Chapter Fifteen
S alt. There is salt in the air.
I’m home.
My shins ache as my hooves drum against the rock. It has been hours since I could swim in the river, my speed in the water and the current aiding me as I drive toward this familiar cusp of the sea. I fear my knees will give out before I can plunge them into the healing waters.
I pass homes and villages I know, my heart longing for what cannot be. I long to see the faces of my parents and grandfather, and of my sister Unagh.
But I’ve already wasted time by coming to the undercourt I lived all my life in until last year; Fiadh’s home court was closer to the castle, but I do not know the sea fae there. Nor do I think they have the same level of trust for púcaí that the Moonray Court has for the people of my village.
If any sea fae will help me—help us—it'd be those of the Moonray Court, lying just offshore of Diarmuid's Row.
As I skirt the villages of the Seaglass Court, I hear voices calling. I cannot slow or stop. I fear even breaking my stride, and that I will stumble and not be able to get up again. The sun is low. I’ve been driving forward at this pace for hours, my lungs and nostrils burning.
Just a little farther.
As the sea spray flies into view, my heart soars with it. Too long. I’ve been too long apart from the sea.
With a trumpet of greeting toward my sea fae kin, I leap into the waves, my fins allowing me to cut through the receding tide.
My gills, tucked just beneath my sturdy puca jaw, float open, granting me the air my lungs could not. Slowly, my body begins to ease into the darkening tide.
In no time at all, I wear the water as a second skin. It cushions my aching muscles, allowing me to swim on.
When I am away from the black sand beach, I point my nose deeper, toward the looming shelf. My fins flutter in a blur, carrying me further from the golden light atop the waves.
As I reach the drop-off, the gentle glimmer of the Moonray Court rises from the gloom. I skirt a shark, then part a school of fish as I descend.
The sea fae aren’t fond of unannounced visitors from land. I hope—I pray—that my friends in this court will forgive me just this once.
Just as a kelp-thatched roof comes into view, the pearl lantern lights of the city of Dubh Cuan flare to life, mirroring the gold of the waves above. My hooves settle onto a street paved with crushed shells and hardened sand.
It seems most folk are already in their homes. Only a horseshoe crab scuttles out to greet me, then crosses back the way it came.
Of course. This crab is someone’s pet. Within minutes, half of Dubh Cuan will know I’m here.
I seek a favor, I call after it in the language of the púcaí, hoping it understands.
I close my eyes as I wait, my nostrils flaring though I breath through my gills. The pressure of the undersea makes my lungs ache all the more.
Despite living so near to it, it’s not often I’ve been to this city, and rarely without an escort. To the earthen fae, we púcaí are creatures of the sea. But to the sea’s true denizens, we are still something foreign, beings who straddle these two worlds but still swear our allegiance to the earthen high court. They call us kin, but treat us as distant relations.
An almost familiar voice filters into my ears, warped by the deep waters. My eyes blink open. I must’ve been asleep for a moment.
“You must be desperate, to enter Dubh Cuan unannounced and so close to nightfall,” Niamh says, her voice wispy in the current.
My friend since childhood floats before me, her legs banded by a translucent membrane and pearly scales, ending in split fins that change color like the setting sun. But for her gills, the rest of her is so like the land and sky fae of this world that her graceful ease in the water appears supernatural.
I toss my head in recognition. She greets me by scratching the smooth end of my nose, careful of the sharp scales like shark’s teeth that cover the rest of my face in this form.
I pray to the ancient fae that Niamh still understands enough of the puca language without practicing. She always complained our “horse tongue” was too difficult to parse.
My queen is in a desperate state, I say, keeping my phrases short. I need to bring her something with the magic of the sea.
The moment Niamh makes out what I mean is all too obvious. Her eyes fly wide, and her hands knot at her shimmering breast.
“You can’t mean that,” she replies. “Do you know you're asking for a faerie clam’s pearl?”
I toss my head in acknowledgment. I know. I also know the cost.
“But Laoise, you don’t even know what that cost will be!”
Something of equal value, I say. There’s so little difference between this and a faerie bargain. Even I have never been so foolish as to enter into such a pact.
But there’s no choice now. Not if I wish to save Fiadh.
“I’m sorry, my friend. You really don’t understand. This isn’t like your earthen fae bargains. You are bargaining with the magic of the Moonray Court itself. It won't ask what you're willing to give, it'll just take it. And it will always be something you need.”
Please. I echo the plea with my eyes.
Niamh shudders, her tail smacking at the paved street.
“This queen of yours—does she really mean so much?”
To me and to all púcaí. I hesitate. In truth, she is like a sister to me now, almost as dear to me as Unagh.
A burst of bubbles escapes Niamh’s nose as she sighs. “Fine. I only hope you will still think the cost worth it after it has been paid.” She narrows her eyes. “If you even know what it takes from you.”
My stomach flips. Even the sea cannot hide how ominous her warning is.
With a nervous stamp, I follow her, swimming up and over the houses. Below us, curious fae peer up from their windows, watching me, the strange creature of both earth and sea, and my merfolk guide.