Fionn stared into the darkness at the bottom of the courtyard. Down there were the arches that led to the sprawling kitchens. Where the people who really carried the kingdom on their backs worked.
Was he deluded? Did he really believe his own story? That even if Rory—and right now it was a big IF—acknowledged their bond and helped Fionn to avoid a Redfolk marriage… that Fionn would go on to add value to his kingdom in a way that he wasn’t doing now?
‘There you are! You are late, little sprat.’
Fionn squinted into the arches above. Iomhar darted down to him.
‘What am I late for, old man?’
Usually this would have prompted a quip in return, but Iomhar seemed uncharacteristically sombre. His many braids were woven into a single plait; a formal style for a formal occasion. Anxiety gripped Fionn’s heart. No. Surely the Redfolk hadn’t arrived already.
‘The rehearsal.’ Iomhar took hold of Fionn’s spear. ‘I have made excuses for you, but you cannot delay any longer.’
Fionn closed his eyes. A measure of relief replaced his fear. He had forgotten entirely about the wedding rehearsal. At least, hopefully, he had a few more days to talk Rory round.
A few more days until he had to say good bye to Rory forever.
This thought stung far deeper than the prospect of signing his life over to the Redfolk.
‘Fionn,’ Iomhar said, shaking his shoulder. ‘I understand your melancholy. I will be here with you. Your father will be here with you.’
Fionn ripped himself away with a snort. ‘My father? As if the king’s presence would lift my spirits at all. Let’s get this over with.’
‘Fionn—’
Fionn left the old warrior to catch up, swimming at speed to the throne room.
Situated just underneath the record chambers, the throne room was long and narrow. It curved in a gradual semi-circle, following the cylindrical shape of the palace. A small number of officials were present, the bare minimum required to witness the oddly secretive deed of marrying off Bluefolk royalty. Fionn recognised the Court Shaman and the Bearer of Records among them, as well as some of Iomhar’s palace guards.
His brothers, Brudus and Drostan, were also present. They flashed him sheepish, sympathetic smiles and then dropped their heads. Their silver hair had also been braided tightly like Iomhar’s. Fionn scanned their bodies for new tattoos; saw with envy that Brudus had received accolades for saving a Minchman caught in a human fishing net, and that Drostan had recently seen success with a hunting party over a giant squid.
The Blue King sat on his living coral throne at the apex of the semi-circle, where all gazes would be directed to him in the middle of it. His bronze crown was made of a delicate twisting of wires that emulated flowing kelp. The metal was similarly woven through the king’s thick silver hair, a permanent emblem of power that was never removed from his head. He emanated regal indifference to Fionn’s entrance, his posture rigid and his eyes fixed on a clay document in front of him.
Fionn nodded to his brothers and took his place in front of the throne.
‘You are late,’ his father said distantly without looking up from the tablet held in his lap.
‘Apologies.’ Fionn’s reply was purposefully terse.
‘I thought it possible you might have run away.’
Fury gripped Fionn’s heart. Did his father think so little of him? ‘I would never forsake my duty.’
A blatant lie, he realised. He was desperately doing his best to forsake it. But he wouldn’t give the king another reason to look down on him.
‘Indeed,’ the Blue King said. His DeepSong was strangely heavy. ‘Then let us begin.’
Fionn kept still as a blindfold was tied around his head. It was imperative (he was reminded, unnecessarily, by the Shaman) that he didn’t see any member of the Redfolk tribe until it was time to reveal his betrothed. They couldn’t risk the fae bargain binding Fionn to the wrong family member. What if he soul bonded with the Red King, of all people? That was why this practice was so vital. There could be no mistakes.
Then it was time for the recital of the oaths. Not from Fionn, of course. He was to be merely an ornament in these proceedings, seen and certainly not heard. The Blue King and the Shaman would do all of the talking, reminding the congregation of their strong alliance with the Redfolk and their responsibility to uphold that relationship at all costs. Recalling the vital bedrock of tradition upon which all these customs were founded, and the fae origins that even now the Bluefolk acknowledged in their heritage. Underlining the debt they owed the Redfolk against both fae and human threats, and the duty of repaying them.
Halfway through these ritual lies, Fionn found his mounting resentment too much to bear.
‘Why do we not forge our own measures against such threats?’ Fionn blurted out, interrupting the Shaman in his recounting of how the marriage bargain was struck.
The answering silence was almost bewildered—had the First Prince spoken?
The Shaman cleared his throat and continued as if he hadn’t.
