Page 131 of The Moorwitch

Conrad and I pull back as the din of the faerie battle grows louder. I hear the rip of shredding cloth, and peek over to see more fae threadwalking out of thin air, appearing on the grass and in the enclave below. Screams sound from the root-houses and are followed by the clash of more weapons, silver and obsidian and stone. Lachlan’s army is equipped and prepared; Morgaine’s is caught off guard, in the midst of panic and terror. It is easy to tell which way this battle will go, even with the great spider-wolves streaming out of the Wenderwood to hurl themselves on the enemy.

The queen gives no ground. She fights as well as her brother, and they move as I’ve never seen anything move before, faster than the eye can follow, from one end of the Dwirra hill to the other. Morgaine has slashed the sides of her skirt, freeing her legs so she can dance around Lachlan like one of her spiders, lightning quick, stabbing and retreating again. He, meanwhile, is a tower, unassailable, defending her slashes and returning blows with devastating power. There is not a single misstep between them, no clumsy stumbles, no awkward parries. They fight as if they were gods, with terrifying precision. Every blow they trade seemsto make the very air shudder in response. Leaves from the Dwirra twirl around them; their smooth spinning raises whirlwinds that rustle the great Tree’s branches.

“She’s getting weaker,” Conrad says, though I don’t know how he sees it. “All her people are. They rely on the Dwirra for strength, while the Briar King and his exiles have grown independent of it.”

I look up at the Tree.

If Morgaine falls, war will follow. Blackswire will be the first battle, and it will be horribly brief. Lachlan will burn every house to the ground, murder every person and child in it, and move on to the next. My people will not know what hit them. Not more than a handful of them truly believe in the fae at all, but a week from now, the fires will burn from north to south, and Fates only know what the final death toll will be. But it will be great.

“We have to help her,” I say.

“How? Look at us.” He is bitter and resigned, and still so weak.

A tempest of defiance roars through my chest, sharply probing the bleeding fractures of my heart, filling my lungs with hot anger.

Enough!

I am done being pulled about by other people’s strings.

I wish I had the power of the Fates to reweave the world, to pick up the threads of reality and—

“Oh!” I gasp.

Conrad frowns, confused, as I dig through my pockets until I find the shard from the portal glass, the one I’d picked up off the grass in the stone circle, and had used to cut Lachlan’s spells out of Sylvie’s hair.

“What good is that?” Conrad asks.

Maybe it’s no good at all. But Fates, I have totry.

When I tilt it toward my face, I see it again—the thread-world, with its teeming, festering strings swirling all about. It is a very small window, and certainly no means of escape, but it just might be enough.

All it takes to change your fate is a bit of thread.

“Here goes,” I say. I’m starting to feel strange. My head seems to be lifting off my shoulders, and the sound of the battle is growing dim in my ears. I feel as if somewhere deep inside me, some crucial thread is frayed through, about to snap.

It’s nearly midnight.The thought is vague, as if spoken by someone else, and oddly emotionless.I have to hurry.

“Rose, are you all right?”

I blink at Conrad, andfeelmy heart slow, a clock winding down to its final ticks.

“I . . . I think I’m about to . . .”

“Connie!”

We both freeze at the sound of the voice that rings across the hilltop. Even Morgaine and Lachlan fall silent, spaced yards apart after another parry.

All of us turn to stare at Sylvie North standing in full view, her now-short black hair curling around her cheeks, her emerald green eyes wide and full of fear and yet a little wonder too, wonder at the faerie king and queen engaged in a battle right out of her storybooks.

But the fae are staring at her too: Morgaine with naked astonishment, her breast heaving, lips parted as she takes in the sight of her daughter. And Lachlan—with sudden cunning, as he looks from Morgaine to the girl.

The Briar King moves first, diving at Sylvie with his sword raised. Morgaine screams and lunges after him, but it is Conrad who rises to block the faerie’s blade. It is Conrad, teeth clenched and eyes dark with fury, who raises his arm and takes the edge of Lachlan’s sword to his own flesh.

“No!” Sylvie screams.

Blood pours down Conrad’s arm, the laird grunting with pain but holding his ground, blocking his sister from Lachlan’s murderous intent. The faerie leans on him, putting his weight into the sword and driving it deeper into Conrad’s arm, until it strikes bone.

But Conrad does not yield an inch. The veins in his neck stand out like vines, and his eyes are wide and glazed with what must be shattering pain. I watch with horror fracturing me in two, the whole of me frozen in place, unable to even cry out for the knot in my throat.