Chapter Thirteen
O ne month, filled with a fresh round of headaches for both my royal cousin and I, goes by. Cillian was barely at the castle for half of it.
It was sweet while he was here, with our passionate kisses and our stolen moments in the hallways. Our nights were always too short, and I too tired to perform my duties during the day. Yet I would not return to my own chambers at night, afraid to miss even a moment of his presence here.
I wish homesickness was all this broken heart was. But I am still grieving the absence of my bard, even as I swear to myself that he’ll return to me soon.
He arrived at Connor Castle without warning before. He might well return again, any day or night. So he isn’t adept at keeping in touch by letters—but when the rest of him is so wonderful, how can I be sour about that?
Except, as the weeks wear on, he loses a bit of that shine. And all I can think is, Will he be gone even longer this time? And how long will the next time be?
I start to feel as though I’m trying to hold back a wave, or grasp a beam of moonlight—the only thing, these days, that ever caresses my hair.
Then three more months go by—and then another month still. It’s been almost as many since I last had word of Cillian Cloudtongue, from him or anyone else. My skin almost aches, missing his touch, and I begin to wonder just how many other maidens are drawn to him as I was.
What if I’m not the only one? What if that’s delaying his return?
With every month he’s gone, I feel my passion for him growing a little bit colder. With Fiadh’s condition, thoughts of him begin to feel like a flight of fancy. A dream I once had.
Was he only ever that?
Slowly, devastatingly, the suspicion that I’ve been an utter fool creeps over me like the final frosts. For winter has long-since arrived and now prepares to leave, loosening its bone-chilling grip on the high court with painful slowness.
With the change of the season, my own head pain begins to ease at last.
If only I could say the same for Fiadh. These days, I have little time to fret about my bard.
Besides, if Cillian wants to swan around the human world, then it’s not as though I’ll wait for him. I’ve ample duties to keep me busy as it is, and more so now that the queen's health has taken another turn. I’m even learning to knit, something that takes up the hours at Queen Fiadh’s bedside and gives me some direction for my worry. Cable knitting is a beastly thing.
I don’t need my sweet Cillian to return. Clearly I was wrong about his feelings for me. And clearly, he isn’t as sweet as I believed.
But that’s just it. My poor, foolish heart can’t accept that what it felt was some fantasy, that Cillian wasn’t touched by our time together, too. That his honey-sweetness was all a ruse.
On days like today, I still grieve him. Like a ghost, I wander the cold gardens alone, kept company by my own raw feelings, the clouds of my breath, and the occasional tear. Queen Fiadh has refused lunch again and sent me away early, giving me too much time alone with my thoughts.
Before I realize what I’ve done, I’m in the star garden and my eyes have landed on the very spot where Cillian performed, where he made me feel as though he played and sang only for me. The place where, just a couple weeks later, we first made love.
Where I first felt I’d never be parted from him again.
But that’s the way of life, isn’t it? I thought I’d always be home in the Seaglass Court, with other púcaí around me. I never dreamt I’d move so far from Diarmuid's Row, and never wished to be so far from the sea. Yet I’ve found myself settled in, almost a year older and a fair amount sadder and wiser, too.
Queen's maids aren’t the subjects of storybooks. We do not get such happy endings. It is enough, I think, to see the way the high king dotes on our queen, to see one of my own kind held in such regard by the ruler of all earthly fae courts.
But I won’t lie to myself. Not here, with new leaves coming to bud on the distant wintry trees, where I lived the start of the kind of romance I’d dreamt of but never hoped to truly have.
I was the lady in the storybooks for a moment—just a moment—in time. A soft smile lifts my cold-reddened cheeks. It will have to do.
I turn from the star garden as quickly as I can, before more tears can come. I think I’m finally through crying for that dream and that man.
Without knowing in which direction I plod, I travel the gardens, my cloak held close, not really seeing much around me. Which is how I smack straight into someone’s firm chest.
The collision sends me stumbling backwards, into the garden bed and some dead sprigs of lavender. Their calming scent still wafts up as I crush the winter-dried stems, and I’d savor it if I wasn’t struggling to regain my footing. The man I collided with catches my arm with a gloved hand.
Buckskin gloves, just like the ones Cillian wore when he left.
His hold on me is so reassuring, my foolish heart beats a little faster, wishing without reason that it’s Cillian Cloudtongue before me.
Slowly, I lift my eyes to dispel the illusion. The concerned face of Prince Ruairí gazes down at me. The corners of his eyes are creased with worry.
“Are you alright?”
Of course I’m not alright, and then, to my horror, those same words fly out from my lips. Only they sound horribly cross.
Prince Ruairí’s pink cheeks flush red in an instant. He releases his grip on me, instead proffering his arm in a gallant fashion as his eyes fix upon the stone path.
“I’m sorry, Queen's Maid Laoise. It is my fault entirely. I was distracted and did not give enough care to where I walked.”
Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. Not only have I snapped at him, but the prince sounds nothing like that drunken lout who tried to kiss me during the midsummer revel. He sounds a lot more like that fellow who traveled back from Sunspray village with us—the one I was starting to like.
Yet there’s something else there now. He sounds the way a proper prince should. And I wonder, was I wrong about him all along? Or has he just changed?
“It’s my fault, Your Highness. And I shouldn’t have spoken to you so.” Back on firm footing, I dip into a low curtsy.
Prince Ruairí scoffs. My eyes shoot up to him, wary and confused.
“I deserved it,” he says, rubbing the light stubble on his chin. “It’s not becoming of a prince, knocking over poor helpless maids.”
“Poor and helpless?” As I stand, my eyes search his, ready to challenge him.
“By comparison, yes.” There’s a twinkle in his eyes I’m not sure I like.
“That I’m poor compared to a prince needs no remarking upon, sir, ” I say tartly, “nor should you assume I’m helpless. I’m a púca, after all.”
“And I’m trained in the ways of knighthood daily.” That twinkle now lights up his eyes. “My dear lady, I’m hurt you did not notice my firm and strong physique as we collided. I’m sure a mighty púca would not stumble backwards for some mere High Fae weakling.”
“You’re mocking me.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“I’m teasing,” the prince replies, tilting both his head and his mouth. “There’s a difference. And only half teasing at that. When it comes to my respect for the heartiness of púcaí and belief in my own physical prowess, I never jest.”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Why is it you always wish to bait me?”
“Why is it I must bait you to engage you in any manner of conversation?” the prince retorts, then presses his lips together. “Forgive me. That was also unchivalrous.”
Oh, I’ve had enough of this pest! He hasn’t changed at all.
As I pluck my skirts to curtsy in an attempt to take my leave, suddenly Prince Ruairí’s hand is upon me again, this time grasping my shoulder. Even through the layers I wear and the gloves upon his hands, his grip is firm and warm.
“Queen's Maid Laoise, I beg of you, walk with me a little further. There’s something I wish for your help with.”
“Mine, sir?”
He takes my gloved hand in his own, squeezing it. The intimacy of the gesture has me setting my teeth. But I don’t recoil.
And not just because he’s the prince.
“Queen's Maid Laoise,” he says, his voice soft, “you make the queen’s tea every day. Are you certain you know what goes in it?”
I step back from him, anger reddening my neck. “Of course I know! I sent for the ingredients myself.”
“But would you know,” he asks, his brows lowered, “if the merchant who brought them to you added something to them?”
I scoff. “I don’t get them from a merchant, sir. I get them from the river fae, who ferry them from the sea fae I personally know. And before you get any ideas, they haven't the slightest interest in what happens among the earthen fae.”
“Damn!” Prince Ruairí withdraws from me, his hands going to the back of his head as he paces out a small circle. He finishes by kicking a border stone.
What's that all about? And why is he so interested in Fiadh's tea?
“I’ve been through this damned garden all winter long," he bemoans, "and not a trace of poison!”
For the first time, I take a good look around me. We’re standing in the castle’s herb garden, the hearty rosemary and box hedges the only deep green in sight. “Poison? Here ?”
He nods his head. “Do you know the plant faerie-changeling hemlock?”
“What would you want with that?” I place my hands on my hips, instantly suspicious. If faerie hemlock is anything like the water hemlock of my home court’s wetlands, it’s nothing to be trifled with.
“I don’t personally want it," he explains with a huff. "But if I can find it, it would prove something.
“For fae, faerie-changling hemlock is nowhere near as deadly as the varieties from the mortal realm; it does not kill immediately like the other varietals, and is often disregarded as a poisonous plant by those who don’t know any better. But it is insidious, accumulating in the body over time, and heavily favored by spies. You might know it as faerie-changeling’s bane or—”
“Faerie-changeling carrot,” I finish for him, my stomach already uneasy.
The prince bobs his head. “Her symptoms match its consumption—not at first, as it must have been given in doses so small it would have barely irritated her digestion. But over time it would have accumulated. That would explain it all. The headaches, the weakness and fatigue—”
“Are you talking about the high queen?” My brows shoot upward. “You think someone is poisoning Queen Fiadh?”
He nods.
My mind reels. Why did I not consider it before? Her headaches and mine used to come around the same time, if not in the same degree. But the queen has gotten so much sicker. And the nausea and vomiting—the court healers assumed she was with child, then that she’d been too long away from the sea again.
And she was better, for a time, after our visit to the coast.
“But why is it you?” I demand. “Why isn’t anyone else searching for the poison?”
“Haven’t you noticed, Queen's Maid Laoise? I’m so much more than a prince.”
“Yes, you're also a drunkard and a flirt,” I mutter before I can stop myself. I wince. Is it too late to add a “sir?”
Thankfully, the prince laughs, deeply and heartily. Then without warning, he steps close to me, his cloak brushing my chest.
“Can I trust you, Laoise?” he asks, leaving off my title.
My heart stutters a little. I’ve no close friends among the other servants. Other than the queen, it’s been months since anyone has called me by my name alone.
Swallowing audibly, I tuck my chin. “I’d do anything to help the queen,” I say, and I know it’s true. I would do anything for our queen, our púca monarch.
“Then help me find that damned hemlock.”
I n the year I’ve spent here, I never would’ve dreamt I’d be working in secret with Prince Ruairí. But I’ve too little time to marvel at it, watching my royal cousin grow worse by the day.
Prince Ruairí tells me the faerie-changling hemlock cannot be something brought into the castle via trade or clandestine delivery, for he has “ruled out the possibility with a great degree of certainty.”
In reply, I regard him like he’s mad. But when I try to ask how he knows all that, he gets that irritating twinkle in his eye and glides away.
It seems that the prince truly is more than meets the eye.
He’s also insufferable.
But the queen is what matters. So I put up with his secretive ways for the nonce.
Queen Fiadh sleeps more and more these days, her waking hours full of pain. When I question her on anything she might eat or imbibe outside of her meals, her eyes widen, then close.
“I can think of nothing,” she replies.
At night, I sneak into the larder, searching for anything unusual. I scrutinize every carrot placed in the queen’s food, searching for the poisoned root that so resembles it and going so far as to taste it for her. And as I don’t feel any different, it cannot be in her meals.
As the first spring flowers are cut for decorative arrangements inside the castle, I walk by every arrangement, hoping I’ll spot the lacy blooms.
In the afternoons, I patrol the grounds, sometimes alongside Prince Ruairí. The warmer the weather grows, the more people fill the gardens and greens surrounding the castle, complicating our work.
The longer we search, finding nothing, the more I’m convinced it’s there. This must be happening to Queen Fiadh for a reason. púcaí may not be High Fae, immune to nearly all maladies, but we are hearty and strong. Though we may suffer, we refuse to fade.
I just need Fiadh to hold on a little bit longer.
Today, for once, I have the gardens to myself, on account of the heavy rains. As if a water horse-shifter would mind! Hints of spring green sprouts still populate the beds alongside more mature plants, as well as where magic was used to revive the leeks for today’s meal. The rain increases the fragrances of the rosemary, lavender and thyme plants, scenting the air.
It has to be here. I scan the cut herbs and stems for anything that stands out. If faerie hemlock is truly to blame, it would be have to be somewhere it could be easily accessed by the poisoner. Somewhere no one would expect something dangerous to be hidden, where it would not raise questions if they were seen cutting stems.
Because if faerie-changeling hemlock is anything like water hemlock, the stems are as deadly as the root.
The soft tap of shoes upon the stones has my head snapping up. Of course. Ruairí is here, the rain rolling off his raised hood. I let it soak my hair, happy for the water.
And happier still when my eye catches on something. Could it be?
“Laoise,” he says, still using my bare name. “Why are you searching here again? We’ve checked it a hundred times.”
I smile at him a touch smugly. “I’ve been searching everywhere, Your Highness,” I say, “and only now did it occur to me that it might be hiding in plain sight.”
I point toward a clump of stems near the very base of the border hedges, trimmed far shorter than any of the garden’s other herbs.
At first, he does not understand.
“It’s planted away from the other herbs,” I explain, “and cut—”
“Shorter than the rest.” Ruairí groans, dragging a hand over his face. “All this time, I’ve been looking for telltale stems and flowers.”
“And they’ve been keeping it too short to be noticed.” The color drains from my cheeks. “They must’ve been poisoning her daily. But who? And when? When I asked the queen—”
“She denied eating or drinking anything else. As she did with me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the rhythm of the rain help me sort my thoughts.
“It was too quick,” I say at length.
“What?”
When I open my eyes, Ruairí is standing so close, I can feel his breath on my temples. Rain slips from the edges of the hood and onto the tip of my nose.
Before either of us can stop him, he reaches out, gently brushing away the drops with his fingertip. My breath catches at the contact.
I glance up at him, our eyes briefly meeting. There’s a question in his eyes—something deeper than asking what I meant just now. But there’s no time for that just yet.
Fiadh's life is in danger.
“When I asked the high queen what else she might eat or drink outside of her meals, she answered me too quickly,” I explain.
Ruairí’s dark eyes widen.
As he wheels, his coat spraying rainwater, I take a moment to gather myself before following. I spare just a second to wonder when I began to think of the prince as simply Ruairí.