Page 47 of Crown of Roses
“You were this close.” Saoirse pinched her thumb and forefinger together. She downed a glass of lemon water then stood. “I’m going to go check on Casimir…make sure he hasn’t mouthed off to anyone and gotten himself killed.”
“That’s my cue.” Brynn jumped up, grabbed a muffin from the table, and took a hefty bite. She flicked a wave in their general direction. “See you later, Cer.”
Ceridwen handed Maeve a plate of crispy bacon. “So, The Scathing has plagued your land.”
Again, not a question. Just an assessment.
“Yes.” Maeve didn’t want to remember, but the images came rushing back in a flood of hysteria. The screams. The cloying stench of smoke that made her eyes water and the metallic tang of blood in the air. The dead, lifeless bodies of the innocent and of the soldiers in the streets. The lost little girl who cried in her arms, terrified and alone. “I have to stop it.”
She couldn’t leave her people. She refused to abandon Kells, no matter what her mother’s motives.
“Mm.” Ceridwen tilted her head and her long, golden locks spilled over her shoulder. She fiddled with the silk strap of her bright red gown, and as she did, gold bangles jingled along her wrists.
Maeve dropped her own hands into her lap, determined to not draw any unwanted attention to herself. Or her cuffs.
“You’re here to find the anam ó Danua to help you defeat it?” She dabbed her napkin at the corner of her mouth and set it down.
Maeve nodded. “Rowan said it was the only way.”
“It is,” Ceridwen agreed. “The soul of the goddess Danua is exceptionally powerful…if she still exists.”
“What do you know of her?” Now was Maeve’s chance to ask as many questions as she could. To glean as much information as possible, so they could figure out who, or what exactly, they were looking for. Then they could get back home. Back to the human lands.
“Let’s see.” Ceridwen tapped a nail to her chin. “The anam ó Danua’s identity was originally kept secret for many years. Since it only passes down through the maternal line, a daughter must be born. The last Archfae to possess the gift was the High Queen of the Spring Court.”
“Was?” Maeve’s brow puckered and a wash of disquiet crashed into her. She knew, without asking, their task was about to become much more complicated. “Is she still alive?”
“I’m afraid not.” Shadows crept into the High Princess’s eyes.
“She was killed.” Lir’s deep voice sounded off the walls of the palace, but the crashing waves did nothing to drown out the anger when he spoke. “Murdered in cold blood.”
Maeve whipped around in her chair to face him. “What? Who would do such a thing?”
“Her daughter.”
Nausea roiled in Maeve’s stomach. Lir’s words should’ve stunned her, should have left her breathless with shock. But instead, they gripped her by the throat and squeezed. A cloak of guilt settled around her shoulders and threatened to smother her. Once she finally returned to Kells, wouldn’t her plan accuse her of the same sort of crime?
“How…awful.” The words were hollow to her own ears. She too, would be just as awful. A hint of darkness swirled inside her, and churned below the surface of her skin.
“She was jealous.” Ceridwen tapped her nails against the wooden table. “Brigid, The High Queen of the Spring Court, was the epitome of grace and beauty. Her magic was uniquely powerful as she had the ability to create visions, to make you think you were somewhere else entirely. She looked kindly upon everyone, no matter their race. Fae. Mortal. Monster.”
Lir’s silver eyes flashed like lightning. “She was everything her daughter is not.”
Maeve peered over at him. “And she killed her for it?”
Ceridwen nodded. “She did. Doing so passed the gift of her mother’s magic to her.”
Maeve sorted through all she knew of faeries so far. Almost everything she’d read in her books was untrue; all of it was constantly being countered by the fae themselves. Their magic was passed through bloodlines, gifted to them thousands of years ago by the goddess Danua, back when the ancient ones of lore ruled the realms. When fae reproduced, their offspring were blessed with the same form of magic, either through maternal or paternal bloodlines, but with far less intensity. At least until the parent’s death. Then the parent’s power was passed to the eldest child. But if the High Queen of Spring was also the anam ó Danua, then the maternal lineage of the gift would’ve been passed down to her daughter.
“Wouldn’t it make sense for the daughter to possess the soul of the goddess, then?” Maeve was on the precipice of understanding something new. She could feel it in her bones. In her soul—a shift in knowledge that would change everything.
“So you would think.” Shadows danced across Ceridwen’s sunlit features. “But the gods and goddesses don’t approve when a fae slays a member of their own family. Especially the one who birthed them.”
Lir stabbed a piece of bread with a knife, then lifted it up and examined it. “It’s considered a terrible crime, an affront to the natural course of magic within the fae realm, and punishable by death.”
She didn’t want to think about what the gods and goddesses would do to her once she killed Carman. “And this daughter, she wasn’t destroyed by the goddess?”
“No.” Ceridwen’s voice was cold, and Maeve swore the air around them cooled. Chilled. “Her father begged for her life in exchange for his own.”
