Page 2 of The Prince or the Bard?
And then I see him.
Him.
The bard. The Connacht bard. His thin, handsome face tanned to a deep chestnut by life on the road, walking from town to town in and out of our realm with all his belongings on his back. I can't believe he's here! He hasn't opened his mouth yet—his lithesome body hasn't even reached the royal dais—but already I'm about to melt. The well-used four-stringed guitar in his hand matches the color of his flowing, auburn hair, the curls bouncing a little as he bows deeply to the royal family.
Cillian Cloudtongue is here.
His voice is legendary, like a taste of yellow sugar candy while your feet wade in a cold, calm ocean on a sweltering summer's day. Like lying on a bed of warm sand and seagrass. The last time I heard him—before he took his leave of faerie and traveled the human realm to learn their songs—I nearly swooned on the spot.
I. Can't. Believe. He's. Here.
I feel like a giddy little girl again.
Not only that, but everyone has completely forgotten that I just shoved a drunken prince who tried to kiss me. I doubt they'll even remember that incident now. Prince Ruairi himself has slid back into his chair, sweeping a misplaced swath of dark hair backwards as if nothing has happened at all.
"Your Majesties," Cillian says in his surprisingly soft speaking voice. I sway a little against the wall.
"Cillian called Cloudtongue," High King Tadhg says, inclining his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. The barrel-chested king leans back in his chair, his arm propped against the side. "Your presence at our revel pleases us. Will you play something to mark the occasion?"
"Of course, sir." Cillian's graceful form remains locked in a bow. "If you would grant me leave, sir, may I ask our High Queen Fiadh what she might favor for a first song?"
"Play something soft," the queen replies without waiting for the king to answer, still touching her temple. "Something beautiful that will soothe us."
I'm so close to the bard, I can see the places where the varnish has worn away below the strings on his guitar. I can even make out his doe-like dark lashes, fluttering so rarely I'd swear he has no more nerves than a stone. Even after my months of service to High Queen Fiadh, Cillian has a poise in front of the high king I'll never have.
"As Your Majesty commands." Cillian sweeps his arms wide, gathering the whole of the crowd with them. By the time he takes his place to the side of the royal dais, everyone is already rapt.
Cillian plays the first few notes, the strings singing so gently I could weep. Then he opens his mouth, and it's as if I'm transported.
I forget this position, my humiliation, and even the countless tedious tasks awaiting me later. There's only the bard and his voice, carrying me far from this castle.
He sings a song of the sea. And by the gods, I can almost hear the cry of the gulls and smell the salt in the air. I close my eyes and can practically count the prints of the plovers as they race along the black sand shore of home.
As I stand there, swaying, I press my heart to my breast, feeling and not just hearing his song. And I feel my poor, homesick heart heal just a little bit more before it breaks all over again.
I open my eyes to revelers weeping openly, many with hands on their chests like mine. The feel of the entire revel has changed. And in that moment, I'm certain.
Cillian Cloudtongue has more magic in him than any of the high court sorcerers and healers.
And I am hopelessly in love with him.
Chapter Two
When I rise earlythe next morning to tend to my royal cousin, my head feels as though I partook of far too much faerie wine instead of none at all.
It's still the pre-dawn hours. I want nothing more than to crawl back into my warm bed and sleep off the aftereffects of my headache. But other than the lone hour just after midday, these early mornings are the only bit of time I have to myself. After that, duty calls.
I hate it here. I hate everything about castle life. I hate that the bloody thing sits in the middle of the country, on a river completely devoid of salt, and with the sea too far away for comfort. I hate that everyone I meet distrusts púcaí, and whispers that we secretly owe allegiance to the sea fae, who have no ties with the high court of the Connor kings.
And I really, truly hate that I must keep my face neutral as all the fun goes on around me, as if on these midsummer nights when we're the most fae of all, I must be the least. I should be basking in the sea spray, or riding the surf in my puca form with my sister Unagh and merfolk friend Niamh beside me.
I miss them, miss my whole family, and everything in quiet little Diarmuid’s Row, so much that it physically hurts me. But there's nothing I can do but write letters to Unagh and my parents nearly every morning to keep them close. Despite my throbbing head, I'm determined this will be one of those mornings.
Lighting a candle to push back the deep blue of what's left of the night, I immediately spot something light-colored on the floor stones. A sealed note, bearing my name. Whoever shoved it under my door did so with such force, it nearly made it to the lone narrow window of my chambers.
It’s in far too pristine shape to have come from my family back home. I pick it up, startled by the thick blue wax.
Only the royal family uses blue wax.
