Page 49 of The Blood Queen

Who is speaking? It’s not the thousands of overlapping spider voices from before. It’s…

Movement from behind the throne.

Samson grabs my arm, ready to throw me behind him, but before he can do more than that, we see—

One long, red, pointed leg. Another, another, another, another. Eight legs, each longer than my entire body, stretch out behind the throne, tapping over the gilded red wood. A moment later, the enormous body of a gigantic spider peeks over the top.

“Stay with me,” I whisper to Samson, my wide eyes never leaving the giant spider cresting the throne, its long legs perched on the armrests as it lowers its hulking body over the back, toward the seat. Atop its round head, two bulbous, glittering eyes turn toward us. There are two more smaller eyes perched to the side and a row of four tiny ones below, just above the creature’s fangs. Some spiders, even some of the ones in this room, have a bit of fuzz to them, but this monstrous one’s body is as shiny as the lacquered throne, black streaked with vivid, bloodred crimson.

Samson doesn’t speak, but I feel him behind me.

The spider settles into the throne. Is… Is this the queen? Was she not killed but transformed?

Either way, respect goes a long way in the fae realm. I sink into a curtsy. A heartbeat later, Samson bows.

“Rise,” the spider says, its voice oddly hollow. “I am not the queen. I am the Damhan-Allaidh.”

Before, the spiders had all been using the fae language, but damhan-allaidh is the Scots Gaelic word for spider, although it’s been elevated to mean something more. I can tell from the way she said the Damhan-Allaidh. The word translates literally as fierce little stag. Of all the names the Scots could give the wee eight-legged creepy-crawlies, they share a name with deer.

Beira is the goddess of winter, yes, but stags call to her like spiders call to the Faerie Queen. And that same word—damh—could apply to horses or oxen.

The highest fae in the realm are all linked to the wildest parts of Scotland.

It’s one more way that the fae need Scotland, not the other way around. I have always known that my power comes from the wilderness, from nature. But maybe that’s true of all fae—or at least of the most powerful ones.

The Damhan-Allaidh clacks her fangs at me. “We have been waiting for you. Ssssso long.”

This is old magic, powerful. The little spiders are like the fae princes; the Damhan-Allaidh is like the Faerie Queen.

I bow my head, showing respect, waiting for the Damhan-Allaidh to continue.

“We ssssssaw you.”

I dare a look to Samson, whose eyes widen in confusion. “Spying?” he mouths.

“We ssssssaw you in the plaid.”

At that word—plaid—all the tiny spiders in this throne room start buzzing with activity, shooting webs and soaring above us, skittering over the walls, tapping their wee legs on the floor. Even the few that remained on Samson fly off him, long strings of silk like shining gossamer in the still air, dancing like the ribbons of a maypole.

The Damhan-Allaidh clatters her many pointed feet on the lacquered throne. Impatient.

Plaid—cloth. My eyes dart around, and then I see it.

A loom.

A small lap loom is cast to the side of the throne in a way that reminds me exactly of Queen Mary’s embroidery, how she’d pull on threads during boring council meetings.

How I’d use my magic to communicate with her by those very threads.

Gasping, I rush to the loom. The spider rears up, four legs waving in the air with enough ferocity that I stumble back into Samson.

“Take heeeeed,” the Damhan-Allaidh says.

“Is it—” Samson starts.

“The Red Cap weapon,” I breathe.

“No.” The Damhan-Allaidh’s voice cuts through the tension.