Page 17 of Soulgazer

Da holds court among the others, standing as servants pourmead into their gleaming bronze cups—a toast for himself and the humorless Stone King sitting beside him.

It is not the usual order of things. I see it in the cool glances exchanged between Ríona Etain and her granddaughter, Aisling, both of them draped in pale gowns peppered with violets and wild clary stamped into the silk. They have the same wide, dark eyes and bronze skin, though Aisling’s is tinted with the poppy blush of youth. She flicks her dark braid over one shoulder and threads a flower through the end. As heir, her place is to observe, not engage.

I gather more marsh marigolds, a frown pulling at my lips.

None of the Ring appear quite the same as they did when I was a child. As host of the Damhsa Babhdóir, Rí Tadhg of Frozen Hearth ought to be congenial and smiling. Instead he scowls at the cup in his yellowed hand, fingertips as twisted and fragile as half-burned twigs. Rumors have it that winters grow harsher with each passing year, cracking open the island to release a flesh waste into the very springs once renowned to heal. Only three remain pure, where once there were hundreds.

Two of the other regents have died since I last saw a gathering, replaced by their children: Ríona Kiara of Ashen Flame, and Rí Callen of Painted Claw. Kiara sits on the other side of Aisling, an imposing blur of red and gold I cannot quite see, but Callen—called Calla until they were six—crosses one sharp leg over the other directly across from me. Their stare pierces through their curtain of white-blond hair and my veil, both.

I drop my gaze, fire licking my wound in response.

They were my friend, once. Before it became too dangerous to be friends with anyone.

Father fills the last goblet to the brim. “Rí Maccus is a just man who rules with an iron will and steady hand.”

I glance at those hands—thick, and free of jewels or gentleness. But he was gentle at times last night. Wasn’t he? Will his hands go soft when he finds me an empty doll, made without will or curiosity or wonder? Or will those fingers trace the violet-tinged paths left by his heavy engagement torc around my neck?

Will I even care, once the tattoo is complete?

I pick up a fresh stem and tear out the fragile threads of its golden heart.

WillIbe anything at all?

“And in this age of depletion, when the magic seems to be running scarce, I must believe such unions offer hope for the descendants of the Daonnaí. Surrounded by the constant reminder of death, we can only hope that in birth our legacy will continue, and our Crescent will prosper.”

Father finishes to scattered applause. I pull the last petal free from the marsh marigold until it is naked and plain. Then I cast it onto a pile with the rest.

“Congratulations, Rí Dermot. Rí Maccus.” The voice is low. Almost feline—nestled in the speaker’s throat like a purr. “I’m sure the bride is thrilled to champion your cause. Or at least I’ll have to assume, considering you’ve hidden her beneath a tablecloth.”

Rí Callen’s smile is a razor’s edge, cutting Da’s pride into bristles. For half a second, I want to smile too.

Until Da casts me a look, and the impulse fades away.

“During the week of her own wedding, your aunt was plagued by spirits. The ghosts of her parents, grandparents, siblings lost to winter, and nephews to the sword.” Da sinks into his seat. “And without a veil, she had no means to hide as the gathering drew the dead near. One week of their presence—the constant reminder of all she’d lost—and she threw herself into the sea. That is why you wear her crown now. Is it not?”

Callen taps their finger against the bronze cup—hollow clicks that raise chills along my arms. “Yes.”

“You’ll forgive me, then, for taking precautions with my only daughter. I have already lost a son.”

They all go silent at last.

Clever thing. You’re the magpie, aren’t you?

The words come unbidden—and unwelcome, trickling through my body in a pitiful echo of last night’s rush. It was quiet then too. Like the whole world had been swallowed up by time the moment I first saw the Wolf.

Pain scrapes across my skin at the memory of his touch, shuddering through my body until it draws back to a needle-fine point. I grimace and shift until my dress stops brushing against the incomplete spirals cut into my back. But it does nothing to relieve the emptiness inside me.

I reach for another yellow flower.

“We all mourn for you, Dermot. There is not a one among us who hasn’t experienced a loss. Yet I cannot help but wonder how marriage and birth are meant to conquer an unending tide of death.”

A patch of clover made of lace obscures the speaker from view, but I know her voice well. Ríona Kiara is not a queen to be dismissed. When she was barely more than a child, she inherited her crown and an island on the brink of destruction, consumed by wildfires and poachers after their precious horses. Bred on grasslands fed by the goddess Maira’s blood, the steeds are unmatched in endurance, battle will, and strength—their hooves able to yield a month’s worth of the same when boiled beneath a full moon. Yet as the Ring of Stars united and warfare died out, so did the need for such talents and beasts.

There was more than one occasion she came to speak at myfather’s court when I was small, asking for aid or an alliance against the thefts.

He always seemed to relish saying no.

But when she speaks now, they all sit straighter. Even my father does not dare interrupt.