Somhairle breathed out hard, a huff of either surprise or amusement.
Had he thought himself the only one who knew how to put on a show?
“Prince too,” the other Queensguard confirmed. This one had the courtesy to bow, although the gesture was shallower than it should have been. “Apologies, sire. Just doing our jobs.”
“I’ll be sure to tell my mother how attentive you both were.” Somhairle’s voice was light and his face was kind, but Inis had to admire how he’d found another way to exhibit his theatrical skill.
For the first time, the guards looked nervous.
“We wouldn’t want distinction,” Inis’s Queensguard said. “No reason to go to any trouble on our accounts.”
“Thought I saw others in the carriage.” That was the second Queensguard.
Inis felt her spine straighten. If she pushed, didn’t allow the Queensguard to regain ground or their confidence, there was a chance she could keep them afraid.
Afraid enough not to search the carriage.
“It’s only our servants inside.” Inis’s voice carried, disbelieving. “Would you paw through a lady’s baggage next? Are our personal belongings to be mistrusted?”
Somhairle rested his withered hand on her elbow. “I know you’re upset, but as they said, these men have a job to do.” He smiled once more at the Queensguard. It wasn’t the childhood smile of Inis’s past, gentle and forgiving. “Don’t be modest. Your dedication demands special mention. What are your names and ranks? I shall wish to speak with your captain as well as with my mother.”
The nervous Queensguard glanced toward the carriage. “Perhaps we’ve kept you long enough.”
“I’m nearly certain I won’t collapse yet.” Somhairle lifted his face in the direction of the castle, gleaming and forbidden, as though searching for someone in a particular window. “And since I’m so close to the castle, if I do, perhaps someone inside will notice and rush to my aid.”
“Be that as it may . . .” The first Queensguard gestured them back to the carriage, offered Somhairle a hand up, which the prince ignored in favor of Inis’s assistance. The door shut behind them. Two chuckled at their antics, a bell-like tinkle, purring laughter.
“We don’t get the pat-down treatment?” Rags asked. There was high color in his cheeks, and he was shaking out his fingers as though he’d been stung by a bee. “I’m offended. I was looking forward to them finding the silverware in my underthings.”
Inis chose not to question his final statement. “Not at all. We informed them only our servants were within. Which, conveniently, takes care of another matter.”
Rags frowned as the carriage started moving again, those last, critical steps along the road to the top of the Hill. “What matter’s that?”
“You bow like a broken-legged toad and talk with as much grace,” Inis replied. “Now you don’t have to. Simply stay behind us at all times and don’t open your mouth. Ever.”
Inis nursed the feeling she got at the look on Rags’s face into a warm flame, burning beside the mirror shard in her heart.
65
Cab
Cab and Einan hadn’t been caught by the diggers yet, but that didn’t mean they could stop running.
Out of breath. Covered in dirt and sweat. Cab felt more alive than he had in a year, had assumed he’d buried that part of himself alongside his uniform. Looking a mess next to the fae they’d rescued—or who’d rescued them, a point Cab wasn’t clear on—they burst into the chamber where Sil, Uaine, and Malachy were waiting.
Only Sil was asleep.
That was what One said. Asleep.
She looked dead.
Drawn, nearly colorless, with only the faintest luster of gold still dusting her skin. She was the size of a thirteen-year-old girl, her hair as white as a village elder’s.
“We couldn’t wake her,” Malachy said, looking at Einan while Uaine stared at their fae guest. “She’s been like this since you left. But Uaine said I shouldn’t go after you.”
“She was right,” Einan said tartly.
Cab knelt before Sil. He could tell the fae from the coffin was staring at her, not believing his eyes. Cab knew that without their leader, what remained of the Resistance was hesitant and scared. He was the only trained soldier here.
Trained to keep his head in situations like this.
Elsewhere in the tunnel, a crash. Muted and distant, but no less real.
Better not to let it get closer.
“Forgive me,” Cab murmured as he lifted Sil into his arms. He couldn’t avoid the feeling that he’d break her to dust if he held her too tightly.