Page 7 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

Stirling Castle is a huge complex, with multiple monarchs adding walls and wings throughout the generations.

Just escaping it is an expedition in itself.

This main part is fairly new, the Stuart crest adorning the brightly painted walls.

I duck down the corridor, easily slipping on a glamour to hide the richness of my gown and alter my appearance enough to look as if I’m a servant, but I add a cloak of obscurity as well, not wanting to be bothered.

No one questions me as I leave the main building. I am no one, just a girl too busy to be hassled, forgotten almost as soon as I am glimpsed.

I go the old route—through the North Gate and then down to the Nether Bailey.

Part of the wall is broken here, but it’s not worth fixing right now.

In the Bruce’s day, when the original castle was destroyed just to prevent the damned English from claiming it, we had to be worried about threats of invading soldiers.

English then. Viking before. Go back a bit more, and it was the bloody Romans until my lot kicked them out.

These days, most threats to Scotland are invited inside the castle, plied with gifts, and smiles are used instead of swords.

I pick my way over the broken stones out to the path on the back of the hill.

Going down is easy. My strides lengthen as the path evens out, and I don’t stop until I reach the new bridge, the one made out of stone instead of wood.

A boy’s clogged the way, leading sheep across the river, but I don’t mind.

I don’t need to cross the bridge. I go under it.

The magical barrier protecting this land is like a bubble radiating around the country, and most of Scotland is surrounded by water.

The River Forth drains out into the sea; all water is connected.

So when I kneel in front of the river and dip my finger into the cold water, I send a trickle of power out, my magic zinging down the river, out and out before it returns to me.

I am not powerful enough to know every detail, but this small check assures me that the wall is still holding strong.

Weapons crafted by the Red Caps have broken through, but the barrier has kept the actual villains out—the only way they could have possibly entered Scotland would be for the entire spell to fall. My shoulders relax.

I get up, shaking dirt from my skirt, turn.

And stop short.

A washerwoman kneels by the edge of the river, hidden in the shadows. I’m not sure what people would see if they leaned over the bridge and peered down. Perhaps just a woman doing her laundry. Perhaps nothing at all.

But I know this is not some old woman scrubbing a wet shirt in the river’s cool, gentle flow.

I creep closer. Best not to interrupt, and the devil himself couldn’t drag me to stand between her and the river.

My heart thuds. I rarely encounter full-blooded fae like this.

Fae will sometimes drift between their land and this one, and some of the more feral creatures aren’t even aware they’ve crossed into the human world.

Some, like the brownies that live in the castle, choose to hide in plain sight among humans.

But this visit by the bean-nighe is no accident, and she’s trying to tell me something important in her own way.

My eyes flick to the shirt she’s washing, and my chest eases with relief.

Not mine.

Which is really good news, because as soon as the bean-nighe is done washing this shirt, whoever is wearing it will die.

That’s what the bean-nighe does. She’s a prophet of death.

The bean-nighe scrubs hard, her gnarled knuckles practically strangling the cloth of the shirt she washes. Finally, she sighs, sitting back on her heels, her eyes going immediately to me.

“Why are ye showing me this, Old One?” I ask, my accent as thick as my respect.

Mary’s use of French has made my own tongue of Scots a little sweeter, but whenever I’m in my element, my rough brogue comes out.

I like it better. Lies seem like a kindness in French, but Scots is a true language, in tone and words.

She tilts her head. “Because you’re gonna be the one to kill this lad,” she says.

Well.

This is new.

Bean-nighe aren’t well known for their conversation, and this one is being downright chatty.

As she’s telling me I’m about to become a murderer.

The bean-nighe lifts the dripping cloth, inspecting her work. She’s washing a tunic, rough woven. I cannot see more than the barest hint of a tiny spot of blood on it at the shoulder—which means, because the shirt is nearly clean, whoever owns it is going to die very soon.

By my hand, if what she says is true. And the fae don’t bother with lies.

My stomach twists at the thought. “When will it be clean?” My voice is soft, weak. For all my talk, I’ve never actually killed someone before. And sadly, this shirt doesn’t seem likely to belong to the king consort.

“Soon, soon,” she says, her words hollow and laced with power. Her eyes slowly slide over to her laundry basket, which I’d not noticed before.

Because it hadn’t been there earlier.

I itch to race over, lift the lid, and see if I can identify any of the other clothes in the basket. Blood on a black velvet gown could mean Queen Mary’s in danger. Perhaps I could recognize a tartan—a sign of war to come.

Or maybe I would see the gown I’m wearing—brown, edged in simple white lace, but rich enough to pass for acceptable in the royal court.

I look up. The bean-nighe’s watching me. Black teeth glimmer through her wryly twisted wrinkled lips.

I know better than to peek inside that basket. When it comes to the fae, there are two simple rules that cannot be trifled with:

Be respectful.

Mind your own business.

This bean-nighe seems eager to convey something to me, and the fae are masters at never outright stating what they want to.

They’re very keen on testing a person, making sure the recipient of information is worth the effort.

So she’ll tempt me to lift the lid of her basket and see what other washing she has to do, laugh at me as I try to figure out if anyone I care about is in danger.

Some of the legends even say that if I manage to steal a garment and clean it before her, that death could be avoided.

But those legends are foolish. I stay silent. And I mind my own business. I can wait.

“That one’s next,” she says, drawing my focus as she lifts the lid on her basket.

I take a tentative step closer.

“Been waiting on you,” the bean-nighe says. She scowls. “Don’t like that castle of yours.”

Stirling Castle is decidedly not mine. But the fae don’t care about human politics. To them, I’m the daughter of my father, one of the princes of the Seelie Court, and despite my human blood, I’m respected among the wild ones because of that. A little anyway.

But that respect comes with a price.

If I fail to keep the Red Caps out of Scotland… Well. The fae know who to blame.

And they never forgive.

It’s true that some fae hate me. After all, as a Leth, I help enforce the barrier that protects us all but keeps anyone with strong magical blood trapped inside.

Someone with just a few drops of magic, like Darnley or Lady Reres, can easily pass through the border, whereas I, a true half blood, cannot.

And nor can any full fae, like the bean-nighe.

I doubt she cares too much, but there are some fae who would like to see me dead and the barrier gone, regardless of the risk.

Wild things hate walls, even protective ones.

The wall was designed, all those centuries ago, specifically to protect both the fae realm and the human, with Leths as the guardians.

We are the ultimate mediators between the worlds, with ties to both, and while we are far weaker than full fae in terms of magic, we are the ones who control the wall.

I eye the washerwoman’s laundry basket. At the top, I can make out a white shirt made of fine linen—something much more expensive than the tunic the bean-nighe is currently working on.

There are black stains on the cloth, maybe from soot.

Perhaps the poor sod who’s going to die will perish in a fire.

Had there been bloodstains, a duel or battle would have been more likely.

The shirt is long; the hem of it would come to my knees, and the shoulder stitches would touch my elbows. Probably a tall man. A tall, doomed man.

The bean-nighe glares at the shirt. “It will be a difficult stain to remove.”

“Oh?” I ask, not quite rising to the bait.

If I ask her for something she suspects is significant to me, even just information, I will owe her something in return. That is the way of life among the fair folk.

Everything is a transaction. And a debt owed is a blade to your neck.

The bean-nighe grunts, somehow both pleased and disappointed in my restraint.

Her cloudy eyes meet mine, and even if she looks as if she is blinded by cataracts, I know she sees far, far more than I do.

“It’ll be hard to wash that shirt,” she says, jerking her chin to the soot-covered one in the basket, “because it’s hard to clean any stain caused by a Red Cap. ”

My blood goes cold.

The bean-nighe washes clothes worn only by someone who dies within the magical boundary.

“The shirt belongs to someone killed by a Red Cap weapon?” I ask, knowing I tread a dangerous line. But the bean-nighe is trying to give me information, even if it’s in a roundabout way.

She shakes her head. “Didn’t say that. Don’t you be putting words in my mouth, bastard creature. I said the stain was caused by a Red Cap.”

Shite.

Not a Red Cap weapon. A Red Cap fae.

They’re going to breach the wall.

“When?” I choke out, my eyes going frantically from the basket to the bean-nighe and back again. “When are they invading? Are they already here?” I just checked the wall, but what if I missed something?