Eilidh was in the courtyard outside the queen’s quarters when she saw her brother watching her. She wondered how often he’d done so without her awareness, but she wasn’t so foolish as to think Rhys would answer that question if she posed it. He kept rooms in the queen’s section of the royal palace, as did the king. Eilidh technically had rooms there as well. While her father and brother used theirs, Eilidh hadn’t ever lived there.
“Why do I need to stay in the tower, Mother?” eight-year-old Eilidh asked.
“You are their future.”
“It’s lonely.”
The queen looked at her, and the usual chill in her eyes vanished for a moment. “You are a symbol, child. That means you must be above the emotions that weaken you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You need to prove that you are worthy, that you are the queen they need, that you exist to serve your people.” Endellion held out an ivory-handled dagger. “You are not like any of them.”
“Even my brothers?” Eilidh took the dagger in her hand.
“Rhys is a good example for you,” the queen allowed. “There is no weakness in him. Your father’s sons . . . do not count you as a sibling. You cannot trust them.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The queen nodded. “Keep that with you always, even after you master your affinities.”
“Yes, Mother.” Eilidh nodded and looked at the weapon in her hand. It was pretty for what it was, but it wasn’t a doll. A lot of the fae had dolls. “Could I have a dolly too? Just one? I could practice being a mother, like you.”
The queen cupped Eilidh’s face in her palms. “There will not be talk of being a mother or of loneliness. You are above all of that. They will doubt your worth, and your duty is to prove that you are not weak . . . or your blood will soak into the sand.”
At the time, Eilidh wasn’t entirely sure if her mother was suggesting that she would kill Eilidh for weakness or if weakness would kill her. Either way, she didn’t repeat her request to live near her mother. She did as she was expected to do: trained, studied politics, and watched her brothers—both her father’s sons who wished her ill and the one sibling her mother loved.
And she started to study ways to reach a different future from the red-soaked one Endellion would have them lead.
Eilidh wasn’t afraid to take a life if she needed to do so, but it wasn’t something she wanted. She trained to kill, but hoped she would avoid that fate.
Silently, she walked to the wall of weapons and selected a bow she liked. Her hand fell on the quiver of arrows when Rhys spoke up. “Would you care to spar, sister?”
Eilidh looked over her shoulder and met his gaze. He’d never offered to cross blades with her. He’d spoken to her tutors, but he’d never unsheathed his own weapons to train with her.
Behind her she heard murmurs. In this, as in all he did, Rhys clearly had a reason. Joy rolled through her like a wave as he walked toward her. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and he ambled across the courtyard as if they didn’t have an audience.
“I’m not sure I’d be much challenge,” she admitted, her voice loud enough to carry to the watchers. “I’ve watched you fight too often to think myself capable of offering you any sport.”
He laughed. Her serious Unseelie brother
laughed
. “For your age, you would. For my age? Few other than our queen mother would be a genuine contest.”
“And my father,” Eilidh added quietly.
Rhys didn’t reply to that assertion beyond saying, “The king is a skilled fighter. Mother declared that we do not duel though.”
Eilidh gestured at the bow she held. “Best of three?”
Rhys took his hand from the hilt of one of the swords
at his side and walked over to grab a bow she’d seen him practice with in the past. “Not my weapon of choice, little sister.”
“I know. That’s why I selected it.”
He laughed again and gestured toward the row of targets as he came to stand at her side. There was something more here than she realized, but she also knew that her brother was offering to fire arrows at her side. It was something he didn’t do with anyone but the queen herself or the rare fae the queen sent to him for instruction. Training with Rhys was a boon not easily granted.
“You honor me, brother.” She nocked an arrow, lifted her bow, and let loose. The shaft hit the first target mere millimeters from dead center. She glanced at him and added, “That doesn’t mean I won’t try to beat you.”
He glanced at the target, flicked his eyes back toward her, and released an arrow while watching her. “Good.”
They gathered a sizeable audience as they competed in marksmanship. She didn’t best him, but no one expected her to do so. The queen’s son and guard was the acknowledged champion with most all weapons in the Hidden Lands. He preferred sharp things, especially the longsword, but he was as happy with bashing as stabbing. Be it rapier or falchion, poignard or dirk, Rhys was always deadly. Eilidh understood, as few could, that he had no other choice. The queen was acknowledged as the best fighter in the Hidden Lands, and he was her only son. Her first daughter, Iana, was dead, and Eilidh was fragile. Rhys had to prove that the
queen’s get were not all worthless. Eilidh understood that urge, even though she’d never equal her brother’s skill with so many weapons.
After another hour, they had gained the one watcher whose favor mattered most. The queen strode across the well-trod ground with barely a glance to her left or right. No one attempted to catch her attention. Seeing the queen at the courtyard was always a treat. For all of the doubts that the fae sometimes had in the silence of their homes, none among them ever doubted her prowess in a fight. Her daily armor was on, the leather appearing closer to ruby than midnight in the sunlight. Even here, she cut a figure that inspired awe.
“How is she?” Endellion asked.
“I would stand beside her on the field of battle,” Rhys said. He bowed to their mother, even though he technically didn’t have to do so.
Eilidh followed his example.
“Indeed?” Endellion murmured.
“She is not as fast as I am, but her arrows all fly true. Every one has been a kill shot.” Rhys gestured to the targets. “She is your daughter.”
“And with a blade?”
Eilidh’s brief moment of pride faded. She didn’t have the strength to fight her brother and fare as well as she needed to do in front of their people. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Rhys replied before she could, “I’ve not yet tried her. I have observed her often enough to know that
for her age she is skilled.”
Endellion nodded at her. Then she looked away from her daughter and announced, “I have need of exercise.”
The queen was already drawing her sword. It was a thing of darkness, the blade etched with runes and symbols so ancient that no one understood all of them. It was blackened, as if fire had touched it often, and sometimes glints of red flickered in that strange metal. If there existed a blade that were strengthened by blood, this would be the one.
Eilidh didn’t want to ask what truths hid in those softly spoken stories. There were questions best left unanswered, especially where the queen was concerned. All that truly mattered was that her mother was a warrior who had earned respect, and Eilidh was resolved not to fail her.
Although Eilidh wouldn’t leave the courtyard, her time in practice was clearly at an end. She lowered her bow and walked to the wall to put it away. She would watch her mother demonstrate the skill that she herself couldn’t master satisfactorily.
Before she was three steps away, Rhys said, “You do your family proud, sister.”
The queen stilled. It was the first time she’d heard her son speak so to her heir. If Endellion were anyone else, she might ask what had transpired to have Rhys call her sister in such a tone. As it was, all she did was say, “She is my heir, Rhys. Of course she does us proud.”
Eilidh looked back at Rhys as he bowed his head deeply and said, “I meant no slight.”
Endellion attacked. Her sword was a two-handed one, made for larger warriors. The harsh black blade was heavy in the air, and Rhys barely had time to stop its swing. The clang of metal on metal was loud.
Rhys drew his second weapon, a shorter blade to stab as he blocked with his sword, and with a ferocity none save the king would even dream to dare, he attacked the queen.
The clash of steel and grunt of exertion continued as the two warriors crossed blades time and again. At several minutes in, Rhys lost his sword. It hit the ground with a
thunk
. He was left only with a poignard, and that shorter blade wouldn’t do as much good against a weapon with long reach like the queen’s claymore.
But within another ten minutes, the queen had a cut on her shoulder.
“Tired, Mother?” Rhys teased.
“Momentarily distracted by worry that you are only half armed,” she countered with a wide smile.
“As if.” Rhys angled so that he was moving closer to the wall of weapons. “Your reach is absurdly far with that beast.”
“Some of us aren’t worried about
pretty
fights,” she returned, slashing at her only son with the kind of force that made the fight look far too real.
Rhys snorted. “Not all of us need a claymore to feel intimidating.”
The queen laughed and lowered her sword. “Daggers? Hand to hand? Sickles?”
“Ladies’ choice,” Rhys said as he lowered his poignard.
He slid it into a scabbard and walked over to pick up the one she’d knocked out of his hand.
While his back was turned, the queen kicked out at his knee, drawing gasps from the crowd and Eilidh’s exclamation of “Rhys!”
He turned and grabbed the queen’s ankle.
Endellion dropped to the ground, pulling him off balance and swinging her other foot up and out to kick his forearm.
Rhys’ muffled grunt of pain was all but lost under the queen’s words. “You forget your childhood lessons,” she said as she scrabbled back to her feet.
“Never turn your back on the enemy,” Rhys recited as he pushed to his feet without use of his hands.
Eilidh couldn’t tell if he’d fractured his wrist or simply bruised it. All she knew was that he had the implacable look she had seen so often on his face. He wouldn’t cede defeat though. It wasn’t Rhys’ way, and their mother would be furious if he did so.
The sheer stupidity of what Eilidh was about to do should’ve stopped her, but if she was going to be regarded as the future queen, she needed to prove it. She felt like she was half-asleep as she reached out for a handful of throwing knives.
“Mother,” she said, giving warning at least.
But Endellion didn’t even glance at Eilidh.
The first blade flew through the air, sticking in the ground where Endellion’s foot had just been.
The queen spun around, hand on her hilt and blade half-drawn around. “Who dares—” The words died as she saw Eilidh, another knife aloft to throw.
“I’m better with distance than close combat,” Eilidh said. She shrugged and added, “My fragility of body made me learn to adapt.”
The queen met her gaze. “Would you fight me, daughter?”
“I would dissuade you from pushing my brother further this day,” Eilidh answered, cautiously avoiding any words that could elicit the queen’s worst temper.
For a moment, Eilidh thought Rhys was going to step around their mother and strangle her. His eyes were warning her off this path, but there were times when a future queen needed to prove her mettle. This felt like such a time.
The queen bowed her head to Eilidh and then turned to Rhys and did the same. “You
both
do me proud,” she announced. Then she strode over to Eilidh and in a rare show of maternal affection, the queen kissed her forehead. “Well done.”
The Queen of Blood and Rage swept away in the hush that had come over the assembled crowd.
A few moments passed before Rhys looked at the fae who stood in a circle around them and said, “You are dismissed.”
It was a polite way to tell them “be gone,” but her brother wasn’t known for mincing words. He played up his Unseelie traits, emphasizing his ferocity and candor both.
Once they were alone, Rhys turned to her. “Are you
trying
to get one of us killed?”
“You can protect yourself against anyone other than the queen,” she reminded him. “We both know that, brother.”
“And there are those who do not always heed our queen mother.” Rhys folded his arms with an uncharacteristic slowness.
“It’s broken, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I can fight with the one arm while it sets.”
Hesitantly, Eilidh suggested, “Come to the tower. I can help.”
Rhys lifted his brows in a silent question, but she wasn’t going to answer him here in public.
Mutely, he followed her toward her glass tower. No one stopped them as they walked. It was growing common to see Eilidh walking with her brother, her betrothed—or both. The assumption was simply that Rhys was protecting the heir by determining if Torquil was worthy of her.
As they reached the tower, they found Torquil there waiting outside the glittering building. His lips were pressed tightly together, and she knew that both fae would be voicing displeasure once they were inside the privacy of her tower. They might be visible to the faeries who stood outside watching, but as long as they kept control of their gestures and actions, no one would know that she was being chastised.
The three silently ascended the tower. Once they were inside, Torquil was the first to speak. “What are you thinking? It’s bad enough to be seen training with Rhys, but challenging the
queen
?”
“He is injured, and I offered aid.”
Rhys held up a hand. “I could’ve continued fighting. Mother has broken far more than one of my bones in her darker moods.”
Torquil raised a single brow.
“I know,” Eilidh said quietly.
For a long tense moment, her brother stared at her. Finally, he said, “It was you. You’ve done this before . . . I would wake far less broken than made sense to me. When she cracked my spine . . . that was a worse injury than it seemed, wasn’t it?”