Page 59 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

As the court moves around him, Prince Cashel offers a bejeweled hand to each of the noble daughters down the line. Every oneof them drops into a painfully deep curtsy, then presses her lips to the bloodred ruby set in gold on his middle finger.

Oona, Eavan, and Neve get only a cold, passing glance from him.

Only two does he grace with a short, chaste kiss to the cheek.

The first has the bright red hair traditional to the people of the east coast. Aisling, daughter of the Sea Snake, lord of the Inis Peninsula—the one who took down a nobleman twice her size.

Then, Saraid of Askeaton Abbey—the one with the golden hair and topaz-brown cat eyes.

A dangerous flicker of understanding ensnares me.

Prince Cashel might be the High King’s heir, but he’s also the one thing standing in his stepmother’s way if she plans to help her people annex us. I recognize the lethal tension pulsing in the feet between stepmother and stepson as the High King picks at his nails with a knife.

This prince might be in as much danger in this castle as I am.

FIFTEEN

The High Queen snaps her fingers, and the music begins, breaking the tension in the room.

The lilting notes of a pipe dance from the far corner behind the dais. The court seems to let out a collective sigh. My heart only races faster the more they all seem to relax.

Some of the younger nobles pair up, moving to the bloodless marble at the side of the dais to dance. Prince Cashel is among them, flowing from one dance into the next, one partner to another. Lingering with a young man, one hand sliding low on the courtier’s silken spine, before turning to a woman with rich copper skin. The woman throws her head back, laughing, as the diamonds at her neck sparkle.

The idea of anyone laughing so close to him sets my every nerve on edge.

Reputations are earned. There’s no way his could be wrong.

Is there?

I shove the thought to the back of my mind and stick close to Talon.

Aoife hangs by the edges of the room along the wall. Hardly anyone speaks to her, but I watch her blue eyes take in one huddle of nobles after the next, tracking them as if she’s storing every detail away.

An unnerving possibility draws claws up the center of me—that she might know things I will need to know to have a chance at surviving long enough to kill the High King and making it through the tests of the Assay. There are so many moving parts to this. I have to kill the High King and figure out how I’ll escape after I do it. If I can’t kill him until the end, I need to have a plan for being the only survivor and not having to marry Prince Cashel. Plus, I need to figure out which noble daughters support Cymrea, so I can try to take them down too.

Even if trusting Aoife would be rash, maybe there’s a middle ground.

The melody of the pipes shifts. Easing into a slow, sweet cadence that coaxes a strange, sudden ache that feels an awful lot like nostalgia deep in my chest.

My mother always told me pipes are the songs of the isle’s deepest heart. And even though I’ve never set foot outside of Dyfflin, the pipes stir something clinging to my soul the way a spirit lingers ever near to its bones.

The woman playing the lilting melody is only a few years older than me, alone in the corner behind the dais. Only Prince Cashel acknowledges her with a nod of his sandy head. The longing in his eyes as she plays steals my breath.

Each rise and fall of the pipes draws out a longing for a world I’ve never been part of, but that lives in my dreams with every waking moment—sweeping, craggy hills, seas crashing on ancient black cliffs, and coasts where wildflowers cling to the shores. An isle I know in my bones is worth saving—worth protecting, even if our magic has been drained.

On the dais, the High Queen’s lips curl into a sneer at the melody.

I watch figures in white and pale blue draw close to the throne, clustering around her. All of them have the same pale hair, the same high cheeks and icy features as her.

My blood singes in my veins—

Cymreans.

None of them can keep their sharp eyes off the prince, who draws laughter and bows and curtsies like he is winter sunlight on ice, dangerously bright. He lets go of the young man he was dancing with and steps back from the thick of the dance floor, eyes moving to me.

My pulse quickens.

One of the Cymreans near the High Queen, a man with kohl-lined eyes and hair slicked back in a nearly white braid, leans down to whisper in her ear. Her cold eyes flash up to me.