Page 130 of The Moorwitch

“Indeed. I should have killed him when I took his throne, but I was too soft. I have always been too soft. He told me it would be my undoing, and he was right.”

“You’re not soft,” I reply. “You’re ... capable of love. I know how you cared for the moorwitches, who came here to learn from you. I know what Liam North was to you. And I know about Sylvie.”

She stiffens, her eyes snapping to my face, and on the ground, Conrad draws in a sharp breath.

“She’s your daughter,” I say. “And you loved her enough to send her away from you, to protect her. You watch her from afar, and she knows you only as a ghost. So Iknowyou’re not like Lachlan, and that you can yet feel love. You must love Conrad too—you’ve known him all his life. He’s danced in your revels, stood guard at your doorstep. So don’t do this to him.Please.”

“And what ought I to do, then, little witch? Lead my people out of Elfhame, to their slaughter or surrender? Then wage war on your kind, as my brother wants? How many of you mortals shall I snuff out before I meet my end with your iron in my belly?What ought I to do?”

Even as she scorns me, she seems to plead for a true answer. Her eyes pin me in place, vibrant as cut emerald.

I stare at her wordlessly. I do not know. I cannot begin to think of how this can end in any way that doesn’t involve people dying, myself and Conrad first.

Morgaine closes her eyes, then shudders. “We are too late. He is here.”

The air behind her fragments, separating like fibers being pulled apart. For a moment, I see the now-familiar chaos of the thread-worldthrough the gap. And then Lachlan steps through, alone and shining in his silver armor, his sword sheathed.

Morgaine turns to meet him, and for a terrible moment, their eyes lock and the whole of Elfhame seems suspended between them.

I dart behind the queen and throw myself beside Conrad, pulling at the cobwebs clinging to him.

“You came back,” he says, whether in appreciation or admonishment I cannot tell.

“Of course I did, you fool.” I kiss him gently, quickly, a desperate press of lips and breath. Cradling his heavy head in my hand, I touch my forehead to his. “I left my heart here.”

“That’s all right.” A languid smile spreads across his parched lips. He does not seem entirely conscious, but still manages to murmur back, “You can have mine.”

I am as weak as he, yet I hold his head to my shoulder, my other hand pressed to the bare skin of his back. He is pallid, even his hair drained of its shine. I can feel his pulse fluttering weakly in his chest, and I wonder how much of him she stole.

Morgaine doesn’t seem to notice us. Her brother consumes her whole attention, and to them, we may as well be mossy lumps.

“Brother,” she says.

Lachlan’s smile is slow and self-assured, a cat certain of his prey. “I got tired of waiting for you, my dear sister.”

“Did you really think I would simply lay down my crown?”

They are remarkably cool with one another, as if they were exchanging chilly glares over a fine dinner, and not engaged in a standoff for a kingdom.

“Where’s Sylvie?” Conrad whispers.

“She’s safe, for now. Do you think you can walk?”

He gives a dry laugh. His skin is cold to the touch, as if he’s been walking in the snow.

“You weren’t supposed to come back,” he says. “You were supposed to take her and run away.”

“Things got ... complicated, I’m afraid.”

Lachlan steps toward Morgaine, his hand going to his sword. She reacts with a flick of her hands, and twin daggers of obsidian, their hilts studded with blood rubies, appear in her palms.

“Not another move, brother,” she warns.

He scowls and brushes his shoulder, flicking off a spider. “I’m not here to bargain or offer treaties. Step down or be torn down. That is all. Take the first route and live as my prisoner. Take the second, and you die in your hole in the ground.”

“We could have been happy,” she says. “We could have lived here forever, if you hadn’t slaughtered my moorwitches. It would have been a small existence, but not a bad one.”

“Can a lion lower himself to play house cat?” With that, he lunges at her, drawing his sword in a bright arc of silver. She meets him with daggers raised, and the clash they make is like a flash of lightning.