The Prince or the Bard? (Season of the Fae: The High Court #1)

Chapter One

I t’s the honor of a lifetime to serve my distant cousin, the Queen of All Earthen Fae. Or so I'm frequently reminded.

What I want to say to those who remind me so is, "You tend to her every need during all two weeks of summer reveling at Connor Castle and see how well you like it." Which is exactly what I've got to look forward to when the night winds down. I doubt I'll have even a moment to myself, let alone one spent in celebration.

The earthen fae are whirling through the high court's ballroom, their bright clothes making them appear like blooming flowers in the wind as they dance wildly, praising the goddess of summer. For some reason, that praise involves copious amounts of drink and heaping platters of food.

It's not at all like how we revel in the Seaglass Court, and especially not in my little hometown of Diarmuid's Row. There, we light a bonfire at dawn, share a modest community meal, and from noon till midnight we don our púca forms. As water horses, we take to the waves, celebrating with the sea fae of the neighboring Moonray Court.

But here in the Connor Court, the earthen fae honor the goddess's bounty by using it all up in a fortnight.

Unless, of course, you're the queen's maid. In that case you're standing against the back wall, smelling roasted meat and eyeing the sheen of butter on the vegetables, or catching the tantalizing, sugary whiffs of sliced faerie fruit as yet another plate is brought to the table for the high king, high queen and other, lesser royals. Oh, and in case that wasn't enough, the king's brother won't stop turning around and making bleary eyes at you.

By you, I mean me. Laoise. Servant girl extraordinaire—and as miserable a púca as ever there was.

If Prince Ruairi thinks I'm worth looking at in my plain dress, with my hair tied back so tight it makes my head ache more than the usual, he should see me as a water horse. That’s when I feel most beautiful—and most myself.

Not that he'd care. Stupid earthen fae.

As a reel ends in a blur of spider silk and wings, I squeeze my knuckles a little tighter, my hands folded neatly before me as is proper. The loud music is bringing on one of my blinding headaches. Already, a white blur invades part of my vision, like seafoam dancing on the edge of a wave as it roars toward the shore. I try to blink it away to no avail.

Soon enough, it clouds my entire vision. So I don't notice when Prince Ruairi sidles up to me until it's too late.

"You again," he says, breathing a mixture of grain alcohol and faerie wine into my face. Sweat beads on his amber skin as I force myself not to wince. "Laoise, isn't it? What a pretty name. You're pretty, too."

Curses and bargains! As if the impending headache wasn't bad enough. Please, High Queen Fiadh, turn around. Say something to this lout.

Instead, I watch as her delicate fingers tent over her temple. The headache is coming on for her, too.

I wave off the stench of liquor as Prince Ruairi leans even closer, his green eyes as pale as marble. "It is a revel, you know," he says. "It's alright if you have a little fun. Maybe even smile."

"I'll smile when I have cause to," I snap. Sea goddess help me, I was meant to say that with my inside voice! This cursed headache is making me far too churlish with the prince. "I mean—I'm here to tend to the queen, not to celebrate."

Slowly, the corners of his loose smile drag down into a frown. "That's no life at all," he murmurs in my ear.

I shrug a shoulder up, as if I can deflect him, even as his words strike true. I'm surprised someone like him would even notice.

"I know what would make you smile," he says, a hint of teasing in his voice.

Before I can react, his lips are coming toward me. I shove him back. Hard.

The drunken prince tumbles into the back of the king's chair, solid as a throne, thankfully, so that His Royal Highness doesn't seem to notice.

But the revelers do.

They're pointing, many of them laughing, their hands slapping their knees as their cheeks, in colors ranging from ice to umber, darken with mirth at my expense. Far too many of their fingers are pointing at me.

My cheeks quickly redden to match theirs. I'm furious enough to walk out of here and never return. Why don't they laugh at Prince Ruairi instead?

And then, without warning, tears spring to my eyes. I'm supposed to be invisible up here. My only purpose is to support the high queen.

Becoming the butt of a joke isn't supporting High Queen Fiadh. I might not like my job, but I know how important the queen's image is—not for her sake, but for that of all púcaí. She is the first púca queen in three centuries of Connor rule over all earthen fae. How my royal cousin is perceived in a court full of High Fae matters.

So I hold back my tears, and try to look dignified, even if I can't raise my eyes to the jeering crowd. I must hold it in. I do it for the sake of all us low fae shifter folk.

Fine. And a little bit for High Queen Fiadh.

Then, in an instant, the roar of laughter turns to a sizzle of soft conversation, then murmurs of awe. My head snaps up, perplexed by the sudden change.

And then I see him.

Him .

The bard. The Connacht bard. His thin, handsome face tanned to a deep chestnut by life on the road, walking from town to town in and out of our realm with all his belongings on his back. I can't believe he's here! He hasn't opened his mouth yet—his lithesome body hasn't even reached the royal dais—but already I'm about to melt. The well-used four-stringed guitar in his hand matches the color of his flowing, auburn hair, the curls bouncing a little as he bows deeply to the royal family.

Cillian Cloudtongue is here.

His voice is legendary, like a taste of yellow sugar candy while your feet wade in a cold, calm ocean on a sweltering summer's day. Like lying on a bed of warm sand and seagrass. The last time I heard him—before he took his leave of faerie and traveled the human realm to learn their songs—I nearly swooned on the spot.

I. Can't. Believe. He's. Here.

I feel like a giddy little girl again.

Not only that, but everyone has completely forgotten that I just shoved a drunken prince who tried to kiss me. I doubt they'll even remember that incident now. Prince Ruairi himself has slid back into his chair, sweeping a misplaced swath of dark hair backwards as if nothing has happened at all.

"Your Majesties," Cillian says in his surprisingly soft speaking voice. I sway a little against the wall.

"Cillian called Cloudtongue," High King Tadhg says, inclining his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. The barrel-chested king leans back in his chair, his arm propped against the side. "Your presence at our revel pleases us. Will you play something to mark the occasion?"

"Of course, sir." Cillian's graceful form remains locked in a bow. "If you would grant me leave, sir, may I ask our High Queen Fiadh what she might favor for a first song?"

"Play something soft," the queen replies without waiting for the king to answer, still touching her temple. "Something beautiful that will soothe us."

I'm so close to the bard, I can see the places where the varnish has worn away below the strings on his guitar. I can even make out his doe-like dark lashes, fluttering so rarely I'd swear he has no more nerves than a stone. Even after my months of service to High Queen Fiadh, Cillian has a poise in front of the high king I'll never have.

"As Your Majesty commands." Cillian sweeps his arms wide, gathering the whole of the crowd with them. By the time he takes his place to the side of the royal dais, everyone is already rapt.

Cillian plays the first few notes, the strings singing so gently I could weep. Then he opens his mouth, and it's as if I'm transported.

I forget this position, my humiliation, and even the countless tedious tasks awaiting me later. There's only the bard and his voice, carrying me far from this castle.

He sings a song of the sea. And by the gods, I can almost hear the cry of the gulls and smell the salt in the air. I close my eyes and can practically count the prints of the plovers as they race along the black sand shore of home.

As I stand there, swaying, I press my heart to my breast, feeling and not just hearing his song. And I feel my poor, homesick heart heal just a little bit more before it breaks all over again.

I open my eyes to revelers weeping openly, many with hands on their chests like mine. The feel of the entire revel has changed. And in that moment, I'm certain.

Cillian Cloudtongue has more magic in him than any of the high court sorcerers and healers.

And I am hopelessly in love with him.