Page 75 of The Changeling

My mother gazed back at me out of the water, her winged brows raised in haughty surprise. Her crown was red with haws, her masses of black hair rippling away into the shadows. ‘Do you wish me to teach you how to cast a curse?’ she asked sweetly.

I shook my head. ‘Nay. No curses. I want to ken what you meant when you said I was in danger.’

‘The queen has lost her throne, just as I told you she would, and soon she will lose her life.’

‘But … how? Do you mean the earl of Moray will have her killed?’

‘He is a clever, subtle man. If she should die, I am sure he would be far away, and no trail would lead back to him.’

‘You mean he would ensure there was no-one left alive who could accuse him?’

Quickthorn inclined her head.

‘But he canna just kill her! She’s the queen …’

‘Not anymore.’

‘But … there’d be an outcry! An investigation.’

‘I doubt he plans an assassin with a knife, Rue. He’s too clever for that. No, already he is assembling evidence against her that will implicate her in the murder of her husband.’

‘What evidence? She is innocent!’ I cried.

‘If no evidence can be found, I am sure it can be fabricated,’ she answered indifferently. ‘And by that time there will be no-one left to speak on her behalf. They will be dead or fled. I suggest you be one of the latter.’

‘How do you ken all this?’ I demanded.

‘I watch and I listen,’ she answered. ‘I can teach you how. You have a gift, Rue, a powerful gift. Few are so blessed. Come with me now, leave your doomed queen and claim your inheritance. I will make you a great queen and seer.’ She held out a hand to me, and the water stirred as if disturbed by her fingertips.

‘I canna leave her! I have to warn her. Help her.’

‘You cannot help her. I have seen what lies ahead for her, and whatever road she travels, it ends the same way. Your work here is done. Now it is time for you to begin the task of freeing our people from their curse. In one year’s time, the price must be paid again. The throne must have blood. You are the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and the only one who can stop the slaughter. That is all that matters.’

‘What do you mean, the price? What price?’

‘The blood tithe that we must honour every seven years.’

I frowned, trying to catch the echo of a memory. A line of an old song:

Seven years you’ve lain here with me,

now pay the price or quickly flee,

tonight the dark adversary

will demand his devilish fee.

The ballad of Thomas the Rhymer and the Queen of Elfland. I had sung it many times, and never connected the price Thomas must pay with the price in the faery queen’s prophecy.

Other memories floated up from the depths of my mind. The day I was born … the faery queen had stolen baby Sorcha … when Nan had forced her to give her back, she had taken Lord Patrick’s daughter instead … and seven years later, a young man had seen the faeries dancing in the wood at midnight and had gone to join them and not come home again … another seven years passed and I had run away from home. Another lass had gone missing the same night, taken from her bed, never to be seen again …

A cold shudder rattled me. The throne must have blood …

Queen Quickthorn was still speaking, her voice low and urgent. ‘In a year and a day we must pay it again, unless three die willingly, by water, fire and blade. You must come now, else all I have done will be undone, all will be lost. Ruis, you must come!’

I could not bear for her to try to command me. ‘I willna! I willna come. You canna make me.’

She flared her nostrils. ‘You are a fool! A reckless, heedless fool! Do you not understand? The curse cannot be broken without you. I gave birth to six girls before you and killed them all, so that you, my seventh, could be my heir. Do not dare defy me! I will make you regret it; I will make everyone you love suffer. Do not underestimate my power. If I can bring about the mortal queen’s downfall, if I can put my own son on her throne, think what I can do to your precious mam, your Nan. They will die, I tell you, and for nothing!’