Page 46 of Across an Endless Sea

“Nicnevin, please!” she wails. “Please, save—”

“Silence it.” Elatha rises from his throne and makes his way around the stone table, drawing his sabre at the same time. “And hold its wings out.”

The fae opens her mouth to scream—or to beg some more—but one of the soldiers holding her up slugs her in the gut, cutting her off before she can. As ordered, they rip the wire from around her tattered wings and hold them out perpendicular to her spine.

Her big brown eyes stare up at Rose, but I don’t bother to watch as Elatha places the back of the blade to her golden butterfly wings.

I’ve seen him rip the wings from countless fairies before. I have no taste for it, but plenty of my kind find it entertaining to watch as the fae stumble around afterwards, their balance gone. Experience makes it easy for me to tune out the hiss of iron burning flesh at it slices, the clatter of Elatha’s sabre as he discards it after the initial cut, and the grunt of exertion as he takes those fragile constructs in his grip and rends them from her body with his bare hands.

Rose has no such defence. Each one of the fae’s pain-filled wails cut through her like a visible thing. She flinches with each one. On her own back, her translucent purple wings twitch in sympathy. Does she realise, if she pisses Elatha off enough, he’ll easily do the same to her?

He might even order me to do it…

In a deep, secret recess of my mind, I guiltily admit that I won’t be able to obey that order unless he uses my name to force me. If that happens, I’ll probably earn another hundred lashes, maybe more.

Despite demanding it from me as a child who didn’t know better, Elatha despises using my name. Not because he holds any paternal affection or ethical boundaries about it, but purely because it’s an unacceptably fae weakness for a Fomorian prince to have.

In all my thirty-seven years, he’s only used it three times. The first, when I was very young, to ensure I never lied to him. The second, after I killed Bres, to ensure I never plotted to claim his throne for myself. And the third, before I left for the war, to stop me from returning home without the Nicnevin.

After the mishap with my magic earlier, I wonder if my father’s rethinking his decision to be so lax with me. If it came down to it, and he pitted my name against my oath to Rose, which would win?

I know the exact moment Elatha chooses to put the fae slave out of her misery and runs his blade through her heart, because silent tears finally spill from the corners of Rose’s glistening violet eyes. They race across the pale slopes of her cheeks, but she doesn’t bother to catch them.

“The Nicnevin can sit with the traitor’s daughter tonight,” Elatha announces, stepping around the bloody corpse to stand toe to toe with me. “My son will be busy with his lashes, after all.”

I nod, because I knew this was coming. Releasing Rose, I give her a tiny shove in Prae’s direction and shrug off my coat. A slave takes it from me as my father abandons the corpse, and the slaves rush to pick up the pieces of the fae. One of the warriors claims the wings, and I know they’ll end up as a trophy on someone’s wall. Once the body is gone, the floor is mopped roughly and the sounds of the feast resume.

My father takes his seat once more, wiping the blood from his sword with a napkin as the slaves finish. I sink to my knees in the middle of the room. On either side of me stand the two soldiers who will hold me down. I offer them both nods.

“Caed.”

Rose’s whisper—somehow audible over all the chatter in the hall—makes me hesitate. My eyes snap to where Prae’s hand is wisely clenched around her arm, holding her in place.

The Nicnevin looks absolutely horrified, and I want to shake my head and roll my eyes at her reaction. I disrespected the king, and now I must face the consequences. That’s how our world works.

The soldiers grow tired of waiting for me and grab my arms, forcing them out wide and twisting them until I’m pinned to the smooth stone floor. My cheek rests against the cold, wet surface, and I try to relax.

It hurts more if you tense.

Like this, I can see her, and at least the sight is a marked improvement on the normal view of jeering warriors.

“Draard,” Elatha calls. “You may be my hand tonight.”

“With pleasure, my king.” Draard’s voice, like the rumble of boulders scraping together, answers.

Great. Another of my malignant cousins, and a former friend of Bres’s. Any hope I had of this going quickly dies a quick death.

Draard stands from his spot at the end of the king’s table. He’s a mountain of a male who towers over the slave who offers him the barbed scourge, and his single long warrior braid glints in the firelight as he moves towards me. Testing the weight of the weapon in his hand as he goes, he does a few experimental flicks, making the iron barbs sing in the air before he finally lowers it and casts an eager grin my way.

It’s no easy thing to deliver a hundred lashes, but I bet Draard will enjoy this.

Sure enough, the first one smacks into my spine with the force of a battering ram. Draard puts all of his formidable strength into the blow, and I hiss between my teeth as I feel my skin split beneath the iron.

I don’t flinch, but Rose does, visibly straining against Prae’s grip as if she thinks she can interfere.

I’m caught between reluctant pride and frustration at her meddling. In my chest, I can feel the bond in my chest reaching for me. Offering her power to heal me.

Stupid. I don’t need healing. What I need is to get this over with. Any hint of fae magic will only make this whole situation worse.

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