Page 42 of Across an Endless Sea

Each one is dedicated to some great battle feat or another. It seems Fomorian art is as much an homage to death and violence as their lives are. We pass statue after statue depicting the Fomorians’ victories over the fae.

The more I see, the more I begin to doubt my plan. Even if I manage to convince Caed and Prae to swap sides, our people have been at war for so long, and the Fomorian culture is so heavily focused on fighting the fae, that the very idea of peace between us seems… naïve.

My musing is cut off and I freeze in place as I recognise one of the stone faces, dragging us both to a stop.

“Mab?”

The statue’s features are eerily similar to the redheaded warrior, and the artist has even recreated her braids in rusted metal.

I can’t imagine stoic warrior Mab splayed out across the floor, a boot pressing down on her cheek. Her statue’s mouth is stretched open on a soundless scream, eyes wide with defiance.

The Fomorian standing over her is huge and wielding a spear, which is digging straight into her back. The statue depicts him as enormous, easily twice her size, and wearing a single eye patch over his left eye.

Calling Mab’s name summons her faded spirit, and she grimaces as she catches sight of the art. Then—in a move that’s highly out of character for her—she mimes spitting at the Fomorian.

It’s the kind of thing that I’d expect from Maeve.

“Balor,” Caed introduces, with an expectant wave of his hand, as if I should know or recognise the name. “My Ancestor. Greatest of all Fomorians.”

I frown, because Mab definitely doesn’t seem to agree. “What was so great about him?”

Caed stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “He led the first war for Faerie.”

I cock my head to one side. “But… didn’t you lose that one?”

Caed shakes his head. “He was unfairly slaughtered along with his heir. But he killed Nicnevin Mab twice.”

Ah, that explains her reaction, but not what’s so great about Balor.

“But… didn’t Maeve die so many times that she turned a beach black?” I grimace. “Whoever killed her must have been greater. Plus, by that logic, you and Prae are responsible for two of my deaths. Surely that makes him no greater than the two of you?”

Caed’s eyes have gone wide, like he can’t comprehend how I’m entirely unimpressed with the asshole who’s sticking my grandmother with a spear.

“He was a great warrior.”

“Obviously not that great. He died, didn’t he?”

Caed splutters, indignation rising to darken his cheeks. “It was a glorious death.”

I snort. “If dying is enough to bring glory, then I have twice as much as he ever did already.”

“He raised the Fomorians up,” Caed continues, ignoring my comment. “We were slaves before he dragged us from the depths.”

I frown, because I haven’t heard this before. “Slaves to who? Not the fae, surely? Someone would’ve mentioned that to me by now.”

Caed just blinks, his face blank.

“You don’t even know, do you?” I realise.

He turns away. “It doesn’t matter. He and the other Ancestors sacrificed themselves to bring our people glory, and we—”

“Sacrificed what?” I ask, still confused. “You’re giving me dogma, not history, Caed. History has dates, facts, verifiable evidence.”

His mouth slams shut and turns away. “The legends of the Ancestors would be wasted on a fairy, anyway,” he retorts. “Come. I’ve had enough of staring at art.”

With his unwavering grip on my hand, he pulls me out of the gallery, towards the walls of his father’s fortress. The great gates are made of pure iron, and Mab, who was following us, flickers out of existence as soon as we come close, leaving us alone together once more. Caed doesn’t stop, but his grip on me tightens as I stumble beneath the portcullis. This time, I don’t have to fake the dizziness that overcomes me. All I can do is breathe through it until it passes. By that time, we’re halfway down the hill and walking along a market street.

Like the fortress, the architecture is brutal and functional. Grey stone and iron are the main building materials, with wood and cloth conspicuously absent. It doesn’t take a genius to realise why. Not having healthy trees must’ve forced their culture to not rely on lumber, and cloth requires wool or agriculture, of which the Fomorians have neither.

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