“Okay.” He drew the word out, shifting his focus to her father.
Maeve expelled a breath. It was too much, too many would perish, and it would all be for nothing. She had to find a way to end this, to save them. There was no way she could allowthem all to sacrifice so much, not if the vision she and Ceridwen shared held any truth. She would not let them die in vain, the guilt of it would smother her soul, it would taint her conscience for an eternity.
Aran leaned over to her and whispered, “Are you alright?”
“Yes. Fine.” She offered him a tight, pinched smile. “Completely fine.”
He didn’t believe her. Not in the slightest.
“So,” Merrick drawled. “When are we doing this thing?”
Aran sat up. “Queen Ariawyn’s forces will be here by week’s end.”
Tiernan nodded, looking at Ciara. “And Prince Drake?”
The snowflakes falling around the High Queen of Winter had vanished, but her frosty exterior remained intact. “I have his word he will arrive when summoned.”
“And when, exactly, do you plan on summoning him?” Merrick asked, the rise of challenge coloring his tone.
Ciara’s sharp gaze pinned her brother. “When our circumstances are dire.”
Merrick rolled his cerulean eyes to the heavens. “Great.”
Tiernan slammed his palm onto the table, rattling the glasses. “I believe that’s enough talk of war for one day.”
Thank the goddess. Maeve wasn’t sure she could handle any more of it. Not of the impending battle, not of the burden of despair, not of the never-ending guilt that continued to drain her of life. She needed to get away, to go do something, anything to take her mind off of the fact that if she didn’t find a way to end this soon, everyone she ever loved would die. And it would be all her fault.
Maeve stood abruptly and every male followed suit.
“If you’d excuse me,” she muttered, fully aware that every pair of eyes in the throne room were focused solely on her.
“Where are you going?” Saoirse asked, her words layered with a hint of suspicion.
Maeve was suffocating. She needed to go to a place where she could breathe, where she could think. Where she could unleash all the anger and frustration mounting inside of her. “I just need to go hit something.”
She stalked off toward the courtyard, with Cahira on her heels.
“Be kind to the palm trees,” Merrick called out after her. “You butchered the last one.”
At one point, his wonderful sense of humor would have brought her a sense of consolation, would have endeared her, and lifted her spirits.
But not anymore.
Because if Maeve was too emotional, too reckless with her feelings, then from now on she would do what was required of her. She would cease to feel anything at all.
Chapter Thirteen
Aran approached Tiernan, coming into his line of sight.
“A word, Your Highness?” he asked.
Tiernan nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off of Maeve’s retreating form. “Of course.”
The High Prince shifted on his feet as Dorian walked over to them. Standing next to one another, it was easy to see the similarities between father and son. Both possessed the same wavy, dark red hair, high cheekbones, and prominent chin. But Aran had a cleft in his chin with that distinctive scar cutting through it.
Aran tugged on the collar of his loose shirt, then adjusted the compass and piece of sea glass hanging from his neck. He was ill at ease, uncomfortable in his own skin.
“The Strand binding me to Garvan is no more.” He stated it as fact, his words shallow. Empty.
