Jago tugged on Munro’s trouser leg. “When is Princess Maiya coming back?” he asked.
“Today,” Munro told him. “Queen Eilidh is bringing her for a birthday visit.” He and Eilidh had agreed Maiya would not be raised solely in a fae nursery, as was the way of Eilidh’s people. Instead, the princess would spend time with him, one-on-one, learning about human culture and druid magic. He also intended to make sure she knew about vital things like Jaffa Cakes and shortbread. On his most recent trip to his Scottish homeland, he’d stocked up.
“I’ve made her a present for her birthday,” Jago said. Suddenly, he whipped his head around toward the Hall. “She’s here!” he shouted. “Mama, she’s already here! Can I go to the Caledonian Hall?”
Munro worked to subdue his disquiet. He liked the boy well enough, but the apparent attachment Jago shared with Maiya made him uneasy. What could he do about it? Maiya seemed to feel as devoted to Jago as he was to her. When he came around, she lit up and laughed with that adorable giggle she had.
“No,” Demi said softly. “Queen Eilidh will need time to get settled at her Hall. She’ll bring Princess Maiya when she’s ready.” She looked at Munro as though to apologise, as she always did when Jago overstepped, but Munro shook his head. Demi wasn’t to blame for Jago’s fixation on Maiya. The least Munro could do was not make the situation uncomfortable for them all.
“Gentlemen,” he said to his friends, then added, “and ladies,” with a bow to Lisle, Demi, and Flùranach. “I’m off to see my wife and daughter.” He spared a smile for Jago. “I’ll make sure they don’t take too long at their kingdom Hall.”
“Very well.” Jago nodded seriously, and the others chuckled at his sincerity.
Munro was riding high after their success with the Mistgate, and he looked forward to telling Eilidh. He’d not seen her much since she had returned to a more normal schedule after her month-long journeying with her third mate, Prince Koen. She and Munro had exchanged letters, and when he was in Caledonia, he’d receive the occasional thought-message from her. It was clear she wasn’t overly fond of Koen, the mate she’d been forced to take as part of a political joining of Caledonia with Andena. He felt for her, knowing she would flawlessly fulfil her duties to her country, no matter the personal cost. Her young mate’s latest scheme was apparently to try to get Eilidh to send Griogair, her first mate, to another castle and give him responsibilities that would both honour him and keep him away from Koen. Munro had to chuckle at the kid’s audacity, but it annoyed him that he was such a thorn in Eilidh’s side.
Now that the Mistgate was complete and Eilidh's state obligations to do with the recent mating ceremony were finished, Munro planned to spend more time in Caledonia with her and Maiya. He rushed from the Garden of Mists through the Druid Hall, pausing only briefly to say a quick hello to a couple of scholars who were staying in the castle and to acknowledge two of Leocort’s Mistwatchers, the cadre of soldiers the former Ashkyne Watcher had been training to work for the Druid Hall.
The more time went by, the more Munro’s life had been complicated by so many people and responsibilities. He hurried out of the Druid Hall, over the mist bridges and toward the Caledonian Hall, heading for his daughter, the one pure and simple pleasure he had in life.
∞
Petroc bustled around the room, annoying Tràth immensely. The prince tried to ignore his personal servant, but the faerie confronted Tràth’s grumbled protests with a smile.
“None of that, Your Highness,” he said with a cheerful wave of the hand. “You have a missive from Canton Dreich, and the messenger refuses to leave without an answer.” He opened the door and ushered in a gaggle of four other servants. Two went about the immense suite, gathering bottles and plates from the previous evening’s party, and two scurried into the adjacent bathing chamber. Tràth heard them filling the tub. “The blue silk robes today?”
Tràth growled. “Fine,” he said, then realised what Petroc had said. “Blue silk? Why?”
“Seems we’ll be journeying to the Halls of Mist,” he said. “The note didn’t say for how long. I wonder how much I should pack. Three days?” he asked absently, obviously not expecting an answer. “I can always send for more if need be.”
Tràth sat up, his black hair sticking up every which way. His head ached.
Smoking too much gahn-seh
, he thought. “Halls of Mist? I don’t bloody think so.”
Petroc frowned at the human turn of phrase, but quickly recovered. “If you say so, Your Highness.” He continued his activity with no sign he meant a word of it. Snapping his fingers at the other servants, he shooed them away.
Tràth lay back down with a thump. He needed a moment to think. With a tiny gesture, he reached for the flows of time. In an instant, time froze. Petroc had been halted with a most unflattering expression.
The prince breathed, shaking his head, trying to wake up. He felt more miserable than he had in two years. He knew at a hundred and seventy-seven years old, he was far too old to be indulging angst like an adolescent faerie of fifty, but he couldn’t help himself.
The strange silence of halted time roared in his ears. He sat up and put his feet on the plush rug beside his swing bed. A message from Canton Dreich, the castle where his father lived with Queen Eilidh, could only mean one thing, but what might Griogair want with him? Tràth had scarcely spoken to his father in months and hadn’t seen him since Queen Eilidh’s taking of Prince Koen as her third mate. Her mating ceremonies were becoming an almost annual tradition, and Tràth had stayed only as long as politeness required.
Time exuded pressure on Tràth, urging him to release the flows. Since bonding with Douglas, in addition to gaining access to earth flows, he’d grown in his competence with his temporal abilities. Sadly, as the one known temporal faerie, he had no mentors to guide him or teach him new techniques. He’d had several horrible accidents in the past and only recently had begun to touch the flows again. His abilities were undeveloped enough that he could only move outside time in small spates. Still, it was enough for him to catch his breath, to think, to decide what to say. Often, if he remained motionless, people didn’t realise he had manipulated the time stream.
Tràth stood and released the flows. Petroc resumed his activity but jumped when he saw the prince had moved. The attendant didn’t say anything, merely pursing his lips in disapproval. Once, he’d told Tràth that in moments like that, it appeared as though a strange, ghostly double had zipped around the room in an instant. It seemed reality took a moment to catch up.
“Show the messenger in, please,” Tràth said to Petroc. The servant nodded but didn’t leave until he’d finished helping the prince slip on a sheer lounging robe.
Tràth walked over to a window and stared out at the starlit garden. An attractive female faerie clipped wayward leaves off a sculpted hedge. The simple activity made an overwhelming sadness well in Tràth’s chest. Time pounded in his consciousness. As always, he attempted to push the flows aside. Tendrils of possible futures spread out from the woman. She might cut herself, but then, she might not. The outcome depended on…he blinked slowly as she drew her hand back suddenly, then sucked on her finger. Tràth turned away when footfalls approached behind him.
A messenger wearing the deep blue and silver of Queen Eilidh’s servants bowed. “Your Highness,” he said and held out rolled up parchment.
Petroc stepped forward and accepted the page, then handed it to Tràth with a slight inclination of his head.
“Thank you,” Tràth said and unfurled the letter.
The message was written in fine, flourishing script.
Tràth,
Please accept my personal invitation to attend a dinner at the Caledonian Hall tomorrow, the fifteenth night before Dilum, as the swordsman turns from the boar. Your father and I have a small favour to ask, but more importantly, we have missed your company.
I do hope you will find time to attend.
The queen had signed it with a single silver rune: Eilidh.
Tràth glanced at Petroc and sighed. He might ignore a request from his father, but not one from Queen Eilidh. The inconvenience annoyed him, but he couldn’t resist being intrigued. The queen had never asked him for anything before. They were on friendly terms, despite the fact that she’d deposed his mother, who had been Griogair’s first mate, and that the queen was fifty years Tràth’s junior. She had grown into her role but still hadn’t attained the hard ruthlessness that most in her position gained before too many decades passed. He hoped she never did so.
“Very well,” Tràth said slowly. He nodded to Petroc. “Draw up a reply. We’ll leave tomorrow after dusk."
“If you’ll pardon me, Your Highness,” the messenger said. “Prince Griogair has sent an honour guard to escort you and a cart for your things. He suggested you may find it useful to prepare for a somewhat extended stay. I am to wait and accompany you.” He cleared his throat. “As soon as you find it convenient to leave.”
Tràth bristled at the notion. What in the name of the Father of the Sky could Griogair and Eilidh want to see him that badly about? His instincts told him to rebel, but that was childishness talking. “We’ll leave in two hours,” he told Petroc, who bowed and showed the messenger out.
Without a doubt, Tràth’s real hesitation was because of Douglas. His bonded druid lived in the Halls of Mist. They’d been apart for three months, and the ache in Tràth’s chest nearly overwhelmed him. Douglas had grown distant, and Tràth had promised himself he’d give the young human the space he required. Douglas had been there for Tràth when help was most needed, and their bond kept the prince sane, quite literally. Despite the acknowledged foolishness of his fear, Tràth worried that entering a place where he would feel their bond acutely would be more than he could bear.
He didn’t know how long he stood staring at nothing. His reverie was broken only when he heard Petroc’s voice. “Your Highness?” His tone told Tràth this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to attract the prince’s attention.
“Yes?” he said, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.
“I’ll be right in to help in the bath.” Petroc’s subtle way of trying to remind him to move.
Tràth sighed dramatically. “No need. I can manage this once. I will tend to myself while you pack.” He smiled and slipped off his robe. “Two weeks?” he asked and headed for the side room, where a tub of warm water waited for him.
“His Highness said an extended stay. That might mean anything from a week to an entire moon.”
Tràth called into the next room, “I hope he sent more than one cart, then.”
“Indeed!” came Petroc’s reply.
Tràth closed his eyes and lowered himself into the water. For weeks, he’d fought not to think about Douglas, the pain of the separation, and the ache in his chest. Now, knowing he would soon leave for the Halls of Mist, dread accompanied a twinge of hopeful excitement.
Munro scooped Maiya into his arms, causing her to giggle wildly. The nurses had dressed her in some flouncy, diaphanous mess of a gown, and somehow, a tiny crown of flowers managed to stay on her head. From his admittedly limited experience with children, he suspected magic was involved.
Maiya’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement, and as Munro spun her around, she squealed with delight. He’d missed her so. He hated being away from her, even for a day. Sometimes, he worried she would bond with her nurses more than her parents, so he spent as much time with his daughter as he could talk Eilidh into allowing. At the same time, he didn’t want to undermine his wife’s authority or challenge the entire fae culture. But when he looked at his daughter, he knew nobody could love her more than he did. His own father had been such a profound influence in Munro’s life, and he wanted the same for his little girl.
“I should have known you’d come straight here,” Eilidh said from the archway. She smiled at the pair of them.
One of the nurses approached, presumably to take Maiya. Munro ignored him. “I couldn’t wait to see my girls,” he said. He strode over and kissed Eilidh’s cheek. “How was the journey?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “The same as always.”
Munro let the comment go. He didn’t understand how the fae’s children affected their lives so little. Babies didn’t live with their parents until they were ten years old. Even then, they spent more time with tutors and mentors than with either of their parents, who rarely lived together. Taking life mates was rare among the fae. Only royals engaged in the practice regularly. “How long will you be able to stay?” Munro asked. “I want to introduce Maiya to various talisman enchantments, but I was thinking we’d come back to Caledonia in a week or so. We put the last rune on the Mistgate today, so after I spend some time with Maiya, I’ll bring her home, maybe stay a while.”
Maiya grabbed one of his ears and gave it a tug.
He reached up and touched the end of her nose, then pulled his hand away quickly. “I’ve got your nose!” he said, wiggling his thumb between his fingers. Her eyes widened for a second, and he tweaked her nose a second time. “There. Back again. All better,” he said.
Eilidh seemed confused by the exchange. “Your work is complete?” she asked. “And all went well?”
“Yep,” Munro said, letting Maiya pull his fingers toward her mouth. “Rory and Flùranach took the first trip.”
“That’s wonderful,” Eilidh said. “Will you be journeying to the human realm? If this isn’t a good time to have Maiya with you…”
“Don’t be silly,” Munro said. He gazed at Maiya. “It’s always a good time to be with my girl.” He felt a rough spot on her gum as she gnawed on him. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “Who’s getting a tooth?” He grinned at Eilidh. “A tooth! It’s about time, too!”
Eilidh struggled to keep a straight face. Munro’s infatuation with fatherhood was a constant source of amusement to her.
“Good thing,” he said, shifting to baby-talk. “I’ve got something special for your birthday that’ll require at least one tooth. Jaffa cakes!”
Eilidh groaned. “The nurses complain,” she said quietly. “They say you don’t let them do their jobs.”