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“You defy all rules and laws of magic, you mark your own path among the threads of it. Any other Fae would not have been able to stumble into this place, let alone find me within it.” His chin came to rest on my head. “I wanted to bring you here, to show you a piece of me hidden deep within the splendor of the Nightmare lands, but also to show you a piece of your father. They were all very close, you know. Though he was born of the line of Mabh, upon his ascension, they became his family. If my goddess is to be believed, and I would not encourage you to voice disagreement in her own land, he was the favored among their entire coterie. She wept here with her beloved, filling up this pool with their tears, for years after he was slain. Under that very tree. The tree that he crafted for them as a symbol of their love.”
The warmth of the hot spring seeped into my body and permeated my heart, melting away the sliver of glass that had taken up residence there—a welcome reprieve from its brutality. I smiled up to the tree.
My father had been loved among the gods. And he had been thoughtful in his gifts. I noticed that the roots of the twisted trees dripped down into the hot spring in a rope, looping wide in what could easily be footholds, and the bark on the trees was raised and rough, making it easy for the blind God of the Dúluachair to find his way up and down.
“Thank you for showing this to me,” I murmured.
“Thank yourself, my Pearl. You came here on your own feet. I am but the minstrel weaving tales of forgotten loves and odes to your beauty.” He nuzzled my hair and pulled me in tighter. “Come to my bed in the light tonight; you do not need to sneak about into your rightful place.”
I exhaled a small laugh. “I rather like the sneaking part. It makes it interesting. Though I did think you didn’t notice.”
“Didn’t notice? My lady, I had new sheets woven so as not to scratch your delicate flesh, a rabbit-skin fur placed on your side of the bed, carpets of spider silk laid out to cushion your feet from the cold. I all but embroidered your name on the pillow to show you I wanted you there. It took all my patience not to hold you to me every morning when you fled back to your own tent.” The hurt in his voice was less a bleeding wound and more an insult that I thought him so dense.
“I guess I didn’t notice.” I chuckled bashfully into the flat of his forearm.
“Does this mean you will join me this evening?” There was hope in his voice, a hope I couldn’t quite decide if I wanted to entertain or not.
“I don’t know . . . let’s see what nightfall brings.”
Chapter 32
Ard Tiarna Emrys of Breacadh an Lae, The Raven of the Dawn
The monthly cycle of traders and merchants that was part of the heartbeat of the palace had all but collapsed under the weight of the nobles flowing into the bailey. It used to be as steady as the rain; every week, they would return and set up their simple wooden-framed stalls, and the residents around the palace would flow in to buy and trade their goods. Supplies for the palace itself would come in on daily wagons, but the market was a staple of the palace’s activities and something the Fae relied on.
There was no room for it anymore. Every cobblestone and patch of dirt within the courtyards had been taken up by grand pavilions of the nobles gathering for the rumor of a ball. More than one heated argument between the gentry, their staff, and a human gnome had ended in a trip to the Temple to heal a wound caused by a hoe or a shovel. The humans had drawn the battle lines, and, through the indulgence of the Ard Rí, the vast gardens stretching between the palace walls and the Temple of the Ascended had been declared off-limits. For the safety of every Fae, lest a human gnome get it in their mind to start using the long pruning shears instead of the more civilized tools of their trade.
Instead, the market had been forced to move to the nearest village, a boon for some and a point of grousing and complaining from the gentry now forced to attend their humans in their shopping.
The argument between Daróg and me about the necessity for an assignment of royal guards had ended the same way all of our arguments had ended lately, with him dangling my sister over my head and promising all manner of harm against her. Our inquiries had so far yielded no viable information, and Silver and I were growing more uneasy as he kept pressing his advantage.
I relented, though. I always relented. I always retreated when he tightened the noose around her. It was a wonder that he had not become exhausted by our unending dance, and just went straight for it in every crossing. I was starting to suspect he was enjoying the bouts between us. Extracting some sick pleasure from the sparring, knowing he had the power to end it whenever he wanted. He was like a cat with an injured mouse, amused by my squeaking and panic.
The weekly migration to the village market was a convenient excuse to get away from the palace, and it was also a convenient cover for my own supply run.
The nobles and their two servants each, the limit I had required after the first caravan into town took two hours to travel a distance that normally took a mere half hour by foot, were safely wandering the market. Stable magic was exchanged everywhere I turned, and each group had one or two of my soldiers with them.
Silver fell into step alongside me as I patrolled, edging my way closer to the only merchant I had interest in patronizing today.
“Report,” I murmured, my voice pitched low as if I was trying to be respectful of the nobles around me.
Silver nodded a hello to a wine merchant and kept his eyes scanning the crowd. “My seafoam bids you stop asking her for favors.”
I grunted in amusement. I had only met the selkie a few times in passing when she grew too annoyed with Silvertree’s absence and came to the palace herself to collect him for a two-week-long tryst before returning him to duty. But she was determined to both like me and dislike me at the same time. I respected her for her transparency.
“Extend my sincerest apologies to her for the inconvenience.” I paused for us to pass a rather thick milling of Fae near the cheese monger. “Did she send word?”
“She did. She says White Throat’s clan has had more ships arrive at the docks, but the shipments make no sense. Two crates from Hy-Brasil and three crates of Deep Web silk. The latter of which were immediately sent to the weavers of the Sidereals. Are you aware that Aibhéis Draig and Lon di Lughae have such a familiar and comfortable trading agreement?”
I frowned, sidestepping the crush of bodies as I considered the implications. Árus Adaig, as a court and as a whole, was more secretive and removed from courtly life than many of the other courts. Not even the Dúluachair kept themselves apart as much as the Árus Adaig. Their crown had not even heeded the call to swear fealty to Daróg when he ascended the throne. They instead sent their emissary to represent them. No one had seen their ruler in centuries. Rumors had started and died, of course, hinting that perhaps the court itself had thrown off the long-held system and was instead ruled, like the Free Cities of Hy-Brasil, by a council of appointed members.
“I was not aware of this. But trade between courts is not outlawed. Why they would cede such a valuable resource is the true question.” I frowned as I thought.
Spider silk was not uncommon, used in everything from the weaving of fine clothing to the creation of bandages, but silk from the spiders of the Deep Web, their homeland and exclusive territory, was rare and costly. Expeditions into the Deep Web were perilous, never without high casualties, and regulated for the safety of the realm by the Ard Rí’s chancellor of trade. Few grants were given every year, and when they were, it was always with the understanding that if you sent one hundred Fae, only a handful would return.
The silk that could be found there was unique, steeped in a flavor of magic unheard of and not found anywhere else in Magh Meall, though. Where a highly specialized weaver was needed to create the lavish court gowns, with Deep Web silk, the only thing limiting a Fae from creating them was their imagination. Deep Web silk, unlike regular silk, could be worked by a forgesmith into weapons.
“It is not. It just seems strange that a war clan chieftain would cede weapon materials to astronomers and hierophants instead of sending them to Árus Contráth to be made into armaments and armor,” Silver murmured.
