The Torn Wing

by Kiki Hamilton

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Tiki could hardly sit still on the carriage seat she was so excited.

  “Do you think it’s the Tara Stone?” she asked for the tenth time.

  Rieker’s eyes were positively glowing. “I do. Hidden in plain sight.” He grabbed her hands and squeezed. “I think we’ve found it, Tiki. I really think we have.”

  “Where in the Abbey did Arthur say the chair was located again?” Tiki shivered. Could they possibly be this close to the Stone of Tara? Had they found the secret that Finn and Eridanus had hidden in London?

  “He said the Coronation Chair was in the Chapel of Edward the Confessor.” Rieker peered out the window. Outside thunder roared overhead and the sky was weighted with black clouds that threatened rain at any moment. “It’s right in the heart of the abbey. We shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

  The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves kept a steady rhythm as the wheels clacked along the cobblestone streets. Tiki’s heart jumped with every jingle of the reins. Her mind raced in circles. The stone was housed in a chair that had crowned English royalty for almost six hundred years. She could still hear Arthur’s words as if he whispered in her ear: ‘Legend says it came from Ireland originally…” Tiki almost didn’t dare to allow herself to think about it—but would happen when she touched the stone?

  THE STREETS WERE unusually quiet as they exited the carriage and approached the grand north entrance to the Abbey. A gust of wind caught Tiki’s skirt, blowing it and her long hair behind her.

  Tiki stared at the imposing structure that arched before them. She’d been past the Abbey many times before in her travels but she’d never really paid much attention to the building. Grand cathedrals such as Westminster Abbey were not for the likes of pickpockets like her. These buildings were meant for kings and queens.

  Spires stretched toward the sky on each side of the intricately carved entry like massive sentinels standing guard.

  “Rieker.” Tiki pointed. “Look at that huge circular window. The giant circle is made up of smaller circles, made up of more circles. Even the stonework above has circles within circles.” Her voice was hushed. “It’s as if the ring belongs here.”

  Rieker reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “Time will tell,” he said in a quiet voice. They left the chaos of the wintery weather behind as they slipped through the oversized black doors into the hushed splendor of the grand entry.

  “It’s like entering another world,” Tiki whispered. Rieker nodded. This was a world of quiet and peace; of secrets and promises, of things greater than themselves.

  Their footsteps were muted against the stone tiles on the floor. Tiki stopped and stared up in awe at the arched ceiling that towered above them. Brown stone columns held up fluted cream-colored stone arches that stretched above them to a breathtaking height, creating a dizzying framework of architectural glory.

  The bright color of the ornate, gilded chairs of the choir drew Tiki’s eyes to the right as they passed through the north transept. The high-backed chairs stretched away from her in staunch rows, like a line of soldiers standing at attention. The chairs reflected the light from the arches above, creating the impression of room full of gold.

  “Teek, look.” Rieker whispered as he pointed to a section up ahead. “That’s Poet’s Corner. It holds the tomb of Geoffrey Chaucer and other great writers. They just interred Charles Dickens a little over a year ago.”

  Chills ran up Tiki’s arms. They were surrounded with greatness—kings and conquerors, lords and ladies, artists and authors. Did she even belong in a place like this?

  “This way.” Rieker pulled Tiki to the left. “Arthur said The Chapel for Edward the Confessor is to the left of the Choir.” They spoke in hushed tones, as if instinctively trying not to disturb those who had been laid to rest in these halls. Tiki couldn’t shake the feeling they were the only two people in the vast building. She glanced about looking for moving shadows, for obscure faces staring at her from a distance, but there was only the ancient grandeur that surrounded them.

  Rieker led her into an ornate enclosed chamber. Centered in the middle was a large stone shrine. On the walls, carvings of saints surrounded them. Vibrant stained glass figures broke up the repetition of the lead paned windows and Tiki got the impression more than one set of eyes watched her every move.

  Rieker stopped in front of a dark, gilt-encrusted chair. “This has got to be it.” The chair was large and looked quite ancient. The lavish gilded paintings that had once graced the wood were faded and hard to decipher. The back of the grand chair stretched up in a commanding triangle to frame the head of anyone who sat there. Each of the four feet stood on a gilded base protected by golden lions. The chair looked like a throne.

  But that’s not what caught Tiki’s eyes.

  A sturdy gold shelf had been built directly beneath the seat.

  On the shelf sat a thick slab of stone.

  Rieker squeezed her fingers.

  “Do you think—” Tiki whispered.

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Rieker pulled her close and pressed his lips against her forehead. “I think you should remove your glamour,” he whispered. One side of his mouth lifted in a teasing smile. “Just in case anybody’s watching.”

  Tiki was so scared her fingers were shaking. What if the stone didn’t roar? What if the stone did roar? She wasn’t even sure what to hope for. She whispered the words to remove her glamour and inhaled the fresh scent of clover. She glanced down to see the same shimmering crimson gown she’d worn when meeting the Macanna.

  Something flickered in Rieker’s eyes as he gazed at her in her true form. “You look like a faerie queen,” he whispered. He raised her hand to his lips, his eyes locked on hers. The sleeve of her dress fell back, revealing her birthmark of an fáinne sí. His kiss was warm against her skin, sending an arrow of heat through her veins.

  Tiki clung to him, suddenly frightened. If she sat on the chair would she gain the power to stop the war in the Otherworld? If she let go of Rieker’s hand would she lose everything they’d built together over the last year?

  “What’s going to happen?” she whispered.

  “Everything will change,” Rieker said softly, his smoky eyes intent upon hers, “but our love will remain the same.” He smiled as he helped her step up toward the seat. “Allow me to assist you, m’lady.”

  Tiki’s heart was pounding so hard she expected it to burst from her chest at any second.

  “Should I touch the stone or just sit?”

  “Why don’t you sit down and then just put your hand on the stone and see what happens?” Rieker’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

  Tiki nodded and took a deep breath. She put her foot onto the platform between the tails of the two golden lions that guarded the front legs of the Coronation Chair and stepped up.

  Rieker released her hand and bowed as he stepped away. “My queen.”

  “William.” Somehow only his true name sounded right in this place. Tiki tried to laugh and sound disapproving at the same time but her voice came out in a whisper, sounding more like a plea. She clutched the skirt of her dress and lifted the fabric. Keeping her eyes on Rieker she held her breath and sat down.

  She didn’t get a chance to lean down and touch the stone.

  A roar erupted into the air and vibrated around them, so loud the stone arches above their heads shook.

  “TARR-UH!”

  Chapter Fifty

  Rieker looked as shocked as she felt. The roar of “Tara” echoed in the air around them. Shadows began shifting through the room. Mist crept, twisted and swirled around them. Then, as if someone scratched a match and ignited a flame, faces and bodies began to appear. Within seconds, the entire room was filled with faeries.

  Tiki saw numerous members of the Macanna along with dozens of unfamiliar faces. For a split-second Tiki thought she saw Mamie in the back of the room, but the crowd shifted and the diminutive woman’s wrinkle
d face was gone. There was no sign of Dain.

  Larkin appeared, in all her golden glory. She gripped what looked to be a golden scepter, a large ruby capping one end. She came to stand in front of Tiki where she sat on the throne. Larkin’s lips curled in a mocking half-smile but her eyes glowed with victory.

  She spoke low enough that only Tiki could hear her. “It looks like you’ve claimed your place, guttersnipe.”

  “It appears you told me the truth about my relationship to Finn,” Tiki said, pretending to be calm.

  “There are other relationships we’ve yet to discuss, but for now, we have a war to win.” Larkin’s eyes glittered like fire opals in the half light of the cathedral. She leaned close and whispered, “And by the way, your little thief friend is still alive.”

  “You saved Johnny?” Tiki could hardly contain her relief.

  “He’s alive,” Larkin said drily. “Whether he survives still remains to be seen.” She snorted in disgust as she stepped on a stone platform next to Tiki. She spoke from the corner of her mouth as she turned to face the crowd. “Mortals. So unfortunately fragile.”

  “Thank you,” Tiki whispered. “But what of the liche?”

  Larkin’s lips twisted in distaste. “Still alive too—if you can call an undead creature alive. They took the boy as bait to draw me to them, but it’s difficult to outsmart a dove with the heart of a fox.” A smirk twisted her lips. “You’d be wise to remember that.”

  The beautiful faerie raised her scepter. “All Hail the High Queen. Hail to Queen Tara!”

  As one, every person in the room, including Larkin, got down on one knee and bowed to Tiki. Then they shouted, “TARR-UH!”

  Before the echoes had died away the Macanna encircled the chair where Tiki sat, like a protective wall. Their muscled shoulders and arms, their warrior-like stance and battle-scarred faces set them apart from the others in the room who were beginning to push and shove to get a look at the new queen. In the back of the room a flute began to play a lively jig.

  Whispers flitted through the air like buzzing insects:

  “Is that the Stone of Tara under her seat?”

  “But what of the stone beneath the Dragon Throne in the Palace of Mirrors?”

  “Did she make the stone cry out?”

  “Who is she?”

  “Why is it in London?”

  “Who is she?”

  “Who is she?”

  “Who is she?”

  As if given an unseen signal, the rumblings and excited whispers suddenly fell silent. Even the music died away until there was only the hush of stillness. All eyes turned toward Tiki.

  Cries of ‘speech’, ‘speech’ filled the air.

  Tiki swallowed the nervous lump that suddenly filled her throat, threatening to choke her. They wanted her to speak? What was she supposed to say? She reached for Rieker’s hand, wanting to feel the reassuring warmth of his skin. He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed. Though most of the faces before her were unfamiliar, a common expression was mirrored in their eyes. An emotion that Tiki knew all too well: hope.

  Suddenly, Tiki realized what they were hoping for: someone to lead them to peace.

  She cleared her throat. “We have been at war too long.” Her voice was loud and crisp as though amplified. “It is time to stop the killing and reunite once again. To find peace.”

  Heads leaned close. Whispers rustled and flew about the room.

  A short rotund man near the front stepped up. His green pants were held up by suspenders and a pair of well-made leather shoes covered his long feet. He bobbed his head in a low bow to Tiki before he spoke. His voice was surprisingly gruff.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, your majesty, but Donegal’s killed our loved ones, our families. He’s taken our homes and possessions.” The man waved long fingers toward the group behind him. “Enslaved some of us.”

  “Donegal don’t want peace.” Someone shouted from the back. “He wants to own us.”

  The short man cleared his throat and bobbed his head again. “Forgive me, Majesty, but we don’t want peace.” His next words were steady and strong. “We want revenge. This is war.”

  In a rush, Tiki realized she’d been wrong. These people weren’t hoping for peace. They were hoping for someone to lead them in battle against Donegal. Before Tiki could speak, another, louder voice interrupted.

  “So the rumor is true.” A giant of a man stood at the back of the room, a head above the others. His mass of copper locks appeared burnished in the last bits of daylight that leaked in through the arch-top windows. “A second stone exists.”

  As one, heads turned to see who spoke and just as quickly people shuffled to the side to make way for him to pass.

  “Bearach.” Larkin’s said, her mouth turned down in a sneer. “Donegal’s self-proclaimed protector.”

  Tiki recognized the fiery red hair that capped the man’s head. It was this man who had hunted her and Dain in the Wychwood with his hellhounds.

  Larkin straightened and faced the newcomer. “At last we’ve found the true Stone of Tara.” Her voice held a dare. “We’ve got a message for you to deliver to Donegal.” A taunting smile stretched her lips. “Tell him he is no longer king of the Seelie Court.”

  The crowd parted to allow the giant of a man to approach.

  “Stop where you are,” Rieker said as the man moved to within fifteen meters of where Tiki sat. Rieker pulled two daggers from inside his sleeves. At his movement, the Macanna shifted as one to form a tight wall in front of Tiki, swords, spears and spiked mauls suddenly appearing.

  “Your men can relax.” Bearach said in a deep, booming voice. “I’m not here to fight. I’ve brought a message for you, as well.” His beady eyes narrowed in a glare beneath bushy red eyebrows. “Donegal has a friend of yours.”

  “And who might that be?” Larkin asked in an icy tone.

  “A spy.” Bearach spit the word out like it was poison. “Hiding in the UnSeelie Court. I don’t know the name you might call him, but we know him as Sean ó’Broin—the Raven.”

  Tiki sucked in her breath and dug her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from crying out. They had Dain.

  “I know not of who you speak,” Larkin said in a scathing tone. “Perhaps he’s not really a spy but someone who’d like to defect to the bright light of the Summer Court?”

  A buzz went through the crowd of faeries at Larkin’s insolence, waiting for Bearach’s reaction.

  Tiki straightened and mimicked Larkin’s ice cold façade as she spoke to Bearach. “What does Donegal want in exchange for this prisoner?”

  Bearach turned his gaze toward her and to Tiki’s surprise, the giant faerie bowed, his big body much more graceful than seemed possible. When he spoke, his words were tinged with respect. “The cry of Cloch na Teamhrach was heard throughout Faerie. A new queen is among us. Welcome.”

  “TARR-UH,” the crowd cried in answer to his statement.

  Tiki inclined her head. She felt like an actor in a life-or-death play. “The answer to my question?”

  Bearach’s face was resolute. “There are no exchanges for spies. Only death. Donegal has marked him to be the Seven Year King.”

  The crowd gasped and Tiki jerked toward Larkin for an explanation.

  The faerie’s face was rigid with anger. She spoke in a low voice. “The UnSeelie Court must pay a tithe every seven years to the Seelies to remain a separate entity and avoid servitude to the Summer King or Queen.” Her eyes narrowed. “Usually, the sacrifice is a mortal. They are named the Seven Year King.”

  “What is going on in here?” A night watchman stood in the doorway, surveying the room with a shocked expression.

  In a blink, the entire room emptied, save for Tiki and Rieker.

  “Wait a minute—where did everyone go?” The watchman said in a confused tone. He pointed to the far corner of the room. “There were people there. I saw them. Now—” he swung his arm wide— “everyone’s gone.”

  �
��We’ve got to get out of here.” Rieker took Tiki’s arm and hurried toward the door. As they approached the guard Rieker spoke in a smooth, convincing tone. “I’m afraid we have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The guard’s gaze locked on Tiki.

  “Cor, you’re as beautiful as a queen, miss.” He stared, mesmerized.

  “Glamour,” Rieker said in a low voice as they ran for the door leading outside to the carriage.

  With a flick of her wrist, Tiki assumed her familiar glamour, her thoughts not on the magic she could perform so effortlessly, but on the shocking bit of news she’d learned: Dain, as Sean, had been found out in the UnSeelie Court and was facing death.

  The little man had been right tonight.

  This was war.

  Author’s Note:

  Though THE TORN WING is a work of fiction, many parts of the story are based in reality. In addition to the note shared at the beginning of the book, you might find it interesting to know that the Coronation Chair, (also known as King Edward’s Chair) and the Stone of Scone or the Stone of Destiny (referred to as the Stone of Tara in the book) are real. Both chair and stone have been used to crown almost every English monarch since the coronation of Edward II in 1308. They were last used for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953.

  The chair is still on display in Westminster Abbey, though in 1996 the Stone was taken to Scotland and is now housed in Edinburgh Castle. Provision has been made to transport the Stone to Westminster Abbey when it is required there for future coronation ceremonies.

  Legend holds that this stone was the coronation stone of the early Dál Riata Gaels, who brought the stone with them from Ireland when settling Scotland. The more historically supported story is that Fergus, the first King of the Scots in Scotland, brought the stone from Ireland to Argyll to be used in his coronation.

  There are additional legends associated with the stone but most present a transport from Ireland and include a connection to the stone Lia Fáil, the coronation stone of the kings of Tara.