Page 7

B efore she would descend into the Undercastle, Aisling crossed behind the obsidian structure that housed the spiral staircase. Atop the hillock, beneath a naked blackthorn tree, she stood and looked down the ridge.

But the night garden was dead. Once a lush bloom of fragrant jasmine and moonflowers and branches heavy with Angel’s trumpet blossoms, the pale turquoise glow of the garden’s magic no longer shone.

Now, it resembled nothing more than a tangle of blackened, withered vines encased in ice and half-buried under drifts of snow.

It had died with its king.

Aisling closed her eyes and imagined she could smell it again: the sweet floral perfume carried on the breeze, that scent so heady and thick she could have gotten drunk off of it.

Indeed, those nights she visited with Kael, she felt dizzy as though she had.

She stood still for a long while, imagining.

It brought her some comfort—enough that the beginnings of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips when she heard in her memory Kael’s voice.

That barely-concealed edge of exasperation in his tone when he found her reaching for the poisonous petals a second time.

When she heard Rodney calling out to her, she didn’t want to open her eyes. Not just yet. Not when she’d finally found a way to quiet the noise and ease the ache in her chest.

“Ash.” His hand on her arm dragged her back to the knoll where they stood. “They’re waiting for us.”

She nodded and, without looking again at the corpse of the garden, turned to follow.

Merak stood together on the dais in the throne room, exuding a calm that it seemed everyone but Rodney and Aisling could feel.

Even Lyre’s gaze was gentle as he stood by, not calculating or measuring.

Though she couldn’t feel it in quite the same way, the Silver Saints’ serene countenance and pale white light imbued a sense of peace and stillness into the cavern that comforted Aisling as she approached.

The prickling pulse of their magic against her skin was enough that the sight of Kael’s empty black throne, with one of his crowns perched on its seat, didn’t evoke the tidal wave of pain she expected to drown under.

“The door to Elowas is open for you, child of prophecy.” Merak’s voices emanated in unison from their three smooth, featureless faces. “The god realm awaits you through the moon gate.”

“And Kael?” she asked, eyes flicking to the throne once more, then back to the Silver Saints.

“He is there.” Merak stepped forward in one fluid movement.

The light they radiated moved with them, glinting off veins of white quartz that streaked the cavern walls.

It was pure, that light, and out of place this deep underground.

But instead of illuminating all the harshness of the Undercastle, those craggy stone walls seemed to soften in the glow.

“So this is part of it then—the prophecy?” Her words sounded far away when she spoke, the rough edges of her thoughts and her speech smoothed by their light just as the Undercastle around her.

“By some interpretations, it may be. Prophecies foretell destinations, less so the paths to reach them.”

Rodney shifted beside her, the toe of his work boot grinding against the floor.

As though the sound had woken her from a dream, Aisling shook her head and the distraction of Merak’s placid, ethereal beauty no longer held her rapt.

The thought of stepping blindly through a magic doorway into a broken, corrupted realm once again seemed absurd, and absurdly dangerous.

“Maybe we should slow down,” she said, turning to her friend. “We could go back to the Diviner.”

“You believe Sítheach might divine something we are not able to see? Might offer you something we are not able to tell?” Merak spoke a bit louder this time, voices echoing around the throne room.

She couldn’t be sure, but Aisling thought she could sense an almost imperceptible shift in their once-calm magic.

“Far Sight, Ash,” Rodney muttered under his breath. He eyed the Silver Saints cautiously.

“You have yet to tell us anything at all.” Raif spoke up from where he leaned against a column. “Where is he in Elowas? How do we get him out? Surely it will not be so straightforward as simply leading him back through the door.”

“Surely, it will not.” Merak repeated in answer. The figure on the left, the most slender of the three, glided down from the dais and withdrew an object from deep in their gem-encrusted robe.

A dagger. Kael’s dagger.

They laid it flat across their palms and held it outstretched to Aisling. She couldn’t take her eyes off the way it gleamed in Merak’s light.

“I thought this burned with him,” she murmured, moving close enough to run a finger lightly across its hilt. Then she looked up at the Silver Saint offering it to her. “I can’t take it.”

“Blades such as this are not made to be wielded by one master alone; they are forged for a greater purpose,” Merak said.

Aisling shook her head and turned to Raif. “You take it. You were his captain.”

He placed a hand over his heart and dipped his head. “He would have wanted you to have it.”

Night after night, Aisling dreamt she was watching herself standing over Kael’s lifeless body as he bled out at her feet.

She’d scream at herself to take that damned dagger to her own throat next, but her hand never moved.

She just stared blankly down at the sticky crimson blood coating her skin and pooling around her shoes.

She looked at it now, its blade polished and clean of the red that once stained it.

Just as she was: her hands, her skin, all scrubbed clean and polished, despite what she saw some mornings in that split-second after waking from the nightmare.

Slowly, cautiously, she took it from the Silver Saint’s hands. It was heavier than she remembered, though this time she was the only one holding it. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

The Silver Saint stepped back into position with the others. “You will,” they said.

“Will we find him?” Aisling asked, eyes still on the dagger.

“Far Sight is capable of seeing great many things, but it does not allow us to look into a realm so broken as Elowas. It is ever-changing, shifting, evolving. It does not adhere to the threads of fate; rather, it twists them. Sometimes it consumes them entirely.” Merak’s words left a foreboding feeling in Aisling’s gut.

Maybe Lyre was wrong—maybe revenant spring wasn’t Kael after all, but the peace they’d all sought to begin with. Maybe they’d fail.

“Are you not coming?” Rodney demanded. There was an edge of nervousness to his tone.

The Silver Saints shook their heads slowly, first to the left then to the right. Their silken white hair flowed like water over their shoulders. “We depart at dusk for the Dominion of Anirith. Before peace can be nurtured, it must be negotiated.”

“They’re leading a delegation to come to an accord with the Seelie Court,” Lyre supplied. He and Raif had quietly moved to join Aisling and Rodney, so that the four now stood in a row before the three Silver Saints.

“Once we depart, the door will close. We cannot hold it open for you to tarry longer here.” Anticipating their question, Merak added, “There is one able to open it from the inside to allow your return Wyldraíocht. We do not doubt you will find her.”

Aisling drew in a breath. It had been late afternoon when they’d arrived through the Thin Place. Dusk was not nearly far off enough.

“Take care to remember that magic flows like a river in the god realm, and all who possess it may be carried further by its current than ever before.” Merak’s unseeing, unmoving faces gazed at each of them before returning to Aisling.

“In Elowas, even the tiniest seed will grow into a mighty oak. The smallest spark will ignite a blazing wildfire.”

“I’m not ready,” she whispered, more to herself than to Merak or her companions.

“You have all that you need,” Merak soothed.

She shook her head. “But—”

“You have all that you need,” they insisted again. One by one they turned, following each other. Mirroring each other’s movements exactly as they drifted toward the far side of the dais.

Without thinking, Aisling stepped forward. “You were a star. Merak.”

Only the tallest of the three turned to acknowledge her, yet all spoke. “Yes, for a time. It was a pleasant existence. Peaceful. A welcomed rest.”

She nodded. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she paused, letting her breath even out before she spoke again. There was one last favor she had to ask of the Silver Saints. One last sacrifice she had to make.

“Before you go—there’s something else I need.” Aisling’s nails pressed angry half-moons into her palms. “I need you to close the Thin Places. All of them.”

“Aisling,” Rodney said sharply. Breathlessly. When Aisling turned to look at him, his eyes were wide and wounded. She was taking away his home, too. Her throat squeezed painfully.

“Just until the Veil heals,” she said, loud enough for both Rodney and Merak. Then only to the Silver Saints, she added, “Please.”

“You don’t know how long that’s going to take, if ever,” Rodney insisted. He sounded panicked now.

“I know.” He yielded—just—when he saw the same panic reflected in her eyes.

She wished that the image of her friends, of Briar, safe and oblivious on the other side could have been enough to make the request hurt a little less.

But from the moment she was cornered by not-Cole in the trailer park, Aisling knew she had no choice.

Which had made her goodbyes all the more painful.

“It is already done,” Merak said. “Your realm is safe.”

Of course it was; of course they’d known. Aisling reached a hand up to roughly brush away a stray tear. “Thank you for coming back.”

“Thank you for calling.” If they had mouths to smile, she thought they might have done so, just briefly, before departing and taking their light with them.

The Unseelie armory was pristine, fully stocked and immaculately organized.

If Aisling hadn’t known better, she’d have guessed the weapons were newly forged.

Longswords, broadswords, daggers, and battleaxes hung from the walls, all gleaming and honed to lethal sharpness.

Smooth, arched wooden bows were propped beside quivers filled with feather-fletched arrows.

Now that all the companies had returned from afield and the fighting was over, they’d given up their issued weapons and armor.

Aisling imagined Raif had spent much of his time there since the final battle, cleaning and sharpening and putting the armament meticulously back in its place.

Maybe he’d needed the distraction. Maybe the armory was his Ben’s.

Rodney and Lyre walked the perimeter of the small cavern, shopping the wares. Aisling stood in the center, still holding Kael’s dagger gingerly.

“Here,” Raif offered her a bundle of leather. A sheath, already attached to a slim belt. “It isn’t the one Kael carried, but it should hold his dagger fine.”

She began to thank him but he was already in motion again, strapping on segments of his leathers before leaning down to dig through a chest of chainmail.

He worked with quiet efficiency; his practiced hands knew which pieces to reach for, which weapons to select for each of them.

When he handed Aisling a chainmail tunic, he finally paused long enough for their eyes to meet.

The unspoken weight of their shared loss—her love, his king—hung heavy between them.

“Thank you,” Aisling said earnestly. Raif only nodded once before turning sharply away.

The tunic Aisling slid over her head was fashioned from the same cool, pliant metal links as the one of Kael’s she’d worn before.

She was grateful that this one stopped just below her waist, rather than falling nearly to her knees as his had.

She layered it over her shirt, beneath a sweater and a rain jacket.

It was so light she might not have been wearing one at all.

“What do you think, Aisling? Does this one suit me?” Rodney’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he clumsily twirled a stocky broadsword. It was far too heavy for him; he had to hold onto its hilt with both hands just to keep it aloft. He was trying to distract her, she knew. Likely himself too.

“My weapons are not toys,” Raif growled. He seized the broadsword roughly then handed Rodney a much narrower, much shorter blade. Rodney rolled his eyes in Aisling’s direction.

“Spoken like a true soldier,” Lyre quipped. He refused to carry a weapon and had turned down Raif’s offer of chainmail. So confident that his god would protect him, the High Prelate would enter Elowas unarmed.

Carefully, Aisling slipped Kael’s dagger into its new home on her hip. Its weight there was a reminder: of him, of his sacrifice, of her purpose. She cleared her throat. “The Silver Saints said Kael’s soul—his aneiydh—was captured. What if the Low One won’t give him back?”

Lyre hummed, considering her question. “It is a possibility.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for. And for Lyre to be the one to have given it—the one of them closest to the Low One, who knew the most about the dark deity—made her stomach sink. She began to pace as she thought out loud. “Fae like bargains, right?”

“This is a god, Ash,” Rodney said.

She shot him an irritated look. “So how do we bargain with a god?”

“It would have to be a significant offering,” Lyre posited. “An artifact, maybe. A trade—something powerful for something powerful.” He dragged a long finger over a bowstring, snapping it once. Though she was expecting it, the sharp sound startled Aisling.

“Do you know of anything like that?” Her voice came out smaller, more timid than she intended it to. The little hope she’d been clinging to was rapidly dwindling.

“The most powerful of our artifacts were destroyed centuries ago in a bid to protect us from ourselves,” Raif chimed in. He sat apart from them now, sharpening his blade. “And those with lesser power have been lost over time.”

“Perhaps one might be made.” Lyre’s lips curled like he knew something the rest of them didn’t. Aisling had observed that particular expression on his face often enough now to understand that it never meant anything good for anyone other than Lyre himself.

“How?” She steeled herself for his response. Anything , she pled silently, anything other than a blood rite.

“Saothrealain . Creation magic.” Lyre said simply.

Raif sighed. “We’d need a Weaver.”

Lyre turned that sly grin on Rodney and said, “We have a Weaver.”