by Jaida Jones
This is more than the distortions of nostalgia, Three, Somhairle said.
Yes, this is more than that. Three poked at a stuffed owl’s pearl eyes and ruff, looking back at Somhairle as she flicked it with the tip of her wing. Amused. So take this time to work it out. Knowledge can betray us, too, but if you can be the first to wield the weapon, that’s a fine advantage.
I was young. I don’t remember it very well, he replied.
I was a brace and a crutch, so you remember better than I do, Three shot back.
You’re being flippant. This is my home. You hate my mother, and you have good reason to, but I—
Three swept the stuffed owl off its chair with a swipe of her wing. Emotions have their place. You can’t afford to let yours get away from you. She bowed her head, her one eye rolling and rolling. The taste of metal in Somhairle’s mouth was worse, not better, since he’d left Ever-Land. And neither can I. Sorry for snapping. I’m not myself here.
I used to imagine this place was what made me sick, Somhairle admitted. He’d forgotten until now how the air on the Hill could be so heavy. Then I’d lie awake in bed at night, expecting my own mother to storm in and lock me up for treason.
That might still happen, Three said.
Somhairle appreciated her refusal to be tender with him, to coddle, when what he needed was the merciless truth. Catriona had as much as told him: she wouldn’t hesitate to strike him down if she suspected fae corruption.
He was thinking like the members of the Resistance against the Queen. They claimed she had chosen fear to rule alongside her, forsaking good sense. He now saw their point.
She was still his mother.
Somhairle fought for a deep breath. It’s worse here than in Ever-Land, and Morien was the cause of the trouble there. So it’s sorcery that’s bothering me, he reasoned.
Owls couldn’t smile. Three did. And lots of it.
I have to do something, don’t I?
Plenty of places you can go that the others can’t.
That’s not usually how things are for me, Somhairle admitted. He couldn’t hide from Three what she’d learned already.
Cane’s by the door. With one beat of her great wings, Three was aloft. Somhairle followed in less-spectacular fashion, shuffling across the floor. I can’t promise you’ll be comfortable, but you’ll be necessary.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted, he replied.
Three chuckled. Time to dream bigger, birdie.
The sharp pleasure of her humor infected him. It wasn’t the pure joy he’d felt when they’d found one another in Ever-Land, her lightning-crackle laughter melting through his mind, but it helped.
Somhairle fingered the silver grip of his rosewood cane, its ornate head carved in the shape of a falcon midstrike. If he looked at Three from the corner of his vision, he could see Morien’s glamour on her clearly. No one would think it strange that Prince Somhairle had adopted a wild bird after years of caring for them in Ever-Land.
He understood now that he’d spent those years waiting, not living. Waiting for his mother to give him purpose, or for one of his brothers to tell him his role. Now he was acting without anyone’s direction. He might even be taking action against his mother.
Did that make him a traitor to the Crown?
Better that than a traitor to himself.
He couldn’t let fear stop him. What he’d felt when Three became a part of him was too big to ignore.
Somhairle held out his arm and Three landed on it, lighter than a sparrow. I believe a trip to the court seneschal is in order.
68
Somhairle
According to Seneschal Tarlach, who had managed the royal family’s affairs since the birth of Prince Adamnan, three of the five princes in residence were currently attending court. Lochlainn was north of the Hill surveying their land. Berach had gone into hiding with a pirate’s daughter. He could go on. The elderly seneschal was only half as old as Queen Catriona—however, he looked it.
Somhairle barely managed to get him to continue.
“Prince Murchadh is often in the Hall of Mirrors with Her Majesty’s sorcerers, attending to important—and private—matters of state.” The years had stooped Tarlach’s shoulders, turned his hair and flesh the same faded paper white, but the most troublesome change in the man was that he no longer appeared to relish gossip. His voice droned on dully. “Prince Adamnan will be hearing council with Her Majesty much of the morning. Do not be troubled if you cannot locate Prince Laisrean until well into the afternoon, as he keeps strange hours and is often abed. The court celebrates the Queen’s many triumphs, none more devotedly than Prince Laisrean.”
The Seneschal Tarlach who Somhairle used to know would have leaped at the opportunity to share his unfavorable thoughts on parties, liquors, new styles of dance, current fashions, Laisrean raiding the kitchens for midnight picnics—until Somhairle began to visibly sway on his feet.
The Seneschal Tarlach in front of Somhairle, though, began to nervously list the Queen’s latest, greatest accomplishments and future plans to turn the ruins of Eastside into a garden that would rival Oberon’s forest of legends.
He smells of lies, Three commented.
Most people at court do, Somhairle cautioned.
But this is more than that.
It was. Again. Somhairle made his excuses to the seneschal, went to find the cooks next. He had once known each by name—Marnoch, who smelled of dry rosemary; Garvie, with flour always under his fingernails; Magh the butcher, who saved him summer strawberries from the countryside, since they didn’t have the tang of metal beneath their sweetness. Their gossip was what truly fed the lords and ladies on the Hill.
But no one at the stoves knew any servants by those names. Somhairle would have asked more questions, answered a few in return, and laughed awhile with the new cooks, but he was too aware of their desire to have him out of the way. They had work to attend to, work they couldn’t manage while down on both knees, praising his mother to him.
He gave it a solid try, but wasn’t granted entry to the Hall of Mirrors to “enjoy a warm reunion” with his “beloved brother.” The Queensguard stationed by the doors smelled of more lies, according to Three.
Somhairle could ask his mother for her seal of approval to enter the Hall, but that would alert her to his interests, give her reason to watch him more closely, and he couldn’t risk that.
So we’re finally able to think of her as the enemy? Three asked as Somhairle limped away to make the rounds outside of council instead. There, he could gauge the tone of the court, catch some of the gossip he still hadn’t managed to glean. Prove himself necessary to the group. Continue to betray his mother.
I can’t be certain yet. This may prove to be the work of Morien the Last. He could have asked them not to speak with me. Or done worse than asked.
Don’t lie to yourself too often, Three suggested. One Lying One to deal with is plenty.
Outside of council: the lingering petty Ever-Nobles who roamed the place daily, hoping to ingratiate themselves. The occasional member of an Ever-House swanning past, showing off, getting to feel big after Catriona had made them feel small. Those were the tableaux Somhairle expected, though he told himself it would likely look less enormous than his childhood perspective would remember.
A dazzling reception hall lined with little mirrors—there were mirrors everywhere now, not just in the Hall of Mirrors where they belonged—awaited him. It held fewer guests than Somhairle had prepared to encounter, though at first it appeared that there were more, a trick of reflection layered upon reflection.
Some of the mirrors were reflecting Three as she truly was. A young woman caught sight of Three in the glass and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Somhairle stumbled, slamming into a mirror at his back he could have sworn hadn’t been there before. It rattled in its frame. Three swung her wings in a wide arc. Eyes were turning toward him; he was making a scene.
“S
orley?” A familiar voice speaking a familiar nickname, a familiar hand landing on Somhairle’s back a moment later.
He’s handsome, Three said. And unlike most of the humans around here, he doesn’t stink.
Somhairle turned to face Laisrean Ever-Bright. His favorite half brother.
“Sorcerers have been redecorating since you left the Hill.” Laisrean slung an arm around Somhairle’s shoulders and heaved him out from between two mirrors, out of the hallway, out of the false mirror-light. Though he had the strength of a bear, his touch was courtly gentle. His strong jaw was dusted with dark stubble, his hair uncombed, his eyes darkened by sleepless undercircles, though they brightened when he grinned. “What brings you back to this wicked place?”
“I hoped we might catch a play.” Somhairle offered his true smile, the one dazzling thing he’d inherited undamaged from his mother. “No. It isn’t that. Ever-Land hasn’t been very peaceful since Lord Faolan arrived with Morien the Last.”
“Best not have any truck with them.” Laisrean forced a steely smile. His tone was bluff and cheery. “These aren’t your regular bedtime warnings for naughty children. Whatever Faolan’s looking into has the court on the edge of a knife. Better you don’t find yourself caught on—”
Prince Adamnan interrupted him by striding through the main doors in a sudden burst of purposeful activity, his favored courtiers providing a buffer between him and the lesser crowds. He ignored everyone vying for his attention, pausing only when he noticed Somhairle tucked against Laisrean’s side.
“You”—Adamnan skidded to a halt, his expression blacker than his boots—“shouldn’t be here.”
Before Somhairle could form a stunned expression, Adamnan had moved on, swept away again by eager attendants to decide matters of state.
“He’s like that these days. Nothing personal. Ignore him.” Laisrean squinted, staring hard at Three on Somhairle’s arm. “Did you tame an owl? Big one. Never seen a bird that color.”
“I found her in Ever-Land,” Somhairle explained.
“Maybe sorcery changed her,” Laisrean said. “Hey there, girl. You got magic in you?”
He reached to touch Three’s round head, slow and tentative, like he was sure the bird would snap at him for trying but was compelled to do it anyway. Three allowed Laisrean’s hand to settle and began to preen under the touch, angling into it.
Somhairle let out a breath. Even he hadn’t been sure whether Three would allow someone else to get that close.
I have manners, Three said. And I know which hand wants a biting and which doesn’t.
“Glad you’ve got something fierce to look out for you.” Only Laisrean ever appeared satisfied when he looked at Somhairle. Like he was glad for who Somhairle was, instead of thinking about what he might have been. “Do me a favor, since everyone’s being so serious, and stick to your rooms while you’re here, will you?”
Somhairle stepped back, bringing Three with him. “I don’t need anyone looking out for me.”
“That wasn’t coddling. Life on the Hill’s not like it used to be, Sorley.” Laisrean looked past Somhairle for a moment—spotting someone attractive, Somhairle guessed—before refocusing his gaze. “Why don’t I meet you later near the Palisades, in the fall garden? Our favorite spot. Always nice to get some fresh air.”
Somhairle took in his brother’s handsome, if distracted, profile. He was larger than life, like the heroes of old.
Somhairle’s heartbeat quickened. What if Laisrean was the master they sought? His behavior could be called eccentric, had been described as feckless, but it remained more faithful to the past than anything else in the palace Somhairle recalled from childhood.
Time was running out. Somhairle had to find the next master for Morien while simultaneously gathering enough resources to thwart him. Success hinged on finding the right piece or pieces of silver, the fragment of the Great Paragon possibly hidden directly under the Queen’s nose. Not exactly a simple task.
A walk in a garden had helped Somhairle find Three. Perhaps it would do the same for Laisrean.
“I’ll meet you there this evening,” Somhairle promised.
Nothing is beyond possibility, Three agreed.
I know, Somhairle told her. I found you, didn’t I?
69
Rags
Even back in the city, Rags was still out of his element. It didn’t smell right on top of the Hill, didn’t smell of the city he knew. Didn’t smell dirty, of fires and blood, of sweaty bodies and cheap perfumes and garbage baking in the sunlight, of piss running over cobblestones after dark.
It smelled spotless and unsoiled. Blood lurked beneath the pretense, but it’d been buried under layers of polish, hidden behind curtains and below floors tiled with black bone.
“Are you listening?” Inis asked in a tone that implied she already knew Rags wasn’t.
Rags turned away from the massive window affording him a view of the moat, called Old Drowner by everyone who knew what it was really used for.
“I’m looking.” Eyes staring wide for emphasis. “Thought that was why we came here. To find Four’s master.”
“Yes.” Inis, or the unassuming blonde Morien had glamoured over her skin, crossed her arms. “That’s what I’m telling you. Prince Somhairle thinks he might have a lead. It’s royal company, so no need for our loyal servants to attend.”
“Afraid we’ll embarrass you?” Rags asked, but his accompanying smirk was cut down before it could flourish.
“Stay or go, it makes no difference,” Shining Talon intoned from the other end of the room, where he’d been keeping silent vigil. “The heart of this Hill is as rotten as its wretched ruler. No matter where one puts their feet, the ground is poisoned.”
“. . . right. I’ll ask you to stay out of sight for now.” Inis bowed to Shining Talon, eyes lowered, like she’d have agreed with him—if their every move wasn’t under surveillance by a murderous sorcerer. They’d flipped the hinged oval dressing mirrors in every room so the glass now faced the walls. Less chance of Morien’s reminding them of his impatience whenever they glanced in the wrong direction.
Then Inis was gone and Rags was left alone with the fae. Between Shining Talon and the open window he couldn’t leap out of to make a quick, clean escape.
What shook him was how easily he shushed the urge. How limp and half-hearted it’d grown.
Past the moat was the city Rags knew and loved, the city he wanted to return to. If you lived in the bad parts of town, you had to watch out for a sack over your head and a knife in your guts around every corner, while the Queensguard, running marching drills in the courtyard, didn’t give a fuck.
The rules were simple. Look out for yourself.
Rags rubbed his chest. Caught Shining Talon watching him. Stuck out his tongue.
“In my time,” Shining Talon said, “we did not allow our tongues to be free of our mouths so carelessly. Often the windlings would snatch them for their private collection.”
“Don’t know what a windling is.”
“Yes. I slew the last of them.”
Rags replied with a groan, pacing the length of the gold-threaded carpet while the fork and knife he’d stolen poked his thigh. Inis and Somhairle had passed off the servant story, then shut them away, the better to keep them from getting into trouble. Arrest in a fancier cell, as far as Rags was concerned.
It gave him too much time to think, for starters. Was Shining Talon teasing him? Was he finally learning from Rags how to be a sarcastic ass?
Without looking down, Rags reached for the fragment in his pocket. He felt his way along the etched curves of the thing, fitting his fingernails into each groove he came across.
There was a crease in the casing that seemed to run the length of the fragment. Like a seam, a catch. Did that mean it opened?
Rags faced the window again. Felt Shining Talon at his back, touching his hip. Reaching for the blindfold, Rags understood, though not before he sucked in a breath, fought
the inclination to arch back against the fae. He closed his eyes, guiding Shining Talon’s hand into his pocket and up to his chest with the cloth in tow. He drew it over his heart and darkness settled over the mirrorglass shard; he was safe from Morien, if only for a few stolen moments.
“What is it?” Rags allowed himself to lean back against Shining Talon’s chest. His voice sounded so serious when the blindfold was in play.
“I sense something here,” Shining Talon replied. “Something terrible.”
Oh. Rags straightened, eyes snapping open. This was about more than Shining Talon wanting to get close. Of course it was. Rags bit the inside of his lip, lingering pain from Morien’s torture flaring through his knuckles. Sending him back into the hard, real edges of his world. “Sounds like the whole damn place to me.”
“No. It is more than that.” Something in Shining Talon’s voice made Rags turn to face the fae. Found his eyes had darkened and his golden face had paled. “When I stray too close, I . . . hurt.”
Rags felt an emotion unnamed brewing in the distance like clouds rolling in. From the city rooftops, you could see a storm coming from miles away, from out over the countryside or the ocean.
Was there still time for him to outrun the downpour?
Shining Talon looked different with his hair tied up. Sharper. Harsher and less fluid. Rags’s fingers twitched. Before he could command them to stop, he’d reached out to touch the braided white streak in Shining Talon’s hair. Had to practically go up on tiptoes to reach, which was a blow to his ego and then some.
Shining Talon’s throat bobbed. “I should not command your attention in such a way. Not when your fragment remains unsolved.”
He looked like he might be sick at any second. Did fae get sick?
“Stuff it,” Rags said helpfully. “Maybe you should sit down. Try and tell me more than ‘it hurts.’ Listen, I’ve been there.”
Shining Talon shook his head. Or was he tilting it, trying to listen to things Rags couldn’t hear?
It was weird, not in the usual weird way that Shining Talon had, and that had Rags shaken. Worse, it didn’t seem like they were going to get anywhere by talking it out. They didn’t have enough time, could only steal a couple of moments before they had to remove the blindfold. Unless . . .