Page 11 of The Prince or the Bard?
Battered and broken as it may be, my heart still belongs to someone else. Cillian will come back one day soon. I know he will. I justknowit.
The bond between us was too dear for him to stay away for long.
“I think I might take a little bread now,” Queen Fiadh says. “My stomach feels much more settled.”
That, at least, is one bit of good news on this dismal day.
Chapter Seven
One month, filled withheadaches for both my royal cousin and I, goes by in a gray blur, my days changing little but for the severity of the high queen’s condition. And then, one day, a bit of color appears in the form of a blue wax seal.
I know at once it is not from High Prince Ruairí, who has not written to me since the solstice. The hand addressing is looping, graceful and marred by a new unsteadiness.
Dear cousin,
The matter is now settled, with the High King in agreement. Upon the advice of the court healers, I am to travel to the coast to take the cold sea waters at once.
—L
Which means I must go with her. And I do not feel quite as much joy as I should.
It’s not even that surprising. One of the royal healers—a group that, I've come to see, travels in packs—recently suggested the queen's condition might be due to her distance from the sea.
If the man ever met another púca besides the two of us, I'd be shocked. I can tell from the sounds of their voices, when they visit my royal cousin's bedside, that they're only guessing now. Since they think us more sea fae than not, they believe this bit of travel will fix everything.
One of the physicians even had the nerve to suggest that the lack of a royal heir could be due to this. "With half sea-fae nature, one has to wonder whether an heir can be begotten," the so-called physician proclaimed. "The best we can hope for is that some time at the seaside will restore her humours to their former healthy state."
For he’s already written off King Tadhg’s line. I’d place a wager in any amount that this particular physician is already ingratiating himself to Prince Ruairí.
I didn't bother to hide my disgust at this pronouncement, and certainly not from Fiadh. She simply smiled and dismissed him with the most cutting courtesy I've ever heard, and he left, none the wiser that we both think him a fool.
Yet visiting the seaside is still the best suggestion the royal physicians of the greatest court in all the earthen fae realms can muster. As the days go on and the queen is bedridden again and again, gripped by terrible pain and with no relief but uneasy sleep, something has begun to change in her eyes.
It takes me far too long to realize what this novel dullness, this lack of lively movement means: She’s losing hope.
So to the sea we go. I guess I’d best begin packing the high queen’s things.
Here I am, staringout at the waves I once longed for, that feel nothing like the ones of home but have an undeniable beauty and power of their own. And still, I am miserable.
I wish homesickness was all this broken heart was. But I am still grieving the absence of Cillian, even as I swear to myself that he’ll return to me soon. So while this is the wrong faerie shore, and the wrong slice of enchanted sea, the greatest error of all is that the man I love is not beside me, or anywhere I can reach him.
The coast of Fiadh's home court ought to be beautiful. Green expanses of land stretch out into the foaming waters, like fingers spread over the sea as if to still its churning. Here, the sun shines beautifully, making everything it touches bright and a little bit golden, and leaving the shadows below the rocks as shockingly cold as the water.
The village of Sunspray is currently living up to its name, too, the acrid tang of the sea on my tongue as I breathe in the blessed sea air through both nose and mouth. I resolve to stop moping, and make the best of what's before me: Sand beneath my soles and salty, churlish water just begging for a diving in. It isn't home, but it'll do for now.
There are, of course, a few notable inconveniences to our visit here.
The cliffs rise high above me, hiding the clamor of far too many courtiers and servants making the trek up the narrow path that winds up the cliffs. I raise a hand over my eyes to shield them from the veiled white sun, watching as the last of the trunks are unloaded from the ship.
The way to the Tideling Court was burdensome, and far too long; in unseelie púca form, I might’ve made the trip in a few hours if the ground was dry. Queen Fiadh could've made thattrip by hoof alongside me, too, were it not for her incessant headaches.
And that, just there, is the entire reason we've come on this whole foolish expedition, upon which a fleet of simpering fae nobles have invited themselves. But this being the high court, it had to be done in the most foolish way possible. The high king himself cut down the list of nobles in attendance by half, and still we had an uncomfortably crowded passage, first down the river south of the castle, then round the coast.
We sailed right by Diarmuid's Row. In the distance, I could barely make out my home, the stone-built cottages with thatched roofs disappearing into the brown of the winter countryside. It's rough country, full of stones. We fit to nature there, not nature to us.
This is not how the high court prefers to do things, a fact that is even more obvious when Lady Taliana takes her first wavering steps onto the beach, still sniveling about being denied permission to bring her own furnishings for the little houses the king rented along the cliffs. It’s as if walking on sand and pebbles offends her; as will the steep trek up the cliffside. It goes without saying that she is not dressed appropriately for the setting.
Someone needs to tell her she's no longer at court.
