Chapter 45 #3
Overhead, the gulls screamed. Hundreds of them circled in a great column over the cliffs. Occasionally, one dropped from the wheeling mass and dove, plummeting from the air like a stone. Lorreth had told me that’s how they caught the fish they ate.
“Are they always like this?” I asked. “So loud. So many of them?”
Lorreth nodded. “Yes. Always. Birds don’t care about war, Saeris. It doesn’t matter to them that half of Inishtar was wiped out last night. This is their home. They only care about protecting their nests and their young.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, thinking about that.
I couldn’t stop staring at all those flapping wings.
There were hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.
The sight of them stirred something inside me, though I couldn’t name the sensation.
It was like a memory, floating below the surface of a frozen river, trying to find a crack in the thick ice so that it could rise to the surface and find open air. If I pushed a little harder, I might—
Lorreth cursed, dropping his handful of rocks.
“Sheascar. What’s this now?” He was looking off to the left, to the street fed into the town square .
. . and the droves of satyrs marching down it brandishing all kinds of weapons in their hands.
Swords. Daggers. More flails like the one Foley had found in the grass last night.
They were even carrying pitchforks and brooms with them.
Their voices drowned out the screeching gulls as they poured into the square.
The game taking place in the square came to a stop. As more and more satyrs piled into the square instead of passing through and heading on down to the cliffs, it became apparent that they’d come here for us.
A stout female with raven-black hair, nubby velvet-covered horns, and matching shaggy black fur covering her legs approached the bottom step of the stairs.
Her hand rested on the hilt of the sword that hung from a belt at her waist—the blade was so long that its tip almost scraped the ground as she walked. “Where is he?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry, Galwynnian. Kingfisher isn’t with us. And even if he were, he’s not responsible for any of this,” Lorreth said, holding up his hands and gesturing to the destruction that surrounded us.
“Not Kingfisher,” the female said. “The Forgotten King.”
“The Forgotten who?” My gaze skipped over the crowd, trying to discern their mood.
It was difficult to get a proper read on the satyrs.
They were proud, serious creatures. Their tempers seemed to skew on the angry side.
Lorreth swore under his breath again, shifting uncomfortably in his armor as he got to his feet and straightened himself out.
“Now isn’t the time for strife, Gal. We have no crowned kings among our party—”
“Achht. Away with your Fae sidestepping, Lorreth of the Broken Spire. I won’t be fooled by careful wording.
I know you have no crowned kings with you.
The lad hasn’t been coronated yet. But he is with you, I know.
The whole of the South Lands is ringing with the news.
Rurik’s boy has returned, and he travels with the Bane. ”
Ahhh, right.
Shit.
I knew who she meant perfectly well now.
On the other side of the square, Carrion stood with his hands resting atop the shoulders of one of the male fauns he’d been playing with, a stricken look on his face.
For the first time, I noticed that there were no auburn-haired satyrs.
Save for Iseabail, Carrion was the only redhead in the square, and he stuck out like a sore thumb because of it.
Even from so far away, I could see his cheeks coloring.
He drew his hands from the faun’s shoulders and slowly began backing toward the corner of the square, where a small side street offered the promise of escape.
Lorreth would have made an excellent poker player.
Not once did his gaze flit toward Carrion.
I, on the other hand, was openly staring at him.
Kicking myself, I looked away, focusing on my boots, but it was too late.
The damage was done. Slowly, the crowd started to turn and face the back of the square.
“Gods and martyrs,” I muttered. This was going to be bad.
There were hundreds of satyrs in the square now.
They were strong, they were angry, and they were armed.
If they planned on hurting Carrion, there was literally nothing we could do about it.
I moved forward, boot hovering over the stone step in front of me, but Lorreth grabbed my wrist and pulled me back, shaking his head.
“It’s done,” he rumbled. “No taking it back now. Some things he’s just going to have to face on his own, Saeris. Let him work it out for himself.”
Carrion sent a pleading look at us over the top of the crowd.
Horns—twisted, straight, curved—bristled in the air, all pointed and deadly.
I knew what he was thinking. He was imagining a set of those horns plunging into his stomach and disemboweling him.
It would be a horrific way to die. Bloody, painful, slow.
But when the satyrs present lowered their heads, they didn’t charge Carrion.
They dropped to their knees at the same time and laid their weapons down in offering, bowing to the Daianthus heir.
All was silent, save for the scraping of hooves and the clatter of metal against stone.
“Ahhh, gods. He’s going to be insufferable after this,” I groaned.
The satyrs started to sing. The low ululation was so deep that it made the smaller pieces of rubble at our feet jump and dance.
I’d never heard such a resonant sound. As far as I knew, no human or member of the Fae could have replicated the bass in the somber melody.
It was so powerful it made the air inside my lungs vibrate.
“What is that?” I asked Lorreth. “What are they singing?”
“A welcome dirge,” he answered. “A traditional song of the satyrs. Nuanced. It’s the song you would sing to a family member of a dear friend you’ve lost. It’s .
. . like a promise. That you will show the love and respect you can no longer give to your friend to the living who still share their blood.
It’s complicated. The satyrs have a song for everything.
They’re too dramatic and flowery for my tastes. ”
The satyrs’ voices were thunderous, the tone so droning, that I couldn’t separate one word from another. Despite Lorreth’s less-thanfavorable critique, the music still made the hair on my arms stand to attention. The song was moving.
“What should I do?” Carrion mouthed over the tops of the satyrs’ heads.
I performed a one shoulder shrug, unable to answer that question for him.
Carrion scowled and then set out toward us, gingerly picking a path around the kneeling satyrs, who didn’t seem to notice he was on the move at first. When they did notice, they hurriedly spun around on their knees so as not to give him their backs.
Carrion looked a little unhinged when he pitched up at the top of the steps. “I bet you’re loving this, Fane.”
“I was actually just thinking how inconvenient this is. Not to mention how disappointed they’re all going to be when you tell them you won’t be challenging Belikon for the throne.”
Carrion went to speak, about to volley back a tart response, no doubt, but then the satyrs’ singing cut off.
The female who’d addressed Lorreth lifted her head, fixing a potent gaze on Carrion.
“We welcome you to Inishtar, sire,” she said.
“We would usually have arranged a festival to celebrate your arrival, but given the current circumstances, we hope you’ll understand . . .”
Lorreth angled his body slightly, so that he could speak without the female, Galwynnian, seeing.
“Be careful,” he cautioned. “If you say anything to acknowledge you are the heir to the Yvelian throne, it’ll be public record.
You won’t be able to take it back. It’ll be tantamount to declaring war against Belikon. ”
A tight, unhappy smile contorted Carrion’s features. “Well, fuck me,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
“Will you address us?” Galwynnian requested. “It would be an honor to hear the son and heir of Rurik Daianthus speak.”
Carrion bounced on the balls of his feet, his eyes traveling over the crowd. Above us, the birds’ cries cut through the air, haunting and lonely. There were even more of them now, dancing gracefully on the thermals above the cliffs.
Thirty seconds passed.
A minute.
“Well, you’d better say something,” Lorreth muttered.
“All right, all right. Give me a moment. I’m trying to come up with something pithy.”
Gods alive. “Forget pithy,” I hissed through my teeth. He was going to cause some sort of political incident at this rate. “Aim for short and sweet.”
“Great idea. Yes. Short and sweet,” Lorreth concurred.
The satyrs held their breath when Carrion opened his mouth. He swung left, then right, eyebrows creeping higher and higher toward his hairline. “My name is Carrion,” he said. “Nice to meet you all. I really like your horns.”
There were historians among the crowd. Someone would record this moment—the day the satyr community received the Daianthus heir—and when they documented the first thing their Forgotten King had said to them, it would be this:
I really like your horns.
Lorreth groaned. I managed to hold my own groan back, but it was a close thing.
I sent my gaze upward, unable to look upon the confused frowns the satyrs were exchanging while keeping a straight face.
My eyes caught on a bird, pinwheeling down toward the ocean .
. . and the second I saw it, it struck me: the memory that had eluded me earlier.
It had been right there, a millimeter from my fingertips. It was so obvious! Gods and martyrs, how stupid I’d been.
I’d missed something.
And now I knew what it was.
I retreated from Carrion’s side, pulse like lightning in my veins. Lorreth’s head snapped around, his nostrils flaring, his pupils contracting to pinpoints as he sensed the sudden change in me. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s—it’s something.” A horrible answer, but I didn’t know how—or have time—to explain what had just occurred to me. “I might know how to find Fisher.”
“Wait! Let me come with you, then!”
“No, I’m sorry, Lorreth!” I called, running down the steps. “Please, I need you to watch Hayden. Where I’m going, you can’t follow, anyway! I have to go alone! I’ll come back and make those relics, I swear!”