worse, not better, since he’d left Ever-Land. And neither can I. Sorry for snapping. I’m not myself here.
I used to imagine this place was what made me sick, Somhairle admitted. He’d forgotten until now how the air on the Hill could be so heavy. Then I’d lie awake in bed at night, expecting my own mother to storm in and lock me up for treason.
That might still happen, Three said.
Somhairle appreciated her refusal to be tender with him, to coddle, when what he needed was the merciless truth. Catriona had as much as told him: she wouldn’t hesitate to strike him down if she suspected fae corruption.
He was thinking like the members of the Resistance against the Queen. They claimed she had chosen fear to rule alongside her, forsaking good sense. He now saw their point.
She was still his mother.
Somhairle fought for a deep breath. It’s worse here than in Ever-Land, and Morien was the cause of the trouble there. So it’s sorcery that’s bothering me, he reasoned.
Owls couldn’t smile. Three did. And lots of it.
I have to do something, don’t I?
Plenty of places you can go that the others can’t.
That’s not usually how things are for me, Somhairle admitted. He couldn’t hide from Three what she’d learned already.
Cane’s by the door. With one beat of her great wings, Three was aloft. Somhairle followed in less-spectacular fashion, shuffling across the floor. I can’t promise you’ll be comfortable, but you’ll be necessary.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted, he replied.
Three chuckled. Time to dream bigger, birdie.
The sharp pleasure of her humor infected him. It wasn’t the pure joy he’d felt when they’d found one another in Ever-Land, her lightning-crackle laughter melting through his mind, but it helped.
Somhairle fingered the silver grip of his rosewood cane, its ornate head carved in the shape of a falcon midstrike. If he looked at Three from the corner of his vision, he could see Morien’s glamour on her clearly. No one would think it strange that Prince Somhairle had adopted a wild bird after years of caring for them in Ever-Land.
He understood now that he’d spent those years waiting, not living. Waiting for his mother to give him purpose, or for one of his brothers to tell him his role. Now he was acting without anyone’s direction. He might even be taking action against his mother.
Did that make him a traitor to the Crown?
Better that than a traitor to himself.
He couldn’t let fear stop him. What he’d felt when Three became a part of him was too big to ignore.
Somhairle held out his arm and Three landed on it, lighter than a sparrow. I believe a trip to the court seneschal is in order.
68
Somhairle
According to Seneschal Tarlach, who had managed the royal family’s affairs since the birth of Prince Adamnan, three of the five princes in residence were currently attending court. Lochlainn was north of the Hill surveying their land. Berach had gone into hiding with a pirate’s daughter. He could go on. The elderly seneschal was only half as old as Queen Catriona—however, he looked it.
Somhairle barely managed to get him to continue.
“Prince Murchadh is often in the Hall of Mirrors with Her Majesty’s sorcerers, attending to important—and private—matters of state.” The years had stooped Tarlach’s shoulders, turned his hair and flesh the same faded paper white, but the most troublesome change in the man was that he no longer appeared to relish gossip. His voice droned on dully. “Prince Adamnan will be hearing council with Her Majesty much of the morning. Do not be troubled if you cannot locate Prince Laisrean until well into the afternoon, as he keeps strange hours and is often abed. The court celebrates the Queen’s many triumphs, none more devotedly than Prince Laisrean.”
The Seneschal Tarlach who Somhairle used to know would have leaped at the opportunity to share his unfavorable thoughts on parties, liquors, new styles of dance, current fashions, Laisrean raiding the kitchens for midnight picnics—until Somhairle began to visibly sway on his feet.
The Seneschal Tarlach in front of Somhairle, though, began to nervously list the Queen’s latest, greatest accomplishments and future plans to turn the ruins of Eastside into a garden that would rival Oberon’s forest of legends.
He smells of lies, Three commented.
Most people at court do, Somhairle cautioned.
But this is more than that.
It was. Again. Somhairle made his excuses to the seneschal, went to find the cooks next. He had once known each by name—Marnoch, who smelled of dry rosemary; Garvie, with flour always under his fingernails;