Page 10

T heir departure from Wyldraíocht was unceremonious and quiet, the group walking single file through the silent halls of the Undercastle while the Unseelie Court still slept.

Only Elasha, the apothecarist, waited at the base of the spiral stairs to see them off.

She gave each a kind nod when they passed, but Raif hung back.

As Aisling rounded the first curve of the steps, she watched the captain place a gentle kiss on the inside of Elasha’s wrist. Eyes shining, she pulled his hand down and pressed it to her stomach.

He flattened his palm against it, spreading his fingers wide and holding it there for a beat before he let it drop to his side and turned from her.

Her blonde curls shifted forward when she lowered her head to hide the tears that spilled over her cheeks as Raif began ascending the steps behind them.

“Did you know that was a thing?” Rodney asked quietly.

Aisling shook her head; she hadn’t. Her heart ached for Elasha, and for Raif—and what might have been their unborn child.

If she thought it would have swayed his decision, she might have told him not to come.

But Raif was a soldier, first and foremost, and unfailingly loyal to his king.

What he felt for Elasha would always come second to that.

Just as the rest of her own life, now, would always come second to the fate that was written for her.

The dusky sky cast the forest in a deep purple hue.

It was a still night, calm, but bitterly cold.

A layer of snow that covered the forest floor had frozen partway, forming an icy crust that crunched noisily as the group trudged through the trees.

Ahead, the moon gate was glowing; the semi-circle space beneath the stone arch swam with silver light.

It twisted and undulated, flowing in eddies like shimmering, viscous liquid.

It reminded Aisling of a toy she’d had as a child—a rubber ball, filled with glycerin and glitter powder that swirled when she tossed it in the air.

The magic bounded in by those stones was loud, too. It hummed, similar to the crystals that surrounded the Diviner. This hum was discordant, though, and grating. It wasn’t the deep, resonant sound that filled her cavern. Sítheach’s magic had been a symphony; this was little more than white noise.

As the group approached, it dawned on Aisling that this had always been the purpose of the structure.

Kael had only ever known the great stone edifice to be a relic, but he’d told her as they sat together on its steps that night that he felt the Low One there stronger than he did even before the altar in The Cut.

It made sense, seeing it filled with that iridescent, rippling magic: the divide between Wyldraíocht and Elowas was weaker there, much like the Veil in the Thin Places between the Wild and her own realm.

And now it was open. And now a human, a púca, a soldier, and a Prelate were prepared to walk through it.

It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke.

They did so wordlessly: first Raif, sword drawn and held at the ready. Then Lyre with his cloak pulled tight around him. When it was only Aisling and Rodney left standing together on the threshold, she looked up at him. He was just as nervous as she was.

“Together?” he asked, offering his hand. Aisling took it and squeezed his fingers. Her throat was too tight to speak, so she just nodded. With a final breath—one last, brief moment of hesitation—Rodney pulled her forward.

Stepping through the doorway into Elowas felt nothing like the silken brush of passing through the Veil. This was like electricity, like plunging into freezing water. It took Aisling’s body several moments to recover from the shock of it. And then, several more to get her bearings.

At first, there was only darkness.

The god realm was caught in a perpetual state of murky twilight. There was no moon overhead, but there were stars—distant, tiny pinpricks that barely punctuated the dark gray sky. The result was a muddy blend of colors, all varying shades of black with little definition.

Clumsily, half-blind, Aisling plunged a hand into her pack, digging frantically for the flashlight she’d thrown in at the last minute.

She pulled it out and jammed her thumb against the button, and…

nothing. Not even a flicker. She hit it against her palm once, twice, then tried again.

Still, the bright beam never materialized.

Even after preparing as well as she could, measuring the utility of each item against the space it would take and the weight it would add, she was still no match for Elowas.

She had no business thinking she could have been.

Her heartbeat quickened as hot tears burned in the corners of her eyes.

Aisling tried to keep the panic localized to her chest, holding it in the spaces between her ribs so it couldn’t spill out into the rest of her body.

So that it didn’t make her legs weak, or her hands tremble, or her mind busy.

She forced a breath down her throat, into her lungs.

Then forced it back out again. Sucking air in, then pushing it out. In, out.

A firm hand on her arm steadied her momentarily. Aisling looked up and found Raif standing there. Though she could see little more than his outline, his presence alone was commanding enough to slow her reeling thoughts.

“Leave that,” he said of the flashlight. “Just stay close. Your eyes will adapt.”

Aisling dropped the flashlight to the ground, instead lowering her hand to the hilt of Kael’s dagger at her hip.

She didn’t unsheathe it, but let her fingers play over the pommel.

It was sturdy and cool. She pressed the pad of her thumb against the tiny, intricate engravings there, imagining the patterns imprinting on her skin.

It took her several long moments to regain control.

Once she had, Aisling raised her head and looked out in the direction Raif, Lyre, and Rodney were now scanning.

A windswept plain of black sand stretched and stretched before them, vast and flat and so dark there was hardly any horizon line where the land blended straight into the inky sky.

It could have extended for miles, or mere yards—her depth perception was so thrown off that for a second, she thought she might be able to reach out and touch the other end of the realm.

Lyre’s vision was quickest to adjust, so he was the first amongst them to see the copse of trees ahead.

“There,” he said, pointing. Aisling could barely see the tip of his finger when he held his arm outstretched.

Lyre led the group in the direction he’d indicated, but it was a slow march forward.

A biting wind whipped past, undeterred on that flat, empty plain.

With every step, their feet sank deeper into the black sand— or was it snow?

It felt just as cold, though it wasn’t wet, nor did it melt underfoot.

It had all the properties of sand, yet it froze Aisling to her core.

“How far away do you think that is?” Rodney asked as he pushed himself up after falling for the second time. Despite wiping his hands again and again on his jeans, grains of sand stuck stubbornly to his palms.

Lyre either ignored him or couldn’t hear his question. His shoulders were raised, and his chin tucked. He grasped his hood to keep it from blowing off, but his robe billowed wildly behind him with each icy gust of wind. It howled as it passed them by, a low, haunting sound.

Beneath the shrieking wind, there were other sounds too.

They were distant, and intermittent. Though she couldn’t make out exactly what she was hearing, Aisling felt sure of one thing—one unsettling, disconcerting thing: they were not alone on that plain.

She could sense it all around them: a presence, or presences.

Watching, waiting. Stalking them, as a predator would its prey.

Things flitted in and out of the periphery of her vision, but each time she whipped her head around to catch a glimpse, there was nothing there. At least, nothing she could see.

Raif felt it too. He kept his sword aloft, eyes scanning back and forth as the group inched forward.

Periodically, he stepped aside to fall back and survey the path they’d already carved.

Once, Aisling made the mistake of turning with him.

The doorway had been devoured by darkness, and their footsteps had been swallowed by the sand.

There was no telling which direction they’d come from—which direction would take them home.

There was truly no going back now.

Slowly, slowly, the copse expanded and grew as they approached, rippling outward and becoming an entire forest of ugly, twisted pines.

The trees were so tall and dark that they, like the sand, blended into the night sky above where their tips seemed nearly to brush against it.

But on the forest floor, once they’d crossed the tree line, it was somehow lighter.

There amongst the pines, if Aisling didn’t look up at the canopy of trees and sky, she might have guessed it was early evening.

She could make out clearly now the grim, wind-bitten faces of her companions.

And so she saw Rodney wrinkle his nose in disgust when a sudden smell permeated the air around them.

Aisling clapped a hand over her mouth as a harsh gag forced its way up her throat.

The odor was strong, so thick the air felt solid with it.

Sulfuric like the low tide; sickly sweet like the things that died and rotted in still, brackish water.

Lyre raised an arm to press his nose and mouth into the crook of his elbow.

Even Raif wore a sick expression as he sheathed his sword and instead stealthily slid an arrow from the quiver at his back and nocked it on his bow.

He held it low in both hands, ready to draw and fire as the group searched amidst the trees for the source of the smell.

“Quiet,” he murmured when Aisling gagged again, spitting this time. It stung her nose, her eyes. Beside her, Rodney blinked furiously to ease the burning, swiping away tears with the back of his hand and cursing under his breath.

“Quiet, ” Raif urged again. He gestured to their left with the tip of his arrow.

Movement. Something drifting between the trees.

Aisling lifted the hem of her sweater to dry her eyes then squinted into the distance.

She could only just make out a figure that seemed to float through the air rather than walk on solid ground, its movements silent and smooth as it glided towards them.

A shudder ran through Aisling, so violent that her fists clenched involuntarily.

Once, when she was young, she’d been for a walk on the shore with her mother when they came upon a team pulling a boy from the water.

He’d fallen off the dock and had been swept away by the waves before his parents could reach him.

Divers that came in from the mainland to assist had advised that it was never going to be a rescue mission, but a recovery.

He’d been in the water two days by then—two days of being thrashed and beaten against sharp rocks and taking the sea into his skin and lungs and stomach until he was bloated with it.

Aisling’s mother covered her eyes before she saw much of the boy, but she managed to catch a glimpse of his arm: swollen almost beyond recognition, tinged gray but mottled with shades of green and blue.

The faerie floating closer and closer to them now had that same look: waterlogged, gray-green-blue skin dull and stretched taut over swollen limbs.

Her hair was tangled with bits of seaweed and dripped foul-smelling water onto the forest floor.

A pale gown hung limp from her shoulders, shredded and stained.

She opened her mouth as though to speak, but only viscous, black liquid poured from an engorged tongue.

“What the fuck,” Rodney hissed, backing away and pulling Aisling with him. “What the fuck .”

Raif raised his bow and aimed it at the faerie’s chest. “Stay back,” he warned.

But Lyre, bothered less by the sight of her than the smell, took a step forward and cocked his head to one side.

He studied her as she moved, coming nearly close enough for Aisling to make out the delicate veining beneath her skin, before passing them right by.

Her eyes were pale, unseeing. She hadn’t noticed them there at all.

“A morgen,” Lyre assessed. “They drown those poor souls who stray too close to the sea. It seems that she met a fitting end.”

The smell dissipated as the morgen drifted further away, a trace lingering faintly in the trail of water she left behind. Aisling wondered briefly about the boy she’d seen that day—whether he’d followed one of these beings over the edge of the dock.

“Why is she here?” she asked once she found her voice again.

Lyre shrugged, still peering after the faerie. “Trapped, I suppose, along with all the rest of them.”

“The rest?” Rodney demanded. He took another step closer to Aisling so his arm pressed against hers. She wasn’t sure if it was for her comfort or his own.

“You cannot truly believe that Kael would be the only aneiydh caught here.” The Prelate smiled excitedly. Wickedly. “I daresay she will not be the last one we encounter before we find our beloved king.”