Chapter 51
Chapter
Fifty-One
The Sanctuary of the Eternal Mother is carved into a peak of the Brumalt mountains and overlooks the Eldergrove, the sacred forest where the Wild Hunt will take place.
The sanctuary, the mountains, and the forest abound with ancient magic, like the source of all power in the celestial Otherworld flows within the stone and roots and soil.
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 charged away 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 the diamrhán. 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?”
“Of course not!” Torvil grinds his teeth.
Desmond offers an easy yes, while Sabre remains silent, concern and a question in his dark eyes as he stares at Aowen.
I don’t think he wants her in any kind of danger.
And I don’t need to see her face to imagine her expression right now.
Brave. Determined. A hint of Sabre, if you don’t agree to this, I’ll tear your balls off.
He smirks—I must be imagining correctly—and barks out, “Approved.”
Torvil blows a sharp breath through his nose, fists clenched at his sides, but, having been outvoted, poses no further objections.
“Wonderful.” The head priestess summons Aowen. “Lady Macán, please take your place by your queen’s side.”
Aowen rustles up to kneel beside me, a long braid draped down her back over a thick, crimson cloak.
She grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers and pressing our palms together.
As if she can will strength and power into me with the force of her affection alone.
I clutch her hand tighter to let her know it’s working.
“It is time for the assembly of the Bannrhorn,” the head priestess says. “Acolytes, if you please?”
Three young fae women in fawn-colored robes rise from the pews, each carrying a box.
I did that. I found all three fragments. Pride buoys my head momentarily above water, even as facing the consequences of my success drowns me once more.
The acolytes bow before each duke, then open the boxes to offer each his piece of the horn. The head priestess floats over to a stone font carved with the celestial symbols; a faint shimmer rises above the rim.
“Duke Torvil áine of Tír na Lune,” she intones, “do you agree to hunt this quarry and bear the responsibility of kingship should you claim her?”
“I do.” Torvil smirks before settling his fragment into the font.
The head priestess nods, then turns to Sabre. “Duke Sabre Cernunnos of Tír na Dubh, do you agree to hunt this quarry and bear the responsibility of kingship should you claim her?”
“I do,” Sabre growls as he tosses his fragment in.
“Duke Desmond Macán of Tír na Strelle, do you agree to hunt this quarry and bear the responsibility of kingship should you claim her?”
“I will.” Desmond’s vow echoes through the nave as he settles the final fragment with the others.
There’s a harsh flare of light, so bright I’m forced to shield my eyes. The priestess bends over the rim and pulls out the restored Bannrhorn. Given the size of the fragments, it’s much larger than I anticipated; the bell falls well below her knees.
She steps to the front of the altar. “Then by the grace of Danu, our Eternal Mother, let the Wild Hunt commence.”
The sun outside winks out, and she blows the horn. Three long, resonant blasts that shake the foundation of the sanctuary.
With each note, the seed of novillum within me stirs. It pulses outward from the base of my throat, a balmy, flourishing warmth that soaks into my skin, my muscles, my veins, my bones. I am still human, but there’s new strength in my body. New power. I can feel it.
As the final horn blast fades, Aowen grips my hand tighter, and we disappear in a burst of shimmering, golden light.