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CHAPTER THIRTEENThorn

Vidar followed Niall from the tavern to the massive doors of Maeve’s castle using the typical, most efficient form of transportation.

Magic. Niall’s fast-moving trace would appear invisible to the human eye, but Vidar clearly saw a pinkish collection of cells temporarily separated and held in shape to reclaim density on arrival at the host’s destination.

Two elaborately dressed guards flanked the doors at the head of a wide bridge lit by torches with a magical fuel source. The guards’ function was spectacle and not purpose, even though it was late.

“Here we are,” Niall said, waving at the immense stone structure in front of them.

“Is this where the king lives?” Vidar asked, knowing perfectly well that it was not.

As was the Irish fae tradition, the previous head of state moves out of the capital castle upon their successor’s coronation.

Niall’s expression changed from triumphant to uncertain. “This is Mum’s. Did you want a peek at Diarmuid’s?”

“Well, I’m your guest and am happy to see what you want to show me because all of it is a new experience. But since you ask, I was hoping to see the seat of power.”

The prince, sometimes uncharitably called the “spare” part of “heir and a spare”, hadn’t previously thought of his first home as the “seat of power”, but supposed that was true enough.

“Let’s go,” he said. And the two were off again.

Both Niall and Vidar were surprised to see the castle brightly lit with flags and banners flying like it was Chu Culain’s Day. They were also surprised to see an open space where foot-thick oak doors should be. Workmen were picking up splinters and chunks of wood from the ground.

“What happened here?” Niall demanded sans greeting or pleasantry.

The groundskeeper, who expected exactly that from the younger heir, just shook his head. “Unsure, Your Highness. But the rumor is that some horse battered down these old doors.”

“A horse?” Niall didn’t make the slightest effort to sound like he believed that tale.

“’Tis what we heard. Look here.” The man picked up a chunk of ruined door and pointed out what looked like a hoof strike. “Can’t be a coincidence that it happened shortly after the princess was born.”

“Princess?” Niall looked toward the castle like he hadn’t heard a niece was on the way. “Oh. The princess.”

“Aye. ‘Tis a fine day for Eire.” The workmen looked at the mess. “Or ‘twould be if I did no’ have to work in the middle of the night.”

“Let me help,” Vidar said. Without any visible show, the doors reassembled themselves and looked as good as the day they’d been originally installed.

The workman chuckled. “Thank ye kindly, sir. Might I know your name?”

“Vidar,” he said, while at the same time reaching out to see what might be sensed within the walls.

He’d planned to locate the dragon egg and plant a message for the dragon to cause havoc when it was hatched.

But he immediately knew that he’d be switching gears.

The dragon was already hatched. Probably as a result of the baby’s birth. He smiled to himself. Even easier.

“He’s a demigod,” Niall added. Being a narcissist of the highest order, he thought a friendly relationship with a demigod elevated his own status in the world.

“Niall,” Vidar said. “Does it strike you as strange that a maintenance worker would be trying to fix the doors?”

“What do you mean?” Niall asked. The prince was the sort who was observant about matters that interested him personally. All else was shuffled off to the irrelevant pile.

“The queen shouldn’t have any trouble doing what I just did. But…”

Niall looked at the doors that appeared newly milled. “She didn’t. Maybe she’s tired if she just had a baby.”

“What about the king? Couldn’t he fix the doors?”

“He could,” Niall agreed. “Maybe he’s no’ here.”

“Hmmm. Well, lead on. Show me what’s to be seen.”

“How ‘bout the kitchen? I’m hungry.”

Vidar chuckled. “Sure.”

Except for the blaze of lights in every room, one would’ve thought it was mid-afternoon. They sat at the large table that formed an island in the middle of a kitchen the size of most houses. A dozen or more staff were bustling about.

The prince stopped one of the porters as he was hurrying past. “What’s goin’ on?”

“The queen mum is havin’ a party for the babe.”

One of the cooks asked Niall what he’d like. “Beef and black ale stew,” he said before turning to Vidar. “You?”

“I’ll have one of those.” Vidar pointed to a large crystal bowl full of perfectly ripened persimmons. They were sometimes called the fruit of gods because they’re known for lengthy engorgement of the penis. Always a fan favorite.

“Fruit?” Niall almost guffawed.

Vidar’s only response was a smug smile.

Niall seemed to understand that he was out of his league when it came to manly banter.

“Looks to be a memorable event,” Vidar said as he lightly rubbed the persimmon on his sleeve.

He was thinking that it couldn’t have been a more brilliant stroke of luck if he’d planned it that way.

A blowout party would be the best possible time for a dragon hatchling to make mischief. It would be memorable indeed.

Niall chatted happily while he wolfed down his stew.

He kept his features carefully passive, even though he found the company distasteful.

For Vidar, watching the display brought back memories of a time long ago before two-legged creatures developed a concept of table etiquette.

That was before the evolution of fae, which had happened accidentally when gods procreating with humans.

Vidar’s manners were better even when he was alone in the frozen north, seen by none other than wild creatures who have no use for such things.

After all, dining conventions have arisen because of thumbs and cooked food.

The prince let his oversized spoon clank in the bowl where he dropped it, stood abruptly and said, “Ready?”

“Are you certified as a tour guide?”

Niall found that hysterical. “Oops. Forgot my badge.”

As they made their way from one end of the ground floor to the other, Vidar realized there was a second benefit to arriving during a time of great commotion.

No one was paying attention to them! Except in the sense of dodging around them with armloads of flowers, or cases of wine, or crates full of white doves.

He stopped long enough to quiet the birds’ panic, saying that they’d be set free within a day. No worries.

“You’ve seen the public rooms,” Niall said. “The floors above are family only.”

“Family and friends?” Vidar asked slyly.

With a conspiratorial grin, Niall said, “Why not?” and proceeded to the twin grand-tiered staircases that dominated the center of the castle. “I can always say I’m here to welcome the newest member of the family.”

“I need to think of an appropriate gift.”

That stopped the prince in his tracks. “Gift? Oh. Aye. I need to do the same.” As they climbed the stairs, Niall said, “What would be a good gift from me? I’ve never had a niece before.”

Vidar smirked, rightly guessing that Niall was far too interested in Niall to spend time on gift-giving. “When was the last time you gave somebody a gift?”

One of the things he’d learned during his exile with the wild bros of Scotia was that there are times when it’s appropriate to appear embarrassed. He’d even learned how to fake a blush by holding his breath with pressure for a count of twenty. “Never. Should I be embarrassed?”

The only answer was a soft chuckle.

When they reached the head of the stairs, they could see from one end of the floor to the other. The hallway was twenty feet wide, ending, at each end, in a pair of doors that looked like slightly smaller versions of the main doors repaired by Vidar.

“Diarmuid’s rooms are there.” Niall pointed toward. “My sister-in-law may no’ want company.”

Vidar opened his mouth, planning to proceed with the next phase of his plan.

He’d hoped to find an unoccupied room behind one of the mystery doors in the hallway and leave Niall sleeping while he took a look around for the baby dragon that was key to his scheme.

The casting of a sleep spell was child’s play for an immortal such as himself.

But before he could make a sound, the pair of arched doors leading to the king’s quarters exploded outward, sending fragments of splintered wood flying.

“What in the bloody name of Hel!” Niall spluttered, checking himself over for unseemly dust or, gods forbid, tiny wood projectiles.

Vidar opened the nearest door, then gave Niall a compelling command to enter, sleep, and stay asleep until awakened. By him.

That out of the way, he could turn his attention to the large white horse walking slowly toward Vidar.

“Who are you?” Vidar spoke telepathically.

“I am Thorn.” The horse answered in the same way. “I know who you are. And I don’t like you.”

Vidar could see that in Thorn’s eyes without being told.

“I see. Have we met?”

“Leave. Now,” said Thorn.

That wasn’t part of Vidar’s plan. He wasn’t worried.

It would take more than a horse to interfere with his mission.

But come to think of it, why had a large white horse emerged from the royal family’s second floor residence?

He counted oddities such as this among the thing he craved most, next to Ilmr. New experiences.