Page 1 of The Prince or the Bard?
Chapter One
It’s the honor ofa lifetime to serve my distant cousin, the Queen of All Earthen Fae. Or so I'm frequently reminded.
What I want to say to those who remind me so is, "You tend to her every need during all two weeks of summer reveling at Connor Castle and see how well you like it." Which is exactly what I've got to look forward to when the night winds down. I doubt I'll have even a moment to myself, let alone one spent in celebration.
The earthen fae are whirling through the high court's ballroom, their bright clothes making them appear like blooming flowers in the wind as they dance wildly, praising the goddess of summer. For some reason, that praise involves copious amounts of drink and heaping platters of food.
It's not at all like how we revel in the Seaglass Court, and especially not in my little hometown of Diarmuid's Row. There, we light a bonfire at dawn, share a modest community meal, and from noon till midnight we don our púca forms. As water horses, we take to the waves, celebrating with the sea fae of the neighboring Moonray Court.
But here in the Connor Court, the earthen fae honor the goddess's bounty by using it all up in a fortnight.
Unless, of course, you're the queen's maid. In that case you're standing against the back wall, smelling roasted meat and eyeing the sheen of butter on the vegetables, or catching the tantalizing, sugary whiffs of sliced faerie fruit as yet another plate is brought to the table for the high king, high queen and other, lesser royals. Oh, and in case that wasn't enough, the king's brother won't stop turning around and making bleary eyes at you.
By you, I mean me. Laoise. Servant girl extraordinaire—and as miserable a púca as ever there was.
If Prince Ruairi thinks I'm worth looking at in my plain dress, with my hair tied back so tight it makes my head ache more than the usual, he should see me as a water horse. That’s when I feel most beautiful—and most myself.
Not that he'd care. Stupid earthen fae.
As a reel ends in a blur of spider silk and wings, I squeeze my knuckles a little tighter, my hands folded neatly before me as is proper. The loud music is bringing on one of my blinding headaches. Already, a white blur invades part of my vision, like seafoam dancing on the edge of a wave as it roars toward the shore. I try to blink it away to no avail.
Soon enough, it clouds my entire vision. So I don't notice when Prince Ruairi sidles up to me until it's too late.
"You again," he says, breathing a mixture of grain alcohol and faerie wine into my face. Sweat beads on his amber skin as I force myself not to wince. "Laoise, isn't it? What a pretty name. You're pretty, too."
Curses and bargains! As if the impending headache wasn't bad enough. Please, High Queen Fiadh, turn around. Say something to this lout.
Instead, I watch as her delicate fingers tent over her temple. The headache is coming on for her, too.
I wave off the stench of liquor as Prince Ruairi leans even closer, his green eyes as pale as marble. "Itisa revel, you know," he says. "It's alright if you have a little fun. Maybe even smile."
"I'll smile when I have cause to," I snap. Sea goddess help me, I was meant to say that with my inside voice! This cursed headache is making me far too churlish with the prince. "I mean—I'm here to tend to the queen, not to celebrate."
Slowly, the corners of his loose smile drag down into a frown. "That's no life at all," he murmurs in my ear.
I shrug a shoulder up, as if I can deflect him, even as his words strike true. I'm surprised someone like him would even notice.
"I know what would make you smile," he says, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Before I can react, his lips are coming toward me. I shove him back. Hard.
The drunken prince tumbles into the back of the king's chair, solid as a throne, thankfully, so that His Royal Highness doesn't seem to notice.
But the revelers do.
They're pointing, many of them laughing, their hands slapping their knees as their cheeks, in colors ranging from ice to umber, darken with mirth at my expense. Far too many of their fingers are pointing at me.
My cheeks quickly redden to match theirs. I'm furious enough to walk out of here and never return. Why don't they laugh at Prince Ruairi instead?
And then, without warning, tears spring to my eyes. I'm supposed to be invisible up here. My only purpose is to support the high queen.
Becoming the butt of a joke isn't supporting High Queen Fiadh. I might not like my job, but I know how important the queen's image is—not for her sake, but for that of all púcaí. She is the first púca queen in three centuries of Connor rule over allearthen fae. How my royal cousin is perceived in a court full of High Fae matters.
So I hold back my tears, and try to look dignified, even if I can't raise my eyes to the jeering crowd. I must hold it in. I do it for the sake of all us low fae shifter folk.
Fine. And a little bit for High Queen Fiadh.
Then, in an instant, the roar of laughter turns to a sizzle of soft conversation, then murmurs of awe. My head snaps up, perplexed by the sudden change.
