Blood and Iron (21 page)

Seeker, watching the Mebd, saw something she had never thought to see. A single tear glistened in the corner of the Faerie Queen's eye and laid a gleaming track down her porcelain cheek. Eight verses and eight choruses, and bard and Merlin sang them all, while the guests stood frozen and the Queen of the Summerlands wept before her chair. Until the end.

The bitter end.

There was something more than magic in the Merlin's voice, for each time in the lyrics that the name of the Divine was repeated, Seeker flinched, expecting pain. But the pain never came, and she saw wonder on Cairbre's face as well.

The bard finished the final chorus and leaned back against a spiraling pillar at the foot of the broad, sweeping steps, closing his eyes in exhaustion. The magic—the
sorcery
—in that song hung over the ballroom, and not so much as a breath stirred it until the Mebd closed her eyes and sat back on her chair. When she opened them again she blinked, oblivious to the tears still marking her face and spotting her gown, and raised her right hand. “For that, Lady Merlin,” she said in light sweet tones,

“for that gift, I grant you one boon, any boon within my power to grant, with the stipulation that it harm not my kingdom nor any subject to me. And you, Cairbre, as well.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Whiskey,” Seeker said, leaning close to his ear. “There's some significance to that song that I don't understand.”

“Aye,” he said. “There is.”

She lifted her chin and glared, keeping her voice to a murmur. “Little treachery—”

“Alas, that you must ruin my entertainment.” He sulked elaborately, so she almost forgot herself and laughed. “The last time that song was sung here, the singer's next trick was to steal the Mebd's husband away.”

“Murchaud. For the tithe?”

“Before that. But yes, Murchaud.”

The Mebd smiled. “And as we have silence, and every-one's attention . . . Ian, you will attend me, please?”

The hush came over the room anew, and Seeker's heart squeezed.
Ian. No. Is she going to place a binding on him too? Or send him for the teind?

Seeker's son came forward from the tapestried shadows behind the chair and took his place beside it. He wore black, velvet and linen, his doublet girdled by a heavy golden belt set with emeralds and amethysts half as big as Seeker's palm. There was a blade at his belt and a thick-linked chain around his neck.
She's knighted him. And he goes armed in her presence.

She tasted bittersweet.
Has she taken him as a lover, then?

The Mebd glanced up at the slender boy fondly. “I have a royal pronouncement to all gathered here,” she said, and her clear voice carried like bells.
She can't mean to marry him. . . .

She can mean anything she wishes,
Seeker reminded herself. Whiskey's hand rested on her shoulder, but the numbness surging through her all but made her forget. Carel shifted restlessly.

The Mebd waited for the silence to become profound. "This lad is Ian MacNeill. I tell you he is blood of my blood, child of my father's line through my half sister Morgan le Fey.”

Seeker blinked and touched her ear with cold fingertips, but the words did not change. Carel stroked her arm in concern.

Seeker shook the gentle hand off, and Whiskey's when he would have steadied her, and stumbled forward. “Your Majesty,” she said, when she stood before the chair, “I don't see how that can be true.”

“But it is, good Seeker. Your true father—not your mother's husband, but your sire—was my husband Murchaud, who was the son of Morgan of Cornwall and the half-Fae knight Lancelot du Lac.”

“The Queen just named your son her heir, and acknowledged you her grandniece,” Whiskey said an hour later, buttering bread with a knife wrought of heavy silver. “I don't understand what you're upset about.” He'd devoured everything set before him—fowl and fish, roast and vegetables—and was eyeing Seeker's untouched plate.

Carel sat beside them at the banquet table, toying with her wine. She'd played with her food as well, making Seeker go over—and over—the significance of the Mebd's pronouncement. “But if she's been a few thousand years without one, why does she suddenly need an heir now?”

Seeker had no appetite. She pushed her dinner toward Whiskey, while continuing to watch from the shadows clustering the room. “That's part of what worries me, Merlin.” She glanced down the length of the table. Ian sat on the Queen's right hand. He caught her looking and offered her a smile. She looked away.

“It's power,” Whiskey said. “You'll be dealing now from a position of strength. And she's granted his father right of return. Who knows what could happen?”

Seeker formed some rebuttal in her mind, but before it reached her lips, the Merlin's eyes came up. Her head followed, and she stood, darkened for a moment as if a shadow fell across her, surrounded by the scent of roses, trailing dappled velvet. “Who . . .” she said, not looking at Seeker.

Seeker's eyes followed the Merlin's. Her goblet shattered on the stones before she knew it had slipped between her fingers.

“No,” Seeker whispered.
Ah. No.
But it was too late, and the Merlin was already walking, moving like a marionette, her skirt fluttering behind her. Her long fingers reached out, casually disarming an Elf-knight who happened to be between her and the door, slipping his scabbarded sword from his belt.

She flowed forward to where Keith MacNeill stood, framed in the great carven doors, blinking in the light of ten thousand candles. In one fluid motion, the Merlin skinned the blade clear of its sheath and dropped the scabbard on the marble to echo like a slap in the silence. Another step bore her up to the tall, red-haired werewolf; she uncoiled like a cobra. The silver blade whistled toward his neck.

Seeker lunged to her feet, shouting—
“No!”
—but the Merlin was already in motion.

Keith never flinched. Even when the edge of the silver blade parted the white skin of his throat, and red blood stained the blade, he stood unmoving. Impassive, as the Merlin stopped her swing with the strength and control of the dancer she was. She stood facing the werewolf, unblinking, the edge of her blade resting on his neck, a crimson blot spreading over his shoulder.

“You'll do,” the Merlin said, and went to her knees before falling hard, senseless, on the stones.

Seeker stood frozen, watching blood thread the white cloth of Keith's shirt. No one moved, no one spoke, no one's heart so much as hazarded a beat. And then Seeker unfurled
otherwise
wings and leapt, passing over the table, an owl in flight the length of the hall and then stooping like a falcon to earth before him. She crouched and placed her hand on the Merlin's throat, fingers seeking the flutter of her pulse. Then she stood. Keith stared, wordless, blood trickling over his fingers.

A clatter on the marble alerted her that Whiskey had followed; she issued her commands quietly, without turning.

“Get Ian. And the Queen. Keith . . .” Her voice trailed off as she met his eyes. “How long have you known?”

“Known what? Who is this?”

“Never mind. Help me carry her.” The rest of the Fae were closing in around them, Cairbre nearest, dark eyes worried. Seeker saw the Mebd above the crowd, standing on her dais, her hands clenched skeletal and white on her gilded chair.

Keith stooped and lifted Carel in bloodstained hands. “Silver. It won't heal quickly.”

“It's not bad,” Seeker said, leaning to check as she spoke. “More bloody than dangerous. Do you feel dizzy?”

“No.”

“Then follow me.” She saw Whiskey speaking in the herald's ear, saw him turn and lead the way to the Mebd. And then her attention was taken up by the way the ring of Fae drew back against the walls as she led Keith forward, crimson droplets spattering the sage-and-rose tiles. Only Cairbre and Cliodhna did not withdraw; the bard came up alongside the taller werewolf, and the Leannan Sidhe stood where they would pass close before her, and waited.

“I'll summon a physician,” Cairbre said. “Is she . . . ?”

“Fainted,” Seeker answered.

“It would be a pity if—” Cairbre stopped himself. “—anything happened to that voice,” he finished, walking away.

“What was that about?” Keith looked around at the crowd as a low mutter swept the room, rising over still forms clad in persimmon and periwinkle and a thousand other colors.

"Damned if I know.”

Cliodhna reached out as they passed and caught Keith's sleeve. “Wolf-prince.”

“What?” He kept moving, forcing her to trot to keep her grip. Seeker swallowed a grin before she remembered her worry, implications making her temples throb.

“Protection,” the Leannan Sidhe hissed. “Sanctuary if you need it. Think of us when the time comes.”

“Perhaps.” Keith pulled free of her. “Shark tank,” he said in Seeker's ear.

“You got me into it.” And was then sorry she had said it. They were almost to the door, and music rose—the notes of a harpsichord—and the Merlin stirred in Keith's arms and moaned. Seeker risked a glance at the room. Hope was stretched over the keyboards, and Robin led a bog Faerie with hair like marsh weed out on the dance floor. Seeker couldn't see the Mebd anymore, or Ian. “Why the hell did you come here tonight?”

“I heard it would be permitted,” Keith answered. Seeker pushed past the doorman, shoving the double-hung portal back on silent hinges.

“Of course.” She started laughing as the door closed behind them. “And you were late. It's too perfect.”

She wanted to sag against the wall and slide down it, laughing, holding her head in her hands. Keith kept striding unerringly toward her chambers, and she had to keep up. “Keith, she made Ian her heir.”

“Who did?”

“The Mebd.”

He didn't stop, but he closed his eyes briefly and then looked down at her, the movement causing a thin line of scarlet to crack the fragile scab. “But he's not her child.”

Seeker opened the door to her rooms. “No. But I'm her grandniece. Bring Carel in here and I'll tell you about it.”

Keith had barely laid Carel down on the coverlet when a light tap rattled the door. “Come in,” Seeker called, expecting Whiskey or a servant—not expecting a slender boy with black curls and green eyes to slip into the room on quick, silent strides, turn, and shoot the bolt behind. He put his back to the door and paused inside, hands curling and uncurling at his sides.

And despite everything, Seeker froze for a moment, staring, while Keith waited in uncomprehending silence at her back. She'd avoided looking, avoided seeing Ian, for years. And now she couldn't look away, couldn't move, and neither could he. Both stood transfixed, gaping at each other.

Until he breathed, and the light shifted on the golden collar under the open neck of his shirt. As if some sorcery had freed her from stupefaction, she stepped forward, grasped Ian's shoulders, and pulled him into her arms.

He was cold, stiff as if with stress or exposure, but she warmed him as best she could. He stood unmoving until she touched his hair, and then his breath came out on a long, shuddering sob, and he clung to her, one arm around her waist and the other crossing her shoulders.

And then he stepped back, his features compressing, then smoothing, as he mastered his expression. “I got away as soon as I could,” he said. “Mother, the Mebd says she must entertain Cliodhna, and begs your indulgence and your care of the Merlin.”

“Where's Whiskey?” Seeker began, before Keith cut her off.

“Merlin?” he demanded, and then,
“Mother?”

Seeker covered her eyes with her hand and steadied herself against the carven bedpost. The Merlin's chest rose and fell slowly, seeming the only motion in a quiet room. "Keith MacNeill, meet your firstborn son, Ian, heir to the throne of the Daoine Sidhe. Ian, this is your father. He's a werewolf, and given tonight's display”—Seeker gestured vaguely at Carel—“the living incarnation of the Dragon Prince. So I don't know about you, but I am going to have a glass of wine.”
Or a bottle.

Ian, Keith, and Seeker stood, each waiting for the next to speak. Ian toyed with the chain at his neck, looking from his mother's face to his father's. Keith leaned on the bedpost, pressing at the sword cut. “That might scar,” Seeker said.

“I expect it will,” he answered, and in a carefully casual tone, added, “Dragon Prince?”

“It's time—” she began, but another tap on the door interrupted her. “We'll talk when the procession ends,” she said, rolling her eyes.

The physician entered, garbed in healer's red. He cleaned and bandaged Keith's wound and nodded over the Merlin. A page arrived with wine before the chirurgeon finished; Seeker sent him back after hot water and a clean shirt for Keith. Ian poked up the banked embers and laid birch logs white as wedding dresses on the fire.

Hot water came, and Keith stripped with his usual disregard for propriety and washed the blood from his chest and hands, leaving the water in the ceramic basin roped with pink. He reclothed himself while page and physician withdrew, and took the wine that Seeker poured and Ian brought to him. “Now,” he said. “Dragon Prince?”

“That's the Merlin passed out in my bed,” Seeker answered. She brought her glass with her, and led Keith to the chairs by the fire. Her stool was still there, but she settled into the green wing chair and leaned forward, an elbow on her knee, watching the flames because she couldn't bear to look at the man, or the boy either. “She marked you, Keith. And it's time.”