Page 4 of The Prince or the Bard?
At that precise moment, Cillian Cloudtongue steps into the fore of the star garden as if out of the ether, his lanky limbs already sliding onto the chair that’s been prepared for him. He carries a lute this time, as well-worn as the guitar.
This is what I picture the ancient fae gods looking like. I bet they’d sound like him, too.
In an instant, I forget the prince and find myself drawn deeper into the garden before Cillian can test a single string of the lute. I hear Prince Ruairi speak my name—perhaps I even register a bit of stunned confusion on his part—but I keep walking.
And I take the seat squarely in front of the bard. The one that was probably meant for the prince hosting this performance.
And I don’t even care.
My eyes are still locked on Cillian Cloudtongue, on every perfect curl at the ends of his long, thick hair, as Prince Ruairi settles into the chair next to me. The soft conversation of the other attendees falls away immediately. Skirts rustle as the ladies settle into their own chairs.
I bet they’re jealous of me. I hope they are. Just once, it’s nice to have something these nobles don’t have: the best seat in the garden.
And as the bard looks up, an almost shy smile flashing across his face, I gain something else these fine High Fae ladies lack: the Cloudtongue’s attention.
The moment his eyes find me, it’s like a waterspout dances over my heart. Cillian’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes me in, acknowledging me in a way I almost forgot was possible after so many months in High Queen Fiadh’s service.
For once, I don't feel out of place here, or like a puca literally out of water. Cillian Cloudtongue makes me feel like Laoise of Diarmuid's Row again. And I love him for it all the more.
Chapter Three
As has become herroutine since shortly after I arrived, Queen Fiadh dismisses the other servants after they’ve dressed and powdered her for dinner, leaving me to do her hair. Once she learned I suffer from the headaches, too, I’m the only one she’ll allow to do it.
“Something gentle tonight, Laoise,” she says, her fingertips working upon her aching temple. The high queen is truly hurting tonight.
We usually get our headaches about the same time, and often as a storm is sweeping in. So it surprises me that the curtains are half drawn and her face, usually creamy as fresh milk, has an ashen quality no powder can hide.
As I run a pick below her temple to section her hair, Queen Fiadh lifts a cold seastone to her forehead, slowly shifting it to chase the pathways of her pain. I handle her braids tonight like a tiny starfish washed ashore. I know what this pain feels like. I know how tender it can make a scalp.
“Laoise,” she says, her voice thinned by the pain. “There’s something I must speak to you about.”
“Of course, ma’am,” I say, pinning the thin braid low before I start it’s twin on the other side.
“I won’t tiptoe around it. You must be more careful about being seen with Prince Ruairi in public.”
I stop my ministrations at once, the new braid falling apart in my hands. “Ma’am?”
“It’s alright, Laoise. You've done nothing wrong. But they say you were his guest of honor—that he gave you his own seat for a private performance from the bard. There's a rumor he commissioned it expressly for your sake.”
My heart sinks as I watch the high queen’s troubled expression in the mirror. “He invited me, ma’am—”
“Not another word, please. You cannot speak of this openly here.” Heat rushes to Fiadh's cheeks at her own sharpness. In half a moment, she’s back to herself, looking unable to swat a fly for all the discomfort she’s in.
“Forgive me, ma’am, I don’t understand.”
She winces as I take up the braid again; it’s completely unwound, and I must start again. “When the High King chose me as his queen, there was much displeasure in the court," she whispers. "Popular opinion was in favor of a low fae queen, but that was not so at the high court. A puca high queen was a step too far for them, and dangerous, according to some. Haven’t you heard the whispers about our loyalty?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have,” I admit. “But I’m not much for listening to idle talk if it can be helped. It's silly to think we'd owe allegiance to the sea courts when we obviously live on land.”
Fiadh hums. “You truly don’t understand, do you? They resent us.”
Us?I force myself to keep a grip on Queen Fiadh’s fine tresses this time. “Why should anyone resent us, ma’am? The púcaí live humbly.”
“It's true, Laoise. We are low fae with magic even the most powerful High Fae cannot replicate or understand. They cannot bear it. They see themselves as special and chosen, and fear any challenges to that view of themselves. Even the imagined ones.”
“But you’re the high queen, ma’am. You rule over them. They should know you're more powerful than they.”
“I wish that mattered. Jealousy is not logical.”
