CHAPTER 95: AT THE BANQUET HALL

The banquet hall roared with life.

Long trestle tables groaned under platters of roasted venison, steaming haunches of pork, baskets of dark bread and thick slabs of yellow butter. The smell of meat and woodsmoke mingled with the tang of spilled ale.

Minstrels played a lively tune from the corner, trying to be heard over the shouts and laughter of the High King’s warriors.

Áed Findliath himself sat in the great oak chair at the center of the high table, the gold torc at his neck gleaming in the firelight.

Beside him, as though he were some long-lost son, sat Glasán.

The boy looked stiff, hands folded on the table, eyes darting around the room like he was half-ready to bolt. On either side of the hall, the King’s cliarthairí raised their drinking horns and slammed them down, demanding another round.

The King’s voice cut through the din.

"So, lad," Áed said, turning to Glasán with a broad grin. "Tell me of yer people. Who’s your father?"

Glasán hesitated, then spoke clearly. "His name is Tadhg mac Ailill."

The King slapped his knee with a bark of laughter. "Hah! I know that bugger! Then you must be the son of that fellow and the noblewoman he wed, aye?"

Glasán’s eyes dropped to the table. "No... my mother was someone else."

The shift in the room was immediate. The chatter stilled, then dropped to a low murmur. Men and women leaned toward one another, voices hushed but carrying all the same.

At the lower table, Aphrodite leaned toward Hermes and murmured, "They’re thinking it."

Hermes nodded slightly. He could see it too, faint shimmering bubbles blooming over heads in the crowd, each one filled with fragments of rumor. A woman by the shore. A flash of a tail. Sea-foam. A merrow.

BAM!

Áed’s palm came down on the table with a crack like a dropped shield. The hall fell silent.

The King’s smile was wide, but his eyes were sharp. "Let the boy speak, and keep your wagging tongues still."

Glasán swallowed, glancing between the crowd and the King. "My mother died when I was fifteen."

From the high table, Hermes, Aphrodite, and Apple saw the memory stir inside his head.

A cave.

The roar of the ocean just beyond the mouth, salt spray drifting in. His mother, hair pale as sand, eyes green as wet moss, sitting on a rock worn smooth by the tides. She looked human... entirely human. No scales, no gills, no fins.

Yet she was otherworldly all the same.

He was younger in the memory, gangly and unsure. He had told her he was being trained as a warrior now, and that he was afraid. He would rather live as a merrow like her.

She had smiled at him then, sadness tugging at the corners of her mouth. "When it becomes too hard, or when you truly wish to be like me, go to the cave where your father and I would meet."

They saw it through his eyes, the cave as it was then. The opening faced the sea, and deeper inside, a grotto glittered in half-darkness.

The day before the Viking battle, he had gone there. The air had been cool, damp. Water dripped from the stone ceiling into shallow pools. At the far end, near the grotto wall, a strange hole shimmered faintly as though a sliver of moonlight had been trapped inside.

Around it grew plants he had never seen before. Their leaves were thick and slick, glowing faintly green, with clusters of small, round fruit.

Glasán had not eaten them. Instead, he stepped closer to the rift, drawn as if by a tide.

A sudden gust burst from the hole, carrying a scent like brine and blood. His mouth had opened in shock, and the wind rushed inside. He coughed violently, clutching his throat, stumbling back in fear...

And that had been enough. Enough for the Sirentone to take root in him.

The memory dissolved, leaving Glasán quietly picking at his food.

At the lower table, Somner frowned at the look Hermes, Aphrodite, and Apple were sharing.

"What?"

"Later." Hermes said.

Somner’s scowl deepened. "Later, my arse. You lot are keeping something from me."

"I’ll tell you," Hermes replied. "Just... later."

Somner muttered under his breath, but let it drop.

At the high table, the doors at the far end of the hall opened.

Four young women entered, moving with the measured grace of those raised to be observed.

Their hair shone in the firelight... gray, fiery red, chestnut, and raven black... and their dresses shimmered with the work of fine weavers.

The room’s noise dimmed to a respectful hush as they approached the dais.

"My daughters!" Áed declared, rising halfway from his chair and gesturing to them with an expansive sweep of his arm. His grin was as wide as ever, but now there was a glint in his eyes that made Hermes uneasy.

"They are the pride of my house, each one as fine as the summer sun. And, Glasán..." the King leaned in, his voice dropping just enough to make the boy lean closer.

"...Which one would you prefer to marry?"

The question struck like a stone in a pond. Ripples of shock spread through the hall.

Glasán stared at the King, then at the daughters, then back at the King again. "I... my lord, I—"

Áed clapped him on the back, laughing so loud it nearly drowned the minstrels. "Ha! I like a lad who takes his time to answer. Think on it, boy. Tonight we feast, tomorrow we talk of unions."

He poured Glasán a cup of mead himself, pressing it into his hands.

Down at the lower table, Hermes was watching carefully. Through Mindbloom, he could see Glasán’s thoughts spinning... confusion, disbelief, and something almost like panic.

Apple glanced sideways at Hermes. "You think the King means it?"

Hermes didn’t look away from Glasán. "I think with Áed, you never know if he’s serious... until it’s too late."

The hall roared again, the moment already being swept away in the tide of laughter, drink, and song. But Hermes could not shake the feeling that this night had shifted something in ways none of them could yet see.