Chapter 13
I scrambled to my feet and stared at the Dagda, who bared his teeth and snarled at the nine dead females now lying slumped on the tabletop. Huge breaths heaved in and out of that mighty chest, the sound of his seething like a serrated edge to my ears.
Now it made sense. How the skulls from supposedly immortal beings lined the palace’s exterior walls. He had probably killed his lovers, subjects, offspring, over the millennia, only to replace them with new, more compliant sycophants.
The Dagda saw people as disposable—it’s why he didn’t seem fazed by the return of a son who had been missing for a thousand years, why he had more children than he could remember. The Dagda was exactly like Queen Melusina.
“How could you?” The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them.
The Dagda turned around, his handsome features twisted with rage. “This is my palace.” He slapped his palm on his bare chest. “Mine! Nobody disrespects me within my walls.”
“What kind of male would murder nine innocent people because somebody laughed?” I swept my hand over the expanse of the table. “What kind of male has so many lovers?”
He bared his teeth, his golden eyes flashing with rage. “You would dare to judge me?”
My heart thrashed against my chest, desperate to escape this foolish body that had dared to stand up to the Dagda’s wrath.
Fury radiated off his mighty form, hot and bright and crackling with vengeance.
“You would dare question me at my own table?” He raised his staff, ready to strike. The women behind me screamed and scrambled off the bench. “I will end your wretched life!”
I gripped the Sword of Tethra with my left hand and unsheathed it with my right, making sure to slice my palm and coat its blade with my blood.
With a roar, the Dagda swung his staff at my head.
On instinct, I swung, blocked, and my blade sliced clean through the Dagda’s staff. Wood clanked against the table, spraying potato soup onto us both.
The Dagda’s eyes bulged. “Lorg mór.” He stared at the broken end of his staff. “You just destroyed the last fragment of the Crann Bethadh.”
My throat thickened. I had read about the Crann Bethadh in the Book of Brigid. It was also known as the Tree of Life, an ancient oak that formed the gateway between the living world and the Otherworld.
Its canopy was said to be tall enough to reach the realm of the gods. According to the book, the tree burned down when humans and faeries overran Bresail and the gods retreated to their realm.
I stared from the broken staff now lying in a tureen of soup, to its wooden handle, which the Dagda gripped with knuckles as white as diluted milk. How was I supposed to know it was an ancient artifact? And even if it was, I had to defend myself.
“You just killed nine people and were about to kill me.”
“Fix it.” He pointed the broken staff into my face. “Fix it or I will boil you in my cauldron and serve up your stewed carcass.”
My mouth dried, and I gulped several times in quick succession. What in the name of all that was holy did the Dagda expect me to do? Stand there and let him kill me and eight others with that staff?
“Father.” Aengus stood at the other side of the table. “This is my doing. I failed to explain to Queen Neara that Lorg mór has the power to restore life as well as kill. Please, show her.”
The Dagda glowered at his son as though considering whether to slay him, too. I bit down on my lip. There was no escape from this great hall. Not with so many of the Dagda’s lovers around me, his children, his servants, either eager to do the bidding of this maniac or too frightened of him to rebel.
With a sigh, the Dagda pushed back his throne and walked to his slain lovers. He turned his staff around and touched its handle on each of their backs. The females stirred, pushed themselves off the table, and glanced around as though roused from a sudden sleep.
My heart quickened. What if that was the magical object I needed to awaken Drayce?
The Dagda turned to me, his teeth bared. “Now, fix my staff or once I’ve squeezed the life out of your skinny neck and cooked you until your meat falls off your bones, I will throw what’s left of you out into the Summer Court.”
“I…” How could I tell him that I had little to no control of my power? I could slice through things, open portals, but I hadn’t had the opportunity to train. Slicing things was the extent of my abilities.
Moments passed, and I stood locked in the Dagda’s golden gaze. Firelight flickered in his eyes, reminding me of the flames of his fury threatening to destroy me for the consequences of his bad temper.
Grumbles stirred around us from the dancers now complaining that the music had stopped, the lovers muttering about the mess on the table. The low, complaining voices spread across the dining hall, a swarm of discontent.
“Lock her away,” he snarled.
Rough hands grabbed my arms and hauled me off the bench and behind the Dagda’s table. I turned to the crowd, swept my gaze over the discontented musicians and merrymakers and met Aengus’ stricken gaze.
“Father.” Aengus reached out an arm. “Don’t—”
“Silence,” the Dagda roared, making everyone flinch. He clapped his hands together. “Play the music, clear up this mess, continue the feast!”
The fiddlers resumed their playing. The dancers retook their positions and laughed and clapped and swayed to the music. I struggled within the guards’ grip, tried to reach for the Sword of Tethra, which now lay on the floor behind the table.
The guards pulled me backward through an archway, their heavy feet echoing loud enough to drown out the sound of merriment. I screamed and tried lurching forward, my gaze fixed on the disappearing archway, but the hands restraining me were too strong, too tight, too unyielding. The clank and jingle of keys rang through my ears, a door creaked open, and they threw me into a dungeon lined with bones.
I fell onto my back, the knobbly surfaces of the bones kneading my ribcage and spine. Tremors of terror and disgust wracked my body. I stumbled to my feet and threw myself against the closing door, my lungs loosening a scream.
“Wait,” I cried.
The door slammed shut, knocking me back several paces. I glanced around at the tightly packed thigh bones and shuddered. Like the skulls on the outside of the Palace of Bóinne, they came in different sizes, ranging from the diameter of a dinner plate to bones as delicate as the tines of forks. There were no lights, no windows, no source of ventilation except for what streamed through the tiny gaps between the bones.
I wrapped both arms around my middle and leaned against the door—the only surface in this accursed cell that wasn’t made of a dead person. The power of becoming the Queen of the Faeries had dulled my instincts, made me overconfident and reckless. When I lived in the cottage with Father, I would never have spoken out against a faerie, even when the scales of power were weighted in my favor.
The old Neara would sneak about, always stealthy, always afraid. I had spent years watching powerless as people were victimized by faeries, and the moment I got a little power, I struck out. If Father was here, he would have scolded me for not holding my silence at the Dagda’s murderous instincts.
Despair washed through my insides. I had failed. Failed Drayce, failed Father, and failed Aengus.
A hatch at the bottom of the door creaked open, and a guard slipped in the pieces of the Dagda’s broken staff. “Join Lorg mór by nightfall, or the Dagda will execute you as part of the festivities.”
“Not without my sword of healing,” I snapped.
“What?” he said.
“The sword I used to slice through the Dagda’s staff. It works the same as Lorg mór. With one blow it cuts and with another it heals.”
Nothing happened for several moments, and I held my breath, hoping the guard would believe my lie. As far as I knew, the Sword of Tethra had no uses except to create rifts through the world. Father’s incantation could direct those rifts, and my blo
od on its own did nothing unless combined with something magical like a circle of mushrooms.
After several heartbeats of silence, the guard said, “I will speak to the Dagda.”
I picked up the two pieces of Lorg mór and examined the sharp ends made by my blade. Instead of creating a rift, the Sword of Tethra had cut them cleanly as though my blood hadn’t made an ounce of a difference. I leaned against the wall, pressed the two pieces together, and willed them to stick.
It didn’t work. Not that I was expecting anything, but I had hoped after two failed attempts to obtain the harp, that I’d suddenly get a run of good luck.
My eyes grew heavy, and sleep threatened to pull me under. Clenching my teeth, I fought the urge and tightened my fists around the broken staff. Now was not the time to fall into an accursed sleep. Not when the Dagda might carry out his threat to boil me in his cauldron and throw my bones into the darkness, where the Fear Dorcha might gather them up as an offering to Queen Melusina.
A deep breath shuddered out of my lungs, then I forced another inhale and exhaled it in a rush. I stamped my feet, clanged together the pieces of broken staff—anything to stay awake and stay alive, anything for a chance to return to the carriage and to Drayce.
The urge to sleep washed over my being, wrestled with my consciousness, tussled with my brain, threatened to drown me in slumber until I succumbed to its demand. My limbs turned leaden, my eyelids drooped, and the first rivulets of dreams seeped in from the back of my mind.
Just when my eyelids fluttered shut, the door opened, and I fell backward into muscular arms, which wrapped around my chest. The scent of ale and sweat and roasted meat filled my nostrils.
The Dagda chuckled low and deep. “If you wanted my staff so badly, you should have asked instead of breaking Lorg mór.”
It took a heartbeat for the innuendo to reach my brain, and heat flooded my cheeks. I stumbled back into the cell of bones, still clutching the broken pieces of the wooden staff.
The Dagda stalked in after me, the Sword of Tethra hanging on his belt. Hunger gleamed on his handsome features, and his nostrils flared as though it wasn’t enough to devour me with his eyes. Without the flickering light of the chandelier flames, there was no mistaking his roiling power, no mistaking the flecks of burning gold dancing within his irises.
“I have a proposition for you,” he purred.
My throat dried, and I tore my gaze from those glittering eyes to his amber beard. The Dagda’s lips widened into a smile. “Your sword is a very interesting magical artifact. How did you acquire it?”
“I—” Why was he asking? Did he plan on adding it to his collection? Or perhaps he would swap my sword for his broken staff.
I couldn’t let it fall out of my possession. Only the Sword of Tethra could release the Fomorians from the mist, and I didn’t trust the Dagda to keep it safe.
The huge male advanced on me, his golden eyes shining bright as though they would illuminate the truth in the darkest corner of my soul.
“It was embedded in a stone,” I replied.
He dropped his gaze to the sword’s golden hilt. “Serve me willingly until Lorg mór repairs itself, after which you are free to leave my lands.”
My brows drew together. “Why would you need me when you have so many lovers?”
The Dagda’s smile broadened as though my words had just confirmed that I desired his… staff. “It’s your blood I want, my dear.” His gaze flickered down my leather armor, making me step further back across the uneven floor of bones. “You will serve as my sword maiden.”
“Sword…” I’d never heard of such a thing, but it sounded like a personal guard.
“You will obey my commands, stand at my side, wield this fascinating sword, and open your veins to coat its blade.”
My throat convulsed. He could force me to commit any number of atrocities with the Sword of Tethra. “How long—”
“Until one side of the staff regenerates,” he replied, his eyes dancing. “Until my staff both kills and heals.”
I exhaled a long breath. He meant forever. I’d be no better than the human slaves that toiled a lifetime and beyond. I would serve the Dagda until my body wore to bone and my remains crumbled into dust.
“There’s a third option,” I replied.
The Dagda narrowed his eyes.
“What if I removed the darkness that has consumed your property?” I asked. He opened his mouth to protest, but I continued. “Only a small part of the palace exists in the Free Folk territory, and you’ve had to shield the rest from the curse. What would you give me if I broke that curse and freed your palace?”
“And kill the dogs attacking my pigs?” he asked.
A breath caught in the back of my throat, but I tamped down my excitement. If he let me leave with the staff, I might be able to use it to revive Drayce.
Keeping my features even, I murmured, “I can do that, too.”
He rocked back on his heels, seeming to think it over. I thought back about the story I had told the Dagda about having met Drayce and lost him to the sleeping curse. I hadn’t once told him that the caster of that curse had also caused the darkness over the Summer Court.
The Dagda ran his fingers down the braids of his beard and hummed. “You will remove the curse that has consumed my lands and repair Lorg mór to its former splendor, or serve as my blade until Lorg mór fixes itself.”
I gulped. “What if I—”
“Do not negotiate any further,” he snarled. “I could kill you right here and serve you up as a stew.”
“Alright,” I replied.
He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for me to elaborate.
I licked my dry lips. “I’ll break the curse over your land and fix your staff.”
His large fingers lifted my chin, forcing us to lock gazes. The smile on the Dagda’s lips vanished, replaced by a menacing snarl. “You have three days.”
My heart leapfrogged to my throat. “But I can’t—”
“Three days,” he barked. “At the end of which, if the curse is not broken and my staff not restored, my sons will descend up on your palace and drag you and your sword to my domain.”
Tremors skittered down my spine, palpitations of alarm rang through my chest. This was a terrible bargain, one I should reject, but I had no other choices, no other means of escaping this cell of bones to awaken Drayce.
“I’ll need King Drayce’s help. Can we wait until I wake—”
“No.” The Dagda released my chin, his refusal as heavy as stone.
My eyes snapped up to his face. He stared down at me, his golden eyes gleaming, calculating. The Dagda wanted me to fail, wanted to add my blood and my sword to his collection. As a direct descendant of Dana, he knew the importance of what was flowing in my veins and knew the only way he would take possession of my blood was via a bargain.
“Well, Queen Neara,” he drawled with mockery lacing his voice. “Will you agree to my bargain or will I serve up your flesh in my feast?”
“I’ll do it,” I snarled.
He gripped my chin between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing so tightly it felt like bruises had already blotted my skin. The Dagda leaned forward and pressed his lips on mine, filling my nostrils with the scent of ale. Light flared from our joined flesh, and the strength of the bargain wrapped around my heart.
I staggered back, coughing, spluttering, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The Dagda removed the Sword of Tethra from his belt, wedged its tip between the bones on the floor, and strode out of my cell.
Harsh, racking breaths heaved in and out of my lungs. I needed Drayce awake more than ever because if I failed to break the Fear Dorcha’s curse and failed to repair the staff, he was my best chance of killing the hoard of the Dagda’s minions who would claim my sword and blood.
Chapter 14
I pushed at the cell’s door but it wouldn’t move, and I rested my head against its wooden surface and cursed. The Dagda could keep me imprison
ed for the allotted time and then claim my blood and sword as my forfeit for not completing the bargain.
A tight fist of fury squeezed my chest, and a growl reverberated in the back of my throat. The Dagda never intended for me to fix his staff or break his curse. No matter how I answered his proposition, I would end up either dead or serving as his sword maiden.
My gaze landed on the Sword of Tethra, which stood proudly on the floor of bones. I pulled it out from the floor and slid it within the sheath on my belt. The last time I tried to make my blood transport me somewhere, I created an underwater rift. I needed Father and his druidic art.
The door opened, and Aengus stuck his head into the cell. “Your Majesty?”
I rushed toward him, my chest lightening with relief. “Has the Dagda released me?”
“He didn’t post any guards outside your cell, and the door was unlocked,” Aengus said with a frown.
“It only opens one way.” I stepped out into the darkened hallway, at the end of which stood an arch that led to where I assumed the Dagda had returned to feast.
Narrow passageways stretched to our left and right, their walls made of the same bones as my former cell. They extended into the dark with no source of illumination except for the tiny wisps of light streaming in from between the bones.
“Is there another way out that doesn’t involve crossing the dining hall?” I asked.
“Here.” Aengus turned left.
I hurried after him, not minding the bones one bit. I never wished to see or hear or speak with the Dagda. We rushed through a labyrinth of bone-lined walls, through winding hallways, and past cold, dark chambers that chilled and puckered my skin. With each passing moment, the Palace of Bóinne appeared to be more of a mausoleum than the dwelling of a demigod.
The ceilings sloped lower and lower. At first, only Aengus bent low, then I dipped my head to navigate the maze, and then we crawled on our hands and knees.
“Are you sure we’re heading toward an exit?” I whispered as I stared into Aengus’ cloak-covered back.
Mate of the Fae King (Dark Faerie Court Book 2) Page 12
