Caledonia Fae 03 - Enemy of the Fae (2 page)

Setir looked imploringly at Eilidh. “Allow me to send someone, Your Majesty. There’s no need to seek him out personally,” he added quietly.

Without responding, she walked down the aisle and past the three conclave elders, then exited the throne room by way of the large arch at the rear. It annoyed her that they expected her to act like someone she wasn’t. They followed her as she wound through the corridors toward the East Hall. Servants and Watchers scurried around them, some trying to get out of the way, some alert, as though her behaviour was so alarming, danger must be near.

Eilidh bit back her frustration. Half a year she’d made her home here, and still they treated her as though she was Cadhla. The former queen had been a typical royal, cruel and distant, but surely it shouldn’t take six moons to realise Eilidh was neither of those things. She didn’t intend to be.

She made her way through the large, offset walls that served as the characteristic entryway in Canton Dreich. These offered some privacy but did not go as far as having doors, something Eilidh also missed from the human realm. As she approached, a Watcher stepped in front of her and announced to the chamber, “Queen Eilidh of Caledonia.”

With a glance, she muttered, “This is my own bloody house. You wouldn’t think I’d need an introduction when I walk into a room.”

Griogair rose from the white-draped table where he been sitting with at least a dozen officials. He grinned at her, looking amused, as usual, at her distinctly common manner. Everyone in the room bowed as she entered except him. That never ceased to cause consternation among those close to them. She’d made him promise not to, unless strict protocol had to be observed in public.

Their personal arrangement was secret even from friends and advisors. Eilidh felt fortunate her mate was also her closest companion and confidant, other than Quinton Munro, her bonded druid and lover. While Munro didn’t understand faerie politics, Griogair navigated that world with ease. For hundreds of years he’d been mated to Cadhla and was a prince in his own right. His pairing with Eilidh had been arranged, as had his union with Cadhla—neither of them having much say in the matter— but Eilidh hoped his current situation proved to be more satisfactory than the last. At least
she
had never tried to kill him.

“Do pardon the interruption, Griogair. I wish to consult with you. Perhaps when you’re finished?” She turned to the officials from Tvorskane. “I apologise. I’ll only keep him a short while.” She caught the horrified expression on Setir’s face. Thinking he worried the conversation might take longer than she’d indicated, she added, “Or perhaps we can arrange a dinner before sunrise to make up for the inconvenience? Can you stay, or do you plan to head home soon?” She focused her attention on the one with the most formal clothing, assuming he must be the ambassador, although she didn’t recall meeting him before. She probably had, of course, but the previous moons passed in such a blur. She’d met more people since becoming queen than in her entire hundred and twenty-five years before.

“Accepting your invitation would be the deepest honour, Your Majesty. I’d not anticipated having the pleasure of encountering you on this trip.”

“Good,” she said. “We’ll arrange something then. I’m certain it will be no trouble.” It would, she knew, be a lot of trouble. Those who served her seemed to like to fret about her sudden changes in plans. She already saw a few servants scurrying as discretely as possible, off to organise whatever would need doing.

She said a polite goodbye to the ambassador and lingered in the corridor, waiting for Griogair to wrap up his business. Within moments, he fell into step with her and they headed to her private quarters.

When they arrived at the door, she said to the elders, “I require time alone with my mate.”

Setir and Qwe both looked frustrated, and even Galen showed a flicker of impatience in her eyes. “Your Majesty,” Setir began, “we cannot delay. The joint conclave expects us to advise you about the matter. His Highness is a trusted advisor. He is, I would remind you, neither a conclave member nor an elder. Certain protocols must be observed.”

“Nonsense, Setir,” Galen said, looking more regal, Eilidh thought, than she could ever hope to. “The queen has made her desires clear.” To Eilidh, she added, “Your Majesty,” with a deferential inclination of her head.

Gratitude washed over Eilidh. How many times had Galen created a subtle buffer for her, when the conclave became demanding or she needed a moment to think? Eilidh nodded to the elder faerie who had become an ally, despite the tragedy that had introduced them a year before. Eilidh glanced at the Watchers, who had taken positions on either side of the entrance to her private domain. “See that we aren’t disturbed.”

They saluted with hands over hearts, and Eilidh left them all standing in the corridor. She hated being rude to Setir and Qwe, but their chatter made her head ache.

Griogair draped himself across a plush lounge chair in her sitting room. She couldn’t help but smile. He was one of the few who treated her as he always had. His violet eyes swirled with earth magic, so different from her primarily azuri talents. In many ways, he a royal, she a commoner and once an outcast, were an unlikely couple, but as the moons passed, they’d adopted a pleasant and growing friendship.

She slipped off her shoes and took a chair beside him, curling her legs beneath her. “They want me to decide what to do about this prisoner, Leith, but they give me no options I can live with. Death or exile? What kind of choice is that? What has he done, truly?”

Griogair twined his fingers together over his chest. “I believe the charge was treason and conspiracy against the crown.”

“They should understand why I won’t exile him to Scotland. Our cast-off criminals can wreak unfathomable havoc on human society.”

“As you did?” he teased.

She glared at him half-heartedly. “As Cridhe did by seeking out and killing human druids.” The memory made her shudder. Cridhe had been the only blood faerie she’d ever encountered, and his magic was as dark and corrupting as many once believed her own would be. “Even Tràth, although his intentions were not ill, caused damage when he lost control of his temporal abilities.”

Griogair stiffened at the mention of his son. The prince was still recovering from the trauma of the previous year, and he would need a long time yet to master his magic. He’d not spoken of his mother, Queen Cadhla, since her death, as far as Eilidh knew, but how could the loss not affect him?

Eilidh softened her tone. “I don’t blame him, my mate. No one does. The harm done was, in the end, minimal, although those humans he encountered will have strange stories to tell for the rest of their lives.” She glanced at a tapestry hanging on the wall, a gift from Queen Vinye of Andena, the kingdom whose borderlands touched Caledonia’s in the south. Something about the artwork’s soothing colours comforted her. “If visiting their realm were not crucial to the survival of our race, I’d close the Otherworld gates forever. How many ways do we touch their society without intending to?”

A tug in her awareness told her Quinton Munro approached. Their bond allowed them to sense each other’s emotions and proximity, and as time went on, they discovered new depths to their connection. Faerie society didn’t yet know what to make of the five human druids who had come to Caledonia, but they had begun to carve out their place in the Otherworld. That gave Eilidh some comfort. She had feared Quinton would feel as much a prisoner in this realm as she had in his.

Sending a quick thought message to the Watchers in the corridor, she instructed them to allow the druid to enter. She wished she could leave a standing order, saying he had permission to pass without challenge, but that command would give rise to rumours she could ill afford at this unsettled time.

Griogair didn’t even look up when Munro walked in. As her prince-consort, he had little say in what Eilidh did. More importantly, he understood her bond with Munro and had no intention of trying to come between them.

Eilidh rose when he entered, and she slipped her arms around his waist, giving him a quick kiss with her embrace. He looked more handsome every day. She’d quietly suggested he at least try some fae apparel, and he’d managed, over time, to make a few rather pleasing choices. Today, he wore a fine kidskin shirt in a dark shade that complimented his deep blue eyes. His hair had grown lighter and his skin glowed with a sheen she found alluring. Neither of them knew if the changes were caused by the druids’ exposure to Otherworld air, or if their awakening magical abilities made them appear more fae-like. Either way, Eilidh approved.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

Eilidh inched back from him and smiled. Although she still felt the weight of her decision, his presence comforted her. “Help me get out of this ridiculous dress.” She stepped through to an adjoining chamber, her dressing room.

Griogair raised his voice as the pair departed. “You have maids for that.”

“Hello, Griogair,” Munro called toward the next room. He signalled for Eilidh to turn. When she did, he expertly unbuttoned the gown, then helped her slip into the soft, flowing robe she often wore between public appearances.

When they returned to the sitting room, Griogair said, “I hate to admit it, Eilidh, but the elders are right. You must order this traitor’s death if you won’t exile him.”

Eilidh sighed. “I want to hear from him myself. I will question Leith this evening, before our dinner with the Tvorskane ambassador, and announce my decision in the morning.”

Griogair stiffened in his seat. “That isn’t wise,” he said.

“Shall I kill a man who’s had no chance to defend himself?”

“He was convicted by the conclave.”

“I find it strange,” she said, “the conclave didn’t invite me to witness the evidence. His crime was supposedly one against me.”

Griogair’s expression told her he was a hair away from telling her not to be stupid, but, as always, he restrained himself. “They have done what is proper under the law, and advised you as to their decision. To question this prisoner would indicate you don’t trust their judgement. You will undermine their authority and, at the same time, appear foolish.”

Eilidh shook her head. “I don’t care. I must hear the confession from his own mouth. I wish to give him a chance to convince me not to kill him.” She glanced at Munro, whose troubled blue eyes reflected the frown curving his lips. Through their bond, she could sense he too was restraining himself from speaking his mind. His disapproval bore down on her. Funny, she thought suddenly, how the fae had always considered humans barbaric, and yet he was disgusted at what she might be forced to do. If only she had a choice.

Griogair stood. “I will speak to Oron, then, and smooth the way as much as possible.” He straightened his tunic. “Unless you wish to put me under an illusion?”

His thoughtfulness gave her heart a pang. He’d accepted that although he was her life mate, she was in love with Munro and bound to him irrevocably. Without being asked, he would offer to let Eilidh to use her powers of illusion to give him Munro’s face. Then he would leave, allowing others to believe she was alone with her mate. This deception helped maintain the appearance of propriety, and they had so far avoided scandal. Griogair found his pleasures elsewhere, accepting his role as friend and confidant, never seeking anything more. Fae society gave little thought to monogamy, but the idea of a queen bedding a human, druid or not, would elicit ruthless gossip.

“No,” she replied, “but thank you. I need to be alone with my thoughts, and your suggestion to
smooth the way
was a good one.”

Munro appeared less than happy at being sent away, although he said nothing. He also seemed to understand the pressure bearing down on her.

She loved them both in very different ways, she realised as they departed together, leaving her alone with her impossible choice.

As the night’s darkest hour approached, Flùranach sped through the trees, heart pounding as she ran, brushing aside the tangles of hanging moss. There would be trouble. Such trouble. Her small feet easily found purchase as she rushed and tried to outpace the dread that followed.

It wasn’t her fault she was so much better at her lessons than every other faerie her age—and those children decades older. At eight years old, nearly nine, society still regarded her as an infant. Coddled, protected, and underestimated, only allowed out of the nursery because of her extraordinary abilities. The condescension infuriated her. The ninety-two years between her and adulthood may as well have been a millennium.

The wind whipped at her tear-streaked face. She’d mastered the nine circles of illusion, the sky voice, far-seeing, some things even her instructors didn’t understand. What she couldn’t do was hold herself in the aloof way faeries did, even faeries as young as twenty or thirty years. Her emotions ran riot. Perhaps that’s why she loved the human druids so, why she headed to the River Hai, where the druids had worked for over a moon on a secret project.

Breaking through the forest edge, she raced toward the wide stone terrace where she knew they’d be. She saw Rory’s shock of red hair before the others, and she made a beeline. His hair had grown long over the past moons, and his ears had developed an adorable point at the top. He stood with Aaron and Phillip, looking down at an immense stone wheel. Douglas sat with Tràth, Griogair’s son and the only temporal faerie known to exist in the kingdoms. The pair was always together. They’d bonded soon after they all came to Caledonia from the Skye colony, when Eilidh had been made queen.

Flùranach loved them all, even Tràth, but Rory was her favourite. He waved to her as she approached. Rather than scold her as the faerie adults would have done, he went to one knee and let her rush into his arms. As soon as she was safe in his embrace, he stood and swung her around until she laughed. Her strawberry-blonde hair flew in every direction.

“There’s my little giggle-goat,” he said. “Back from lessons already?”