Page 14 of The Merman’s Betrothal (Outcast Hearts #2)
F ionn spent the rest of the day in the palace courtyard training with his spear.
He moved through a series of carefully timed combat movements, transitioning fluidly from one form to another.
Defence to offence; static guard to moving charge; precise jabs to sweeping slashes.
When he’d finished one set of drill he swam two laps around the courtyard then back to the middle, ready to start all over again.
Years ago, when Fionn was a child, his brothers would have joined him in training. They’d made for a fast trio that Iomhar struggled to keep in check, constantly swimming rings around him. Those had been good days. Good years.
Lately, Brudus and Drostan rarely visited the palace. They were given duties that took them to the outer reaches of the Minch, overseeing the parts of the kingdom that stretched around the shores of the great western islands. Further than Fionn was allowed to roam.
Even Rory had travelled to farther waters than Fionn. The radiant image of the reef had been tantalising. For a moment Fionn had sensed a great urge for adventure that excited him.
And then Rory had become bafflingly angry. The feeling of receiving his hostility still coursed hotly through Fionn’s blood. He hated it. It felt like losing. Like making a mistake. Like being a failure.
Training with his spear reminded Fionn that he wasn’t. If only Rory could see him now, moving with such poise and purpose. If only anyone could see him.
Fionn was three hours into this and starting to flag when Neacel showed up. The young forager emerged from one of the many tunnels leading into the courtyard space, looking around tentatively as though not sure he was allowed to be there.
Fionn paused mid-swipe and beckoned him over. ‘ I see the guards let you in with no trouble. ’
He hadn’t invited Neacel, not exactly. He’d just offhandedly informed the younger Minchman that he would be welcome at the palace in the future. And then he’d told Neacel about his plan to speak to Rory earlier that day.
‘ They told me this was where I’d find you, ’ Neacel said, swimming into the cavernous space.
He took a moment to admire the grand circular wall which, as it reached for the light of the surface with rows of arched openings at many levels, gave the effect of a colosseum.
Then he looked inquisitively at Fionn and his spear. ‘ So… how did it go? ’
Fionn performed a series of deft swings, pretending to be unconcerned by Neacel’s question. ‘ Less than good. ’
Despite Fionn’s feigned concentration on his manoeuvres, Neacel’s troubled tilt of the head didn’t escape him. ‘ How so, Your Highness? ’
Fionn finished with a plunging stab downwards and let the drag of water slow his momentum. ‘ He’s difficult. ’
Neacel swam closer, now that the whirling spear was out of action. ‘ Difficult, or just human? ’
‘ Good one. ’ Fionn pulled out a cloth and began polishing the already-perfectly polished spearhead. ‘ He told me to fuck off back to my castle. ’
Neacel pursed his lips. ‘ Did you say anything that might merit that reaction from him? ’
‘ Of course not. ’
What had Fionn said, really, except the truth? He’d voiced his distaste for human hunting practices, and Rory had responded unreasonably. He’d argued back like he thought Fionn was the uncultured ignoramus—as though trapping lobsters in pots was the better option.
Fionn pulled a face, guiltily recalling all aspects of the conversation. ‘ He may have been annoyed to learn that I was destroying his fishing traps. ’
For a split-second, he read Neacel’s expression as practically insolent. Neacel even went so far as to rub his forehead in exasperation. ‘ Fionn. Your Highness. I would suggest that might be a reasonable cause for him to be, as you put it, difficult. ’
Fionn suppressed an annoyed huff. He had invited Neacel’s counsel, he reminded himself.
‘ He also seemed annoyed that I hadn’t challenged him to a fight over other matters, ’ Fionn added petulantly. ‘ Although I’m not certain I understood everything he said about that. ’
‘ Perhaps there lies the key. You must understand him better. ’ Neacel kicked his legs, slowly turning upside-down while deep in thought. Something silky began to fall out of a pouch from his waist. ‘ You might endeavour to learn about his work? Perhaps start with a gift of goodwill… ’
‘ I already gave him a gift, ’ Fionn cut in. ‘ A fine clam knife, made by my own hand. He didn’t appreciate it properly. ’
He caught Neacel’s wince and understood the other Minchman thought he’d made a faux pas.
‘ Perhaps not the best gift for a human. A very fine gift for a Minchman, ’ Neacel added quickly, ‘ but I’d suggest finding something that uniquely interests your human, or is useful to him. I was going to suggest that perhaps you could gift him some new traps to replace those you destroyed. ’
Fionn’s lip curled. ‘ You won’t ever catch me making one of those foul things. ’
As Neacel came full circle, turning upright once again, his eyes seemed to be searching for an answer beyond the ones Fionn was giving. ‘ Do you think they are foul because they are traps, Your Highness, or because they are made by humans? ’
Fionn scoffed. ‘ Both. But why should it matter? ’
‘ We use traps too. We farm, like humans do. We are shepherds and hunters and fishermen, in our own way. ’
Fionn noticed, belatedly, a net of fresh-caught spider crabs hanging from Neacel’s kilt. Neacel followed his eyeline and patted them. ‘ My uncles breed them. They are my dinner, for later. I expect you know where your dinner comes from too, Your Highness? ’
Was that… Was that a blatant insult from Neacel? His DeepSong was so light and casual, yet there seemed a cutting undertone to the words themselves. Fionn found himself bristling, not daring to be called out.
‘ Of course I do, ’ he replied imperiously. By the end of today, I shall know where all the food in the palace comes from.
Fionn nodded at the strange cloth that had floated from Neacel’s pouch. A patch of white lacework made of a material he didn’t recognise. ‘ Is that another trap of yours? A net? ’
Neacel froze for a second, eyes darting to the cloth. Then he laughed, hurriedly shoving it back inside the pouch. ‘ Yes, a net. An experiment. I haven’t tried it yet. Ahem. ’
‘ What will you catch with it? ’
Were Neacel’s cheeks turning a deeper shade of blue?
‘ Prawns, ’ Neacel blurted, then changed the subject. ‘ I urge you to listen to Rory, Your Highness. Learn from him, in order to move him. ’
‘ I shall consider it, ’ Fionn readied his spear. ‘ I need to get back to training. Will you meet me again tomorrow? ’
Neacel blinked, surprised at the obvious dismissal. ‘ I—yes. I can come back tomorrow. ’
He gave a respectful, perhaps slightly worried nod before leaving, as though anxious he’d stepped over a line.
Fionn groaned internally, not wanting to have already soured what little comradeship they had. ‘ Thank you, ’ he called out impulsively.
Neacel stopped and waved back at Fionn, before disappearing though one of the courtyard’s many arches.
* * *
By the end of the day, Fionn did indeed know where all the food in the palace came from. After Neacel left, he started by travelling to the uppermost reaches of the spire where the records were stored—the clay records, to be precise. For the whole of the palace itself was a giant record as well.
Every crystal-studded wall was adorned with Pictish marks telling the history of his people; just like their bodies were adorned with tattoos telling the history of each person. Not an inch of the palace was bare.
Fionn knew much of it by heart, now. The origins of Bluefolk from the fae realm. How his tribe had travelled to this world many thousands of years ago. Mixed with humans for a while, like many fae did at the time.
This was when the story of Nechtan and Bridei took place. Nechtan gave up his crown in the fae realm in order to follow Bridei into this world, so the legend went. Together, they forged the earliest Bluefolk tribe that would eventually unite all others into the kingdom of the Minch.
The records indicated a period of relative harmony with humans.
But eventually Bluefolk retreated into the shadows, pushed back into the ocean by human violence and strange new industry.
They learned how to adapt and hide, which was all very well until humans gained mastery of the sea as well as the land.
That was when the bargain with the Redfolk had been struck.
The rival tribe that had remained in the fae realm had only grown more powerful in the absence of their blue brethren.
The Redfolk offered fae protection from human hunters—the very same magical wards that now kept the palace hidden from outsiders.
And in return, the First Prince of each Blue King was promised away by the cursed soul bond and the Bluefolk sent regular tributes of food to the fae realm. All in the name of ‘peace’. Fionn felt it was a hefty price to pay.
Despite knowing this, it hadn’t previously occurred to Fionn to find out how all of that Redfolk tribute was gathered in the kingdom. The answer, he was sure, would lie in the clay tablets stored in the upper chambers.
So, he spent the next several hours poring over palace records of trade spanning the entire Minch and beyond, and of local tributes paid by family groups to honour the king and his warriors who kept the territory safe.
He’d learned there was a great mackerel farm that served the palace, with three families of Minchmen who shepherded the roaming schools of fish and harvested them according to season.
Then there was the network of foragers, of which Neacel was a part.
Minchmen who worked alone or in pairs, picking ocean delicacies like molluscs and algae and seagrass.
Much of this was received by the palace as tribute for the Redfolk, and excess redistributed to families in need.