Vow Unbroken: Faerie Tales 3

by T. J. Deschamps

  Her eyes bulged and veins appeared in her reddening face. She clawed at his hands. When that didn’t work, she raked her nails down his face.

  His flesh burned, the wet heat of his own blood sliding down his face. He allowed her to respond so, only to see if she would be shocked and scared, pleading with her eyes for him to not murder him. His assumption had been right. The nasty little halfling had tried to murder his only piece of happiness in this wretched existence.

  “Ye dare fight me?” The question an angry howl. He sounded like a madman raving even to his own ears.

  Nevertheless, Roi slammed the fae against the stone wall with a loud smack. Her lashes fluttered as her eyes rolled back in her head. He continued to choke her as he spoke in a quieter, yet more lethal tone. “Ye treacherous little rat. Ye stood present when I warned that traitorous whore Bláthnat of the creatures I conjured during the ritual. Ye heard me say not to show her face beyond her warded room lest they devoured her.” Mocking laughter spilled from his lips even as the light died in her eyes. “Killing ye is too good of a punishment.” Roi eased his hold, dropping the brownie.

  She gasped and spluttered as she slid to the floor. Her magic had kept her alive during what would have killed a human woman and now it worked to heal her.

  Roi watched the process, seething. He would not give into his desire for revenge. “Why would ye want to do Aoife harm? She’s a fae the same as ye and I’m sure treated ye well. Are ye jealous I shall make her queen because ye want me fer yerself?”

  The brownie laughed. A horrible strangled sound. When she found her voice, she said, “Call it revenge.” The words came out a raspy whisper, but no less cruel.

  “For what, giving ye a home and hearth, pretty baubles, and the honor of my company?”

  “Are ye mad? Why would I want to be yer queen, when ye killed my lady Bláthnat?”

  “I did not, but I intend to. She left me for Cuchulainn. It is my right as her husband and king to execute her for treason.”

  The brownie laughed again. “That delusion again. How could Bláthnat do so? Cuchulainn has his lady wife. Do ye think a woman like Emer would stand another in her household?”

  There was merit to that. Emer had said she’d kill them both when Roi had showed up looking for Bláthnat. It wasn’t the first time Emer’s husband cheated. Cuchulainn had fouled up battles to lie with any woman who would have him. It killed Roi that he had been faithful to Bláthnat, yet she chose the biggest whore of a man in all the isles—also, Roi’s closest friend once.

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “They ran away together.”

  “There’s been word from Emer that Cuchulainn has returned. Alone.” Her gaze turned to her window. “He must have searched for her for a long time.” She sighed.

  “Then she’s returned to her father.”

  “Ye really believe so?” The brownie held something akin to pity mixed with her disdain.

  “I did not harm yer lady. Why do ye believe she is dead?”

  The brownie looked at her hands. “I saw it with my own eyes. I accompanied her when she would meet Cuchulainn. He was late. Yer Fomorian was not. When I saw what it did to her, I ran fer my life, remembering ye saying within the castle we were safe. I ran until I fell in the courtyard.”

  “Why didn’t ye say anything?”

  “I thought ye had been the one to send the monster. I pretended like I knew nothing at great cost to me.” Tears stained the brownie’s cheek before she broke into sobs.

  Roi braced himself against the four poster-bed. He wanted to murder her himself but only because she’d threatened the safety of his kingdom. Knowing the lovely Bláthnat had come to such a horrifying end made him sick. He would have the crone seek out the Fomorian who did it. He had to know for sure if he no longer had to fear Cuchulainn discovering his secret to immortality as well as the undefeatable soldiers Roi had made.

  Cuchulainn and every damned upstart king and war chief would want the crone, and that Roi could not abide. He’d taken her in when she was accused of witchcraft. When others sought to burn the hag, Roi had saved her. In turn, she’d taught him of the old gods and the power they wielded, stronger even than the fae. Tonight, he had witnessed that.

  “Have ye told my new queen of any of this?”

  The brownie crossed her arms over her chest. “I told her my queen ran away with her love and no one knows where they are. I made sure she’d have enough curiosity about the ritual, she’d go and have one of those creatures eat her there. I wanted ye to watch yer new lady wife die the way I had to watch my beloved Bláthnat perish.”

  Seeing an end to his misery and the solution to the real bargain he made with the Fomorian, Roi smiled without humor.

  “Why do ye look at me so? I will not lie with ye again while ye pretend I’m my lady or yer new wife. I see yer fantasies.”

  “Oh, I don’t intend to lie with ye or anyone but my wife. I see now the gods have spared Aoife this night because they see she is my true wife, my soulmate.”

  “What nonsense are ye on about?”

  He grabbed the brownie by the arm, covering her with his grey mantle. She cried out but no one would hear. No one would know he spirited her far from his castle to give the Fomorian the fae blood it craved.

  His connection through the crone’s spell allowed Roi to sense all of the Fomorian. He found the creature wandering the wood, his men hopefully trailing at a safe distance too far behind to see. He revealed himself long enough to deposit the brownie.

  “Here is yer price,” he said in the Fomorian’s foul tongue.

  The lass screamed and tried to run, but the once-boy, now monster gained on her with preternatural quickness. The creature trapped the brownie, unhinging its jaw and stretching its mouth over her head, devouring her.

  Roi could not stand to watch, so he wrapped himself in his mantle, returning home.

  Chapter 8

  Aoife

  The priestess led her to the castle. Everything was in an uproar. Former revelers fled when they saw her. She saw some holding onto iron nails. Some of Roi’s own men rested their hands on their hilts as Aoife and the priestess passed. They bowed in deference to Roi’s new wife, but their gazes never left the two women.

  “They enjoy the benefits of my gods, but they fear me just the same.” The woman sighed, the ever-suffering sigh of someone who serves but is not appreciated; the brownie had sighed the same way. The priestess waved a thin hand, gesturing at the humans. “They shall accept ye as Cu Roi mac Daire’s wife just as they accepted the old queen, but they shall fear ye. It hurt poor Bláthnat something terrible.”

  “I’m used to men fearing me and with good reason.”

  A smile touched the woman’s wrinkled lips. “Aye. Ye are not like the gentle creature who came before. Ye won’t fall fer a pretty face that only wants to use you as a spy. There are many who want to know Ulaid’s secrets.”

  Unbidden, the memory of Fagan sitting by the firelight, naked and beautiful, came to mind. If he hadn’t been tender and kind, simply stunning and good at lovemaking, would Aoife have carried him off against his will? Was she any better than Roi? Roi wanted her as wife, tried to protect her from this ritual. He’d carried her back, thinking this was a squabble. He hadn’t forced her. The hounds were his enemies.

  “Bláthnat meant to betray my king, but the Fomorians patrol our borders and recognize enemies.” The old woman pointed a boney finger at the sky. “One Fomorian sprouted wings. Even the heavens cannot attack without facing my gods’ might.”

  Aoife had a horrifying thought. “One of those creatures killed my cousin, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. Poor mac Daire does not know. I haven’t the heart to tell him. Best he thinks she ran away with a lover. He doesn’t need to know she’d meant to betray him when all he showed her was kindness.”

  A phantom sensation of the possessed lad’s clammy fingers on her throat and the burning cold of the shadows that clung to her legs caused a shudder to
pass through Aoife. Warily, she lifted her gaze to the night sky, searching for some grotesque nightmare lurking above. Used to being the predator, Aoife could not stomach the notion of being prey.

  “Do not fret, my queen. As long as ye stay within the castle walls and hold no ill will toward our king or his kingdom, no harm shall come to ye.” She smiled in a matronly way, making the threat all the more sinister.

  Aoife wanted to deny Cu Roi mac Daire as her king and proclaim she served only Mannan mac Lir. Such declarations would not only be futile, but untrue. The woman was warning her to be on better behavior than Bláthnat because she was watching, and the truth was Aoife did not serve her father any longer. She’d fully intended to defy her father and join Mab’s court, thus forsaking her right to call Mannan mac Lir her king.

  Even though she might never again see Emain Ablach, her poor cousin had it much worse. If she were to escape, Aoife had to be more cunning than Bláthnat.

  She’d already gleaned knowledge her cousin must not have devised. The real power in Ulaid didn’t lie with its king, but rather the seemingly frail, elderly priestess.

  Bláthnat had targeted Roi as the one to deceive and kill, but the woman clinging to Aoife’s arm as they made their way into the black castle and up the stairs was the one who held the leashes to the monsters.

  “I am in the tower opposite yers,” the priestess said. “I trust ye can find yer way.”

  Aoife nodded, relieved she no longer had to be in the sorceress’s company.

  Chapter 9

  Fagan

  Fagan woke with a throbbing head to the morning bell clanging. He muttered curses as he stretched in his bunk and slid on his boots. Needing to take a piss, his tarse was hard as an iron rod. He made his way out of the barracks to the indoor latrines. They didn’t separate out by gender. That had taken some getting used to, especially since fae openly stared at whatever they liked, and it was considered rude to be offended by the compliment.

  Made no sense to him, but also all they did was look. No fae touched another without asking. Whereas he’d seen many humans be free with their hands when they shouldn’t. If Fagan had to pick between the two, he didn’t mind the looking.

  Fagan took care of necessities and made to leave.

  Deirdre waited at the end of the row of latrines. “Come on, sleepy bones. Hurry up. I have something fer ye.”

  He grinned. “There’s only one thing I’m in the mood for and it isn’t that.” It wasn’t the damned milk either. What he’d give for a bowl of his ma’s porridge.

  “Are ye certain?” She pulled a shiny, pink fruit from her satchel and extended it toward him. “Tastes a whole lot better than milk.”

  The fruit was unlike any he’d seen in his life. His traitorous stomach growled. The fae giggled, but he couldn’t find it funny. When was the last time he ate solid food?

  Cocking one eyebrow, he asked, “Ye ken I have nothing but the clothes on my back. What exactly do ye expect me to give for it?”

  Deirdre chewed her lip, pretending to think about it. Meanwhile, the other soldiers began filing out to go to the dining hall. Tam Lin had said the queen would observe the training exercises today. He couldn’t be late.

  “Out with it or out of my way.”

  “Ye know what I want.” Her gaze flicked to his groin.

  A quick tup and a belly with some solid food in it might help him with his nerves anyway. “Once I’m done, we’re done.”

  “Not here.” Deirdre took his hand and led him to the back of the latrine building. There were some pretty trees and flowers, smelling a lot better than where they’d. “I’m not like human lasses.”

  Fagan’s gaze passed over her long ears. “Aye.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She returned the fruit to the satchel and lowered her leggings, then lifted her tunic to show him what she meant.

  “Well, ye’d be surprised about the secrets humans keep,” Fagan replied, smiling to ease her nerves. He cupped her chin with one hand and let the other slide down the length of her arm until his hand covered hers. “I don’t want to make any assumptions. Show me what ye fancy, Deirdre.”

  Fagan felt looser than he had in days, walking onto the archery range. He had the fruit in his satchel and an empty stomach. Deirdre hadn’t bother to tell him until they were both sated that they weren’t supposed to have any sustenance other than the milk while training and made him promise he’d wait until he was alone in his bunk where no one else could see.

  “Faerie fruit is best at night anyway.”

  A green goblin with long ears and a protruding lower jaw pushed a cart along the lineup of archers. The goblin stood about chest high to Fagan as he handed up a quiver full of arrows and a practice bow. Fagan loved the craftsmanship of the fae bows and arrows. Even the quiver felt light as air on his back, not hindering his movements whatsoever.

  A trumpet blasted. All eyes turned to the riser. Fagan’s jaw dropped as a fae, who could only be the queen, stepped onto a riser. Tamlin followed, but Fagan’s eyes were only for the Queen of the Sidhe. Mab had skin like water of a placid loch, reflective and iridescent. Her green and blue hair, lush and woven with flowers, was as pretty as summer grass. Her catlike eyes were dark pools. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth went dry as he kneeled like every other archer on the range.

  A mountain of a man joined the queen and Tamlin. He wore strange armor Fagan had never seen before. His skin was sun-kissed bronze and his hair as dark and long as Fagan’s but curly.

  “Draw!” a goblin shouted in a deep voice, his words affected by the tusks protruding from his lower jaw.

  Muscle memory alone guided Fagan’s hand to draw an arrow and notch it. He faced the straw dummy meant for him and pulled back the string, taking a deep breath in.

  “Release!”

  Despite his nerves, Fagan’s arrow hit true, straight through the heart of the dummy.

  The soldiers performed the exercise over and over, like any other training day. Fagan felt a little light-headed by time the goblin with the cart pushed up to him to take the empty quiver and bow. He dared a glance at the queen, whose gaze caught him by his very soul.

  “Let’s show my guest a demonstration of their hand-to-hand combat skills, General.” The queen kept her eyes on Fagan, but it was Tamlin who gave the order.

  The guest had watched Fagan with the interest of a man assessing a horse at a market. He assumed the man was some human noble, either trapped or one with power but not fae. The good lord knew how long Fagan had been here, but he had learned the difference.

  Was he Cu Roi mac Daire come to challenge him? Fagan had not taken Aoife’s virginity, but he had slept with the king’s betrothed. That was reason enough to ask for a duel.

  Instead of moving on to where the soldiers normally trained in swordplay, the goblins transformed the archery range into the sparring yard. The head goblin started calling names to be paired.

  Famished, Fagan knew he’d be no good against the stronger, faster fae. Remembering the fruit in his satchel, he signaled he needed to use the latrine. Since fae don’t lie, no one suspected him of a falsehood or what he’d be about. The goblin nodded for him to go ahead, not pausing in his task of pairing the soldiers up.

  When Fagan reached the latrine, he hastily devoured half of the fruit, but had the foresight to save the rest of the sweet and juicy repast for later. He wiped his mouth and checked in a reflective glass for any signs he’d broken the rules. He didn’t know why Deirdre was so adamant that he didn’t eat the fruit until he was in bed; no one was the wiser when he returned.

  A goblin shoved a wooden sword at him. “Pair with Treb.”

  Fagan turned, scanning the training yard, and found a giant, broad-shouldered redcap cutting a razor-toothed smile in his direction. He cursed under his breath.

  Redcaps, the fiercest of the soldiers, were bred for war and notoriously dyed their caps with the blood of their enemies. The warrior Fagan had to face in front of the
queen had likely trained in combat since he’d toddled away from his ma’s arms.

  Suddenly, the day brightened. Colors became more vivid. Lines sharpened. Fagan glanced at the queen. Her skin was not like a loch at all, but comprised of shimmering, interlocking scales. Her eyes—not black, but a myriad of swirling rainbows condensed. He could count every blessed freckle dusting Tamlin’s nose and cheeks. See the stubble of new growth on the jaw of the handsome guest and that he had stunning blue eyes. Fagan’s vision had never been bad, but it also had never been so good.

  The odors of the training yard, and there were many, became distinct. He could sense the air as if he could not only feel the breeze but see the direction it flowed.

  He saw the redcap’s move long before he charged. Blocking it, he spun away graceful as any dancer, and then served a counter blow to the neck.

  It had happened so fast. His reflexes and instinct so sharp, Fagan hadn’t realized what he’d done. He was strong from training with Aoife and now lord knew how long he’d trained with the fae, for time passed strangely here, but still he was only human. Certainly not strong enough to strike the redcap dead with a practice blow.

  However, there the fae lie in the packed dirt, unmoving. His infamous cap ironically darkened with the blood blossoming from where his head had struck the ground.

  Goblins rushed to the redcap’s aid, carrying with them their foul stench. Fagan thought he’d grown used to it, but now he could detect what made them reek. It wasn’t a body odor as he’d once thought. They fed on carrion and drank fermented mushroom wine.

  “Dead,” the troll pronounced. “Step back!”

  Fagan stumbled backward in shock. The ground shook under the red cap, the soil opening like a giant maw, swallowing the fae and closing as if he’d never been there.

  The combination of the goblins’ breath, the sight of the ground swallowing a person as if the faerie itself were a living creature, and the fact he’d killed someone in practice made his stomach roil. He dared to gaze up at the queen, her visitor, and Tamlin, expecting their censure. Instead, he saw pride in Tamlin’s eyes, lust in the queen’s, and a different sort of hunger in the guest’s. He knew that look. A laird seeing land or opportunity he wanted to seize.