branded a traitor because she defied her family’s expectations?”
“Well, she did murder an awful lot of people.”
“Still,” I murmur. “I think she was brave.”
“Yes. And unremorseful. Probably why she was cut down so spectacularly.”
“Brave women often are as soon as they refuse to do what they’re told.” I look up at him with fire in my eyes. “It’s much the same as in my world.”
There’s something both thrilling and unsettling in the way he’s staring at me. Especially with all this talk about loving fiercely and getting cut down for it.
I turn away, my boots scuffing the dusty floor as I move deeper into the tunnel. “Have you ever been in love like that?”
“I … ” Lachlan hesitates, remaining silent for long seconds.
Have I pried too deep? Asked too personal a question? He seemed righteously angry while recounting Alanthe’s story. As if he sympathized with her.
Is that why he wants to leave Desmond’s service? Did he break his vow of chivalry and fall in love with a faerie woman? Someone for whom he wants to leave the knighthood?
My chest pinches at the thought. Which is highly ridiculous. Lachlan and I are merely friends. More like partners, I suppose. Why should I care who he’s in love with?
“It’s alright,” I offer when he doesn’t continue. “Another nosy question. I’m afraid I cannot help myself.”
He jogs after me, then slows to hold pace. “No. I’ve not been in love like that yet. I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love at all.”
“Oh.” The word contains every strange emotion pinwheeling through me, of which the chief and most dangerous is relief. “Why?”
“Well, despite these outrageous lips”—he smiles down at me, putting those particular weapons on lethal display—“loving a celestial knight would not be a kind burden to put on anyone.”
I have no doubt there are scores of people in this kingdom who would disagree with him. Who might even shred each other to bits for the chance to be burdened by a love affair with Sir Lachlan Cathal. Hell, I might even sharpen my own claws for the opportunity.
“What about you?” he asks. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Thousands of times.”
A cocked eyebrow. “Thousands?”
“Of course. With every meal I’ve ever eaten, several rollicking book series, a naughty boomslang named Esmeralda, numerous pieces of art, and—”
“I thought we were speaking of romantic love.”
“Oh, Sir Cathal.” I bat my lashes at him. “Have you never felt the urge to run away with a toffee pudding? What a dull, flavourless life you must lead.”
He huffs a little laugh, but his voice is serious when he says, “You don’t have to do that with me, you know.”
“What?”
“Deflect with quips. What was it you said to me? That you like to know the truth of things? Well, I want to know the truth of you. Even the ugly bits.”
I tuck a curl behind my ear, feeling a little too seen.
And maybe it’s the quiet of this dark crypt, this cold ring on my finger, the knowledge that even if I do survive this and complete the great reinvention of Miss Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy, I will be marrying a stranger.
It might be nice to be known by someone in the meantime. Someone who’s as invested in my success as I am, but for his own selfish reasons.
I blow out a long breath as I pause before the final tomb in this tunnel. “I was in love. Once.”
“Was?” Lachlan asks softly. “What happened?”
My shoulder tips up. “He wasn’t.”
The simple answer belies the ache lodged beneath my ribs. Though it’s growing fainter with each passing day in the Otherworld.
Lachlan’s lips part, but before he can get a word out, a sound like metal scraping stone cuts the silence.
Lachlan transforms before my eyes. His brows flatten and his jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck going taut. A predator with perfectly honed senses. My pulse kicks up at the sight of him. At the danger of the situation, of course. Only that.