Page 61

61

The weight of her brother’s body strained Tanwen’s arms.

Yet the physical pain was nothing compared to the devastation coursing through her veins. Blinking back her endless tears, she tightened her grip on the strap that supported her brother, summoning all her strength to hold on.

She had no idea how she managed to keep standing, to keep moving, but her chance to properly mourn would have to wait until they were through the Cactus Forest.

Ré had awoken, forcing them to escape into the sharp covering of cacti. The air had been cool but dry, a sweet aroma that contradicted the brutality of their surroundings.

Spikes protruded at every angle, their route taking them through a thorny burrow of harsh shadows, causing them to suffer more than one scrape and cut.

But none of them complained, not even the princess, whose wings she had agreed to bind tight at her back.

Their only direction from Bosyg had been to go forward.

So Tanwen, her father, Huw, and Azla had silently carried her brother, Aberthol, forward.

Yet despite their quiet procession, Tanwen could still sense her father’s and the princess’s sorrow and Huw’s pensive worry.

All of which only weighed down her own grief, compounded it.

Unwillingly, Tanwen glanced to the wrapped form swaying at her side.

Her brother.

His broken and bloodied form was covered in seafoam silk. The material had been an offering from Azla, torn from her own skirts.

Suddenly, Tanwen could not breathe, her air lost in a rising sob.

Her brother was dead.

Her Aberthol gone.

Together with Eli.

Grief was a cleaver lodged relentlessly in Tanwen’s chest.

Each death was on her hands, but most of all Aberthol’s.

She had failed to kill the king.

Had failed her brother in slaying his monster.

And it had cost him his life.

Her steps faltered, her arms about to give out, when she noticed the rapidly rising fog.

The group stopped, staring at the thick gray mist.

Beyond, the cacti were no longer visible.

Nothing was visible, in fact.

Only the touch of chill, a pressure of warning that said Turn back.

Tanwen met her father’s gaze, ignoring how red and puffy his eyes were from crying.

“We go forward,” he scratched out. “As Bosyg said.”

Tanwen nodded.

Tightening her grip on her brother, she stepped forward.

The transition was abrupt—a squeezing pressure in her mind, ears popping, and a metallic taste rushing across her tongue.

And then, where she and her companions had been traveling through a thorny forest, they were no longer. The clouds lifted, unveiling the most breathtaking landscape Tanwen had ever seen.

The sun bathed the territory of the Low Gods in a radiant glow. The azure sky was certainly not of Cādra, for it sparkled with a brilliance that gave away the ancient magic of this land.

Clouds drifted lazily, their colors shifting between pristine white, soft pink, and warm orange. Even the animals were extraordinary, with birds boasting vibrant plumage and deer grazing in a nearby meadow, their fur adorned with shocking patterns and colors.

A glimmering river wound through the landscape, adding to the surreal beauty. In the distance, a towering forest rose, its leaves a dazzling mix of green and blue, completing the otherworldly scene.

For one relieving moment, Tanwen allowed herself to marvel.

To breathe.

“Tanwen!” The echo of a familiar voice drew her attention to the forest line. “Gabreel?”

Her mother was dwarfed by the large trees, but it was unquestioningly her mother, with her dark hair that matched Tanwen’s, her long legs, and her pale skin.

Tanwen’s heart gave a leap just as Aisling ran forward, down the small hill toward them.

Tanwen hardly registered their group gently lowering Aberthol’s body to the ground or she and her father rushing forward before colliding into Aisling.

They fell to their knees as they embraced, cried, allowed relieved laughter.

Aisling leaned back to kiss her father. A passionate, desperate kiss that made Tanwen turn away, cheeks flushing.

And then Tanwen was tugged back into her mother’s arms, her hug backbreaking but healing.

Eventually Aisling drew away, holding Tanwen at arm’s length, wide smile lighting up her features. Tanwen took this moment to notice the change in her mother. Her face had regained its fullness with a flush of health to her skin, a spark of her old self returned.

“Where’s Thol?” her mother asked, gaze searching the group behind them.

Tanwen’s breath of reprieve left in a whoosh, her agony returning to claw open her chest.

She knew the moment her mother saw the wrapped body, for Aisling’s features fell, her brows pinching as a silent gasp left her lips.

“ No ,” she whispered, eyes slicing back to Tanwen before Gabreel.

When neither of them replied, she pushed to her feet.

“ No no no no no no. ” She stumbled forward.

Gabreel was quickly at her side, to hold up either her or himself—Tanwen couldn’t say.

“It happened after we escaped,” Tanwen heard her father mutter. “He tried to use the gliders again when there was no elixir left.”

Aisling collapsed beside her son’s body, hands shaking as they fluttered over his wrappings. “No,” she continued to utter in disbelief. “No.”

“I’m so sorry.” Gabreel knelt at her side, his expression ghostly as tears streamed down his face.

“No!” Aisling threw herself over Aberthol, lifting him into her arms and rocking him as she sobbed. “My baby, my boy.” She smoothed her hand over his wrapped head, over and over, as if the gesture might wake him.

Tanwen’s despair was a poison slinking through the air, pouring into her lungs, suffocating with each drag of her breaths. Her vision was gone from the spilling of her tears, hot and branding down her cheeks.

She kept her distance, terrified to enter the cloud of devastation that was her father, mother, and brother, fearing she might never find her way out.

After a moment, she sensed company moving to either side of her. Cool, thin fingers laced into her hand, and a strong arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Huw and Azla.

They had come, carried her brother, entered Drygul, and stood by as silent supports.

As more tears fell, Tanwen squeezed Azla’s hand while lifting her other to place it atop Huw’s on her shoulder.

Thank you, the gesture said.

We are here, their embrace replied.

A movement at the forest line redirected Tanwen’s gaze.

From the depths of the woods, forms began to emerge, gradually stepping into the soft embrace of the morning light.

Tanwen frowned, feverishly blinking to clear her vision.

Her heart stilled, mind spiraling in astonished confusion.

Their numbers spilled into the hundreds, a crowd of mismatched forms.

Some boasted odd, curling horns that were of no clan Tanwen had ever seen, while others possessed only half-formed horns or none at all. A few displayed full majestic wings, while others bore one or four. A few hovered as if they could fly despite no plumage; others arrived as a buzzing cloud of birds or bees before reforming into a perfectly normal-looking Süra.

But Tanwen knew none of them were Süra or Volari.

They were Mütra.

A horde of Mütra.

No, thought Tanwen, pulse thundering.

An army.