Page 68 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

P.S. Laoise sends her love. She has joined the kitchen staff in their duties and, with only a few minor burns, is actually becoming useful. Or so I am told.

Yours, Declan

With the coronation in three days, everything is falling into place. Once I gain access to the castle, I’ll find Declan who will lead me to the Mirror. Fulfilling my oath to Aed, he will free me and Laoise, perhaps even Declan if he decides to come with us. King Brogan’s carriage will wait for us outside, ordered to take Laoise back to Bouldermore and me to his castle. She will be free at last, and my new friends can live their lives as though I never existed.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. I will see you at the coronation in a few days’ time. I hope the drawing was of help.

Bryn

Prince Eamon didn’t accept my silver in exchange for my sister’s freedom, but with Declan’s help and Odhran’s maps, we’ll escape instead. I feel uneasy about sharing information, becoming more like the Slìbhìn Odhran thought me to be.

THIRTY-THREE

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

Iron burns the skin of a faerie. Do not threaten them with iron. They will respond with violence at their first opportunity.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

My shoulders ache as I pull back on the taut string, and it sings against my ear. My palm hurts, bruised from hours pressed against the smooth wooden bow. The coolness seeps into my skin. I remembered the feel of the bow from my lessons back home the moment Sloan handed it to me. It felt familiar. Safe. Mine.

I take a moment to steady my breath, the rise and fall of my chest matching the rhythm of my controlled heartbeat. My target stands proudly in the distance, nestled amidst the trees that surround Odhran’s house. Sloan, ever the diligent instructor, has meticulously placed numerous targets, each one positioned farther from me with each passing day. He’s helped me test my limits, saying our limits are only as far as the borders of our ambition.

My eyes fixate on the small red sphere at the centre, clearer when I narrow my gaze.

“Are you going to ignore me forever?” a deep voice rumbles from behind, breaking my concentration. Cinnamon and peppermint invade my senses. I draw the string back, the tension spreading through my shoulders, before I raise the bow in perfect synchrony. Exhaling, I let the arrow soar through the air, slicing through the stillness of the early evening. The white feathers adorning its end make it easier to track its trajectory, and I miss the target.

“How many times do I need to say I’m sorry?” he asks, stepping closer. “Talk to me, Bryn. Scream at me. Hell, draw blood if you must, but please, I implore you, stop ignoring me. Your silence is torture.”

I remove another arrow from my quiver, feeling the smoothness of its shaft under my fingertips. With a quick and fluid motion, I raise the bow. The string slaps against my arm as I pull it back, creating a low hum in the air. Both arrows miss my target. Everything inside me buzzes with annoyance.

I reach behind my back, my fingers brushing against the leather quiver, bringing forth the familiar click of an arrow against the wooden bow. It’s feather-light, perfectly balanced in my grip. “Bryndis,” he whispers. Ignore him.

Inhale. Draw. Lift. Release. The smoothness of the movement opposes the tension in my muscles, the strain in my shoulder blades. I reach behind me for another arrow, and my hand meets his, warm against my skin. Startled, I jerk back, my muscles protesting the abrupt motion. When I turn to face him, my eyes burn with anger threatening to consume me. The last time we touched I had hoped for some form of relationship, had asked for his help only to be denied. Now I allow his touch to ignite the fire I’ve tried to tame through weeks of training and let my hatred of him burn me alive. I despise him for not helping Selma. For not helping me free Laoise, or even promising to try. I detest him for sinking his teeth into me and revealing the monster I am inside. The one who wasn’t repulsed by the action but excited. “Leave me alone,” I snap, my voice sharp with frustration.

“No,” he asserts, his grip firm on my arms. The contact intensifies the heat of my anger. “I’m afraid I’m not able. Not anymore, at least not until you give me something true.”

“If I recall, you owe me a truth,” I retort, attempting to shake off his hold. “If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make one of those faces pretty.”

“Alright then,” he grumbles. Odhran’s strong frame tenses, his shoulders drawing back as he closes his eyes. The air around us seems to still for a moment, holding its breath. “There lies great power in a name. It can be a blessing and a curse. Knowing a faerie’s full names gives you power over them, so too, knowing mine, my fate is in your grasp.” He grows quiet, watching me as if waiting for me to respond. “No one knows my full name. Not my pretentious family. Not my friends. It’s something we choose for ourselves when we come of age.”

“What makes you think I care?” I glare back at him, heart pounding in my ears.

“Odhran Cian Delaney,” he says, each syllable pronounced clearly so that I can’t get it wrong. He’s the son of Queen Aila, wife of King Darragh, and the biological son of the late King Carrig, the heir to the throne of Geimhreadh, and a general to the armies of Samhradh. He’s the most powerful man I know, and now I have his name.

In a single statement, he lays himself bare. I know it’s no small thing, and that I’m expected to reciprocate in some way. A part of me wants to surrender to my warring emotions, to the attraction and desire that consumes me whenever he’s near; the other part wants to see him suffer.

I turn from him, my muscles tensing as I remove the last arrow from my quiver. The sound of leaves rustling in the wind fills my ears, echoing the turmoil within me.

I shoot the arrow straight at the target in the trees ahead. The bowstring hums in my hands, the vibrations reverberating through my fingertips.

“I understand,” he says with a cold edge to his voice. “You don’t need to like me. Honestly, it’s better for you if you don’t.” The dimly lit courtyard fills with tension as he continues, “You can hate me. Hurt me if you must, but please stop avoiding me. It’s torture. Tomorrow night is Eamon’s coronation, and I won’t be there to protect you. But I would very much like your company before then.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” I breathe. My throat closes. It’s forbidden for a faerie to keep his or her subjects from attending the coronation. If he keeps me here, he’ll be punished by those under his protection being removed from his charge. I slip the leather strap over my head, leaving it on the small wooden bench next to my bow, its tip nestled into the soft sand. I push past him toward the door. His fingers close around my wrist, keeping me here. As if time stands still, I’m taken back to Sloan’s demonstration a week ago. Instead of pulling against Odhran’s grip, I follow Sloan’s instructions. Pivot. Free. Turn. Strike. Four commands. Four swift actions.

My movements are fast, effortless, honed. I pivot my arm around his grip, slipping out of his hold before he has time to frown. My cupped palm strikes his ear, sending compressed air straight to his eardrum. He hisses in pain, but I don’t care. Using his momentary disorientation, I ram my knee into the side of his thigh, sending him to the ground. I watch as this tall, muscular, immortal general falls onto the sand at my feet. The tension in my jaw releases, replaced by the warmth of satisfaction. I don’t need his name to bring him to his knees.

Yes!