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Una shook that salt-and-pepper hair of hers. He noticed there was blood on her hands.
His head ached. The wailing wouldn’t stop. Glannis, Una’s remaining sister, joined her. Like the other hag, Glannis had streaks of blood marring her clothes and hands. Why were the stupid fucking brownies wailing when their torturers weren’t busy torturing them?
The noise sounded like it was coming from the walls themselves. “I’m making a new rule. Cut the prisoners’ tongues out before you start torturing them. I can’t stand to listen to the bastards scream anymore. Why is it so loud? They’re in the dungeon, are they not?”
Glannis wiped her hands on her skirt, seeming to not care that blood soaked the cotton. Her hair hung in clumpy strands, sweat dripping from her brow. “It would be rather hard to get any information out of them what’s if we cut their tongues from their heads. Do you be expecting them to talk out of their arseholes?”
He didn’t hesitate. He slapped her, adding to the blood on her clothes. Her head snapped back and a brutal cut opened on her lip. “You will watch your tongue around me, hag.”
“Aye, Your Majesty,” the hag replied, her tongue coming out to swipe at the blood on her chin.
The wailing reached epic proportions, threatening to shake the walls. Torin put his hands to his ears. “Go down to the dungeon and shut them the fuck up! Or I’ll have your tongues.”
Una shivered a bit. “It ain’t the brownies.”
He thought about plowing a fist into her face, but he still needed the bitches. “Then shut the goblins up. I don’t care who it is.”
Glannis pointed out the balcony toward the river that ran by the White Palace. “I think you should care, Your Majesty. It’s why we came up here. One of the guards saw her.”
Torin looked out, a cold chill invading his limbs. There was a single woman standing by the water’s edge, a piece of clothing in her hand, a wash basin at her side. She got to her knees, soaking the garment in the river water.
“What in all the planes is that dumb bitch doing?” Torin turned away only to see his brother standing in the background, a wicked smile on his face. He ignored Seamus. “Get the guards. Tell them to shoot that woman and hang her corpse up for all to see. And shut that wailing up.”
“The guards won’t go near her,” Una said. She wouldn’t come out on the balcony. Una wasn’t afraid of much. Her magic was based in blood. She killed with a perfection he’d seen in very few, but she was scared of a single woman washing her clothes?
The wailing. The washing. That eat-shit grin on his brother’s face.
“Bean sidhe?” The words came out on a hushed sigh. Even speaking the name made his stomach revolt.
“It can’t be too important.” Unlike her sibling, Glannis didn’t seem impressed by the legendary washer woman. “There’s only one of them.”
Una was nearly out the door now. “But they only wail for royal lines when death is near.”
For royal lines. He knew the washer woman’s tale. She was legendary across the planes. Some called her banshee, but here she was bean sidhe. The bean sidhe had three forms, the virgin, the mother, and the crone. Three forms of the same woman. She showed up before tragedies. She sang her song when a royal death was coming. He’d been smart enough to have his hags cast a spell over the palace three nights before his coup. The washer women had come—all three, but no one heard them.
Three would sing for a king. One for a prince.
Or a pretender. Seamus’s voice seeped into his head. The bean sidhe know what you are.
Could it be possible? Could the washer woman’s wail be for him?
“But we killed the girl.” Glannis waved off the bean sidhe. “It’s most likely the queen she sings for. ’Tis no great loss. You can take a new wife. A fertile one. The rebellions might die out if you had an heir of your own.”
His coup had been carefully prepared. He’d taken no chances. He’d planned for years, including paying soothsayers across three different planes. Each had seen the same thing—Bronwyn, his ridiculous puffball of a niece, was the one who could strike the killing blow. Beck and Cian could take the throne back, but they couldn’t kill him. Only that nitwit Bronwyn could.
But he’d buried her.
He turned to his brother. “You said you hated me for killing your wife.”
The hags stared at him like he’d gone insane.
“Your Majesty, we don’t hate you.” Una looked around as though she could suddenly feel something, but couldn’t see it. Glannis glanced around, too, but neither could catch sight of Seamus, it seemed. Seamus showed himself only to his brother.
Torin didn’t waste time on them. There were no explanations that could make sense, and he’d struck on something important. His brother’s words came back to him. Seamus had lost his smile.
His brother railed at him for the loss of his throne and his wife. He often spoke of Beck and Cian. And he never ever mentioned Bronwyn. Torin thought it was because a daughter was of no use outside what her hand in marriage could bring a kingdom. Seamus had ignored the girl except to lift her in his arms and twirl her around on occasion. He would pat her on the head and call her “little pixie.” She was insignificant.
Or was she? His brother had changed since his death. He fucking loved everyone now. Everyone except his little pixie.
