Page 49

“Lyre led you astray out of his own self-interest. He’s misinterpreted it.” His rebuke came out harsher than he meant it to.

“But that’s why your prophecies are written the way they are, isn’t it? It’s what the Diviner told us: a prophecy’s strength lies in the interpretation, not the intent of the originator.” Aisling straightened her shoulders slightly and added, “So this is how I’ve chosen to interpret it.”

“I was going to Create a gift,” Rodney said quickly, attempting to ease the tension that was now so thick in the space Kael could scarcely breathe. “Maybe I could…”

“Maybe you could Create a weapon instead.” Raif finished the púca’s thought.

Aisling looked at Kael again. His heart stuttered, again. “The dagger,” she said.

Kael withdrew it from his waistband. He held it out to her, but she nodded to Rodney. “Merak was so adamant I take it. They must have had a reason.”

“I’m beginning to think Merak doesn’t do anything without reason.” The púca shifted forward and reached out to take the dagger from Kael’s outstretched hand. He was reluctant to give it to anyone other than Aisling.

Raif gazed thoughtfully at the dagger that Rodney now turned over in his palms. “I do not believe they do, either. I believe everything they do, everything they say, is intentional. It all has meaning, only they’ve left it up to us to sort out what that is. Much like your prophecy, Red Woman.”

Aisling nodded. “I think we just have.”

She looked so beautiful in the dim light.

She looked beautiful in any light, really, but there was something about the glow of torchlight and the way it danced across the cairn walls that smoothed the lines of anger and fear that marked her face now.

Standing in front of the mural, the wonder in her expression reminded him so much of the girl who’d stood with him in the Undercastle, watching drifting wisps.

The girl who had held one in her hand and had let it go because she couldn’t bear the thought of keeping it captive, sentient or not.

Kael thought it may have been that exact moment—when she let the wisp slip between her fingers—that he’d fallen in love with her. He longed to tell her as much, but he didn’t think she was ready yet to hear it.

Silently, he stepped further into the space to stand near her.

Her arms were up, hands at the back of her head.

Kael watched her struggle for a moment, her fingers fumbling to tame the tangled mess of her hair into something resembling a braid.

She didn’t ask him for help—of course she didn’t.

She wouldn’t on her own. But her sharp little huffs of frustrated breath spoke for her.

“Would you like help?” Kael asked quietly.

Lowering her arms, Aisling’s eyes flicked to him, pausing briefly on his hands.

He felt the weight of her gaze lingering there.

He’d caught her staring at them before, mapping out the creases and calluses, always with a quiet sort of fascination.

It unsettled him sometimes, how easily she had trusted them—trusted him.

He wasn’t used to his hands being seen as anything other than tools of violence.

She nodded then, and the pit of ice in him melted further still.

Kael moved closer and gathered her hair gently. His fingers slid through the knotted strands with much more care than he ever gave to braiding his own. He hadn’t had much practice of late, but he still remembered the pattern.

“I didn’t know you could braid,” Aisling said, tipping the crown of her head back slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed and Kael noticed some of the tension dropping from her shoulders.

“Methild,” he replied. “I’ve never allowed her to accompany me to the front; she made sure I knew how to manage on my own.”

“You braid your hair for battle?” He could hear the amusement in her voice.

“Sometimes.”

“Pretty.” There it was: the smallest glimpse of the humor that had so endeared her to him. A crack in her armor—she was allowing him in again. He wanted nothing more than to wedge his hands into that crack and break it all the way open.

Kael snorted. “I’m hardly pretty.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at her face before she bit her lower lip to conceal it. The corners of his own mouth pulled up into a smile to mirror hers. He gave the ends of her hair a teasing tug, earning a quiet laugh that sent warmth curling through his chest.

“There,” he said, laying the neat braid over her shoulder.

“Thank you.” When she reached up to touch it, her fingertips brushed against his.

Kael didn’t respond right away. His eyes traced the lines of her shoulders and the curve of her neck now that her hair no longer obscured it.

He didn’t drop his hand just yet, letting it linger there for a moment.

Her skin was just as soft as he remembered, and her scent just as intoxicating.

Rain, pines, and sweet jasmine like the blooms in the night garden.

When she shifted, he moved forward slightly, so that he could almost, almost feel her against his chest. A familiar feeling stirred within him: one of want.

Of need. He pushed it down, though all he wished to do now was pull her into him and tell her just how much these small moments meant.

Instead, he asked, “How are you?”

“Fine.” A lie, he knew, but he didn’t challenge it.

“You said something before that I wanted to ask you about,” Kael started. Her expression hardened; she knew what was coming. “What trials, Aisling? What did he do to you?”

She drew away, leaving him cold. Her arms moved to wrap tightly around her waist and she stared so hard at the mural Kael thought it might burst into flames.

“There were four,” she said monotone. “Four elements, four arenas. Fire, air, earth, then water. He gave me a riddle; the answer was my way out, but I couldn’t solve it. Not until the end.”

Despite the distance she’d put between them, Kael moved closer and touched her shoulder. “Were you hurt?”

Aisling shook her head and squeezed her waist a bit tighter. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like any of the injuries came back with me, but I can still feel them.”

The pain in her quiet voice made his muscles tense and his heart race. He searched for the right words to soothe that ache but found none. Words would never be enough, even if he were more skilled at wielding them.

“My reflection—that was the answer. I thought it was shadows. I’ve never been much good with riddles.”

“He should never… I should never…” Kael fumbled for an adequate response. He so desperately wanted to do this right; he’d pray to any god who might help him at this point.

But Aisling only shook her head again. “It’s all a part of it. The prophecy.”

Hot, choking anger rose rapidly and before Kael could tamp it down he’d slammed the side of his fist into the stone wall beside Aisling.

“Damn the prophecy!” he shouted. The sound echoed sharply in the chamber, too loud for the small space. “I will not stand by and watch you risk your life for me again and again because someone centuries ago wrote a cryptic poem on a scrap of parchment!”

“You died once for me already.” Aisling’s voice turned cold. “It’s only fair I get the chance to do the same for you.”

Kael was too far gone to give any sort of rational, reasonable response to her cool retort.

It was never meant to be this way—his sacrifice was meant to save her.

To free her. That it had only been the first way she’d be hurt for him filled him with such rage it was blinding.

His shadows roiled beneath his skin and scraped at his bones in response, desperate and hungry and feeding off his fury just as they always had.

If only he could set them on himself; he’d gladly let those vicious tendrils tear him apart without a second thought now.

Kael stalked out of the chamber, out of the cairn, and back into the dark to search for some small, hidden piece of himself that might be able to take back control.