Page 44

F rom the depths of his shattered heart, Kael had meant every word: he would give up everything he had and everything he was to protect his Red Woman.

It was something more, something deeper, than he’d ever felt for or said to another.

Until Aisling, Kael had only ever been singularly focused on his own desire for power.

That he was willing to give it all up—and that he would do so again, even knowing that his imprisonment in Elowas would be the result—surprised even him.

But telling her as much didn’t elicit the reaction he’d hoped for.

The fire and pain he saw in her eyes before she left him standing there alone struck a chord in him, and the way she’d looked at him was sharper than the blade had felt when they’d run it together across his throat.

He studied it now where it lay at his feet: housed in a new sheath, strapped to a much smaller belt than he’d ever worn.

It looked so natural hanging at Aisling’s hip he hadn’t even noticed it there until she stripped it off.

She’d changed so much from the timid, shaken girl she’d been in his dungeon.

It was a change borne of necessity, but no less impressive for it.

He thought she was likely stronger than he was now.

It was only for her strength that he stayed there in Antiata, hidden behind the magic that connected the rowan trees.

Had it not been for Aisling, he’d already be back in the Low One’s—in Yalde’s —cold grasp.

Yalde. The name brought bile to rise in his throat.

Even after seeing the god’s history painted on the cairn wall, a part of Kael still refused to believe it.

The scrape of his shadows against his bones kept him from believing it.

They pulled agonizingly as they attempted to draw him back to the sylvan cathedral.

Those shadows had overtaken him, had owned him.

Had controlled him. They were angry now; angrier than he’d ever felt them.

Kael’s magic was no longer his, and it no longer wished to be under his control.

He stooped and picked his dagger up off the ground.

The leather of the belt and sheath still carried a hint of warmth from where they’d been pressed against Aisling’s body.

He savored that feeling until the heat dissipated into his palms. After it had gone, he missed it.

Even more powerful than the dark god’s pull on his magic was hers on his very being, and that alone was what kept him there.

Though for just a moment, when he sensed Rodney approaching from behind, he considered leaving the protective circle anyway and taking his chances in the forest.

“What happened to you?” Kael spoke first, hoping to head off whatever the púca had come to say.

It would be some self-righteous lecture, he suspected, full of thinly veiled barbs and accusations.

Kael’s limited patience was already thin, and Aisling had been foolish enough to leave him with a weapon.

Whether he was her closest friend or not, Rodney was not immune to the Unseelie King’s wrath.

The púca stopped beside him, smartly maintaining a distance of several paces. “Your god stole my glamour.”

A muscle ticked in Kael’s jaw and he said through gritted teeth, “Not my god.”

“No, of course not,” Rodney acquiesced. The edge of sarcasm tightened Kael’s jaw further as he braced himself for the púca’s next quip. When several minutes passed in silence, and Kael relaxed slightly.

“How are you here?” he asked finally. The words came slowly, the question a difficult one to form—nearly as difficult as it was to comprehend in the first place. “How…how am I here?”

“Aisling didn’t explain?”

Kael looked down at the fading indentation in the grass where she’d dropped his dagger.

He hadn’t asked. They hadn’t had many opportunities to speak alone, but he could have made the time.

He should have made the time. Had he not dared dream of the softness of her skin, of the warmth in her gaze and the scent of her hair when the illusions haunted him most?

He was foolish for not saying as much the moment she whispered his name. He should have made the time.

Except to Rodney, Kael only said, “We’ve not spoken. Not really.”

“Merak—the Silver Saints—went to her on the last day before your body was to be laid in Talamarís.” Rodney fidgeted as he spoke, first with the sleeve of his sweater, then with a leaf on the closest rowan tree.

“They told her there was a way to bring you back. We burned your body, and they opened the door for us to come here and find you.”

Kael looked down at himself. He was material, solid; no longer the nebulous form he’d inhabited before he moved from vision to nightmarish vision.

He smoothed one hand over his chest. He recognized the garment by its uncomfortable fabric, woven from tiny, threadlike tree roots meant to rot away along with its wearer, returning together to the forest floor. Burial robes.

“Burned,” he murmured quietly, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He could scarcely fathom it. “Why?”

Rodney shrugged. “To send your body to collect your aneiydh. Not all of us were so keen on it, for the record. Raif, least of all. Though it appears that it worked.” He paused, then asked cautiously, “It did work, right? You’re…you? Not an illusion, or some other sort of spectral thing?”

“No,” Kael said. He was firm in his conviction, sure that he was once again himself, and once again whole—or as close to whole as he’d ever been.

“Good. That’s good.”

There was more Rodney wished to say; Kael could sense it in his breathless tone and the way he could scarcely stand still for more than a moment. He didn’t ask, though. He waited quietly for the púca to break first.

“Lyre was the most enthusiastic about the plan. For obvious reasons, as you’d expect.

He’d have been first through the door if Raif hadn’t insisted.

But there’s…more to it. There’s more to all of this.

” The leaf Rodney was playing with broke off in his fingers; he looked around wide-eyed to ensure Sudryl hadn’t seen before tucking it hastily between the others still fluttering from the branch.

“What more?”

Rodney shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He began to speak, then appeared to think better of it and shut his mouth so hard his teeth clicked together. When he shook his head, the mane of red fur that ran down the back of his neck rustled and his tall ears twitched.

“Ask Aisling,” he said finally.

Kael sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was beginning to ache from the tension radiating up from his shoulders. “Where is he?”

“Who, Lyre? He ran off, and I very much doubt he’s still alive.

” Rodney narrowed his eyes to scan the forest beyond the Enclave.

“If I had to guess, I’d imagine your High Prelate was unable to handle the reality.

Simply couldn’t stomach the knowledge that he’d devoted his life to a deity that never existed at all. ”

The way he said it so matter-of-factly grated on Kael’s nerves.

The Solitary Fae had little regard for religion, if any at all.

The púca couldn’t care less the name or nature of the god they’d encountered, or if they’d even encountered one at all; of course he would treat the crumbling of Kael’s very foundation so flippantly.

Even Raif’s own observances never remotely resembled true piety—Lyre might have been the only one in Elowas and Wyldraíocht both who could even come close to understanding the deep ache of loss Kael felt now.

The pair stood in tense silence for a while longer as a cold wind picked up around them. Rodney shivered, but Kael found himself soothed by it. The icy air caressed his over-hot skin with a light touch, a kind touch. Kinder than he deserved.

“What do you think?”

Kael sighed once more, torn between ordering the púca to let him be and indulging the conversation, if for no other reason than to keep himself distracted for a little while longer. The latter won out and he asked, “About what?”

“Any of it.” Rodney had pulled that loose leaf from the tree again and was tearing bits off of it, letting the pieces go one by one to be carried away by the wind.

Kael paused, almost tempted to give an honest answer before realizing what that would entail. How much it would cost him. He shook his head. “I cannot think about any of it. Not right now.”

“She’s been through a lot to get here, you know.” Though he spoke quietly, Rodney’s tone was pointed.

Kael bristled at the sentiments the púca let lie unsaid. “I am aware.”

He’d seen it in the tired lines of her face, in the haunted depths of her eyes. He’d felt it when her hand trembled in his grasp as she pulled him out of the fog she’d summoned, and he’d heard it when her voice rose in panic over something so trivial as misplacing her bag.

“Have you asked?” Rodney challenged, one thick russet eyebrow cocked.

She’d mentioned trials, but Kael wasn’t sure if he was ready to know the full scope of what Aisling had put herself through to find him. He wasn’t strong enough to bear the raw and painful truth of it. By way of answering, Kael held his dagger out to the púca. “Will you return this to her?”

Rodney shook his head. “No, but you can.”

“I do not believe she wants anything from me at present.” Kael withdrew it anyway, sweeping back his cloak to tuck the sheath into the waistband of his trousers at his back. The weapon’s handle was smooth against his spine, and cool, all of Aisling’s warmth long since gone from it.

“Then hang onto it until she does.” Rodney began walking away, then twisted to add over his shoulder, “Try listening to her—actually listening. Aisling has crossed realms for you. What has your false god done but make you suffer?”