Page 20 of The Prince or the Bard?
Glad to see you’re not ready to give up yet, I say, trying to keep my tone light. But she does not hear me. I can no longer differentiate her shape in the darkness above me.
This current is sapping my strength. So much more than mere force is at work in these waters; the cold of the water may not bother me, nor the normal pulse of the waves, but there is something in this wrongness that siphons away my natural power. Instead of being stronger in the sea, I feel myself growing weaker.
My lids begin to droop, my muscles cramping and tiring.
White slices through the darkness once more. My eyes widen as I spot the buoy in my peripheral vision. I don’t hesitate, mustering my remaining energy to push off the rocks with my rear hooves. It feels like twenty minutes have passed before I even touch the surface.
Dissolving into my fae seelie form, I grasp the twine, bracing my shoulder against the buoy. The waves climb over me, splashing up my nose, but I shake it off as if I’m still in my unseelie púca form.
Slowly, slowly, I inch onto the rocks. Strong hands catch me beneath the arms, pulling me out of the sea’s reach. The prince must not expect me to be as heavy as I am, for he stumbles backwards, both of us collapsing in a tangle of seelie fae limbs. Exhaustion seizes me by my very bones.
With a grimace, I extricate myself from the prince, using the last of my strength to search for Fiadh.
She lies on her back on the cobbles of the marginal path, her chest barely rising.
“A púca is never defeated by the sea, Fiadh,” I manage, though fatigue robs my words of their sharpness.
There’s a long moment before she replies. “What about a cursed one?”
"The púca or the sea?"
"Either. Both."
“Never.” I pause, catching my breath. "You aren't cursed, cousin. You've been too lucky, just now, to call yourself that."
I lower my head onto the rocky soil, not caring that the sandy earth clings to my wet skin and partly covers my nose.
The prince sighs, apparently also settling in. He’s High Fae, which means he’ll recover quicker than us. Still, he remains there with us, barely moving.
I suppose I should thank him for saving me—for saving us. But I tell myself I no longer have the strength to speak, and say nothing to the prince.
Imust’ve fallen asleep.When I wake, the tide is out, the crash of the waves only slightly muted.
As if someone has turned me over, I lie face up, the sky now clear and revealing all its brightest stars. With a sigh that comes from my still-weary bones, I raise myself onto my elbows.
Prince Ruairí is gone, but not far. He sits on the rock wall by one of the cottages, giving the high queen space as shestraightens her dress and skirts. A blanket sits around her shoulders.
With a groan, I pick myself up off the ground, brushing sand off my face. I don’t bother with the dress; it’s simply done for, just like my slippers this afternoon.
Fiadh looks up, her eyes shining in the starlight. She holds the side of the blanket out, beckoning me to come nearer.
As I nestle in beside her, a vague memory flits through my mind.
I’m young and small, sitting like this with Fiadh between me and my sister, the three of us huddled under one blanket. My father plays a bone flute, while my grandfather sings one of the tales of old. A bonfire crackles merrily, the flames touched by blue-green from the salted driftwood.
So quickly, the memory is gone.
“Forgive me,” Queen Fiadh says, tears mixing with the saltwater on her cheeks. “I only wanted to leave something behind. If I could only leave something behind—”
“What are you talking of?” I snap, but the heat is gone from my words, just as it is from my body. It might’ve been nice if the prince had brought us both a blanket. “You’re the high queen. Thefirstlow fae high queen. You’ve done great things just by falling for the high king.”
“There will be another high queen soon,” she whispers, her voice raw. “There will be another to replace me when I’m gone. I doubt they will ever speak of me. Queens who do not leave heirs are rarely remembered.”
A chill worse than that from the sea air and my wet clothes forks through me.
They aren’t just headaches. She thinks there’s more. She thinks she’sdying.
“That just means you haven’t been outrageous enough, cousin,” I say, trying to make light, because I don’t want tobelieve it. I want to go on thinking she’s just feeling low and doesn’t see her predicament clearly. Because it can’t be true.
