The Vanishing Throne (23 page)

There is pride in her voice as she looks out at the buildings. I hate being unable to share that with her. I lied about being fine.

Focus
, I tell myself.
Calm
. My hands slip to my pockets, where I usually keep wee inventions to tinker with, only to find none. So I grip the hem of my coat. “You built all of this in only a few years?” My voice sounds strained and I hope she doesn't notice.

She does. I notice in the way she shifts closer, as if to comfort me. Or, perhaps, to prepare me for what she says next. “The fae helped,” she says tightly. “As part of the truce. We would never have been able to finish it so quickly—and they have increased powers here, of course. The city is built over a
neimhead
.”

“
Neimhead
?” I'm not familiar with the word, not even from Kiaran's lessons.

“A sacred place of power. For
them
.” She nods to the fae sparkling above us. “They say this is the most ancient one of all.”

I stare at the wisps again—the vile creatures dancing without a care in the world. “Can we go down there?” I say, control breaking. I can't handle it. Any longer up here, near to the fae, and I might end up killing them. I'd rather not start a war when I've only just arrived.

Catherine's expression is one of understanding. “Of course we can.”

She pulls the lever next to her and the balcony begins to lower. I lean over my stone balcony to study it better. A mechanism along the bottom allows it to lift and lower to the other floors, pausing at each one, until it finally sets down on the cobblestone road. Catherine pushes the lever back into place, unlatching a portion of the balcony—an iron gate—and leads me to the street.

The city reminds me of Edinburgh at night before they installed electricity, the way the street lamps were lit, fire flickering in their glass orbs. The pools of light make the cobblestones—cut from the same cave rock as the outer walls of the city—shine in the firelight. It doesn't seem constricting
down here, not at all moist or dripping as if we were in a normal cave. The air is different, as crisp as an autumn day; the scent of fire and rain mixes with the taste of startlingly sweet fae power, from honeysuckle to ginger and then to stronger tastes like black powder and ash.

A crackling above us startles me. I look up to see clouds gathering along the top of the structure, lightning flickering from within them. Rain begins to fall onto the buildings and the streets. I watch as people pause their routine and tip their heads toward the sky to feel the rain on their faces.

“What are they doing?” I ask. This is Scotland, after all. Pausing to pay attention to a rainfall would be like stopping every time a tree branch shakes.

Catherine puts out her palm to catch the raindrops. “Most people here haven't been outside in years. It's easy to miss things we once took for granted.”

I try to hide my shock. No matter how beautiful the city is, I can't imagine being trapped in here for that long. This weather is like the rooms, a perfect, overly sanitized replica. It's missing something—that something I can't name that makes you feel
alive
whenever you walk outside. That makes you breathe deep and savor the air in your lungs.

“And if they went outside?” I ask. “What would happen?”

Catherine thrusts her hands into her trouser pockets. “They might not come back.”

So the fae would take them. They'd die or, worse, be taken to the
Sìth-bhrùth
and kept until their captors finally tired of them and disposed of them.

As Catherine and I walk down the busy street, we draw more than a few curious stares. The road smells of fruits and flour and rain and mist, a combination that reminds me of Edinburgh on market day when the streets bustled like this.

Aside from the splendor of the city lights and how clean the streets are, the people here are different than in Edinburgh. They dress in the softest wool, dyed in earth tones, their trousers and coats so well made—perhaps by the fae—that there's no outward distinction of class. There's nothing to tell a commoner from those who grew up in the aristocracy, like me or Catherine. Some here have darker skin—a range of different shades from different places—and I catch whispers of languages I don't recognize.

As if sensing my thoughts, Catherine leans in to murmur, “We don't know much about what's happened elsewhere, but the fae took people from all over. Derrick was able to save some before they became faestruck.”

Not just Scotland
.

Lonnrach may have ripped Scotland apart in his quest to find the object that can save the
Sìth-bhrùth—
but destroying everywhere else is for another purpose entirely: to rebuild the splendor of the fae empire once he has saved his home. His soldiers are out conquering nations.

What was it Kiaran once told me?
We did not gain dominion over every continent by being polite
.

They did it by nearly wiping out every human in existence.

We pass another stall with the most heavenly-smelling bread and a few of the patrons stop chatting to stare as I pass.

“Don't let it intimidate you,” Catherine tells me, flashing them a disarming smile. She always was better at socializing and making friends than I. “They're just curious. We haven't had an outsider here in a long time.”

“I'm used to people staring at me,” I say. “Remember?”

Every ball we attended the winter after my mother's death was a disaster. I had been found sitting next to her body the night of her murder, and many of our peers believed I had something to do with it—or that I was directly responsible. Catherine spent so much time defending me against the gossip and suspicion.

“Gavin told me what really happened to your mother,” she says, edging around a group of chatting youths who stop to smile at me tentatively. “Aileana, I'm so sorry.”

“Don't,” I say, not wanting to speak of it further. “You remained steadfast even when everyone else didn't. In any case, how could you have known?”

We stop next to a beautiful marble building, and I slide my palm down the column near the front door. No, it's not marble. It's smooth as glass, with colors in the rock that change depending on the way the light flickers from the gas lamp behind me. From ivory to pink to lavender . . . then back again.

Catherine doesn't look away from me. She doesn't seem to notice how the people around us greet her with wide smiles and me with apprehension. As if they aren't sure why I'm here after so long on the outside, or if I'm really safe. I wonder how many others came in and proved they weren't faestruck. Not many, I'd imagine—at least, not after three
years. Humans nearby would never have survived this long without being killed or taken by the fae.

Finally, Catherine speaks. “I should have listened to the part of me that always knew you weren't telling me the whole truth.”

I look at her in surprise. Her voice is clipped, more stern than I've ever heard her. I'm beginning to realize that in my absence Catherine has grown into the quiet strength she always had. Even the way she stands is no longer the hands-clasped, demure stance we were taught in etiquette lessons. She has the confident stride of a leader, a woman who has fought to survive.

“That obvious, was I?”

I never thought I played the part of debutante to perfection. I'm sure there were always inconsistencies in my performance, cracks in the mask I donned to attend parties and balls. Flickers of the monster inside me that could only be sated with a kill.

Catherine lifts her fingers to tick things off. “You mean aside from the headaches, the disappearing during balls, the constant oil on your fingertips, the mysterious illnesses, the—”

“Thank you,” I say dryly. “Point well made indeed.”

“Face it, I know you too well. You're even worse at lying to me than Gavin is.” Catherine grins and threads an arm through mine. “Now come along. Let me show you the rest.”

Rain beats against the cobblestones in a steady rhythm now. I follow Catherine to the outskirts of the city, where the vast cave wall looms before us. It is dotted with tunnels, some lit and others so dark that I can't see past the entrance.

Catherine chooses a narrow passage. Lamps are affixed to the walls on either side of us, firelight flickering within. The flecks within the rock catch in the light, glittering as we pass.

I shudder beneath my new coat. Not even Derrick's wool can keep out the cold, damp conditions within the cave as we descend deeper into the earth, down and down the rocky, uneven steps.

We reach a point where there are no lamps at all. The cave glistens with its own internal glow, like light beneath water, with shadows flickering along the walls. I feel my way down the steps carefully.

Catherine's movements are far steadier than mine; she must come down here often. Once we reach the bottom of the passage, the rock glitters around us as though we are dashed out in space, surrounded by millions and millions of stars.

Before us lies a vast field, lit only by the cave's own internal light. A stone pathway cuts across the meadow between rows and rows of plants. The vivid blue tips of the flowers stand out immediately and I stare in awe. “
Seilgflùr
,” I whisper.

The thistle is grown high, the stocks so very still. It's silent around us; not even drops of water reach this part of the cave. There isn't a whisper of creatures living among the plants. Everything is entirely quiet and peaceful.

I edge forward among the stocks, brushing my fingers against the thistle that is as soft as feathers. The scent from the field is strong, like fire and ash and rock—volcanic. The soil beneath my boots is cushioned and moist.

Even the air is different. As I breathe it in, I recognize hints of sandalwood, witch hazel, and iron, even flowers and sweetness. As if every bit of fae power I've ever tasted has been combined into a single scent.

“I like to come down here and think sometimes,” Catherine says, walking beside me. “It's quiet. Safe.”

I can understand why such a place would be a sanctuary. “I've never been able to cultivate s
eilgflùr
,” I tell her. “I tried for months.”

Not even a single clipping could grow under my care. In water, it withered and died. Even a plant pressed between sheets of airtight glass quicky lost its luster and power. The plant's gift of Sight and as a weapon always proved ineffective after only a couple of weeks.

“It's quite a finicky thing, isn't it?” Catherine says, touching one of the stocks lightly.

I smile slightly. “I suppose you can't tell me how you grow it, can you?”

Catherine pauses. “I can. The thistle was meant to be tended to by Falconers.” She plucks off a flower and twirls it. “Aithinne only entrusted these fields to me until your return.”

Oh, lord. I was never terribly good with growing things to begin with. “I'd probably kill them all. Remember, I thought the weeds were flowers and the flowers—”

“Were weeds.” She laughs. “I remember.”

“But I'm still curious.”

“
Seilgflùr
can only be grown in darkness over a
neimhead
to take advantage of its power. And it has to be fertilized with the blood of the fae.”

I look at her in surprise. “I
beg
your pardon?”

A ghost of a smile plays on her lips. “Ah. I see you never knew that.”

Of course not. That must have been why Kiaran kept it a secret, why he refused to give me my own plant to cultivate. He must have assumed the worst about me: that I would have found a
neimhead
to grow a field just like this one and fertilized it with the blood of my victims.

I would have killed more just to keep the stocks tended, the plants fresh. All while oblivious to the fact that my kills alerted Sorcha to my whereabouts. It would have made me more of a monster than I already am.

“Where do you get the blood?” I ask her, my voice hoarse.

“It's part of the truce,” she says softly. “They pay their end of the bargain in blood and service.”

What do you promise them in return?

Just then, a low light from the other end of the field draws my attention and the question dies on my lips. There's a door there that's illuminated around its frame. It towers about ten feet high, constructed of heavy, scorched wood. Symbols are carved into the panels that remind me of those I had seen on Aithinne's seal.

My gaze roves over the intricate etchings. As I draw closer, I notice the door is slightly ajar, the light behind it flickering as if coming from a fire. Laughter echoes from inside, then heavy drumming starts slow. A bagpipe joins the steady beat; the high drone from the pipes echoes off the walls. The song is beautiful, with the most immaculate piping I've ever heard, each note formed together in a seamless lullaby.

I close my eyes and try to place the song. There it is, like a memory long lost. I recall a night spent in the country as a child. The bonfires burned before Hogmanay, when people carried torches throughout the village. They played the pipes and sang as I watched from a window of the estate.

I edge closer, the taste of fae powers stirring together so strongly that I can't distinguish any single type. When I finally reach the threshold, I press my palms to the thick door. The energy in the symbols is so strong that I shiver.

“
Aileana
!”

Catherine is there, grasping my arm firmly. I start. The music is suddenly gone, as if it had never been there to begin with. The door before me is tightly shut, without so much as a light burning through the slits in the wood.