Page 7 of The Dark, Dead, Deep

Magical majority.

My magic waited to spark like tinder and flint on dry land, but I knew the lake would call for me the moment it did.

“I don’t worry about that,” I answered truthfully. I didn’t worry because I already knew the answer.

I might have magic once I reached my magical majority, but no one would ever allow me to sit on the throne with a crown and call myself a queen.

“I didn’t want to allow you to migrate, you know.” My uncle picked up one of the discarded weavings on his desk. “I knew what the magic did to your mother. The gods placed a heavy burden on her shoulders.”

“What made you change your mind?” I kept my anger from my voice, even though every fiber of my being wanted to scream with it.

“Elaine talked me into it, I suppose,” he continued, standing up and moving slowly around his desk. “Once you find your shíorghrá, you’ll be away from the castle, and my debt to you will be repaid. It’s for the best.”

My nostrils flared. “I suppose I should be grateful that you are allowing me to find my true mate.” My fists clenched hard enough to draw blood. “I will need a place to live after all. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” My uncle sniffed, subconsciously reaching for the circlet on his head. “The Heart of the Lake is not taken or given freely, but you must accept that your mother is no longer of this world. While you are a Cruinn to your blood, know that no undine female will ever retake the throne. Our females are too precious to waste; even a callous king such as I know this.”

I didn’t argue with his assessment of himself as callous. I had been the lake and seen the front line in my mind’s eye as if I were the water choking on the metallic taste of blood.

I often wondered if King Irvine was as ignorant as he appeared. The lake cried because he wore the crown. It screamed. The cries of the water weren’t heard by anyone I had ever asked, but they made themselves known in other ways.

In bloodshed, rage, and hatred between the five fae species that populated the lake.

He had taken the heart of the lake, but everyone else paid the price.

As if sensing my thoughts, my uncle reached out and curled his hand around the side of my throat. In a friend, the gesture may have been playful. But I knew it was not. King Irvine did not retract his claws, and I felt the water pulse at the presence of my blood as a single dot twisted and disappeared completely.

I cleared my throat and cleared my mind. “The kelpie,” I stated blandly. “You’ve taken a prisoner of war.”

My uncle let go of my throat. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth but never touched his eyes. “They found her outside the city, in her two-legged form,” he told me. “She was trying to seduce a general in exchange for undine secrets. I couldn’t let that stand, could I?”

“That kelpie is a child.” My fists clenched.

“War is hard on the young.” My uncle waved his hand. I tasted his lie on the water. His words were bitter and rotten.

My stomach turned sour.

My uncle’s gaze flicked to the door. “On that note. It’s time for yourlessons.” He adjusted his lapels before walking away without waiting for a response.

I hated every moment that I was forced into that hopeless tower. Every second behind those doors caused a small part of me to die, no matter how necessary it was that I attended my ‘lessons.’

I didn’t have to ask why my uncle didn’t attend. I knew why. The High Throne had been moved, ignored, and forgotten while a replica took its place in the throne room.

My uncle hadn’t sat on the High Throne since his coronation, but that had been enough for him. He avoided the throne like a fish avoiding the shore, and I had been offered as a sacrifice in his place.

The lake still mourned my mother, and the throne would not accept anything less than the Mad Queen. I was a paltry substitute, but I had faired better than my uncle—who hadn’t woken for weeks after his coronation.

Two guards came to collect me from my uncle’s office. Their helmets obscured their faces, but their chests were bare, with a single strap over the shoulder where their shields were tied to their backs.

Silently, we walked through the castle to the tower at the south, overlooking the Abyss.

My mind rolled around my uncle’s words like a baby selkie playing on the shore. I couldn’t deny that King Irvine was right. The migration was upon us, and my childhood was ending whether I wanted it to or not. The time had arrived, no matter how deep my denial ran. It helped to know that Liam and Moira would be at my side as we made our way to the frosted beach, but like death, magical majority was something that had to be experienced alone.

The moon would rise tomorrow night, and Belisama, the God of the waves, would grant me my magic like every undine before me.

What magic would I be granted, I wondered?

Would I be a Weaver, like the king was? Knitting spells and enchantments into different materials—creating valiant steeds from mud and coral.

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