Page 54 of Amidst the Insidious Courts
“We’ve drawn the bath with soothing herbs, and everything is ready.” Kitarni keeps her voice soft, and I’m grateful. “Is she sleeping?”
“Almost.” Jaro’s voice rumbles through me.
“Then it won’t be long now.” Rough bark kisses my temple, wiping my sweat-damp hair out of my face. “The attendants will see to her. You need to eat while you can.”
There’s a moment’s pause, and then I find myself resting on a soft cloud. A bed, perhaps? I snuggle deeper into the covers, my whole body sighing at the impossibly soft sheets.
“Thank you, high priestess.” Jaro is still close, soothing me with light touches.
“Lorcan, have you been careful to keep your hat—?”
“It’s so red, isn’t it? It drank down eight this morning, and twenty the day before.”
“When on earth did you find time to kill all those people?” Jaro asks. “We didn’t even run into that many Fomorian patrols.”
“It’s a talent,” Lore quips.
“And where is Bricriu?”
“Dealing with Caed.”
I’m too adrift to hear anything else after that.
Sixteen
Drystan
It wasn’t a lie when I told Jaromir that I was checking on the horses, but it’s not all I plan on doing. Bricriu worries me. His decision to go after Caed alone reeks of a male seeking out distraction.
It’s reckless. Rose is too close to her fever for him to be so far. He should be secluded in the cloister, taking the sleeping draught. Not out tracking down the Fomorian.
Goddess, I don’t understand how either of them are able to be away from her. I honestly thought we’d have to fight Caed to keep him away, but it looks like the blade prince has managed to dig up a shred of honour and walk away after Rose’s clear dismissal.
I watched his aura sour from hopeful to resigned with a kind of grim satisfaction, but there wasn’t a hint of malice there. Whatever his reasons—and I don’t trust any of them were good—Caed was going to leave and take that potion.
Here’s hoping Bree doesn’t do anything stupid to change his mind.
Fortunately, the púca’s distinctive looks make it easy enough to track him through the city, across canals until I inevitably turn up in a dingy bar in the poor district.
“Where is the púca?” I demand of the innkeeper.
My urgency must be plain on my face, because the troll extends one long finger towards a door in the back. Shoving it open, I frown at the raucous noise that assaults my ears. The sudden blast of sound tells me that the walls have been enchanted to disguise this room’s true nature. Blood and sweat hang heavy in the air, and once I’ve descended the stairs into the grotty basement, I realise why.
A fighting ring. How unlike the Spring Court. The corner of my lip curls, only for the expression to vanish as I realise exactly who is in the cage in the centre of the room.
Bree and Caed are circling each other like predators. The former has stripped down to just his leathers, his tattoos writhing beneath his skin as he wields a particularly vicious looking dagger while the Fomorian is wearing a glamour that makes him appear to be unseelie fae. It can’t disguise Danu’s curse mark running across his bare chest and down his arm, although his wrapped hands hide Rose’s mark—for now.
How he hasn’t given himself away already, Goddess only knows. I suspect the willingness of lowlife scum to look the other way for gold is a big part of it. Still, it’s an unacceptable risk. What if the cloth hiding Rose’s mark was to fall away? What if he took a mortal blow and lived? What if the city watch decides to stop taking bribes and pay attention to this—because there’s no way Aiyana lets this shit fly on her turf. Some of those bars are iron—the rust on them proves as much.
Rumours would fly if anyone caught wind that a member of Rose’s Guard was hanging around underground fight rings. Did he even consider how that would affect her? No.
In a burst of motion, Bree and Caed collide. Clashing blades ring out over the furious screams of the crowd. The Fomorian is good—I expected as much from the tales of him on the battlefield—but surprisingly, the púca is holding his own.
When Bree summons a second blade from his skin in a burst of ink, then executes a leap over Caed’s head, a grim certainty starts to dawn. My suspicions are solidified when he summons his cat-sìth tail, then uses it to knock the blade out of Caed’s hand in a practised move, trusting the catlike reflexes of his beast to carry him out of striking distance.
He’s done this before.
No one is this good at close quarters combat without decades of practice.
