Chapter Three
Three
Faolan
The oysters drop in an unholy clatter at the entrance of the cave as I storm in.
It’s not her fault. It’s not.
But some small, traitorous part of me keeps whispering that it is.
My hands shake as I shove vines aside, irritation growing with each curling strand that tangles around my fingers. I jerk my wrist back, breaking a tendril out of spite.
Bandia Saoirse—do they even know what that means?
Ferns jerk wildly as I stalk past them, the stench crawling off my skin growing stronger with every step inside—bloated fish, thick brine, and a healthy dose of decay.
Feckin’ disgusting.
I take one last step and snarl when my shoulders crest either of the cave walls right before they fly open to the one spot on this whole bloody island Saoirse and I won’t be bothered, because for all its security, it might as well be a crypt.
To the left is a pile of old fronds covered in scratchy gray wool blankets that crackle every time we lie down.
To the right, a waterlogged trunk filled with all the bits I salvaged from the wreckage of my ship: Saoirse’s bronze knitting needles, tarnished jewelry, and a handful of damaged animal hides. Ahead are the offerings.
So many damn offerings.
They started out small—mostly because no one had much when they first arrived.
A couple of bronze buttons. A spare skein of wool.
The gifts would appear at the mouth of the cave nestled in leaves or flower petals.
Harmless, really. But the more people came, the more elaborate grew their gifts, sacks of grain replacing the crusts of bread and family heirlooms, the sparse gold coins.
And you didn’t have to search hard to realize every last one of them came trussed up in strings.
I pass baskets and bouquets heaped against the wall and search for our clothes: plain and patchy, nearly all of them the invigorating color of mud.
It’s tempting to loot the pile of prayers for something nicer: a mustard-yellow tunic or ruby-studded torc.
But then I think of the baby left for Saoirse’s blessing two months past, born with a stork’s bite and her leg bent wrong.
She’d spent the night crying in my wife’s arms, until her mother arrived the next morning in a sobbing rage, blaming Saoirse for taking her last silk without healing her little girl.
We’ve redistributed anything that’s arrived ever since.
I duck around my old green coat, still bloodstained from the night Maccus attacked, snatch up a net of soap along with my last pair of trousers that hold some shred of personality to them, and storm right back out.
Squarely into the path of my cousin.
“Feck’s sake, Kiara.”
“Hello to you too.”
“I’m not in the mood—”
“That’s clear enough. Look at the state of you.”
Her nose wrinkles as I shove past, so I make sure we rub shoulders longer than necessary—enough that some of the stinking muck dampens her coat.
“Of course. Can’t have me appearing unstately, can we?
A king consort has to appear dignified.” I tug the laces of my trousers free, letting them sag at the back. “Regal.”
“Put your arse away before you bury your whole head in it.”
“Now, how could I do that when it’s already lost so far up yours?” I tighten the laces and move to stomp around her, then swear as my foot connects with a brown clay pot, sending it smack into a tree. A pungent wave of violet oil blends with the lovely fragrance of low tide.
Another feckin’ offering.
Kiara coughs as I stand there with my sore toe and stinging eyes, the muffled sound somewhere between a laugh and a gag.
But I don’t shout or kick the bag of shells as I pass or do any of the things I want.
If Kiara’s looking for a reason to scold me, I’m not particularly keen on giving her what she wants.
Instead I smile and sweep a bow, all my teeth bared. “Enjoy the aromas of paradise.”
“Wait.” Her smile drops as I stalk off. “Faolan—hold on, I was just having a go.”
I ignore her, tromping down a path we’ve worn into the ground that leads deeper into the heart of the island and away from prying eyes. At least, as away as one can get when it takes only three days of walking to ring the whole of the isle.
“Faolan.”
I push aside a branch and don’t bother warning her when I let it go, smirking when I hear a smack and a grunt.
“You’re being childish.”
“I’m being exactly what you made me. This is my land, isn’t it? And you’re an invader. Begone, foul parasite.”
Kiara swears, and I press on until the moss grows richer with every step, water pooling in the impressions my feet leave behind.
A bird trills nearby, then flits past, black and white feathers torn by blue.
The magpies were the first to arrive on the island after us—an ill omen, some might say, but I like the pesky wee creatures.
Keeping an eye out until the bird disappears, I reach the bare mountainside and find a split in the stone: narrow and mostly hidden, but carved with ancient steps leading up to a ledge that’s difficult to see if you don’t know where to look.
“This isn’t the way to the soul pools.” Kiara’s voice is breathless, undercut by an annoying clack.
“I know. It’s a better spot.” A heavy branch lies across the first couple of steps to hide them further, and I wrench it to one side. “Less depressing, anyway.”
“Right.”
Another branch, and the way is cleared. I take the steps two at a time, eager now to get the smell off me, and have nearly made it to the top when that clattering sound grows louder, stopping me cold. I whip around to see Kiara’s holding the net of oysters, their shells smacking against the wall.
“Give those back, Kiara.”
“Why?” Kiara could level a mountain with her look. “You abandoned them.”
“I didn’t abandon anything!” Not like you abandoned me. I shake my head. “I was just leaving them for later.”
“Well, I’ll shuck them while we talk.”
A laugh scrapes my throat raw. “We’re not talking.”
“Aren’t we already?”
“Dammit, Kiara—”
“My official royal title.” Her smile would piss off the most patient saint. “I’d almost forgotten.”
Rubble grinds underfoot as I turn back, clearing the ledge with three more strides and a fair bit of swearing. Immediately, the wind picks up, casting steam like a simmer pot into my lungs so that they’re slick with fire and ice all at once: a gift from the hot spring set into our mountain.
I don’t bother looking back as I jerk the laces loose, strip myself bare, and sink in.
“Is your wife aware yet of your complete and utter lack of decorum?”
“Very much so, thanks.” A groan works its way out as I tip my head back into the water, a stream of bubbles skimming my neck. “In fact, we were just talking about making it the new law of the island. No utensils with dinner, or fussing about with clothes on sunny days.”
“A popular decision, I’m sure.”
I start to laugh—a real one this time—but bite it back. She doesn’t deserve to hear it. And something about her silence makes me wonder if she agrees. Saoirse goes quiet like that, when her mind’s all wound up.
I dunk the soap and lather its netting across my chest, where it catches the raised scar on my shoulder Maccus left behind. It’s not the ugliest I’ve borne, but it is the most tender at present.
“Saoirse knows plenty about me by now.”
“Hmm.” Kiara tilts her head as she watches me, then reaches for the netted bag again. “You should work on your swordplay, you know.”
My hand stops, lather sliding between my fingers. “I fought all right.”
“You were sloppy.” Kiara hikes one leg onto the rock she’s chosen as her perch, dagger and an oyster already in hand. “Relying on your reputation to do half the work. It started a while ago, but that’s why Maccus bested you.”
“Think so?” Fury boils in my belly. “You don’t reckon it has anything to do with the fact my only family turned tail and left me there? Or that my wife was killing herself trying to wake this damn place up? No, it’s my own arrogance that gutted me in the end, wasn’t it?”
At last, Kiara flinches, her gaze dropping away.
I wish I felt more proud.
Instead, I scrub silt from my arms and then cover my face in soap.
“What do you want, Faolan?”
I spit a mouthful of suds. “An apology for starters. But I know you won’t give it.”
“And why’s that?”
My eyes meet hers: ruthless and judging as the day we first met. “Because you’re not sorry. You wanted it to happen.”
A corner of Kiara’s mouth lifts. “With less stabbing, sure.” She waits for my smile. Sadly for her, it fails to appear. “I never wanted you or yours dead.”
“But you’d have let it happen.”
“No.” Her word lands sharp, green slipping a shade darker in her eyes as she glares. “I had control the whole time, Faolan. If you’d just trusted me—”
“Bullshite.” My hand smacks the water, splashing her. She startles to her feet, red-cheeked and glaring. “I did trust you, Kiara. And you double-crossed me.”
“How?” The cool visage of the queen slips, leaving my cousin in her wake. “I gave you what you’ve always wanted. Glory. Renown. I made you a legend!”
“You made me nothing!”
My shout chases up the stony wall and straight off the ledge above, lashing the both of us with its truth. A nasty weight lodges in my rib cage as Kiara blanches, knife slipping before she tightens her grasp. Her eyes search mine, lips parting as though to speak.
I’m under the water before she can say my name.
There once was a boy with no name who longed for a cloak of wolfskin.
Copper flickers past my vision as I sink to the bottom, holding my breath until my lungs burn—and even then I keep at it. Anything to avoid the inevitable.
It’s too bloody bad I’m not part merfolk.
When I resurface, Kiara’s sitting back down with an oyster in hand. I wait for her to say something about my childish antics, shame already creeping up my spine, but she just jams a knife between the oyster’s lips.
“Fourteen years ago, you arrived on Ashen Flame, wayward as a current and half-starved to be seen. You were ugly then, dressed in a gray tunic, with no shoes and shorn hair. Someone forgettable.”
My fingers twitch as she cracks the shell open, viscous strings sliding down her blade.
“Until you looked up.” Kiara catches my eye as she drops her knife and dips a thumb into the oyster’s flesh. “I’d never seen someone so hungry.”
“You try starving for three days.”
“We both know it wasn’t food you were after.
” She eases the folds apart from one another, until finally, an object starts to break through.
“You wanted more, and you got it: the Wolf, the Isle of Lost Souls, the first goddess in generations. Whether you like your current position or not, you are a living legend. But I wonder, sometimes, if even that will ever be enough.”
I don’t say a word as Kiara gives one last flick of her thumb and a pearl pops free: midnight purple, with flecks of green, pink, and blue. She lifts it to the light, head tilted to see how the colors shift.
“Does Saoirse know about them yet?”
A cord tugs at my gut. Bands around my chest.
“About the pearls? Nah, I was going to—”
“Not the pearl.” Kiara rolls it between her fingers, then tosses it to me. “The Gan Ainm.”
My hand jerks, sending the gemstone tumbling across the rocks. “No. No one does—and I intend to keep it that way.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “That’s a dangerous game, Faolan. Like keeping a starving boy locked up.”
“Kiara.” I start to stand, limbs shaking and jaw locked tight. But there’s something in her expression that stops me. Prickles the skin at the back of my neck. “Just promise me you won’t tell her.”
Kiara wipes the dagger on the edge of her shirt, smile bitter and only half-formed.
“Promise you’ll forgive me, and I won’t say a word.”
I laugh. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“It can. It has before.”
“Before, you hadn’t burned my ship.”
Kiara tucks her blade into the harness, then folds her arms across her chest. “I’ll get you a new one in time. There are far bigger things at work right now than those we’ve chased before—and far more at stake, little cousin. I need to know you’re on my side.”
I glare at her even as that damned wind blows up the mountainside, chilling my bared skin to the bone. Still, it’s nothing to the cold I feel when I think of the Gan Ainm. Those ugly frieze tunics. The pity on Saoirse’s face if she ever found out.
“Fine.” I spit the word out. “But if you think I’ll follow you blindfolded this time—”
“You won’t.” Kiara grins as she crosses behind me, flicking my ear in passing. A dull thud follows her, the sound of cloth hitting ground. “Get dressed, little wolf. It’s time to play our hand.”