Bad Boy's Bard
Riptide Publishing
PO Box 1537
Burnsville, NC 28714
www.riptidepublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
Bad Boy’s Bard
Copyright © 2017 by E.J. Russell
Cover art: Lou Harper, louharper.com/Design.html
Editor: Rachel Haimowitz
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.
ISBN: 978-1-62649-623-1
First edition
September, 2017
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-624-8
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As far as rock star Gareth Kendrick, the last true bard in Faerie, is concerned, the only good Unseelie is . . . well . . . there’s no such thing. Two centuries ago, an Unseelie lord abducted Gareth’s human lover, Niall, and Gareth has neither forgotten nor forgiven.
Niall O’Tierney, half-human son of the Unseelie King, had never lost a wager until the day he swore to rid the Seelie court of its bard. That bet cost him everything: his freedom, his family—and his heart. When he’s suddenly face-to-face with Gareth at the ceremony to join the Seelie and Unseelie realms, Niall does the only thing inhumanly possible: he fakes amnesia. Not his finest hour, perhaps, but he never revealed his Unseelie heritage, and to tell the truth now would be to risk Gareth’s revulsion—far harder to bear than two hundred years of imprisonment.
Then a new threat to Gareth’s life arises, and he and Niall stage a mad escape into the Outer World, only to discover the fate of all fae resting on their shoulders. But before they can save the realm, they have to tackle something really tough: mending their own broken relationship.
About Bad Boy’s Bard
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
Also by E.J. Russell
About the Author
More like this
“Niall. Do you know how long I’ve been searching for you?”
At the sound of his brother’s impossibly deep voice, Niall O’Tierney jumped to his feet, knocking over his stool.
Eamon advanced into Niall’s quarters, his broad shoulders barely clearing the door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t.” But jumping to attention when he was addressed was a hard habit to break. “What brings you to my little corner? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your wedding?”
“That’s why I’m here.” Eamon eyed the fire roaring in the hearth. “How you can suffer through this heat is more than I can fathom.”
Niall righted the stool. “Heat? My dear brother, compared to what I’m used to, your Keep is positively arctic.”
Eamon’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “I’m sorry. I should have—”
“It’s all right. You needn’t treat me like an invalid.” Even if I am one. “Don’t forget, I’ve survived a night drinking with the duergar. And that involved shots of fermented dragon bile infused with crushed holly berries.”
Eamon smiled, shaking his head. “How you could stomach that—”
“Oi. It was a wager, all right? Besides, it netted me a boon. I’ll call it in one day.”
Eamon’s smile widened. “No wonder they’re so nervous around you. I’d never thought duergar capable of anxiety.”
Niall shrugged. “Just takes the right leverage.” Niall had always known how to apply it.
“Yes. Well.” Eamon cleared his throat. “There are several issues that we must discuss before the Convergence ceremonies. Some things that might . . .” He grimaced. “Disturb you. I wish you to be prepared.”
Niall bowed his head. “You needn’t ask, Your Highness. I appreciate the consideration.”
“Ah, give over, Niall. You don’t need to address me that way. We’re brothers.”
“Yes, and you’re the King by Faerie’s acclamation, even though you’re putting off official coronation until after the Convergence. We wouldn’t want to scandalize the court by an unseemly display of informality.”
“You mean we wouldn’t want to give anyone else the chance for insolence.”
“That too. I’m surprised the whole court didn’t forget that Tiarnach had any sons at all, let alone two of them.”
“All the more reason for us to present a united front. Tonight is a critical juncture. If we—”
A startled cheep from the doorway made them both turn. Peadar, a brownie who’d been one of Niall’s staunchest allies for most of his life, cringed at the threshold, his arms full of velvet and fur. “Your pardon, Majesty, Highness. For the interruption. I bring Prince Niall’s clothing for the feast and the ceremony.”
Despite the reforms Eamon had already put in place after deposing their father, the lesser fae on the Keep staff who’d toiled under the old King couldn’t make the transition to the more lenient regime overnight. They still instinctively expected a blow at every transgression, no matter how small.
Niall could relate. Thanks to his own punishment at Tiarnach’s hands, he had the same reaction himself.
He strode across the room and took the bundle of clothing from Peadar’s arms. “Please don’t call me Highness. I’m not a prince.” Not anymore.
Peadar looked down his long nose. “Those as act like a true prince are treated as one. Highness.” He bobbed his head at Eamon and scurried out.
Niall returned to the hearth where his brother was waiting. “I’m sorry. What did you want to discuss?”
“Do you recall the Seelie traitor we left
in the underworld along with Father when we rescued you?”
“You mean the Daoine Sidhe—the one-handed one, who spewed such invective when you removed his mute curse?”
“The very same.” Eamon scowled. “He was Caitrìona’s—that is, the Queen’s—former Consort until he tried to usurp her throne.”
Niall chuckled, his laugh still sounding like an unoiled hinge, since he’d had so little opportunity for amusement in the last two centuries. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Your Majesty.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Is that an order?”
Eamon sighed. “Of course not. But I want to be your friend again, Niall, not your sovereign. I’ve missed you.”
And here I’ve been acting like a typical self-absorbed Unseelie arsehole. “Forgive me, Eamon. I missed you too, and I’ve never even asked. What were you doing during my unfortunate incarceration? Finding new and creative ways to make Tiarnach’s life miserable?”
“No. I . . . I spent it in exile. I returned the same night you did.”
Niall goggled at him. “What? Why have you never told me this?”
“When have I had the opportunity?” Eamon’s voice took on an exasperated edge. “You’ve spoken barely a word to me in the entire two weeks since your release. You dodge me, hiding here in your quarters, or down in the kitchen, huddled by the fire, surrounded by lesser fae who regard me like I might suddenly turn into Father and dash their brains out against the hearth.”
“So you’re telling me Tiarnach got rid of us both? Was it . . . was it my fault?”
“In a way . . .”
“Shite,” Niall muttered. “I brought nothing but misery to everyone I cared about. If I had known—”
“Peace.” Eamon held out his hand and Niall clutched it perhaps harder than he should have, but Danu’s tits, if he’d known Tiarnach would vent his fury on Eamon . . .
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Eamon squeezed Niall’s hand in return. “I don’t blame you for Father’s decision. Although he used my assistance to you as an excuse, I have no doubt he’d have found another reason to curse me in the end. He was convinced one or the other of us was plotting to usurp him.”
Niall forced a smile that was doubtless a parody of his old irreverent grin. “A rather prophetic fear, at least in your case.”
“More like a self-fulfilling prophecy. If he hadn’t been obsessed with punishing you, with killing Gareth Cynwrig—”
Niall’s belly clenched, and he dropped Eamon’s hand as if it were molten iron. “Don’t. Please.” Niall had taken the sentence Tiarnach had meted out—every stroke of the lash; every hour, every day, every year of the futile backbreaking labor. Stoking the fire, hauling piles of metal scrap from one cavern to another, working the bellows as Govannon forged weapon after weapon—only to melt them down again into scrap and leave Niall to drag it all off to the scrap room to begin the cycle again the next day. He’d taken it, and gladly, because Tiarnach, certain Niall would break and be brought to heel, had declared none but Niall would kill Gareth. Niall had clung to that, believing that as long as he remained imprisoned, Gareth’s life was safe.
“But surely—”
“I’m not ready to talk about him.” I may never be ready. Because not two days before he’d been liberated, his back still bloody from another unscheduled flogging, he’d learned it had all been for nothing. Tiarnach had confessed gleefully that he’d grown tired of waiting and killed Gareth himself.
Niall could only hope Tiarnach had been more merciful to Gareth than he’d been to his own sons. How likely is that, you bloody great twit?
“Niall.” Eamon laid his arm across Niall’s shoulders and Niall flinched, his back no more fully healed from that last beating than his heart had healed from Tiarnach’s final blow. Eamon dropped his arm. “I’m sorry. I thought—now that you’re back in Faerie, haven’t you recovered yet?”
“When the whip is wielded by a god, my brother, not even a fae royal can heal the wounds.”
“I never thought Govannon was so very cruel.”
“He’s not, at least not purposely. But he’s neither judge nor jury—only the jailer, and indifferent to anything but atoning for his own guilt. Once Tiarnach condemned me, Govannon’s duty was to carry out the sentence. So he did.”
Eamon closed his eyes, his face contorting with pain. “Believe me, if I had known what Father had planned, I would have done everything in my power to dissuade him.”
“Your belief in the power of words is touching, but nobody has ever convinced Tiarnach to change his mind. To do so would be to admit he was wrong in the first place. Inconceivable.”
“I was fully aware of Father’s ruthlessness, but I never imagined he’d take leave of his reason so completely.”
Niall gripped Eamon’s forearm. “It’s done. In the past. Leave it and tell me what’s got you worried about the future.”
“Very well. According to Fionbarr, we need—”
“Who’s Fionbarr?”
“He’s First Mage now, the primary architect of the Convergence spell. He says that in order for the Convergence to succeed, all fae—and no one else—must be present, inside the gates, when the spell takes effect. That means both Father and Rodric Luchullain must be brought into the Keep from the forges.”
Niall shivered. Once again under the same roof as the man who was unfortunately his father? I’ll bear it. I must. “Will I need to be present then, or share the room with him?”
“No. I’ll make sure you’re advised well in advance, and Fionbarr has orders to take them to the dungeons directly. They’re shackled with a druid-made chain, and Fionbarr will be escorting them, along with a full cadre of guards.”
“Very well. Is there anything else?”
Eamon ducked his head, looking as shamefaced as six feet eight inches of solid muscle could. “The procession from the Keep to the Stone Circle will leave soon after the feast. Caitrìona’s entourage will leave her pavilion in the Seelie realm at the same time.”
“A parade.” Niall applauded slowly. “How festive.”
“I’m afraid you must be part of it, Niall. I’d spare you if I could, but your presence is necessary for the spell. Also . . .” Eamon’s gaze dropped to his feet. “I would ask you to stand by me at my handfasting.”
Ah, shite. How could he refuse? “Of course. But I warn you—I’ll not be able to stomach the feast. You’re on your own there.”
“I suspected as much.” Eamon withdrew a small velvet bag from his belt pouch. “I want you to have this.”
Niall took it, hesitant to look inside, but by the weight and size, the bag held an item not much bigger than his thumbnail. “What is it?”
“Fionbarr calls is a binding stone. Caitrìona has the mate to it. We’ll offer them to him on the altar as the final part of the Convergence spell.”
Niall thrust the bag back. “Then you keep it.”
Eamon closed his fist over Niall’s. “No. You’ve been disregarded in Faerie almost since your birth because of Father’s attitude and court politics.” Eamon released Niall’s hand and smiled wryly. “Your own antics didn’t help, of course. Baiting the trows with enchanted dice? You were lucky to escape with your head.”
Niall shrugged, then winced at the chafe of his shirt on his back. “I was in no danger. They were too busy trying to cheat each other to wonder why I won every third throw.”
“Nevertheless, I want you to be part of this new Faerie. We’re so few now, where once we were many. All fae should feel welcome: Unseelie, Seelie, greater, lesser, Scots, Irish, Welsh—and whatever of the Cornish, Manx, and Bretons we can find. You’re somewhat of a hero to the lesser fae, you know.”
“Me? I never did anything special.”
“No? As I recall, the incident with the trows involved a pack who’d attacked a bauchan den. And somehow the courtiers who lost most disastrously at your famous card parties were the ones who were most churl
ish to the Keep’s staff.”
Niall shifted uneasily. He hadn’t realized he’d been quite so transparent in his targets. “Those arseholes simply thought they were better players than they actually were.”
“Niall. Accept it. You were treated as an outsider your whole life, and I know it hurt you. I don’t blame you for your rebellion. In fact, I envied your courage at the same time I despaired of your recklessness. I’d never have dared oppose and flaunt our Father’s will as you did.”
Niall held up his abraded wrists. “Much good it did me in the end.”
Eamon grasped his biceps. “I want you to be a part of this ceremony. Integral to it. Like it or not, you’re the standard bearer for the disenfranchised.”
“So if I can be brought back into the fold, there’s hope for anyone?” Niall couldn’t help the scorn in his tone.
“Think of it this way—if you refuse, will all who look to you as a champion believe that the new order will be as corrupt, as rigid, as the old? Do this for me, Niall, please. Do this for Peadar and Heilyn and all the other lesser fae who look to you for fair treatment.”
Niall took a deep breath. As little as he wanted to plunge back into politics, how could he refuse Eamon this simple request? It was little enough.
Eamon, however, had done the impossible—forged alliances between natural enemies, defeated his own curse, deposed Tiarnach—and won the Seelie Queen as his mate. Yet the first thing he’d done afterward had been to release Niall from captivity.
A public gesture in support of his brother and the Queen. What could it hurt? He could always hide out again afterward.
“Very well. What must I do?”
“Fionbarr will call for the stones at the proper time in the ceremony. You only need to come forward then and hand this one to me. Stand next to me during the handfasting.”
“Will Caitrìona have someone at her side as well?”
“She will, but not family. Her champions, Lord Cynwrig and Lord Maldwyn.”
Niall flinched and turned away, staring out the narrow embrasure at the forest beyond the Keep. Gareth’s brothers. He’d never met them, but he’d heard of them. They couldn’t have taken the news of Gareth’s death well, yet they’d still chosen to take part in the ceremony. They’d know about Gareth’s life in the years I lost—how he filled his days, what made him smile, his music . . . If Niall’s heart weren’t still so raw from the loss, and if he weren’t certain they’d hate him for his betrayal, he’d beg them for the tales.