Page 72 of Throne of Dreams
He paused and faced her. “My lady?”
Maeve couldn’t find the words. Everything between them recently had been so fluid, so easy, and she didn’t want to ruin it. But she didn’t know how to ask the one question that constantly seemed to haunt her. She just wanted to know where they stood with one another. What, if anything, their relationship meant. But words failed her, and she found it far more difficult to ask if she was allowed to sleep in his bed each night, or if she should go to her own room instead. She didn’t want to assume, but at the same time, she didn’t want to offend him either.
His voice echoed in her mind, a soft, subtle caress.“You are always welcome in my bed, astora.”
Her mouth curved into a smile.
Tiernan bowed, and when Maeve sat down to read, all she could hear in the back of her mind was the delightful sound of Tiernan’s laughter.
* * *
Maeve spentthe next two days in the library, leaving only to check on the Spring fae and to share Tiernan’s bed.
Her mind was frazzled, but she knew she was on the cusp of discovery. Tiernan must’ve sensed it as well, because not once did he request her presence for training, though he often sent plates of food to where she sat, surrounded by a tower of tomes.
She’d devoured the book on the Aurastone and Astralstone; she learned they did indeed belong to the merrow queen, Marella, and her sister, Delphina. They’d been forged in the depths of the Lismore Marin, made of stardust and sunlight taken from above the sea, and imbued with ancient celestial magic belonging to heavens. The Aurastone and Astralstone were gifted to Marella and Delphina from the gods as a symbol of their alliance with the skies, with the condition that when the time came, the daggers would be relinquished to those who were worthy of defending the realm from the rising darkness. At least, that much had been prophesied by Delphina.
But Tiernan had been gifted the Astralstone from Queen Marella in exchange for protection. The Aurastone, once belonging to Delphina, had presented itself to Maeve.
She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d been deemed deserving of the Aurastone, but she’d already promised to defend the merrows against Garvan’s tyranny, so surely that had to count for something. So, she researched as much as possible, taking notes and delving deeper into the lore surrounding Faeven, while the rest of the world seemed to carry on without her.
Every now and then, Ceridwen, Merrick, Lir, or Brynn would pop in to check on her and keep her company. They would make general small talk or scribble little notes for her to find later among the pages of some of the books she scoured. In the back of her mind, Tiernan’s earlier suggestion prodded at her, nudged her, whispered to her.
She would write her own book as well. A book on the magic of creation and theanam ó Danua.
But not yet. Right now, there was another book that required her attention, and it sat within the dim alcove of the library. She returned and stood before the shelf that housed the books. The air was cooler somehow, and she could almost see her breath on each exhale. Dark magic lived here, alluring and ancient. There was a reason those books were cloaked in shadows. There was a reason layers of dust a hundred years old coated their bindings. An icy breeze kissed her cheek, like the hand of death.
Those books were glamoured.
The mural was moody now, foreboding, depicting nothing more than a swirl of shadows and mist. It was a sign. A warning, quietly reminding her to proceed with caution. Carefully, she closed her eyes and reached out. Whichever book called to her, whichever one begged her to listen to its stories of old, was the one she would choose to read.
Trusting only her intuition, Maeve selected a book from where the temperature seemed coldest. Her fingers closed around the cracked, aged leather, and she gradually removed it from the alcove. Opening her eyes, she looked down, and silvery shapes on the cover took the form of words. Her heart stuttered as she read the title and the tiny hairs along the back of her neck stood on end.
Legends of the Puca.
The Puca.
The same fae who had attacked Tiernan and his parents. The fae who murdered the former High King and High Queen of Summer. The fae who left Tiernan for dead.
Maeve opened the book and read.
The Puca were shifters, neutral in temperament but also frenzied. They could be persuaded to do good and wondrous deeds or coerced to commit the most atrocious of crimes. Their loyalty was to whoever could pay them the most, to whoever had the highest offer. Their magic was neither dark nor light, good nor evil. It was only a matter of how they chose to wield it. They were master metalsmiths and often used their power to turn their weapons into portals. Notorious for falling to corruption, they would easily devote themselves to a life of servitude if it meant they would be rewarded.
Bastards, Maeve thought. No wonder they’d been so quick to murder Archfae. They must’ve been paid handsomely for it. To them, it was a means to an end. A promise of fortune.
Puca were tall fae creatures with two curved horns protruding from the top of their head. Their hair was long and unkempt, and they could shift into various animal forms. Which animal they chose, however, varied greatly depending upon their mood and surroundings.
She flipped the almost translucent page, and her breath caught in the back of her throat.
Someone had drawn a pencil sketch of a Puca. The lines were haphazard and rough with no clear definition, but the face…the face was the same one that she saw every time she closed her eyes.
Fearghal.
She would recognize his sadistic smirk anywhere. Black corded veins bulged from his neck, and his curving horns looked like they were splattered in blood. He was drawn with a swath of fur draped around his waist and in his hands he held his blade, the same one he’d used when he carved her up deep within the dungeons of the Spring Court.
Maeve slammed the book shut. Like interlocking pieces of a puzzle, everything she knew, everything she’d read, snapped into place. Fearghal was a Puca, a wielder of a more sinister form of magic. He was also Parisa’s henchman, which meant he’d obviously been lured to her side with the guarantee of a worthy bounty. And if he was a Puca, he was a metalsmith. Weapons could be portals. The Scathing was a portal.
Her mind whirred, and the book tumbled from her grasp, slamming against the wooden floor of the library. She jumped, jarring herself out of her stupor, and when she glanced down, the book displayed Fearghal’s image once more. His mocking eyes looked up at her, laughed at her from the papery thin pages.
