Page 65 of The Blood Queen

“Wh-where are we?” I manage to get out. Not only are we drenched in freezing water, the high winds whip over the desolate, rocky coast, chilling me to the bone. We’re going to die if we don’t find dry, warm shelter.

“Hell if I know,” Samson says, scanning the water. He quickly turns his attention back to me. “Are you okay? Would one of the potions help? I lost some in the water, but—”

I hold my hand up. “I’ll be okay,” I say, my throat raw. “But we need… dry clothes. A fire?” I shake my head, the wet ends of my hair stinging on my cheeks. I can’t think straight.

“What kind of portal dumps us into a bloody whirlpool?” Samson mutters.

Some of the fog clears from my mind. “Whirlpool?” I scan the waves. Across the narrow strip of water, I can see another island, and between them, the choppy sea does swirl, forming a clear circular pattern. It wasn’t magic dragging us under; it was the whirlpool.

“The cauldron,” I mutter.

Samson waits for me to lay my thoughts straight in my head.

My teeth are still chattering when I explain. “The Cauldron of Breckan. That’s why it was an iron pot in the fae realm. The portal is in the water, and the whirlpool is called Corryvreckan.” Cauldron is coire; bhreacain can mean…“Plaid,” I whisper.

Like the cloth on the loom.

It was no accident we wound up here and no twist of fate that no fae chased us through the portal.

“Plaid?”

I stand up, ignoring the wind that tries to push me back down. “Plaid,” I say again, louder. “Because, you see, this is Beira’s land. This is where Beira washes her plaid. That’s what the whirlpool really is.”

We are standing on the edge of the Isle of Jura along the western coast of Scotland, steeped in magic and legends, looking at the Corryvreckan whirlpool as it swirls and churns in the strait. How can Samson not see the ancient goddess’s hand in such a destructive, powerful force?

The wind cuts through me, icy knives against my skin. Beira, the goddess of winter, a giantess who carved the Highlands.

“Where are you?” I scream into the wind. “You said you would help us!”

The goddess doesn’t make an appearance.

But she does answer me.

The skies grow black, clouds swirling far too rapidly to be from the winds alone. Icy hail rains down on us, clattering against the rocks on the shore. Samson covers his head with his arm, tries to hunch his tunic up to offer me some weak protection, but I shake him off, striding into the sleet as if it doesn’t bother me.

“You quit this right now!” I screech. “Face me, you hag!”

“Er, Alyth?” Samson asks. “Beira is both an ally and a goddess more powerful than most of the fae. Perhaps you should not—”

“Cailleach! Dèan sabaid orm! Maorach!”

“What?” Samson asks, unsure of my Gaelic tongue screaming in rage. It must be confusing for him, the way we speak Scots in court but how most fae prefer Gaelic and how often I switch between the two.

“Calling me a coward is hardly necessary,” a voice says behind us. “Although you’re right. I am a hag.” Beira grins at her self-proclaimed title, but the smile does not reach her eyes. It only exposes her rust-colored teeth, sharpened to points like fangs.

Samson, no doubt remembering my instructions of the past, bends into a low bow. It’s a smart way to greet the Queen of Winter, her midnight-colored skin blending in with the darkened skies. Her vivid white hair flies about, almost obscuring her face. I wonder if the fae that had been chasing us assumed the whirlpool would kill us or if Beira has blocked their access to this portal so clearly under her domain.

She levels her cold gaze on me when I don’t bend to show her any respect. I meet her one eye with both of mine, fury burning inside me.

“You wail like a caoineag,” she says disdainfully. The fae creatures she compares me to are mourners, screaming lamentations about the dead in the high peaks of the mountains.

“The caoineag has a reason to wail,” I snap back. “And so do I.”

“You do not mourn,” Beira says, tilting her head.

I tap Samson on the back, telling him he can straighten up since the Queen of Winter does not seem inclined to give him a reprieve.

“I mourn,” I say, “for the way the cowardice of the fae is going to lead to the destruction of this land and theirs.” I take a step forward. “I mourn for the weak-willed blood I share with my father.” Another step. Beira doesn’t move. “I mourn that the people who are supposed to be mine would reject—” My voice cracks.