True, Cathair could well defend himself, but it was Tearloch’s responsibility to ensure the prince’s safety. Not his comfort.
He did not wish to see the princess as his enemy, but given the situation he had little choice.
Cathair, on the other hand, sat with his back to the horses, the carriage driver at his left. There was a tension in the prince that Tearloch had not often seen. They would all sleep more easily when the traitor was secure in their dungeons.
If not of the seriousness of the situation, the steady rhythm of the carriage wheels on the dirt road that connected the Deachair with the Moraine could very easily have lulled Tearloch to sleep. If not for the enemy within and the traitor on the loose.
Flann did not seem to suffer under such strain. The old fae had leaned his head against the window and, within minutes of starting their journey, began snoring like a bear.
It did not fill Tearloch with much confidence over how smooth their ride might have been if the driver were at the reins.
It was the princess who finally broke the silence. “Why do you believe the traitor to be within our walls?”
She asked the question casually, almost absently as she stared out the window at the passing forest.
Tearloch knew his prince could not give the true answer, that Winnie had dreamed of Ultan’s escape through the eastern forest. Along the very road they now traveled between the clans. If any outside the tightest circle within the palace learned that the Moraine had a dreamer among their numbers, and a human dreamer at that, both Winnie and the entire clan would be at risk from all sides. Every clan—ally and enemy, unseelie and seelie alike—would wipe out every last Moraine to possess such power.
It was a miracle that the traitor had not learned the truth before he fled.
“We have heard that Ultan was colluding with your clan,” Cathair replied. “The alliance negotiations with Drustan gave them ample opportunity to forge plans.”
There was that smile from the princess again. Only this time not as well hidden.
“You are mistaken,” she said. “Ultan’s negotiations were not with my father.”
“No?” Cathair asked.
She turned from the window. “They were with me directly.”
Tearloch frowned. That seemed unusual. A royal princess negotiating her own betrothal to a rival prince.
“That means that if Ultan was colluding with the Deachair,” Tearloch reasoned, “then he was doing so with you.”
“You do yourself no service, Princess,” Cathair told her.
She shrugged. “I see no reason to lie. I have done nothing wrong. As I said—“ She turned and faced out the window once more. “—the Deachair are neither colluding with nor harboring your traitor.”
Tearloch was studying her, trying to decide whether to believe his instinct that she told the truth, when the carriage jerked violently one direction and then the other, before lunging into a sprint. The princess screamed. Tearloch braced his feet on the floor and his arm into the seat to keep from crashing along the bench into her. Across the carriage, Cathair slammed sideways into the sleeping driver, crushing the older fae against the wall.
The vehicle did not slow—in fact, it sped up—and Tearloch muttered a curse under his breath.
After a quick glance at the princess to make certain she was unharmed, he pulled himself up to lean out the window and shout at Liam.
Only as he did, he saw the riders. Fae riders, perhaps half a dozen, their bodies and faces shrouded by black cloth so neither they nor their clan could be identified. They wielded swords, the long, thin blades glinting in the moonlight.
His first thought was thieves. Brigands out to steal whatever goods they could.
But what sort of thieves would attack a royal caravan, escorted by the entire force of the Morainian army? For that matter, where was the army?
Four horses weighed down by a full carriage would never outpace solo riders. Which meant not only that they could not escape their assailants, but that their own riders should have been keeping up.
“What is going on?” the princess demanded.
Tearloch directed his words Cathair. “We are under attack.”
The prince nodded, reached beneath the seat he shared with Flann and pulled out a battle sword. There were other weapons secreted about the cabin, Tearloch knew. The one he sought was hidden beneath the princess’s seat.
He dropped to his knees and retrieved the bow and quiver as quickly as possible.
The prince could defend the passengers. Tearloch needed the strategic advantage of the roof.
He stood unsteadily, bracing himself with a broad stance as he slipped the quiver strap over his head and shoulder. Then he flung open the door, reached up onto the roof, and pulled himself out of the carriage.
From this high perch Tearloch saw there were more riders than he originally thought. A full dozen at least.
At the front of the carriage, Liam grappled with one of the assailants, trying to keep control of the reins in one hand while fending off the sword-wielding assailant with the other.
Several wounds leaked purple blood where the blade had sliced through Liam’s clothes and flesh.
The attacker had not noticed Tearloch, who used the element of surprise to his advantage. Pulling himself forward by the bars of the luggage rack, he maneuvered into position behind the black-swathed fae. Tearloch pushed up to his knees, then dove at the attacker, grabbing him around the neck. With one violent twist, he flung the man off the side of the carriage.
Tearloch didn’t turn to see if he bounced when he hit the ground.
“What the Everdark is going on?” he demanded as he dropped into the seat next to Liam.
“Came out of nowhere at the last curve,” Liam explained as he struggled against the reins, trying to get the horses back under control. “That one you tossed swung down from a tree.”
Lying in wait. Tearloch could figure out what that meant later.
“Where are our forces?” he asked.
Liam scowled. “Disappeared some time before.”
“A folaigh?”
It had to be. Only the powerful shielding magic of a folaigh could make an entire army vanish. None among the Moraine had enough power to conjure one. These were formidable foes.
“The curve at scath carraig is coming up,” Liam said, his voice tight. “’Twill be near impossible at this speed.”
Tearloch understood. He needed to act fast.
He turned in the seat, knees on the bench and boots braced against the front rail. Pressing his hips against the edge of the carriage roof, he held himself upright. As high as possible. The better the angle, the better the shot.
Bow secured in his left hand, he reached over his shoulder and drew out an arrow.
He preferred the sword. Preferred the solid weight in his hands, the ability to use strength and leverage over finesse and geometry. But he practiced on the archery fields often enough. He was still the best shot in the clan.
In one fluid movement, he positioned the arrow, drew back the bowstring, and aimed. Breathed out. Released.
The arrow hit the first rider square in the chest.
Instead of falling to the ground, the fae vanished into thin air. Further proof of a folaigh. Again and again, he drew, aimed, and fired. Again and again, his arrows found their marks. When the last of the riders fell, he spun back in the seat.
“Clear,” he shouted. “Slow the horses.”
Liam grunted, pulled in the reins with all his might, but the beasts paid no mind. They were wild with fright from the chase.
“The scath carraig is coming,” Liam bit out. “They will not stop in time.”
There was no time to consider options. Without hesitation, Tearloch launched himself forward, out of the bench and onto the tongue that ran between the rear horses. A hand on either horse, he pushed forward, determined to get the lead horse in hand.
He heard Liam shout, “Brace yourselves!”
&nb
sp; With one massive effort, Tearloch leapt from the tongue onto the lead horse’s back.
He couldn’t spare the effort to look up, to see how close to the curve they were. He could only pull on the horse’s reins and pray to Morgana that it was in time.
They started into the curve. Arm muscles clenched, he held tight to the beast’s neck and braced for the inevitable.
It never came.
Behind him, the carriage groaned like an ancient bed. The horse beneath him quieted. Slowed. And, finally, stopped.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
As he found the strength to push up, to turn around, he saw the entirety of the Moraine forces racing to the carriage’s aid. He could only grin with relief as he called out, “It’s about time you lot showed up!”
Chapter 5
It had been years since Arianne visited the Moraine palace. She couldn’t remember the last time—no, that was not true. She could. She remembered exactly what happened the last time she entered the imposing stone facade. She must have been no more than eight or nine. Her parents had been invited to a royal ball, and she and her sister were allowed to attend for the first time.
Arianne had been too scared to venture into the ballroom. She had snuck outside to play in the gardens while her parents and sisters danced the night away. She got lost in the hedge maze. Her terror had been overwhelming.
She couldn’t catch her breath. It was night and the lights of the ballroom did not reach this deeply into the gardens. She would be lost out there forever.
Or at least until morning.
Her parents would worry. Her sister would worry. She hated to make anyone worry over her.
She needed to retrace her steps. If only she could remember which direction she had come from. But the entire maze looked just the same. One green hedge after another, all perfectly straight and much taller than she could see over.
What if she was lost there forever? What if she never got out? What if there were monsters in the maze that wanted to—
Her thoughts were just starting to spiral out of control when she heard the footsteps. She bit her lips, held her breath. Fearful.
A boy—tall and lean, probably a few years older than her, with dark hair and pale eyes—emerged around the corner. Arianne almost cried with relief.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“I watched you run into the maze,” he said.”When you didn’t come back out I was afraid you were lost.”
She smiled gratefully. “I am.”
“Not any more,” he said, holding out his arm for her to take like he was asking her to dance.
She wrapped her small hand around his elbow. He led them confidently out of the maze, as if he had memorized the path and knew exactly how to get them out.
In what felt like an instant later, they were walking out onto the lawn that stretched between the hedge maze and the patio outside the ballroom. He escorted her across the grass and up the steps. When the reached the doors to the ballroom, he stopped.
“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I have other duties.”
Then he reached behind his neck, lifted a something up over his head, and then held it out to her. She took it and studied it. A tiny silver fox—the symbol of the clan Moraine—hung from a dark leather cord.
He had no way of knowing the fox was her ainmhi.
She smiled and quickly slipped the cord over her head. “Thank you.”
He stepped closer, pressed a brief kiss to her cheek, and then disappeared into the night.
Arianne still wore that pendant every day, though the leather cord had been long ago replaced by a thin silver one. A constant reminder that no matter how lost she felt, if she kept a level head and remained patient, she would find her way out. Even if she required a little help.
Without thinking about it, she reached up and fingered the small pendant, hidden now beneath the bodice of her gown. She was going to need all the help the little fox could give her if she was going to convince the O Cuanas to go along with her plan.
“This way, princess,” the tall, dark-haired guard told her.
What had the prince called him? Tearloch?
From the marking on his jacket, he was of high rank in the royal guard. Perhaps even captain. He was one of the pair that had stood beside the prince when he called for an audience with her father. The one who had seemed almost impressed when she volunteered herself as prisoner.
There was no sense of approval from him now.
“Thank you,” she said as she preceded him up the stairs.
At the top, she paused, waiting for further direction. In truth, she was surprised to be taken to the living quarters. She fully expected to be dragged into the dungeon upon arrival.
Especially after the attack on the carriage. She could not be certain, but it seemed likely that her urgent raven to Callistra had precipitated the attack. It made sense.
Not that she would mention that probably to the Moraine. Whatever conclusions they came to, she did not wish to point guilt in her clan’s direction. If it came to that, she would take full blame.
The prince and his warriors had been silent the rest of the journey. She could not guess their thoughts.
“Last door on the right,” Tearloch instructed.
They walked in silence. Next to the imposing guard, she felt small. Delicate.
She supposed some might consider her such. But only those who knew her not.
At the end of the hall, Tearloch opened the ornate door, and gestured her inside.
Rather than follow her in, he remained in the hall and closed the door between them.
Arianne spun in a slow circle. “So this is to be my prison,” she whispered to the empty room.
As far as prisons went, it was quite lovely. A plush bed, soft carpets, and a window that overlooked the courtyard. Of course, there were thick iron bars on the window. But if she transformed into her ainmhi she could likely squeeze between them.
Assuming she had enough power to transform. Which she did not. She had not been able to transform outside her la ainmhi—the one day each month that fae must spend as animal in order to maintain their magic—since her sister left the palace. Since the curse that decimated her people and left them virtually powerless. She could no more transform into a fox than she could—
“I see you are enjoying the view.”
Arianne jumped and turned at the sudden intrusion. She had not heard the door open, had been too lost in her thoughts. Somehow, Queen Eimear stood but a few feet away.
Arianne curtsied as deep as her gown would allow. “I did not expect such nice accommodation.”
“Did you think we would throw the girl who nearly married my son into the pits?”
The queen’s velvet slippers came into view. Arianne felt a pressure on her elbow as Eimear lifted her back to her feet.
As she rose, their eyes met, and for a moment—just a brief, passing moment—Arianne felt as if she could tell the queen… anything. There was a softness in her golden eyes, a knowing gentleness. It was a look Arianne had once known well, but had not seen in many years. It was a mother’s look.
It made Arianne ache for missing her own mother. For the talks they might have shared, for the guidance she might have given.
Something in that look urged Arianne to spill her soul. To tell the queen everything—about her missing father, about her clan’s devastating curse, about the lies and secrets Arianne had been carrying to keep her dying clan alive. But as soon as the thought entered her mind, Arianne shoved it to the Everdark. None outside the Deachair knew of the curse. None outside her inner circle knew of Drustan’s absence. To tell anyone else these precious secrets would expose her clan, her people, to far too much risk.
So, instead of confiding the heavy secrets within her, Arianne swallowed them down. Locked them away, where they couldn’t escape. Not even if she wanted them to.
“I did not know what to expect,�
�� she replied honestly.
Over the queen’s shoulder, Arianne saw Tearloch standing just inside the door. Prepared to protect the queen. What did he expect Arianne to do? Attack? Even if she had the inclination, such an act would be suicide. He must think her quite stupid.
“My son seems to believe this is some kind of deception,” Eimear said. “That you have given yourself to our custody as part of some nefarious plot.”
Arianne shifted her gaze back to the queen, chose her words carefully. “I can see why he would think as much.”
“Then he is wrong?” the queen asked.
“No, your highness,” Arianne replied. “He is not.”
The frowned, surely stunned by the unexpected answer.
“There is no nefarious motive in my surrender,” Arianne hurried to explain. “But there is a plot. One that will benefit us all, if we are successful.”
Eimear arched one brow. “Go on.”
“I do not know where the traitor Ultan lies,” she began, “but I know one who might be able to help us find him.”
When Arianne said the word us, the queen’s head tilted slightly and from the edge of her vision Arianne saw Tearloch do the same. Though it might seem strange that she would ally herself with her captors, in truth she had no other choice.
“And who might that be?” the queen asked.
Arianne took a steadying breath. “Callistra.”
The queen gasped, clutched a hand to her chest in shock.
“The witch?” Tearloch demanded, at his queen’s side in an instant.
Arianne nodded. “The very same.”
“And why would she help us?” he spat, snarling the final word like a curse.
“Because,” Arianne said, knowing she needed to reveal at least this one secret if she were to have any chance at convincing them, “she is my sister.”
Chapter 6
After securing the princess in her chamber, Tearloch was the last of the party to enter the seomra rioga.
At one time, the royal hall had been a gleaming, glittering display of magical opulence. It dazzled all who entered, from the lowest peasant to the highest royal. Over the centuries, as the Moraine had fallen so had their palace. A crumbling clan with a crumbling seat of power.
Darkly Fae: The Moraine Cycle Page 9