Chapter Thirteen
On the way back to our suite after breakfast with our family, Tiernan took the wrong turn.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“There's something I want to check.” Tiernan tugged on my hand. “Lady Mariya has me thinking about the old rulers of Seelie.”
I followed him down shining corridors of white marble veined in gold, light coming from floating spheres and high windows.
Breathing deeply, I silently praised the ancient architects who had added long planters to the design—some cut directly out of the marble floor to line the walls and some, in the wider areas, set in the center like medians on a highway.
Lush plants overflowed the narrow confines, trees among them, their branches brushing the high ceilings.
Not only did the vibrant color keep the castle from falling into austerity, but it also freshened the air.
With a start, I realized my perspective of Castle Seelie had changed overnight.
I still didn't feel completely at home there, and I probably never would, but I could admire the beauty now.
It didn't annoy me or feel like a monument anymore.
If someone challenged Tiernan or me for the throne, we could lose the castle, or we could step down willingly and give up, maybe to Falcas.
But every home got passed on or sold eventually.
That didn't make it less ours. While we ruled, Castle Seelie belonged to us.
I could change anything I wanted here. I could paint the walls red.
Or the roses, if I were feeling especially mad. It was up to us to make it into a home.
Again, it's amazing what sleep will do for a person.
Tiernan took a left into the Royal Gallery.
I'd been there before, but the paintings of all the old kings and queens of Seelie didn't hold much interest for me.
There was even a painting of Queen Iseabal there, despite how her reign ended.
She probably wasn't the only monarch in Seelie history to be a bad person and to lose her throne to someone stronger.
I wouldn't have known to challenge her if there hadn't been a precedent.
Terrible or not, she was part of Seelie's history, and her portrait belonged there.
The newest additions to the gallery were paintings of Tiernan and me.
Falcas wasn't there. You only got to hang on these illustrious walls if you ruled.
I grinned at Tiernan's portrait. He looked so regal, which was accurate, but this was beyond his norm.
Probably had something to do with the layers of kingly robes they'd put on him when he posed for the portrait.
Still, he stood out from the crowd of stuffy royals, his silver stare made roguish by his curling silver scar.
I didn't exactly blend in either. The reason I knew Tiernan had been bullied into wearing all those robes was that Sorcha had done the same to me, insisting that a queen's portrait must have a certain presence.
Chuckling, I shook my head at the golden gown Sorcha had insisted on, made even more regal by the glittering lavender cape that clung to my shoulders with diamond star pins.
Behind me were the Seelie thrones. I had insisted on standing versus sitting.
This was evidently acceptable, and Tiernan had opted for the same so that our portraits would match.
But no amount of gold or posturing could change my half-human features or the smirk on my face.
The painting made it clear that Seelie had entered a new age.
Tiernan drew me past our portraits. Footsteps muffled by a thick, green rug, we headed down the narrow room to the very end.
To protect the marble, a gold picture rail ran along the top of the walls, providing a ledge to hook the portraits to.
I wasn't sure a nail would have done the trick anyway.
They were massive things, and chains were used to hang them instead of wire.
The first time Tiernan had brought me here, I had been surprised by how many kings and queens there had been.
I'd thought that with the Fey being immortal, a monarch's rule would last centuries, even millennia.
But the position was a dangerous one, especially during the wars—those with the other kingdoms and those with Earth.
Then there were the monarchs who got tired of ruling and stepped down.
Now, there was a thought.
The atmosphere was as bright and airy in the long gallery as it was in the rest of the castle. Yet, as we neared the end, the ambiance shifted. The light remained the same, but there was a feeling of heaviness in the air that made everything seem shrouded in shadows. I hesitated.
Tiernan looked at me in surprise. “They're just paintings, Seren.”
“Whose painting are you looking for?”
“It's right here.” He lifted his chin toward the right wall and then led me over to a life-sized portrait of a man with long, platinum blond hair, the color so pale it was almost translucent.
Every royal portrait was made life-sized so that those who came to view them would know the stature of the monarchs.
This man had more royal presence than Tiernan and me combined.
He was lean in the way of the Sidhe, but there was an air about him that made him feel as large as Raza.
How the artist had captured that on a canvas was beyond me.
Perhaps it was the breadth of his shoulders, enhanced by a white fur cloak.
Or maybe it was the hand that rested casually on a globe of Fairy, as if he ruled the entire planet, not just Seelie.
That hand looked capable. It was the hand of a warrior, not a pansy who just sat on a throne and ordered people around.
No, it wasn't any of those things. It was his eyes that commanded.
They were silver, like Tiernan's, and, combined with that nearly white hair and Sidhe physique, he should have resembled my husband.
He did not. This king had sharp features and a cool expression that Tiernan could never convey.
My husband had too much compassion to ever look like that.
Even under the blight's influence, he hadn't looked as emotionless as this man.
But the King's eyes were the worst. They stared out of his portrait, shining like polished metal, in a challenge to anyone who might defy him.
They lacked the dark limbal ring that Tiernan's eyes had, so it seemed as if his pupils seeped into the whites—a Seelie version of my Uncle Dylan's pure black, Unseelie eyes.
There was a gold plaque at the top of the frame. I read the name aloud, “King Solas Airestrachan of Seelie.” I looked at Tiernan. “Is this the King Lady Mariya was talking about?”
“Yes.”
“What's his mór?”
“Airestrachan is the Ice Storm.”
I grimaced at the man's cold face. “Why am I not surprised?”
“This is what I wanted to check. I remembered something odd about this portrait.” Tiernan pointed at the King's belt. There was a pair of strange silver scissors hanging from it.
“I mean, I get it.” I shrugged. “You can never find a pair of scissors when you need them.”
Tiernan made a face at me. “Seren, those aren't scissors. They're pruning shears. They are—hold on! Look at that!” He pointed at the globe. “Look at his finger. His fingertip is pointing to the very spot Lady Mariya showed us.”
“No fucking way,” I whispered. “He's literally pointing the way to the Garden.”
Tiernan lifted his chin. “I'm more confident about following her direction now.”
I met the portrait's stare. “Yeah. I don't know if confident is the right word, but I think that's confirmation.”
“Let's go. We need to scry your father.”
“Yeah, sure.” I let Tiernan lead me out of the gallery, but I kept looking back over my shoulder. It felt as if the damn painting was watching us.