He turned at the timid knock on his door, a grin finding its way to his lips. In need of release, he’d sent for the brownie halfling.
The fae maid entered his chamber, approaching him with her head bent and hands clasped. She stood before him, smelling of sea and mist and wild things.
“Ye’ve spent time with yer mistress?”
“Aye, yer majesty. I keep her company like ye asked.”
“Come closer.” He buried his face in her hair, smelling his betrothed, his former lover. Aoife’s scent aroused him. Gripping the brownie’s hair, he guided her down on her knees.
She loosed his braes with nimble fingers.
Roi closed his eyes while she serviced him. Imagining the red-haired kelpie on her knees doing the job sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. He thrust hard, picturing Aoife’s green eyes gazing up at him with the lust she’d once felt. Roi came hard.
After the brownie cleaned him up, she made to leave. Usually that was what he wanted. The brownie was fair enough but dull. Tonight, his chest ached with longing for her mistress.
“Hold. What was her mood?”
The brownie worried her lip. A lie would cause her pain. “Lonely.”
Roi barked a bitter laugh. He’d seen to it that Aoife would have every creature comfort he’d given Bláthnat: the apartments of a queen, fine dresses, pretty baubles, and elegant meals, yet she had the audacity to act like he’d thrown her in a dungeon.
“Ye were to see to her happiness.”
“I’m but a lowborn brownie. She needs company of an elegant sort. Perhaps if ye spared a moment for her, she’d receive ye well, your highness.” The brownie’s voice quavered as she spoke and her hands shook.
Roi clenched his jaw. He never once said an unkind word let alone harmed the brownie. Even when her mistress abandoned her, he’d kept her as part of his household, allowed her the honor of being the king’s whore, yet she feared him?
Roi could not have asked the gods for a better opportunity. “Ye are right to ask another more powerful than ye to do yer duty. Aoife is as comely as the fae get in her maiden form. She also has a silver tongue. That’s how, out of a myriad of sisters, she won my heart. But she is a kelpie and murderous.
“Did ye know she lured a poor cottar boy away from his home? She then seduced him, made him think he would be a faerie knight, trained him up to be a warrior, and took him to her bed for a full cycle of a faerie moon. As soon as she grew tired of him, she murdered the lad. Drowned him. Said so herself in front of Mab’s entire court.”
The brownie forgot to keep her eyes lowered. The wide-eyed stare was all Roi needed to know he had the girl on his side. He took her hand gently, pulling the fae maiden into his lap. Stroking her hair, he said, “I have kept ye, even after yer Queen abandoned ye, because I do not tire of those who serve me well. Ye will tell me if Aoife plans to conspire against me?”
The brownie nodded.
Roi rewarded her with a kiss full on the mouth. He normally did not kiss his whores, but he needed this one. She tasted of him but also Aoife. He pictured the two of them, tarse hardening again at the thought.
He cupped her chin. “My affection is not misplaced with ye, is it?”
She shook her head. Pretty little fae, she was so demure and sweet. But his thoughts were focused on another beautiful fae, who wasn’t demure and could raise his ire as easily as she could stir his loins. He hardened just thinking of the passion they’d shared.
He whispered in her ear. “Bend over my bed and lift yer skirts. I yet have use of ye.”
The brownie did as he bid, eagerly so. Roi smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t trust her. She was always eager, always sweet, never a challenge. He closed his eyes, slaking his desire for the one he must win again.
Chapter 5
Aoife
Aoife secured the last knot of the rope, consisting of her linens, drapes, and tapestries torn from the walls. She knew enough about bargains to know Roi had made a deal with some sort of great power that required blood magic. Those deals always left the beholden a weakness; it guaranteed a sustained contract. She needed to puzzle out who he made a deal with and what his weakness was. It didn’t matter what it was, only that Roi had one.
She secured the makeshift rope to bedpost of her massive bed and then threw open her window. The cool night air rushed into her prison. Aoife breathed it in.
Smoke.
There was a great bonfire beyond the outer walls of the castle. Singing and merriment floated from below as if the people gathered were happy to make the sacrifice. She curled her lip in disgust. An innocent lad would die, and these humans could care less as long as their bellies were full and they were free of invaders and plague.
Aoife wore nothing but a shift, but the hem was too long. Her captor did her the kindness of not allowing her anything sharp in her room so she wouldn’t harm herself. She ripped material so that the hem skimmed her thighs, not wanting to get tangled for human ideas of propriety. Then she used a length of fabric to gird herself about the waist and between the legs to protect from rope burns. Her skin wasn’t as delicate as a mortal’s, but she could be cut and bleed all the same. Lastly, she pulled on calfskin boots and gloves. The soft leather was pliable enough she could feel, but thick enough to protect.
Slowly, she threaded the rope down the wall of the castle. The length came up woefully short. Aoife would break her neck jumping from that height, fae or no. She’d heal but she wouldn’t be able to spy.
It was too dark to see if there were any footholds; she’d have to repel down to find out. Blowing out her breath, Aoife perched on the windowsill. Sweat pearled on her face and hands and the cool breeze chilled her damp back.
Aoife had fae strength and agility, so she didn’t find repelling down difficult. Finding hand and footholds the rest of the way down, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. She thanked her former self for thinking of wearing the gloves. Her feet would have had an easier time if she had gone down barefoot.
She spied a wagon of hay below that she hadn’t seen from the window. The wagon wasn’t directly beneath her, so she had to make her way horizontally around the tower to position herself above the hay. She closed her eye and let herself drop the last ten feet.
Her stomach flipped as she plummeted. The landing was not soft as she’d imagined. The impact knocked the wind out of her and set the cart rolling. Aoife scrambled to right herself as the cart careened down an incline. She rolled off, hitting the ground with a thud. Pain shot like an arrow from her elbow and she bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood.
As she straightened and got her bearings, none of the pain mattered. That infernal room and the smell of her cousin’s despair no longer filled her nostrils.
Aoife couldn’t stay put long. According to the brownie, with the exception of the two of them and the guards outside their door, all of the residents of the castle and the surrounding villages would be in attendance at the ritual. As if in evidence of the halfling’s claim, the guard had left the portcullis wide open. No one patrolled the walkways atop the ramparts. Not a soul stirred within the interior courtyard. No animal bleated. No babies cried. Only the distant drums and merrymaking of the revelers at the ritual filled the night.
A chill snaked down Aoife’s spine.
Whatever power he made sacrifice to must be terrible if merely summoning the being made Roi confident no one would attack or thieve from the castle while the occupants reveled. Perhaps that was part of the bargain: his lands impenetrable and his property remaining in his hands.
She steeled herself with the knowledge that Bláthnat had escaped. Confidence shaken but not obliterated, Aoife left the courtyard, sticking to the shadows.
Great bonfires burned. Musicians played lively music. Humans, scores of them, danced around the fires or feasted at great tables.
The image of Fagan, cheeks gaunt, black smudges under his eyes, came to her mind unbidden. She’d taken him to faerie whe
re he’d gained muscle and brawn, but he’d been very near death from starvation when he’d saved her from an iron snare. He had not been alone in his struggle for mere survival. During their time in the Otherworld, he’d told her that plague and invading hordes swept the land, making resources scarce. Was it not true for Ulaid, or was this why the brownie’s lad was willing to die, to ensure others had plenty?
Beyond the fires and revelers. Aoife saw a dais with a stone altar upon it. She made her way through the drinking and dancing revelers to a place just beyond the firelight’s reach with a good view of the altar.
Cu Roi mac Daire stood behind the altar. Surrounded by torches, he was bonnie as ever with his golden hair glimmering in the firelight and white tunic showing off his brawny frame. Next to Roi stood an elderly woman in dark robes. She was not quite a mortal, this woman. Strange magic emanated from her, powerful and ancient, and decidedly not fae—a priestess of some nefarious god of another realm, no doubt.
A grimace tugged at the corners of Aoife’s mouth. She’d hoped it would be some dark elf or a fae of another court she could bargain with, but no. This priestess’s magic was born in blood and violence.
Was not Aoife a creature of violence? Had not drowning those she saw as evildoers besmirched her in her father’s eyes and the mortals who worshipped him? Her eyes stung. This was her punishment and perhaps where she belonged. She certainly didn’t deserve a pure soul like Fagan. She only hoped Mab would show the lad kindness. Tamlin possessed finery and seemed well fed and cared for; that much was certain.
“It is time,” Roi called out, his voice amplified by preternatural means.
Aoife snapped out of her thoughts of Fagan.
All dancing and feasting came to an abrupt halt, the crowd gathering around the dais. Aoife spun a cloak from the elements, shadowing her face with the hood. Then she joined the others to witness the ritual.
A young cottar, perhaps a year or two older than Fagan, stepped onto the platform. He looked unafraid as he crossed the dais. He lost his balance, but two of mac Daire’s men righted the lad and then helped him settle onto the altar facing the stars. The young man giggled.
“I am a wild shade.”
Though everyone present reeked of fermented drink, not a single soul joined in his laughter.
Aoife sought the lad’s thoughts and found only addled fragments of a drugged mind. Images of him as a being making harvests grow by the touch of his hand.
A woman with white streaking her red hair and a humble dress joined by a balding man in a belted tunic mounted the dais and positioned themselves at the head of the altar. A sheathed dagger as long as Fagan’s all-purpose dirk hung from the belt. It seemed strange to be armed when none of the others, including the soldiers, bore weapons.
Aoife pushed forward, wanting for a closer look. She pulled the hood tighter around her face, whispering to the night to embrace her visage within the darkness. No mortal would be able to see her face—she hoped that applied to the priestess and Roi.
She needn’t have worried. Neither of them even spared the crowd a glance.
“Do ye give yer firstborn to the old gods in exchange for bountiful harvests, protection from pestilence and invaders?” Roi asked the couple.
Pestilence. A plague had swept over much of the mortal lands and Fagan had told her of invaders pillaging an entire village. Invaders who did not worship the fae—Vikings or Norsemen, so they were called.
Aoife and her sisters had found a band of them on a coastal village. The images in her head were of farms and family, but she saw other things: wicked violence, thievery, and horrendous acts against women. They’d deserved the watery deaths she and her sisters had given them. Hadn’t they?
Here they were sacrificing a lad in a prime to prevent such things. Was this better than what she and sisters had done? One life instead of many who would die if they’d have to fight off the invasion? This lad had been chosen to be here, but he was willing. The halfling had said so.
Still, Aoife felt a keen urge to snatch him from the altar and spirit him away. Where? A human lad had no place in her father’s kingdom. Neither did she.
“We give our only son to the old gods in exchange for peace, good health, and prosperity,” the couple said in unison, as if learned by rote. The man’s voice quavered as they spoke, but the woman seemed resolute in her sacrifice.
Aoife noted the reply altered from Roi’s question. Their only son. What a shame. They were up in years. Surely they needed this strapping lad to care for them when they reached the winter of their short life? How cruel Cu Roi mac Daire was to take from them so, for the good of the whole or not.
Why should his people be blessed when others suffered? None of this settled well with Aoife, and the ritual hadn’t even begun yet.
Roi nodded to the couple. The lad’s mother stayed at the head of the altar while the father circled four times, moving as if he’d either seen or practiced the ritual many times. As the father of the lad drew a dirk from its sheath, the priestess murmured softly; a collection of sounds Aoife could not distinguish. The father’s aged hands shook as he raised the dagger above the lad’s chest. Tears stained the mother’s cheeks as she held the lad’s head between her hands.
A hush swept over the crowd, as if they held a collective breath. The crackling fire of the torches and bonfires was the only sound.
A keening broke from man. He shook his head.
“Do it, da,” the young man said. “I want to.”
“I cannot.”
Hope rose in Aoife that the father wouldn’t go through with it. At the same time, her heart broke at the father’s agony. Her own father gave her to this cruel king that would force his subjects to perform such a sacrifice.
“I will do it if ye cannot,” the mother said in a soft voice. “‘Tis no shame to love yer own son more than the rest of us.”
The man’s gaze fell on his wife, pained. He shook his head, “Nay. I’ll do it.” He closed his eyes and plunged the knife downward.
Aoife gasped. The father, in his unwillingness to look, missed the heart and had struck the breastbone. Blood seeped from the wound, but the knife barely sank in the lad’s chest. Even drugged, he moaned in pain.
“Take it out and do it again,” Roi instructed voice tense but not harsh.
“Have mercy on our boy and be quick about it,” the wife pled.
Anger married with anguish in the elder man’s features as his gaze swiveled between his king and his wife. He pulled at the handle of the blade to no effect. The lad cried out with each yank. There was so much blood, covering his chest and the father’s hands.
Aoife’s eyes stung. Fagan had once teased her for being a murderous kelpie being squeamish about blood, but this was different. This was no execution. This was a botched slaughter.
Roi pushed the man aside, yanking the dagger out himself. He turned to the mother, apology limning his handsome features. How could the sorcerer king be sorrowful about a sacrifice he'd asked them to make? Surely Roi benefitted from this ritual the most.
“It cannot be my hand.” His gaze flicked to the lad, now bleeding out. “Act quickly.”
The mother of the lad nodded curtly, taking the knife in her hands. Horror and duty warring on her face.
Aoife felt eyes on her and with that gaze she sensed the power behind it, greater than what Roi possessed. It took all her will to take her eyes off the sacrifice to meet the hard stare of the priestess. A chill ran through Aoife as she realized the old woman could see through the cloak of night magic.
She waited for the priestess to call a guard or to point her out to Roi, but the old woman simply returned her attention to the scene unfolding. Aoife, too, would see this gruesome sight through.
The mother kissed her son’s forehead and plunged the knife where Roi indicated. Wisps of swirling mist, darker than the night itself, snaked from the ground, reminding Aoife of the mist that had turned into the beasts to chase her and Fagan.
Th
e mother and father left the dais. The priestess stepped away from the altar, leaving only Roi and the lad. The mist gathered around the altar, concealing them completely.
Aoife’s pulse thundered in her ears as she felt ancient magic emanate from that mist. Instinct told her to change into her kelpie form and flee. Instead, she wove a spell of protection, to shield her from this insidious power.
The darkness didn’t dissipate. It seemed to be absorbed by Cu Roi mac Daire and the lad.
Aoife stepped back when the lad sat bolt upright. Eyes aglow with power. Roi’s eyes glowed too, but only briefly.
Roi spoke what sounded like a command in strange tongue. The glow returned to his eyes.
Animated by something other than the sweet gift of life Danu blessed these humans with, the lad’s head turned with a sickening jerk to face Roi. He nodded, dismounting the altar as if manipulated like a puppet, not alive. The monster of Roi’s making stepped off the dais, heading directly for the crowd. Heading for Aoife, she realized too late.
Chapter 6
Fagan
Sweat burned Fagan’s eyes as he pulled the string of the bow close to his mouth. His arm strained with the effort. His entire body was sore from the countless drills Tamlin inflicted upon his men. Keeping up with fae soldiers took stamina beyond his capability. Tamlin did it all and then joined the queen, except when the king came ‘round. Then he slept in the barracks with Fagan and the rest of the soldiers.
The soldiers came in every shade of the rainbow. Not all were men; some weren’t women either. Fae did not have the clear lines as humans cast, nor did they have the same rules regarding who lay with who. They were free to couple with whom they wished, the parts not mattering. Often what he heard at night, or the coupling in the bathhouse, were not the intimate sort which he’d shared Aoife. The fae saw sex or sexual relief as necessary as eating, bathing, or making waste, not consummating a union.
Vow Unbroken: Faerie Tales 3 Page 3
