Chapter Six
I wail uncontrollably into a steeping pot of tea while the stunned cooks and kitchen staff try not to notice. For the entire time the tea leaves, lemongrass and chopped ginger float in the metal sphere, I weep without shame. At last, somebody offers me a kerchief.
I blow my nose noisily.
I have been crying like this for three days.
After four months of bliss with sweet Cillian Cloudtongue, he leaves the high court and me with it, giving no notice but a letter. A letter. As if he doesn’t know the way to my bed chamber by now.
He could've told me to my face. I would’ve understood.
In truth, I wouldn’t have. Why would he leave the patronage of the high queen to go play for humans ? Why does he love the humans more than he loves me?
I sob all the more miserably as I strain the leaves from the pot, heaving them into a bucket for refuse with far more force than is necessary.
My dearest shooting star , his letter said, I must away to learn more songs for the pleasure of this court. It is my duty to entertain, and I cannot remain here with you while playing the same songs night after night. A royal audience requires something new. I will be thinking of you often in my travels.
That unconscionable ass! Worse still is that the ink has run on his letter from being so thoroughly stained by my tears.
As I carry the tray through the hall, I pause by the mirror. The act is almost routine now. I wipe at my eyes, tuck any loose hairs behind my ears, and force a pleasant expression onto my face before entering my royal cousin's quarters.
What I do not expect is for another face to appear in the mirror. Prince Ruairí looms above my reflection.
The teapot and cup rattle on the tray as I whirl.
“Sauntering sea stars, you startled me!” I exclaim, suddenly conscious of my blotchy countenance and the tear streaks that I cannot quite wipe away. My eyes widen as I realize too late what I’ve said. “Your Highness, please forgive my outburst.”
“There's nothing to forgive, Queen’s Maid Laoise. It’s I who am sorry.” Prince Ruairí offers me a completely unnecessary bow, causing my face to redden even further. “It seems I’m always doing just the wrong thing around you. I merely meant to offer you comfort, as you seemed so distressed.”
“You can tell?” Silently, I curse myself. Of course he can tell. If it weren’t for High Queen Fiadh’s raging headache, she’d surely have noticed my recent demeanor, too.
Perhaps she already has.
“Forgive me,” the prince apologizes again. “I know the matter is delicate, but I wanted to say that, well, if your distress is caused by, or should I say, is an effect of, your, erm—”
Oh, just say it already. “Our most wondrous bard’s departure,” I say bitterly, “so that he may learn more songs from the humans, with which to entertain the court. Which evidently matters more than I do.”
Goddess help me, something in me must’ve snapped to say that last bit aloud.
“Yes, that.” Prince Ruairí's cheeks turn red. “I understand those that are drawn to performing have a certain, well—almost an addiction to it.”
Lovely. Just lovely. So Cillian truly does love performing and songs more than he cares for me. My eyes burn as more tears threaten to overflow.
“I’ve said the wrong thing again.” Prince Ruairí draws back. “Forgive me, Queen's Maid Laoise. I only wished to offer you my sincerest apologies for the current circumstances.”
“Your apology is generous but unnecessary, sir." The teapot rattles a little as a hard sigh racks me. "It’s not as though he left on your behest.”
In response, a shadow of emotion flickers across Prince Ruairí's brow. What was that ?
I must be imagining things, because that shadow looked a great deal like chagrin.
“He didn’t leave at your behest,” I prod, jutting the tray of cooling tea between us, “did he?”
The prince visibly cringes.
And I nearly land myself in a lovely little cell by throwing a tray of hot tea at him. I just barely maintain my hold on the lacquer tray, my knuckles turning white.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Prince Ruairí says, unable to meet my eye. “I merely suggested that court required a greater variety, and I hoped he had as many songs at his disposal as his reputation suggested. It wasn’t until supper the next day that I learned he’d gone. My words were careless and caused you pain, as so many of my actions seem to. You don't know how deeply sorry I am.”
He bows so low that my anger can’t help but turn to embarrassment. Princes don’t bow to maids like this. He shouldn’t even be apologizing. How can I stay angry at him? It's Cillian who caused all this trouble, not Prince Ruairí. "Sir—"
“You must allow me to apologize for the harm I’ve clearly done you," he insists, cutting a fervid glance at me from beneath his lashes. "It was not my intention to cause you distress of any kind. It never is.”
“Please stand, sir.” I practically hiss my request, my eyes roving the hall. Any minute now, someone will come through and see us, undoing everything the last four months have accomplished.
But what did I really achieve? Cillian didn’t love me after all. If he did, why would he leave so abruptly, with nothing but a note? How could he even bear it?
“I’ve kept you too long," the prince says hastily, his body hitching as he straightens at last. For a moment, it looks as though he will say something more.
"Please send the high queen my well-wishes for her swift recovery," he finishes.
Somehow, I don't think that's what he wished to say.
Then, as quickly as he arrived, Prince Ruairí departs, leaving me gripping the tray hard enough to splinter it. Fresh tears dot my eyes.
Fortunately, Queen Fiadh has the curtains drawn when I enter her room and cold stones over her eyes, so she cannot see the mess my emotions have made of my face. I quietly set the tea beside her bed.
The poor queen has barely had anything to eat since this terrible headache began, and very little to drink. She hasn’t kept much down, either, but for the herbal tea I make her. It’s a recipe I learned from the sea fae, with ingredients from the other side of the world.
“You were gone so long,” she manages, her voice faint. When she furrows her brow with concern like this, she reminds me of my sister. Even with those stones balancing on her eyes.
I never used to see the family resemblance between Fiadh and I. Now I notice it constantly.
“Forgive my delay, Your Majesty," I say, offering my cousin a curtsy. "I encountered Prince Ruairí in the hall.”
The edge in my voice must have alerted her. Slowly, High Queen Fiadh removes the ice stones from over her eyes. “What did he say?”
“He wishes you a speedy recovery, ma’am.”
She squints her eyes at me. “Is that all?”
I want to collapse into a miserable heap on the high queen’s carpet and divulge everything as if she were my sister. Instead, I maintain my composure, my hands tightly clasped in front of me. “He said it was he who suggested Cillian Cloudtongue needed many songs for court, and that he did not mean to send the bard away.”
“The bard has left court? When?”
I try not to let my worry show. I told Queen Fiadh this two days ago, when she asked if Cillian performed after supper. She hasn’t eaten in the dining hall since this wretched headache began.
“You poor thing,” Queen Fiadh says, “you must be miserable.”
Miserable is right. Without Cillian, I feel so alone.
“It’s nothing I can’t bear,” I say, raising my chin, “though I thank you for your gracious concern, Fiadh—ma’am.”
She takes the cup of tea I’ve poured for her, blowing on it, though by now it’s surely cool enough. “Jealous,” she murmurs before taking a sip.
My brow wrinkles. “Pardon, ma’am?”
She pauses, taking another pull of the herbal mixture. Her eyes close as the burn hits the back of her throat. “Prince Ruairí is jealous. That must be why he said that to the bard.”
“Jealous? Whatever for?”
“Can’t you see? Prince Ruairí is in love with you.”
It’s a good thing I’ve nothing at hand now, for it would’ve smashed onto the floor. “M-ma’am?”
“The poor dear has been enamoured with you from the time you arrived. I’m sorry, Laoise. I tried to get him to see the danger, for your sake as well as ours.” She sighs, her nostrils flaring as she inhales the sparse steam from the tea cup. “Never fear, cousin, I’ll speak to him the moment this horrid headache abates. I won’t have his interest putting your safety at risk.”
Or yours , I want to say. But I hold my tongue. The high queen has guards and spies to protect her welfare—even if half the court wants her off the throne. I’ve also come to recognize that she hates feeling helpless like this. It wouldn’t do to fret over her.
I do it anyway, in silence. And I wonder: Does Fiadh mean what she says now? How can Prince Ruairí be in love with me? And most troubling of all, how does a maid politely turn down a prince?
Battered and broken as it may be, my heart still belongs to someone else. Cillian will come back one day soon. I know he will. I just know it.
The bond between us was too dear for him to stay away for long.
“I think I might take a little bread now,” Queen Fiadh says. “My stomach feels much more settled.”
That, at least, is one bit of good news on this dismal day.