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Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret she has managed to sheathe from all faery alike.
Until now, that is.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is shredded to bits by the malevolent interfering of fa...
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SAOIRSE KEPT STRAIGHT, HER FEATURES EXPRESSIONLESS.
She learned soon enough that she had been the first Mortal to present herself to the Alder King. And consequently, she had learned why The Alder King paraded them so before his Court. His Court decided who the Alder King was to keep. Saoirse did not know if she was lucky to have gone first, and thus been chosen as a potential Changeling to win the King's favor, or if they truly found it amusing that she thought a mere painting was talent enough. All she knew, as time went by with agonizing slowness, was that her talent was an oddity.
One Mortal male by the name of Roane had presented his skill of archery, which had roused snickers from the nobles. The Alder King had taken to propping an elbow upon his throne, nestling his chin on his upturned palm. He looked powerful, and he looked indescribably bored. A dangerous combination.
Saoirse had not been given a place to sit. Instead, she stood against the wall, flanked on either side by guardsmen, with nobles a hair's breadth away. The faery closest to Saoirse so happened to be the Alder King's sister -- a creature that had not been mentioned in fables before. Saoirse hazarded a glance at the resplendent faery, taking in her appearance once more. A slight build, as if sculpted of ivory, with flesh that was nearly translucent -- the delicate tracery of turquoise veins on that pearly flesh visible to all through the folds of her delicate gown. A rosebud smile curved her lips, but just as it had on her brother, looked sinister and dastardly. It was her hair, however, that kept Saoirse enraptured. They were not locks of blue-black, as Saoirse had assumed, but rather, a silky, heavy plumage of blue-black raven feathers.
Saoirse's mouth puckered in a frown, and unwittingly, her eyes were drawn to the King, who, too, wore a cloak of raven feathers. At second glance, his clawed hand appeared more a disfigurement -- of bird talons, and a scale-covered length of wrist. It was as due to their relatedness, they bore similar disfigurements.
As if they were a Clan, bearing distinguishing marks.
A Clan.
Saoirse inhale was inaudible, her fingers knitting into the vermillion fabric swarming the length of her wrists. Clans, of course it was so. The Alder King's Court was divided, nobles segregated by characteristics. She cast another furtive glance towards the Noblewoman, and decided that they were likely of a Clan of Ravens. But who determined the Clans? Was it Flesh magic that allowed fey to project the disfigurements?
"—Enough," a swift rumble that beckoned a quake in the earth beneath Saoirse's feet sounded.
Saoirse rose her head to peer at The Alder King, finding his tempestuous eyes narrowed in ire. "Enough, Mortal," he repeated with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I tire of you and I grow weary of your useless skill."
