Page 6 of A Courage of the Chosen

Hume chuckles. “What right does a human—”

“I was never human,” I cut in, silencing his imminent tirade.

Hume’s eyes narrow on me as I address the table. “You’ve all been deceived for the last one hundred and fifty years. Raghnall isn’t who you think he is.”

There’s a pause while I calculate how to get the message across in the most succinct way. “Raghnall is the leader of the Dorche. He orchestrated the attack where Murdoch Darrow was murdered, so he could be king. His son, the prince, isn’t who you think he is either. We need to come together to defeat them.” The truth tumbles out in a hurry. My pain, and that of so many others, summarized into four sentences that have rocked the Seelie gathered at this table.

The room descends into chaos as the stunned silence shatters, and the council begin shouting over one another to be heard and have their fury known.

“This is preposterous!”

“There’s no way this is true!”

“What would this mean?”

“Surely we would know if our king was the leader of the Dorche?”

“Clearly a pathetic move to take the crown.”

On and on they go. Hurling questions, insults, challenges. It’s exactly what I expected.

“The Dorche is led by that scum, Callahan.”

My head snaps in Hume’s direction. The way he uttered his name, like it was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe, shoves my uncertainty aside. The memories of the poison spreading through Callahan’s veins where Tavish had stabbed him, the pale color of his skin as he hung onto life, the way his chest shuddered as he fought for breath, are ones I have to beat back. They have no place here, not when I can’t break apart.

“Callahan has done more for this war than you could ever imagine, be careful what you say.” The low tone of my voice cuts through the room with precision, quieting everyone in the process.

Hume laughs, rising to the threat. “And what are you going to do about it?”

My fist curls beneath the table, something cold sweeping through my body as I picture all the ways I’d enjoy watching Hume suffer. He had to have known about Raghnall, he was his shadow, which means Hume is my enemy just as much as Raghnall is.

Reyne places her hand on my shoulder, the only thing that stops me from throwing myself across the table and shutting him up.

“Perhaps if you’ll allow Elsie to explain everything, instead of shouting over one another, you will have your questions answered,” Reyne chastises the entire room, and I love her for it, endlessly grateful to have her by my side.

“No,” Hume replies and starts to stand from his chair. “I will not sit here and listen to this imposter spit lies about our noble king.”

Reyne replies before I can. “Your noble king has systematically ordered the murder of innocents. He has destroyed homes and families in his search for power. Where is he now, Hume? When war is on our doorstep, where is he?”

“He has important matters to deal with, child.” He turns as if to stride from the room, but is halted by a man at the far end of the table. An impressive mustache sits above a mouth held tight with the same tension bracketing his broad shoulders, brown-and-green-flecked eyes curious but wary. “We need answers, Hume. You should stay to hear them.”

After a pause where he considers the words of his fellow council member, Hume returns to his seat on my right, grumbling incoherently under his breath.

“I will answer all of your questions,” I say, voice steadier than before but my insides still twisted into knots. “You don’t know me well, some of you not at all, and I understand this is hard for you to accept, but I’m telling you the truth.”

The woman sat next to Lady Calder speaks, her suspicion open for us all to see. “How do you know King Raghnall and Prince Tavish are Dorche?”

“I’ve witnessed it,” I reply.

“As have I,” Reyne adds from behind me.

The council weigh her confession.

“Forgive me, my lady,” mustache skeptically adds from the end of the table, “What is your role in this?”

“Excellent question, Lord Haddow,” Humes chimes in.

“My grandmother was Màiri Darrow.” Speaking her name pokes at the wounds left behind by her loss, and it comes out in a whisper.