Bad Boy's Bard Page 2

  “Have you studied the documents I gave you? The details of the Convergence spell?”

  “A bit.” Niall glanced guiltily at the rolls of parchment on his table. “There are a lot of them.”

  “Yes, because it’s a very complicated spell. I’d value your opinion.”

  “Me? But I’m not a mage.”

  “No, but you’re clever, far cleverer than me. That cleverness is something Caitrìona and I desperately need in the combined court. She has her trusted advisors in the Cynwrig brothers. I have only you.”

  Niall shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Surely Fionbarr—”

  Eamon waved one giant hand. “Fionbarr is interested in the Convergence only as a magical puzzle. He has no real allegiance to me, or to anything other than his own study of magic.”

  That raised the hair on Niall’s neck. “Perhaps that is something you should worry about. A man with power but no loyalties is more dangerous than a known enemy.”

  “You see?” Eamon said heartily. “Again, you show how much I need you.”

  “Nonsense. Besides, until I’ve recovered fully, I’m of no real use to you—no better than a human, like my mother. There are enough at our own court who never considered me a fit prince for that reason alone. If you couple that with my reputation?” Some twist in Niall’s half-human heritage had given him the ability to discern the crack in another’s character, the flaw that when stressed would cause them to shatter. And once he’d seen it, he couldn’t resist applying the necessary pressure. It hadn’t made him popular. “Do you think they’ll accept me in your . . . what do you call it? Administration, like the Outer World governments call it?”

  “They’ll have to learn.”

  Really, Eamon? Are you still so naïve? “But that’s the point. They may not be able to. Not without help. I can accept change because I’m half-human. True fae might take more persuasion.”

  “You’re a true fae, and I’ll challenge any who say different. Besides, who better than you to persuade? You persuaded the last Seelie bard into your bed.”

  Niall froze, hands fisting in the folds of his cloak. “How dare you, Eamon? How dare you?”

  Eamon’s perfect brow puckered. “What do you mean? You did, just as you said you would, then defied Father to keep him.”

  “And that got me chained in the forges for two hundred years. And Tiarnach killed Gareth anyway.”

  Eamon blinked, then pity flickered across his face. “Oh my dear. I didn’t realize— Gareth isn’t dead.”

  Niall staggered back until he stumbled against the stool, his heart knifing sideways in a painful thump. “Not . . . not dead?” He could barely force the words out of a mouth gone dry as bone dust. “Don’t toy with me, Eamon. Please.”

  “I would never joke about such a thing. He’s alive. In fact, he’ll be here tonight.”

  Niall’s knees gave out and he collapsed, missing the stool completely and falling on his arse, uncertain whether the sounds tearing from his throat were hysterical laughter or racking sobs.

  “Gareth, what the hell?” Spence banged a discordant chord on his keyboard. “That’s the third time you’ve fucked up that bridge. I didn’t think you fae bards could fuck up.”

  “Since I’m the only one there is, it’s kind of hard to find a basis for comparison.” Gareth fingered the chord progression again. It wasn’t that difficult. “Sorry, guys. I’m . . . my mind’s not on the music at the moment.”

  “This moment or any moment in the last two weeks.” Tiff unslung her bass and set it on its stand.

  “What she said.” Hamish bounced behind the drum kit, flipping one stick. Gareth scowled at him. Hamish always agreed with Tiff on everything—but it didn’t do him a damn bit of good. She still wouldn’t go out with him.

  Josh laid his violin in its case and moved to the front of the practice room. “Look, everyone. It’s been a tough time for Gareth. We all know that, right?” Josh fixed each of them in turn with his wide brown gaze. Trust Josh to make the peace.

  Unfortunately, it made Gareth feel like an even bigger arsehole, since he’d let Josh down more than the rest of Hunter’s Moon. The two of them hadn’t written a new song for the band in months. At some point, the fans would get tired of hearing the same old shite in every concert and start drifting away.

  He owed it to Josh—to the whole band—to get it together.

  “Too bad you don’t have ‘it’ anymore, ain’t it, boyo?”

  Gareth’s fist clenched around the neck of his guitar. Gods-bedamned Voices. Would he ever be rid of them? He’d hidden his bardic talent in the days millennia ago when he and his brothers had still lived in Annwn, before the Unification, before Arawn abandoned the Welsh fae and Annwn disappeared. He’d hidden it for as long as he could, but when Arawn discovered it, he’d decreed Gareth needed training.

  Unfortunately, there’d been no living fae bards to teach him, so Arawn found a dead one: Gwydion himself.

  To this day, the voices of the dead, who’d first invaded his thoughts when he’d been sequestered with Gwydion during his training, always found the chink in his armor, in his confidence. Usually music kept them at bay; it was the one thing he was good at, after all. But his music was abandoning him now too.

  Ever since the Queen had decreed that the Seelie and Unseelie realms would merge, that Gareth would be cheek to jowl with the creatures he’d loathed since the day one of them had taken his first and only lover—his human lover—his music, the bedrock of his life, had cracked like a wren’s egg.

  This evening, it would all happen—the Convergence, the handfasting between the Queen and her Unseelie monster betrothed—and Gareth was ordered to be there, whether he liked it or not.

  No wonder he’d fucked up the bridge.

  “Thanks, Josh, but they’re right. You deserve better, and I’ll try to get it together. I promise. After tomorrow—”

  “Why will that be any better?” Spence asked. “If you’re this whacked out just thinking about the Convergence, how are you gonna act when it’s a done deal? Hell, when you have to help make it happen.”

  Damned good question. “I don’t have to participate in the spell. I’m just playing at the feast.”

  “So you can nip out right after?” Hamish asked.

  I wish. “No. I have to stay for the ceremony. All fae are required to be present.”

  Hamish launched a drum stick into the air. “You think you can be there without wanting to stab a few Unseelie in the eye?” He grinned. “As I understand it, some of ’em only have one eye to start with.”

  “I can handle it.” I hope. As long as I don’t see that one. The one who kidnapped Niall.

  “Do you want company?” Josh asked. “I mean, we’ve played in Faerie before. We can do it this time too if it would help.”

  “Nah. Thanks, mate, but this is a fae-only event. Not even my brother-in-law can go, nor Mal’s fiancé.” Gareth winced when he remembered the vile words he’d flung at Mal and Bryce that night in the Stone Circle. He switched off his amp and sat down heavily on the beat-up orange sofa in the corner of the room. “The worst part will be facing my brothers. I was kind of a dick to them last time I saw them.”

  “‘Kind of’?” Tiff snorted. “From what you said, I’m surprised Mal didn’t drop-kick you out of the Circle—right after Alun ran you through.”

  Gareth sighed. “I’d have deserved both. But sometimes—”

  “That’s right, boyo. Sometimes you have to let them know how much hate you really have. For the Unseelie swine. For the Queen who failed you. For your sodding brothers—”

  No! Not my brothers. They’d put up with his moods, year after interminable year, granting him more indulgence than he had any right to deserve. Which filled him with shame. Which gave the Voices a way in again.

  Goddess, he missed Niall. When they’d been together, it had been the only time the Voices were truly silent.

  “You’ll be back in time for our next gigs, though, ri
ght?” Josh sat down next to him. “The second Portland show is the replacement for the one we had to cancel last summer. If we bail again—”

  “Don’t worry. The feast and the ceremony are the only requirements.” Then he could get the hells out of Faerie before he had a psychotic break.

  Eamon’s disclosure left Niall on edge, unable to decide whether he most wanted to see Gareth again or hide in the dungeons until the whole thing was over.

  No hiding in the dungeons. Not with Tiarnach and his Seelie accomplice there.

  When Gareth saw him again—if Niall had the courage to show himself—what would he think of the wreck Niall had become? He couldn’t do much about his wounds, but the least he could do was look less . . . feral.

  To save the Keep staff the burden of hauling water to his quarters, he skulked down to the bathing rooms used by the lesser fae, then stood staring at the steaming water as he realized he couldn’t go in without compromising the dressings on his back. Heilyn, a bauchan who acted as Eamon’s valet, found him there. Clucking in concern, they shooed Niall into the water, holding towels for him when he emerged. Then they trimmed Niall’s hair and rebandaged his back.

  He spent the rest of the day next to the fire in his bedroom, alternating between trying to make sense—unsuccessfully—of the Convergence spell documents and peeking in the looking glass, wondering what Gareth would see when they were face-to-face once more.

  He laid out the clothing Peadar had brought him earlier. Royal blue velvet and ermine? Gold bullion embroidery? Not bloody likely. He dug out one of his old, less ostentatious court outfits from his dusty trunk and struggled into it. The doublet was too tight through the chest and arms, putting agonizing pressure on his back. The breeches, though . . . they might work if—

  No. This was ridiculous. Danu’s tits, was he actually attempting to primp? What good would that do? Even if he were suddenly as perfectly beautiful as Eamon on the outside, the inside would still be rotten with his lies and deceptions.

  Best to make the outside match.

  He donned his old loose clothing again and made himself concentrate on the spell, his back to the window. But as the day aged, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder to check the sky for the green of midafternoon, when the pre-Convergence feast was to begin.

  Gareth. Alive. Here. All Niall had to do was walk down the corridor, cross the throne room, and enter the Great Hall and he’d see him again. He clutched the quill he’d been using to make desultory notes. Was he grateful? Overjoyed? Terrified? Yes and yes and yes.

  Why was it that the one thing you thought you wanted above everything else was the last thing you could face?

  I can just take a peek at him, I don’t have to talk to him yet. Niall wasn’t sure he was ready for that. He was not the same man that Gareth had known. He was broken. Scarred. Damaged. But above all, Unseelie and assassin.

  He’d never revealed those little details. One of the gifts from his human mother—other than his connection with the ethera that allowed him to understand and adapt to changes in the Outer World—was the ability to appear fully human without resorting to glamourie. He’d been masquerading as human when he’d tracked Gareth to the eisteddfod in Corwen, only half-serious about making good on his wager with Tiarnach to deprive the Seelie Queen of the one thing she had that the Unseelie court could never boast: a true bard.

  Tiarnach, being the unimaginative bastard that he was, probably thought he’d ordered Niall to kill Gareth. After meeting Gareth—and falling in love with him—Niall had hatched the brilliant notion of convincing Tiarnach that the way to score off the Queen was not to kill the bard, but to bring him to the Unseelie court as Niall’s consort instead.

  Tiarnach was not impressed by the brilliance of Niall’s plan. Niall had gotten chained in the forge instead, and had never seen Gareth again.

  But now, he had that chance. Would Gareth still be angry that Niall had left without a word? If Niall were to explain the reasons for both for the deception and the abandonment, would Gareth forgive him? He’d never thought to have the opportunity, not after Tiarnach’s last crazed announcement.

  I’ll never know if I don’t try.

  When Gareth crossed into Faerie late that afternoon, nausea roiling in his belly and anger prickling his skin, he wasn’t sure he could avoid the psychotic break after all.

  “You know what they did after they took him from you? What they always do to humans? They fucked him. As many times as they wanted. Every day. Every hour. And they made him want it. Made him beg for it. The glamourie can counteract the pathetic love you were so sure was yours.”

  “Shut up,” Gareth growled.

  “I didn’t say anything.” Alun, Gareth’s older brother, stepped out of the shadows under the trees.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Alun looked at him uneasily. Gareth didn’t blame him. How did you apologize for being a total arsehole to your brothers? Groveling is in your future. He’d have to face it, but it wouldn’t be easy.

  “This way.” Alun didn’t waste words. He was probably afraid that Gareth would launch into another tirade.

  Gritting his teeth, Gareth followed through the trees and across the unseen—but definitely felt—barrier from the Seelie sphere into the Unseelie.

  They walked along in silence, Gareth humming under his breath to keep the Voices at bay, forming guitar chords on his left thigh to keep his hands from shaking.

  Out of nowhere, a large gate suddenly barred their way. Mal stood outside it, thumbs hooked in his belt. Both hands. At least his brothers were whole and curse-free now.

  “That’s because both of them found truuuuue looooove. Something you’ll never find. You’ll be broken forever. Just like us.”

  “Gareth. You made it.” Mal made a slight motion, as if to hug Gareth in his old enthusiastic way, but hesitated.

  Bugger that. Gareth took two giant steps forward and grabbed Mal in a hug, burying his head on his shoulder. “Goddess, Mal, I’m so sorry for what I said to you.” He’d accused Mal of more than one unthinkable act—not only a treasonous conspiracy with the Unseelie, but also with forcing a permanent partnership on a non-fae, like some renegade old-school Sidhe. Although Mal’s lover wasn’t a defenseless human like Niall. He was a gods-bedamned druid.

  Oak and bloody thorn, Gareth still couldn’t wrap his head around the notion of his brother mated to a druid. Not as bad as if he were to take an Unseelie to bed, but druids and fae had been wary of one another for millennia for good reason.

  Mal chuckled, and his arms came around Gareth, patting him on the back. “No worries, mate. We all have our bad days, right? Bryce says I have enough of them for any ten other bastards. But if you’re going to give me a cuddle, at least get a haircut first. These bloody curls in my face—”

  Gareth pulled back. “Fuck you. I like it this way.”

  Mal’s grin dimmed a bit. “I know.”

  Niall liked it this way. “Never mind.” He turned to Alun and gave him a hug too, even though it was hampered by the sword sheathed along Alun’s back. “Thank you for standing by me.” He stepped away. “Thank you both.”

  “There was never a question, Gareth. You ought to know that.” Alun’s eyes were serious, his tone holding no recrimination. “We’re brothers. We’ve always got each other’s backs.”

  Mal slapped Alun’s shoulder. “Then we’d better get our backs inside before we’re late to the party. The Queen will forgive a lot, now that she’s crazy in love, but she’s still a stickler for punctuality.”

  Mal opened the gate and led them up to the Keep proper, where two guards—one a Daoine Sidhe from the Seelie court, and one a hulking Unseelie trow—flanked the open doors.

  Light spilled out onto the path, and inside fae milled about the entrance hall, some in the elaborate finery of high humanoid fae—both Seelie and Unseelie, Gareth suspected. The non-humanoid, in nothing more than mottled skin and fur, were de facto Unseelie, excluded f
rom the Seelie realm by the elder gods’ notion of what constituted beauty.

  Gareth took a deep breath, drawing strength from the presence of his brothers beside him, of the harp on his shoulder—his brothers and his music, the two things he could always depend on.

  “You sure about that, boyo?”

  Gareth bit back a retort and marched forward. “Let’s do this.” To drown out the Voices, he attempted to keep up desultory conversation with his brothers, while avoiding contact with the Unseelie as unobtrusively as possible. The humanoid ones were nearly indiscernible from Seelie courtiers. The only differences were the side glances and sneers they cast at the Kendrick brothers as they made their way through the corridor.

  “Great Hall’s yonder.” Mal pointed to a vast archway off to the left where the tide of chattering fae was already heading. “The feast will be there. They’ve even got a minstrels’ gallery, believe it or not. The old Unseelie King must have snatched his architect from the Plantagenets.” He winced. “Sorry, Gareth. Bad joke.”

  “No worries, Mal.” In truth, Gareth was relieved. If he retreated to the gallery for his command performance, he wouldn’t have to be among the crowd.

  The brothers were borne along with the throng, which began to disperse to the tables that ringed the room. Mal nodded at the far end of the hall, to a dais shoulder height above the floor. “We’ll be sitting yonder, along with Eamon and the Queen, and a couple of the Unseelie honchos. Fionbarr, the mage who’s casting the spell; Eamon’s brother; a bloke who’s the Lord High Something-or-other—”

  “Lovely.” A Seelie page passed by with a tray of silver goblets full of wine. All three of the Kendricks took one. Gareth downed half of his at one go. I’ll need another one of those soon. “I assume we’ll be on the Queen’s left?”