Harris ignored her and knelt beside the King.
Concern lacing his words, he asked, “But what did this?”
The King closed his eyes and shuddered, like a fit of some sort. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he lunged for Harris. The monarch barely made it off the bed. Harris leapt back and Ailsa felt a wave of horror wash through her as she realised the King was chained to the bed frame. He writhed around and gnashed his teeth together, cursing at them. Finally, after a few minutes, he slowly gave up, the fight draining out of him. He gripped the mattress and wailed, tears pouring down his face.
“Please, just let me die. Let me die.”
Lady Moira patted Iona on the back softly. “I think we should leave His Majesty alone now. We won’t get much sense from him for a while.”
“What happened to him?” she demanded, her gaze never leaving the King as they moved towards the door. Ailsa quickly followed. She didn’t want to be left alone with the demented man.
“Prince Duncan will tell you.” This was all Lady Moira said before signalling the attendants to go back into the room. One was carrying a jar of liquid and a needle. “He has asked to meet you during the ceilidh in the main hall.” She steered them back across the large greenhouse and through the cramped portal to the tunnels.
“Where are we going now?” asked Harris, half of his attention focussed on the paintings again as they made their way back along the corridor.
“I’ll see you back to your rooms while the guests are still arriving. Dinner will be served for you there. Once you’ve eaten and are ready, I will return and escort you to the hall.”
Ailsa was glad to be gone from the little glass room, but the King’s contorted face still haunted her. She was pleased to hear the buzz of the entrance hall again. The King’s sick room was like a tomb and she didn’t want to be around when he got his final wish.
Chapter 15
When the trio arrived back at their chambers, a spread of Eilanmòrian delicacies lay across a table in the lounge area: venison and lamb steamed on enamel plates, blackberries and spring fruits sat beside a pitcher of golden wine. A servant poured some glasses for them and Ailsa caught a hint of sweet strawberries from the drink.
Harris lifted a lid to reveal something black. “Hmm. I don’t think I’ve ever tried this before.” He grabbed a spoon and helped himself. “It’s delicious!” he said, mouth full, reaching for more.
“It’s blood,” muttered Ailsa, loud enough for him to hear. He immediately spat it out.
“What!”
“It’s congealed blood. Or blood pudding.” She popped a bit in her mouth and grinned in satisfaction as the colour drained from his face. “It’s peasant food. It seems to have become popular among royalty, though.”
“That’s disgusting.” He grabbed a raspberry and threw it in his mouth to get rid of the offending taste.
Ailsa just shrugged and helped herself to a plate. “When you kill a pig, you should use up all of it. You can’t be picky when you’re starving.” She grinned darkly. “I would have thought that, as one of the fair folk, you wouldn’t be afraid of a little gore in your food?”
He shuddered. “Give me fish any day.”
When they’d eaten their meal, Iona stood up from the table and announced she would change for the ceilidh. What? It’s only been a few hours since we last dressed, thought Ailsa.
“Go on without me,” she sighed, lounging back in her chair. “I don’t think I can bear more womanly fussing today.”
Iona left the room, with a swish of her skirts.
“Shall we retire to the couch?” asked Harris, yawning as he rose from his place. “I think I need a nap after eating all that food.”
“Well, you didn’t need to eat so much,” she chided but followed him over to the comfier seating in the corner. From here, they could look out the window, where city lights were starting to be lit. They stared out into the view in companionable silence. Ailsa’s mind drifted back to King Connall. From the look of him, she would be surprised if he lived long enough for Harris to go on his adventure to find the stone.
“What do you think happened to the King?” she asked in a subdued voice.
He braced his arms on his knees before answering, still looking out the window. “I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions.”
“What?”
He turned to her then and raised his eyebrows. “Not what, who.”
Last night’s dream came to mind and she shivered. “You think it was the faerie queen, Nicnevan?”
“She’s tortured men before and everyone knows she has no love for humans, especially royal ones.” He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the russet strands. “The only problem is, Nicnevan is supposedly chained to a tree somewhere up north.”
“And the King was attacked on an island south of here,” Ailsa finished for him.
He considered this for a moment and then spoke, choosing his words carefully. “Could be… she’s found some… help.”
Ailsa’s pulse thundered under her skin. “Are there a lot of other fae that could do this?”
“Rumour has it that she has horrible demons under her control.”
Ailsa bit her lip, trying to contain her questions. Being here like this, being told things, it was fast becoming an addiction. She felt giddy with it; like standing on the edge of a dark pool, she had glimpsed things, terrible and magical, swimming just beneath the surface.
Finally, she whispered, “Like what?”
“She rules all fae kind but favours her Unseelie Court: the wicked faeries.” He leaned closer, and Ailsa felt his body—his warmth—on her bare arm, just as his voice froze her in place. “Haven’t you ever heard stories about evil creatures? Or felt the hair at the back of your neck stand on end when you’re in a dark room or the forest?”
Red eyes, crunching footsteps…
Ailsa felt like she was being swallowed by the sofa her heart beat frantically. Does Harris know what lurks in the forest? The thing that had stalked her since she was twelve. Was it one of Nicnevan’s monsters? She tried to swallow but her throat was dry as bone. Oblivious, Harris carried on with his theories.
“I’d bet that Nicnevan decided to attack when she thought King Connall was weaker.” He snapped his attention to Ailsa’s face and grabbed her hand. “If Nicnevan has allies, it is even more essential that we get the Stone. Before, I thought that it was just a safety precaution, but Prince Duncan must have his suspicions too.”
Her pulse still pounding in her ears, Ailsa held up a hand. “Sorry… We?”
“You’re coming with me.”
Ailsa’s lip curled. “Since when?” She supposed she had been enjoying this strange adventure, but she wasn’t ready to take the plunge into the monster-filled waters.
“Come on, Ailsa, you’re involved now.” She couldn’t bear the disappointment in Harris’s voice. “This is your country, aren’t you worried?”
Needing to move, Ailsa stood and paced by the window, looking at the city sparkling in the darkness below.
“To be honest, I might as well live on a different continent. It all seems a bit detached to me. You said yourself that the further south you go, the fewer faeries there are. Plus, I don’t know these people and they sure as hell don’t like me. Why should I risk my life?”
Ailsa felt the air shift as he came to stand behind her. The glass reflected Harris’s outline with his hands on his hips. The similarity between him and his sister was striking. Am I the naughty child now?
His voice was low and gruff as he leaned in close to her ear. “If Nicnevan rises again and takes over Eilanmòr, you won’t be able to escape the hell she will unleash. Anywhere.” Harris grabbed her shoulder and spun her round to face him. “She wants revenge, Ailsa, and she won’t stop until the whole kingdom—maybe even the whole world—is decimated.”
She considered this, doing her best to look anywhere but at his face. Despite what he’d said, Ailsa was sure that if she didn�
��t go with him, he’d find someone else to help. She casually stepped back from the selkie. He joked around a lot but underneath that guise, he was determined and committed. Plus, he was cunning, which would be an asset during his mission.
Her thoughts deserted her when his hand, still holding her shoulder, squeezed her gently, bringing her closer again. She felt a little thrill of something shoot through her.
“Please, Ailsa. I want you to come with me. There’s no one else I’d rather have watching my back.”
She scoffed quietly. “You hardly know me.” Her voice broke on the last word as she answered.
“I know enough.” His eyes warmed. “I see who you are, even if you don’t.” Ailsa found herself wanting to lean into his smile, as if drawn the heat of a crackling fire on a cold day.
“And who’s that?” she whispered.
“A hero,” he said, simply.
Doubt had its claws in her mind, plaguing her every thought. But what if I’m not? Ailsa looked over her shoulder, towards the lights in Dunrigh. Although the sun had set, twilight still illuminated the land. As if responding to the doubt within her, a gust of wind whistled through the castle turrets and surprise drops of rain splattered against the window.
Harris gently lifted her chin towards him and stroked the back of her shoulder with his other thumb as they studied each other. For the first time, she lifted her gaze fully and stared him straight in the eyes. In the lamp-lit room, his pupils were large, eclipsing a bit of his irises. Flakes of gold embellished their sea-glass green and they glinted in the semi-dark, betraying the magic hidden inside.
His hand grazed her fingers, breaking the spell she had been under.
Harris cleared his throat. “Think about it.”
Ailsa nodded.
Needing to change the subject, she stated, “Your sister should be ready.”
“Right.” He winked. “I better go and see how long we’ve got until the ceilidh starts.” He left the room and Ailsa couldn’t help but feel disappointed, though about what she was unsure.
Ailsa was about to knock on the door that led to the adjoining chambers, when Iona burst through it wearing an even more spectacular dress than before. Ailsa suddenly understood that Iona had been attempting to appear demure before the king. The gown she now wore was strapless and emerald green. The cut of the dress left the front significantly shorter than the back and Ailsa could see the heeled sandals Iona was wearing and several inches of bare, freckled legs.
“That dress—” she started, gaping at the flesh on display.
“I know,” squealed Iona with excitement. “It’s gorgeous!” She twirled, giving Ailsa a view of the plunging back. She halted in front of Ailsa again, peering down at herself and shifting her hips. “Though maybe it’s a bit much.”
“Well,” breathed Ailsa. “You might freeze to death—”
“Not the dress, silly girl. The shoes!” She clicked the heels together. “They won’t last long at a ceilidh. I’m sure I’ll have them off after a few dances. But they’re so pretty!”
Ailsa swallowed. “Iona, no offence, but you’re showing a lot of skin—”
The selkie clicked her tongue. “That’s the point. I don’t want to trip over my dress when I’m dancing.” She met her eyes and sighed. “You Eilanmòrians are so prudish. It’s not like I’m naked. All of the vital parts are covered.” She smirked. “If I were a seal right now, I’d have even less on.”
“You’d also be covered in fur.”
Iona just sauntered confidently to the table and poured herself another glass of wine. Ailsa absently plucked up a blueberry and popped it into her mouth. The berry was sweet and sour and made her cheeks pull inwards. Ailsa was worrying about being prudish and overdressed when Lady Moira appeared at the door again, Harris hot on her heels. The King’s niece was wearing the same dress as earlier but had a comically shocked expression plastered on her face.
“Lady Iona, you look—”
Iona cut her off, smiling graciously. “It doesn’t matter how I look; I feel fabulous!”
Harris didn’t seem to notice the difference in his sister’s attire.
“Right, come on you two. The hall has filled up and I want to join in on the dancing before we have to talk business.” He stepped aside to let the women pass, choosing to rest a hand on the back of Ailsa’s elbow.
Does he think I can’t make it down the stairs? She let him keep his hand there all the same.
Chapter 16
The hall looked like a giant, luminous pond with hundreds of rainbow fish gracefully swimming around. The floor, a polished blue-grey stone, glittered in the candlelight. Pillars bordered the round room with curtains partly drawn across shadowy alcoves in between. Ailsa wondered how many of them were being used for clandestine business.
In the centre of the room, women in long, bright dresses and men in swishing kilts danced together in perfect synchronicity. She vaguely remembered the steps to some of the dances, but resolved not to join in. It was much easier to look threatening when she wasn’t being thrown around in time to a jig.
The piper, drummer and fiddler were playing a quick-paced reel, while the harpist sat in the corner, waiting on his turn. A tiny woman stood in the middle of the group on the stage, singing in ancient Eilanmòrian, her voice high and angelic.
Lady Moira hobbled away, murmuring instructions to servants as she went. The remaining trio chose a round table next to the stairs, Ailsa watched, mesmerised, as the dancers weaved in and out in a blur around each other.
“So, what do you think?” asked Iona, squeezing Ailsa’s knee through her dress.
Ailsa jerked her leg. “It’s… erm... big,” was all she managed. There were just so many people.
Ailsa sank into her chair and lowered her head, wishing dresses came with hoods. The song had ended and couples dispersed, seeking refreshments and rest. Ailsa’s mind flew to memories of angry village mobs.
Harris interrupted her thoughts by leaping up as another song started.
“This one sounds good, Ailsa. How about it?” His feet tapped along to the beat of the music, betraying his impatience.
“How about what?” she asked, melting further into her chair.
He planted himself right in front of her, forcing her to look him in the eye. “You know what. Be my partner.”
“No thanks.”
“Do you want to be remembered as a spoil sport?”
Ailsa pressed her lips together. “Absolutely. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to stay in this chair while you make a fool of yourself.”
He groaned in exasperation, turning away from her. “Sister?”
“I’d like to keep my heels on a little longer, Harris.” Iona pointed her toes to show the elegant arch of one of her feet. “Go find someone else to babysit you for a while,” she said, waving him away.
He made a big show of pouting. “Fine, but don’t come crying to me when no one else asks you while I’m having fun.” With that, he bounded into the colourful crowd.
Harris was wrong about their lack of dance partners. Song after song, men appeared at their table asking for their company—or, rather—for Iona’s.
“It’s because you’re glaring at everyone who even looks your way,” Iona offered quietly after she declined the invitation of yet another dejected youth.
“It’s because they’re worried I might eat them for my dinner.”
Iona scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. You’re clearly full of black pudding.”
“It’s ironic really,” said Ailsa. “They think I’m a changeling, but really you’re the ageless, supernatural being. I bet you could take a good chunk out of them if you wanted.”
“Oh no,” Iona smirked, showing her delicate teeth in a way that Ailsa knew had meant to be threatening, but came off as dazzling instead. “We only eat drowning men. Though, if I’m peckish, there’s a deep fountain in the gardens.”
Harris was with another partner and, instead of the slow, g
raceful dance the rest of the crowd were performing, he was dragging her along by the hand as he raced under the outstretched arms of the other couples. However, the lady he was with didn’t seem to mind: she chuckled while her slippered feet slid all over the floor.
Ailsa pulled her eyes away from Harris and fixed Iona with a sideways glance. “Do selkies actually eat people?” Is it worrying that I don’t really mind if the answer is yes?
“Just a rumour.” Iona flashed her teeth again. “I prefer salmon.”
Ailsa clicked her tongue. “Pity,” she replied, doing her best to seem blasé. She sipped her drink. “You know, you can go dance if you like.”
“I’m fine here just now. My brother is being so entertaining.”
But Harris had stopped dancing and was now staring quizzically at the other side of the dancefloor where there seemed to be a disturbance unfolding.
Ailsa and Iona stood on tiptoes to get a closer look. Iona, with her greater height, managed a little better and she relayed what was happening to Ailsa.
“It looks like someone is enjoying himself a wee bit too much,” she laughed. “He must have had too much wine.”
Just then, the crowd parted, and Ailsa could see a young man with a thick beard who was dancing with anyone who would go near him. He wore a creased, collarless shirt and kilt of the purple and green royal tartan. His eyes crinkled as he laughed and danced. Linking arms with a partner, he would spin her—or him—as fast as he could, just like the boys she had seen earlier in the city. Far from being put off by this, many guests were lining up for the privilege of becoming his next partner or copying his style a little further away. Every now and then, the man would swing one of them so violently they would be thrown out from the turn, arms flailing, only to be caught by an onlooker. Some spectators had expressions of disdain at the scene, but others were obviously having the time of their lives.
Harris jogged over to stand beside his sister. “Who is that?” he asked, a little breathless.
“That,” Iona answered, “would be the prince.”
Ailsa barked a laugh. “That is who you’re trying to give the crown to?”
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