Chapter Eight
Eight
Faolan
The first time I met the Ring of Stars, I memorialized the experience by vomiting into a bush—not because the royals were particularly frightening or I was struck with some grandiose sense of awe, but because of the great stink coming off all those shining people crammed between four stifling walls.
Even now, leaned back against a tent pole with the sea air filling my lungs, I can still taste the rank musk of it all.
“Leave those up, would you?”
A lad balks from where he’d been reaching for one of the wax cloth panels and the heavy length of rope tying it back. “Pardon, sir. I thought the old one might catch a chill.”
“Careful. If she hears you calling her that, you’ll never live to see the age yourself.
” Clapping him on the shoulder, I take one more look out past the shoreline to the glittering sea beyond, then turn to see Ríona Etain drop into her seat with more grace than I gave her credit for, ancient bones folding neatly on the wool cushion Saoirse spent hours batting together.
Saoirse.
Every bone in my body rattles as I fight the urge to bolt for the entrance and check that she’s all right. But Kiara swore she had a guard on her, hidden in the woods—and Brona ought to be there as well.
Staving off a groan, I sink beside the eldest queen and try to summon an ounce of good manners, thanking every star above for the constant breeze coming through. “What can I do you for, Highness? Farl and gubbeen?” I nod to the piles of split bread, the creamy wheel of cheese. “Smoked salmon stew?”
“If I’d wanted the spoils of Bridled Stag, I’d have stayed home, boy.”
Cantankerous old crone.
“Right.” I grab a wooden bowl filled to the brim with jellylike yellow and brown mushrooms. “Witches’ butter, one of the only things we’ve managed to forage here—save for some herbs and leafy bits. I’m fairly certain they’re edible, and hopefully not poison. Eat up.”
Finally, the facade splits and my favorite old queen smiles.
“You’re lucky you’ve a proper wit about you, or else I might be offended.”
“Aye, I’ll thank that and my devilish good looks.” Laughing, I tuck the bowl back onto the table and brush a kiss to her wrinkled cheek. “Give us a proper greeting, would you, Etty?”
“Don’t let any of the others hear you call me that.” Etain grabs my ear and gives it a tweak, earrings tapping together as she sits back. “They might start to get ideas.”
“I’d like to see the miserable bastards try.”
Aisling starts toward us, but I wave her off, grabbing a plate of boxty for Etain instead. “Your favorite.”
“Ta, Wolf.” She snatches a potato cake up, and I can’t help a smile at the glitter of her rings as she does—a source of great inspiration when I was a lad, though I’ll go to my grave before admitting it.
“It’s no trouble.” I take one for myself. “Tell me, though, are you really in knots over the food shipments?”
“No. If anything, it’s a help to our population, sending a few dozen people with it. We’re damn near full to bursting.”
“So I’ve noticed.” Flecks of salt stick to my skin as I turn the boxty over. “How’s your health?”
“As if you give a damn about my health.”
“I’m only trying to make conversation!”
“Well, don’t. Asking such a mundane thing is beneath you, lad. You’re far more clever than that.”
My smile turns grim as I take a bite. “I was, aye.”
Etain knocks the potato cake from my hand before I can take another. “Self-pity suits you just as much as small talk does.”
“Which is to say brilliantly?” I lick salt off my finger. “Like nothing you’ve ever seen?”
Etain’s great golden crown trembles as she shakes her head. “Like an overfed cat who’s forgotten its claws.”
“Charming.”
“That’s meant to be your role, lad.” The eldest queen heaves a sigh, and it’s only then I hear the slight rattle behind it. Sign of a sickness lingering too long. “So go on. Charm me.”
I search her face more carefully and note for the first time a dullness to her usual bronze sheen. “Something’s happened to you since the solstice.”
She frowns. “That’s not what I had in mind.”
I lean closer, marking the slow pattern of her pulse. The yellow tint to her eyes.
“Etain, what have the healers said?”
“Leave it.” The queen of stags sits higher, until she can almost look down her nose at me. “I told you I want to be charmed, not pitied.”
“Understood.” I stretch my head back and swallow. “You, ah, you’ve never looked so lovely. I can tell by the flush to your cheeks that the sea air’s kissed you soundly.”
“That’s more like it.” Etain smiles, and it’s the same sad stretch my wife performs when she’s trying to be brave. “Now, would you care to tell me what my granddaughter is getting up to with that cousin of yours? Or will you give me the same trite excuses as them?”
The room shifts as more people enter: Tadgh’s court and the flesh-wasted king himself. A couple of gray-cloaked figures and members of Kiara’s crew. One separates himself from the others, jet-black hair falling into his slanted eyes.
Tavin. The traitor.
I pluck up an apple as my blood runs hot, rolling it across my knuckles like a gold coin. “You really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.” The ancient queen holds my gaze, and maybe it’s because I’m feeling reckless, or maybe it’s because she’s more than likely dying, but before I can coat it in sugar, the truth slips out.
“Kiara’s making a bid for High Queen. Saoirse was the final step.”
Etain chokes and for a second I wonder if I’ve stopped the old girl’s heart.
Then she laughs, hard and loud enough to draw half the tent’s eyes our way.
I grin like I’ve just told a joke while sweat coats my hairline and Kiara tries to catch my eye.
Finally, Etain’s laughter turns to full-body coughs until Aisling leaps from her spot near my cousin to catch her grandmother’s hand.
“Nana?” Aisling murmurs, pressing a cup of water onto the old queen, who drinks until her cough subsides—but when she looks at me, her eyes glitter with mirth.
“The world’s gone to shit, love. It started long before I came into power, and it’ll keep on long after I leave, no matter who’s in charge.”
Aisling jerks back, gaze darting between her grandmother and me. “Nana, what did he—”
“He told me nothing I didn’t already suspect.” Etain pats her cheek. “And I have to tell you, it’s a worthless plot, my darling.”
Aisling’s jaw drops open, too much showing on her face.
Etain closes it with a wrinkled finger. “This very island supposedly ceased to exist when the gods killed its patron. What do you think happened to the rest of the Crescent when our people slaughtered their gods?” A tired smile crests her face as she dismisses me with a wave.
“We got magic, yes, but also the cost that came with it. And there’s no avoiding that.
We’ll pay our dues one way or another. Now, be a dear and fetch me the apple tart. ”
I roll to my feet, avoiding Kiara’s needling gaze in favor of seeking out the king of Frozen Hearth.
Tadgh was sallow this morning coming off the ship and looks even more gaunt now, eyes stuck on the tent’s entrance.
And there’s something strangely…fervent in his gaze.
In the way he grips a silk-wrapped bundle tight over his lap.
I start toward him, ready to see what he’s about, when Rí Maccus enters the tent, looking directly at me.
The bastard has the nerve to smile.
Without much thought, I turn on my heel and leg it toward a split in the tent flaps. Hang what Kiara said—I’m going to find my wife.
The moment the sun hits my face, I breathe easier. Better still once the wind picks up, clearing the air of perfume, meat, and wine. Chatter dies back, and for a split second all I hear is the sea.
Until Tavin approaches, always so light with his steps.
“Captain.”
The word punches the air from my lungs.
My old quartermaster’s none the worse for wear, damn him.
His hair’s wrapped in a strip of woad-dyed linen, shirt spun of the same cloth.
No marks remain from Maccus’s attack—at least none that are visible—but his eyes hold plenty of weight all the same.
I thought it was a judgment when we first sailed together, the heaviness in his gaze, but eventually it became a strange sort of comfort.
Now it’s a reminder of all I’ve lost.
I fold my hands behind my neck. “Can a man still be called captain when he has no ship?”
Tavin’s serious mouth twitches up. “You know, I used to think you’d grow out of this.”
“Out of what?”
“Petulance.”
I barely hold back a snort. “Is it petulant to be furious about losing everything I’ve built?”
“Only when you keep blaming me for it.”
Fire nips at my heels. Urges me to pace, but I keep my feet planted. I won’t be able to stand the smirk he’ll send my way if I give in. “Your testimony lost us our ship—”
“Maccus lost you the ship.” A cloud passes over Tavin’s face. “All I did was recount our history.”
“You could’ve said you forgot it. You could have delayed.”
“I swore an oath.”
My legs buck against the stillness.
I tell them to quiet down.
“You swore an oath to me, once. To the wolves. Or don’t you remember?”
He glares at me as I tug my shirt to one side, revealing the tattooed wolf fading over my heart.
“I remember fine. Don’t forget I wear it too.”
“Then why—”
“Because I am a seanchaí first, Faolan.” Tavin pulls at his collar, and the hands of Clodagh appear at the top of his chest. “Call me a turncoat if you want, but all I did was recount the law. Kiara backed us both into a corner, and faced with the choice, I’d rather see you landlocked than dead.”
A muscle dances under my coat, smarting where Maccus’s blade cut in. “I would’ve survived it.”
His eyes narrow. “And the bargainer’s mark?”
Feck.
“I was going to tell you—”
“When?”
“When I’d figured out a way to get rid of the damn thing!”
“Stars spare me.” Tavin lets go of his shirt to shove at my shoulder, hard. “Fine, then. You’re mad at me for speaking; I’m mad at you for nearly dying. We’ll call it square, shall we?”
I rub the heel of my hand against the tender spot he pressed. “Hardly a fair trade.”
“I’ll sweeten the deal.” Tavin rolls his eyes and slaps an object into my palm: warped golden stitches coated in a thin layer of salt. A lump forms in my throat as I wedge the cured leather against my knuckles, scraping until the sun pattern’s revealed.
With a hard swallow, I uncap my old flask and take a sip.
“Fine. We’re square.”
Tavin’s groan chases the whiskey fire all the way down my throat. “You should have told me about the bargain.”
“Why, so you could berate me sooner?”
His eyes flick from mine to a place behind me. “So we could’ve planned a funeral.”
“And what a proper celebration that would’ve been!”
A soft, muscled arm hooks around my neck as Nessa steps between us, treating Tavin to the same so we’re both buried in her bosom—one of her favorite ways to greet those she calls friend. I could swear the birds sing brighter as I lean in.
“Hate to disappoint you,” I manage around a mouthful of copper hair, attempting to cork the flask back up. “Shall I try to die again?”
“Keep talking, and someone will threaten you eventually.” She gives one more suffocating squeeze and then lets go, grin spreading by the second. “About time you two made up. It was going to be awkward once we got ourselves back on a ship.”
My smile slips. “Aye, well…Listen, have you seen—”
“Saoirse!”
Nessa waves a hand to Brona and Saoirse, who skirt the tent’s edge. Our navigator appears as pleasant as ever, lips twisted and brows bent in a single line, but Saoirse…
Saoirse’s soaked to the bone and holding a jagged black crown.
My gut drops as I stare at the thing, crafted by a master’s hands. Sold at the Scath-Díol, it could easily fetch between three and five sacks of silver, depending on whether those stones possess magic or not. Judging by her face, it’s hard to tell whether they do.
I don’t hesitate before scooping her into my arms. “What’s wrong?”
“Her brother’s an absolute arse.”
Saoirse blinks, and a tear drops onto my arm. “Aidan—he wouldn’t talk to me.”
I press my lips to her temple. Bury my fingers at the base of her skull. “To shade’s realm with him, then.”
“No, he—” She shakes her head. “He probably still thinks it’s my fault. But that’s not important now. Maccus—”
One of Callen’s court emerges beside us, followed by two of Tadgh’s, and it’s like a bolt of lightning runs through her.
Saoirse straightens, hands tightening on the spikes of beryl and basalt.
Still, she can’t control her eyes as they begin to shift colors like a ferocious gale tearing across the sea.
“Later,” she whispers.
“Later, then.” I squeeze her arms and kiss her forehead, then look to the others. “Right. Saoirse and I have to go kiss the feet of every damn person in that tent thanks to Kiara. Meanwhile, I want you to make rounds—”
“Me as well, Captain?”
Lorcan emerges from the tent’s corner, salt water still clinging to his boots. I don’t have a chance to reply before Brona tears past me, throwing her whole weight into his arms, but my chest swells with pride all the same.
“Yes, you too. Gods, it’s good to see you. Gather information and a cask or two of wine while you’re at it, then meet us tonight at the hot spring once the moon reaches peak. Agreed?”
“Aye, Captain.”
Captain.
Music to my feckin’ ears.