Page 118 of Soulgazer

Is that what it will be like when Faolan meets death?

We have so little time left.

“All right. One week.”

I blink, and the ember goes dark.

Forty-Four

Hanging across my room, there is a tapestry of Carys the Clever and her fork-tongued riddles. She is said to have been born unsightly but bewitched the hearts of kings with a wicked trick, painting herself with oils each night from the last serpent created purely by a god’s hand.

Faolan told me the real story weeks ago, whispered into my ear as he held me upright during a vicious storm.

Carys was chosen by her village to stand sacrifice on the spring equinox, when the mighty serpent would shed its skin and deliver blessings for the year to come. As Carys walked into the water, she shouted not, begged not, wept not. Instead, she sang in the serpent’s own tongue, luring him to her side until he coiled like a kitten at her feet. She stroked his mighty head, crooning all the while, and then ripped out one of his fangs, driving the venomous edge directly between his eyes.

I have no fang. No siren’s song.

Only a faded tapestry, an absent brother, and a new betrothal torc worn so close to my skin, it bruises with every breath.

All it lacks is a chain.

“Keep still, child.”

A laugh pushes between my trembling lips as Brigid stains them red. Another servant tightens the laces of my gown until I’m forced to sit straighter, my breasts put on display along with those godsdamned childbearing hips Maccus was so concerned with.

“Am I a child? Or perhaps only a plaything?”

Hisplaything.

Holy stars.

Brigid ignores my outburst just as she’s done for the past five and a half days, and sets a wreath of freshly woven forget-me-nots like a crown upon my head. “There. I think you’ll please the Stone King well, Princess.”

His title hollows out my belly. Heedless of the lip paint, I thrust the back of my hand against my mouth and bite down to trap the scream. Force myself to breathe through my nose and out past my fingers as heat stings behind my eyes.

This can’t be how it ends. Me in Maccus’s bed, Da’s pockets laced in jewels.

My one saving grace is the ink I ruined, the tattoo they have no time to replicate. But Faolan—feck, how many days does he have? Will he die alone in that cell, cut off from the wind and sea he so loves?

A rug does little to warm the ground as I walk away from Brigid and the serving girl, delicate blue silk frothing over my feet. Hours of fittings and it’s still quite impossible to believe this wedding gown ismine. A month ago, I’d have admired the daring cut of the bodice or traced the ribbons tied over each shoulder, never once understanding whose touch they were meant to entice.

A shudder wracks my body, and I start for the window, desperate for air—only to remember, no, I’m not even allowed that anymore. Da had it boarded up for fear I’d jump.

“Please, just—get out.” The words are strangled by my panic,but the two women don’t falter. They’ve done their part, haven’t they? Created a soft, submissive version of me.

I’m going to be sick.

But no sooner has the door shut behind them than it opens again. I spin on my heel, already snarling. “I said get—”

Aidan stands frozen in the doorway, face pale against the deep blue hue of his courtly trappings. The colors represent our island, mushrooms embroidered for our claim to godly magic. It’s the sort that doesn’t draw shame or speculation but is bottled up and sold to anyone with the coin.

My shoulders drop. “Maccus is here. Isn’t he? You…”

But I can’t finish the words. Aidan looks ready for a court visit, and I—I was always alone, wasn’t I? Loyalty is everything in our father’s household, and we’re not children anymore. Aidan looks every part the royal heir.

“They sent you to escort me?”

Aidan jolts like a man woken from sleep, raising a hand smudged gray. “No! No, a summer storm’s delayed Rí Maccus. We have another couple of hours. I just—gods, Saoirse, I never thought to see you like this.” But as quickly as he takes in my own finery, he must read the hurt in my face. The fury.

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