Chapter Thirty-Nine Fia #2
“We have developed a weapon.” Cathair set a vial upon the workbench, no bigger than a flask of whiskey.
Inside, a spark—green as bottle glass—jumped and danced, throwing strange shadows on the walls.
“Tine Síoraí, we call it. Eternal Fire. It burns far hotter than normal flame and needs no fuel or air to sustain it. Best of all, it devours where it lands—an unquenchable blaze that incinerates skin and bone. Not even the dead can withstand this.”
“If it works against the dead, it will work against the living.” I stared at the dancing light. “Many will die.”
“Wars are not won without sacrifice, Fia.” To his credit, Cathair was not jubilant about the prospect. “Many more will die if Eala is allowed free reign in this realm. Or the other.”
“When do the kings attack?”
“Not until Bealtaine. The Eternal Fire takes time to formulate, and care in transportation.”
Rage and regret tangled inside me as I thought of Irian.
Rogan. Wayland, Sinéad, Laoise. All the people I loved, drawn into this terrible conflict.
I did not want to put anyone else at risk.
But Eala was too strong a threat to risk sitting on our hands.
“Could the human kings march upon a different location?”
“Certainly,” Cathair said, gamely. “Where? And why?”
“I do not believe the human kings, even with their immortal flame, will be able to defeat Eala. Not without the help of the Folk realms.” I clenched my glowing fist. “Irian and I will escape to the Willow Gate—Eala will surely follow. There we will keep her occupied—harried but hopeful that she will eventually get what she wants from me. The Bealtaine moon is less than a month away.”
Cathair caught my drift. “The Folk will need the strength of a full moon if they are to fight in the human realms. But can you keep Eala busy for over three weeks without giving too much ground?”
“We will have to. Then we will pin Eala between the forces of Fódla and the forces of Tír na nóg.”
Cathair smiled. “And the princess will die with all her dread horde.”
“Die?” All my hope turned to char upon my tongue. But of course—not even Cathair knew the true nature of the Treasures. “No—she cannot be killed by mortal means.”
His eyebrows jumped toward his graying hairline. “I beg your pardon?”
“If Eala is slaughtered, the magic of her Treasure will be corrupted,” I explained. “Warped wild magic will billow over these lands, as destructive as Eala and far more long-lasting. And this time, there will be no heirs left to reforge it.”
Cathair cursed inventively. Clearly he understood the problem, even if he did not understand all the terms. “What do you propose?”
“Leave that to me.” I laced my fingers together and hoped I knew what I was doing. “Just tell the under-kings—Eala is mine to destroy.” I paused. “But all this you could have shared with Irian and Chandi. Why did you wish to speak to me alone?”
“I wished to speak to you alone, a stór.”
I whirled as the dethroned high queen of Fódla emerged from the shadows.
With her graying hair unbound like a virgin’s, her slender throat bare of the marks of royalty, and the weight of many sleepless nights borne in haggard creases upon her face, the woman I had once called Mother looked somehow both very young and incredibly old.
The familiar use of her pet name for me startled me, sending twin threads of searing starlight and thorning vines to stitch the inside of my skin.
“You,” I said coldly. “Have we not said all that needs to be said?”
“Alas, no,” said Eithne Uí Mainnín. “My daughter keeps me alive not from affection but political expediency. When she discovers I have been plotting against her, I have little doubt she will execute me in a show of strength. We must discuss what happens when I am dead.”
I set my jaw. I had little affection to spare for the queen.
But despite all she had done to me, I did not wish her dead.
For all that she had been a bad mother, she had been a strong queen.
Fódla already suffered—I feared it would suffer more if she was not there to put it back together after Eala’s disastrous reign. “Your fate doesn’t concern me.”
“It should.” The queen drew a heavily illuminated scroll from her sleeves.
“The ó Mainníns are still the rightful ruling dynasty of Fódla. Once I am dead and your sister is defeated, you are next in line for the throne. This document legitimizes you as Rían’s daughter and recognizes you as the next high queen of Fódla.
I intend to send copies to my under-kings as soon as you sign it. ”
The words struck me like poison barbs, and I fought the urge to keel over from all the venomous words suddenly boiling inside me.
Yet all I could manage was “You knew, didn’t you?
” I remembered Rían’s words in the Deep-Dream.
Then you have truly been a pawn of destiny… and I am sorry for it. “How long?”
“Almost from the beginning,” Eithne said dispassionately. “Though you must have inherited your mother’s coloring, both you and Eala strongly resemble him. I also recognized his lamentable softness in you.”
“Is that why you tormented me so?” I asked bitterly. “To visit the sins of the father upon his bastard daughter?”
“I made you strong, a stór.” Eithne’s words were the same as the last time I’d seen her; again they conjured memories of rats in buckets and budding flowers tossed on the fire and painful bracelets of nettles and brambles.
“Strong enough to realize the fate of Fódla is more important than any enmity we bear toward each other. Strong enough to rule a kingdom brought to its knees by plague and famine and grievous war. Strong enough to be a queen.”
This was absurd. “I do not wish to be queen.”
“Nor should you.” Eithne’s eyes glittered like diamonds in the sallow glow of Cathair’s chambers. “You will inherit death and ruin. Even with this document, you will face the ridicule and censure of jealous under-kings. Nothing will be easy. Yet it must be you.”
“Why?” I spluttered. “Not only am I Rían’s illegitimate child, but I am also half-Folk. You ought to hate me—to hate everything I stand for.”
“I have come to learn hate is rarely a productive emotion.” Eithne’s hands were restless on the scroll, rolling it tighter before smoothing it out.
“I know you think me cold and manipulative and callous. I may not have been the best mother. I may not have even been the best queen. But I love my country. I want the best for my people. Cathair and I spent years educating you and honing your skills. This is the return on our investment—a queen we can count on to have Fódla’s best interests at heart. ”
“I am a half-Folk bastard,” I reiterated, albeit faintly. I felt exposed—as if the wounds she’d dealt me for years had reopened and begun to bleed. “They will never accept me as an ó Mainnín heir—under-kings, nobility, peasantry. None of them.”
“Please.” Eithne sneered. “Put grain in their stores and cattle in their fields and gold in the treasury, and they will all forget in a year. The ó Mainnín line is riddled with inconsistencies, going back to Amergin himself. His eldest son, Prince Marban, abdicated his throne and ran away to a fort in the middle of nowhere, leaving his bastard half brother to rule. Yet Guaire is remembered as a great king and the forefather of Fódla itself.”
“Marban?” I jolted, nearly stumbling backward into one of Cathair’s workbenches. “What fort?”
“Dún Darragh, of course.” Mother brandished the scroll. “If we are agreed, then you will sign.”
I bolstered myself with a hand on the table. “I will not.”
“It matters little if you do,” Cathair said softly. He had not spoken since the queen appeared; I had nearly forgotten he was there. “The document will be distributed regardless. But think of your mother’s peace of mind.”
“She’s not my mother.” My words lacked their intended venom.
Eithne pushed the document into my palms, then gathered her shawl around herself. She turned toward the door, pausing on the threshold.
“The choice is, and will always be, yours. But when Fódla falls to her knees after my death, that devastation will be upon your head.” Her pale blue eyes glittered like diamonds. “Swear me this, at least: When you destroy your sister… make sure she is well and truly dead.”
That, I could promise. “I will.”
Eithne disappeared without another word, leaving me alone with Cathair and a scroll I could barely stand to look at.
“Come,” he said, at last. “Dawn is nigh. Your companions await you.”
I followed him numbly back toward the dungeons before stopping him in the darkness of the corridor. “Wait.”
He turned, his silvering hair glinting in the dim. “Little witch?”
“You, of all people, would not lie to me about this.” My voice was strangely guttural in the near black. “Do you really wish me to be queen?”
For a long moment, he was silent. “The problem with monarchs is they are all born to rule. You were not. You know the weight of hunger, the sting of injustice, and the value of mercy—lessons learned not in gilded halls of power, but upon the jagged teeth of a careless world. I believe that because you have lived as common people do, that you will not rule above them… but for them. I believe in you.”
I did not know how to respond to that. Cathair tilted his head.
“I could ask my Book for a prophecy,” he offered. “Perhaps it will illuminate your destiny.”
“No thank you.” I shuddered at the thought of Cathair’s fell Book of Whispers. “I have had enough of destiny for now.” I handed the scroll back to him—unsigned. “Do what you must. But I do not think I can fix what Eithne and Eala have broken.”
The dungeon was as we’d left it—Irian seated with his blade across his knees; Chandi hunched in the corner with my cloak masking her face. They both rose at the sound of our footsteps, drawing near the bars as Cathair unlocked them.