Page 54

S leeping had done him good—Rodney awoke feeling ready to take on the realm. Or, at least, ready to try.

He set himself up in a different chamber this time from the tiny one he’d crawled into before.

The ceiling was higher in this one, and it would more comfortably fit a second body.

It was deeper, too: he’d followed a passage that ended in a steep decline that he slid down on his backside when he lost his footing on a spot of loose dirt.

It was cool and quiet. Here, he could feel the richness of the earth all around him, pressing in on him not in a way that was threatening or claustrophobic, but like a protective embrace.

Just as the tiny chamber had been exactly what he’d needed before, this was perfect for what he needed now.

Somehow, the Enclave knew.

Both Aisling and Kael had gone, so Raif volunteered to go first. Rodney called directions to him from that low chamber, secretly hoping a short slide would humble the guard captain just a bit.

But Raif navigated the decline gracefully and with ease, and so Rodney did his best to hide the dirt streaks on his jeans to avoid having to admit to his own fall.

“You seemed to know what I was getting at before,” Rodney said.

He directed Raif to sit, then sat cross-legged in front of him.

He took in the male’s countenance: at ease, very nearly relaxed, but it didn’t fool Rodney.

At the barest hint of a threat Raif would be on his feet, at least one weapon drawn and foe identified in the time it would take Rodney to blink. It was impressive, if terrifying.

“I understand the concept.” Raif’s tone was clipped. He wasn’t looking forward to this any more than Rodney was.

“Then you know what you’ll give?” A silent nod was the soldier’s only response, so Rodney prompted: “Tell me about it.”

Raif didn’t flinch, but the ripple of tension that ran through him was anything but subtle. Rodney pretended not to see it—less out of respect than self-preservation. He waited quietly instead for Raif to speak first.

“Did you know that my father was Captain of the Guard before me? Not under Kael; under the previous king.” After his initial reaction, Raif’s gaze was now level and steady.

Rodney shook his head. “I don’t recall making the acquaintance of many Unseelie soldiers before yourself. At least, not willingly. Never made a habit of it.”

“Araouane.”

The one word was all Raif had to say to spark recognition—of course Rodney had heard of him.

Most in Wyldraíocht had, especially those in proximity to the Unseelie Court.

Rodney considered where he was at the time, who he was at the time.

It would have been around when he first met Lyre, as Olin perhaps.

If that were so, he would have certainly met Raif’s father, likely from the sharp end of his sword.

Olin’s work as a trader of goods had made him few friends and too many enemies.

Raif noticed. “So you knew him.”

“Knew of him, at the very least.”

“Then, at the very least, you knew his reputation,” Raif said.

Rodney nodded. Araouane was fierce and formidable; it was said there wasn’t an enemy he faced that he didn’t cut down.

Fatal with a sword and even more so with an arrow, he was known the realm over as the late king’s most lethal weapon.

He was just as skilled in strategy: those few times he wasn’t leading his warriors into battle, he’d organized his companies so they were very nearly invincible.

But for as legendary as Araouane was, the tales never mentioned his family.

“He had a sword in my hand sooner than I could properly support its weight, and he conscripted me into the ranks as soon as I came of age. I served under him for a long time; the kind of male the stories made him out to be was exactly the kind of male he was.”

“And what kind was that?” Rodney nudged when Raif fell silent.

“The best soldier there ever was—but just and fair. He never killed without reason; he never slayed an innocent. He was a master of his craft, and hard on me, as he should have been. Yet he was unfailingly kind.”

Rodney frowned, unsure of where Raif’s recollection was going. He knew what Rodney needed: darkness, hurt. Instead, he was merely praising his father and fallen commander.

“I never questioned it, not once,” Raif continued after a moment. “His path was my path, and I was honored— honored— to be given the chance to even be half the warrior he was. When Kael made me Captain of the Guard after he took the throne…I’ve never been more proud. Or more afraid.”

There—now they were getting somewhere. Rodney leaned in, turning over the dagger in his hands. “Afraid?”

“Yes, afraid. How could I possibly follow in the footsteps of a giant?” Raif scoffed as though that should have been obvious. In reality, Rodney could hardly imagine the male afraid of anything. He certainly never seemed it.

“Say more,” Rodney said. He let his eyes fall closed and his hands stilled on the dagger, allowing the dancing, drifting threads to appear around him. There was more ochre here, weaving through the midnight strands. He parted them all, searching.

“I have never— could never—live up to the legacy he left behind. I have failed countless times over, and I have no doubt I will continue to do so.”

“Failed how?” Rodney reached out into the space between them. He was close; he could feel it.

Raif sighed and over the hum of his magic, Rodney could hear the soldier’s teeth grinding as he worked his jaw back and forth.

“My father protected his king to his dying breath. I’ve failed mine.

I should have stopped him from performing that first blood ritual all those years ago.

I should have stopped him from performing this one, too.

We could have won without it, had I been a better captain. Araouane would have.”

There they were: pitch dark threads, sticky like tar, leeching out of Raif’s chest. They were heavy and wet and cold between Rodney’s fingers as he began to tug at them. He heard material scraping against the stone floor when Raif shifted uncomfortably but said anyway, “Keep going.”

“I’ve done my best to make him proud. I wanted to be the soldier he thought I could be. It hardly matters how hard I’ve tried, how hard I’ve trained and worked and fought. I will always come up short.”

Rodney kept pulling, easing those sickly strands closer until he could begin to weave them around the blade. Just as the ochre threads had, they melted into the metal on contact. The dagger grew heavier in his palm. Just a bit more—he needed just a bit more.

Raif drew in another deep breath, this one less even. “If he were still alive, he would be bitterly disappointed in what he’d see. He deserved a stronger son.”

That was all Raif had to give, and all Rodney needed to hear. It was enough.

Both males were breathing hard when Rodney opened his eyes again. Raif’s knuckles were blanched white as he continued to dig his fingertips into the backs of his thighs. His face had lost its color, too.

Rodney set the dagger down and raked a hand back through his mane. “You couldn’t have stopped him, you know. Not this time, at least.”

“Perhaps not,” Raif said tightly.

Having had the soldier bare himself in such a way, to expose something so private, Rodney felt like he needed to say more.

It was a bad habit: his compulsion to fill uncomfortable silence.

He weighed his words, then said, “Araouane never followed his king into a broken realm to bring him back from the dead. So that’s a first, anyway.

You may not be following in his footsteps, but you’re creating your own now. Uncharted territory and all that.”

Raif just nodded once, then pushed himself to his feet. “Aisling next?”

“Aisling next, if you can find her. Thanks.”

While he waited, Rodney rested his head in his hands.

It was spinning, and there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

He wasn’t sure whether it was in the chamber or in his head.

Both, more than likely. The space was charged with the same sort of aggressive tension one might find in a coiled snake, waiting to strike. It was impatient and unkind.

Rodney hadn’t ever Created this way before—really, he wasn’t even sure where he got the idea or if it would work the way he envisioned.

But seeing what he was able to draw out of Raif, feeling the heavy stickiness of the strands that he wove between his fingers and laid into the dagger, gave him some hope.

The dagger certainly felt more powerful.

Imbued with the sort of darkness he was asking of his companions, it would be a formidable weapon.

If not strong enough to kill Yalde, at the very least it would be enough to slow him down. To give them a head start.

“You ready for me?” Aisling was hovering in the doorway. Rodney gave her a smile and nodded. Before she stepped into the chamber, she nodded to the smooth furrow his slide had left on the decline. “This you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know it wasn’t Raif?”

“I don’t think Raif has ever slipped in his life.” Aisling knelt across from him and settled her weight back on her heels. She glanced around then wrinkled her nose slightly. “It stinks in here.”

He hadn’t noticed until she pointed it out.

The smell of spent magic was distinct, but this was even a bit more acrid than that.

It smelled of petrichor and earth and damp, rotting leaves.

Not in a pleasant, autumnal storm sort of way—more akin to what Rodney imagined it would smell like to be half-buried in Talamarís, surrounded by decay.

“This isn’t pretty magic we’re working with, Ash.”

Apprehension clouded her expression and she said quietly, “Just tell me what I need to do.”