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R odney balked when Lyre looked pointedly in his direction.

He knows. How the fuck could he know? Every clever retort drying up on his silver tongue, Rodney could only stare back at Lyre, wide-eyed.

“Tell me I’m wrong, púca,” the High Prelate taunted.

Rodney blinked once. Twice. Slowly, too slowly, he worked to regain his composure under the weight of Lyre’s penetrating gaze.

“That’s rich, Prelate,” he replied finally, forcing a chuckle.

His voice lacked its usual confidence, but by some miracle it didn’t waver.

“I’m pretty sure that sort of magic was bred out, what, a century ago?

Two?” He looked to Raif for backup, but the soldier only watched their exchange with a neutral expression.

“And how old are you, exactly?” Lyre challenged. His grin widened, becoming more predatory.

“Enough.” Rodney breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Aisling stepped between them. “Will someone tell me what Saoth—” she paused, struggling to pronounce the word. “What a Weaver is?”

“Saothrealain is an old sort of inherent magic; Weavers are those who can wield it. They Create artifacts. Just as we destroyed most of those, we destroyed most Weavers and Saothrealain bloodlines. There can’t be more than a handful left across all of Wyldraíocht.

” A frown appeared on Raif’s forehead that grew deeper and more pronounced with each word he spoke.

His dark eyes were fixed on Rodney now, too.

Not so harsh as Lyre’s, but still appraising.

Aisling crossed her arms. “Well if Rodney says he isn’t a Weaver, then I believe him.”

“My dear, how many secrets must your friend keep from you before you stop blindly trusting his word?” The way Lyre sneered the epithet— friend— made Rodney’s blood boil. Mostly because of just how right the Prelate was.

Long before he was ever Rodney Finch, in a life so distant he’d managed to purge most of it from his memory, he’d worked and worked to perfect the magic that constantly nagged at him to be used.

It made his fingertips itch sometimes even just to think about it, to think about how long he’d left the better part of it dormant.

It was his first life, his original form that was born with it, and each life he’d lived thereafter was little more than an escape attempt.

Though he carried it always in his blood, Rodney Finch was no Weaver—so long as he didn’t Create anything too remarkable.

“Rodney?” Aisling turned to him then, chin tilted up so she could meet his eyes. There was betrayal in hers, barely concealed but growing. His stomach twisted with guilt to see it there, knowing he’d caused it—and not for the first time.

He reached up to rub a hand over the back of his neck, massaging the muscles constricting suddenly. Instead of addressing Aisling, he looked to Lyre and asked flatly, “How did you know?”

He heard Aisling’s sharp exhale and winced when he felt her pull back from him. Lyre’s grin turned smug. The question was as good as an admission, and whether or not that sanctimonious bastard knew for sure that he was a Weaver, Rodney had just confirmed it.

“Your glamours give you away, púca. They are far stronger than Athrealain glamours—woven, rather than cast.” When Rodney looked away, his cheeks flushing a ruddy shade of red, Lyre clicked his tongue and purred, “What a delightful turn of events.”

He was ready to shoot back a harsh remark, but choked on it when Aisling shoved past him and stalked out into the corridor beyond the armory.

The best he could do was cast a withering glare over his shoulder before hurrying after her.

He had to jog to catch up and grabbed her by the elbow to stop her going further.

Aisling spun, fury obvious and burning on her face. “How could you not tell me?”

“Ash, I…” Rodney started. He’d wanted to—had considered it a few times—but in the end, there was too much to explain. Too much he didn’t want to drag up from the murky depths of his memory.

She shook his hand off her arm and stepped back, out of reach. “Save it, Rodney. I’m sick of your games; I’m sick of you constantly having to be one step ahead of me. You’re always leaving me in the dark, and I’m always the last one to find out.”

“Aisling, just listen a minute, will you?” He took one step forward, then another.

He reached out to put his hands on her shoulders until her harsh warning look stopped him.

Defeated, he let his arms drop to his sides.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you on purpose.

That magic is something I’ve been trying to outrun a long time.

I was never great at it to begin with. I hardly consider it a part of me anymore. ”

“You know every part of me,” Aisling accused.

He did. He treasured that. In all his lives, he’d never once had a friend as close as Aisling. If platonic soulmates existed, then she would have been his.

Rodney sighed and leaned back against the uneven stone wall, tipping his head to rest against it.

He kept his eyes trained on the damp ceiling as he spoke.

“I mastered some little things, once upon a time. Just petty things. Then I was asked to Create something bigger, more intricate. I should never have said yes, but I wasn’t in my right mind.

I lost someone I…someone who I cared about very, very deeply. ”

It took every ounce of effort to say those words, and to say them steadily. Feelings Rodney hadn’t acknowledged in an exceptionally long time began worming their way in: fear. Heartbreak. Regret. He swallowed each back down, one by one like bitter pills.

“I’ve lived a long time; I’ve done a lot of things that I can’t take back.” When he forced himself to look at her again, Aisling’s expression had softened. He cleared his throat, still thick with those unwelcome feelings. “And now you know that part of me.”

Rodney pushed himself off the wall and returned to the armory, leaving Aisling there in the passageway.

She was a thinker, a processor. He’d long since learned to give her space to digest these sorts of things on her own, rather than trying to force his way into her head.

It usually worked in his favor. Usually .

“Can you do it?” Raif demanded bluntly, cutting through the tension that still lingered in the cavern when Rodney stepped back inside.

“I would say he has little choice.” Lyre had perched on a bench adjacent to Raif. He smirked at Rodney.

Rodney hesitated for a moment, nearly folding under the pressure of their expectations, then squared his shoulders.

“I won’t make any false promises; I don’t know whether I can or not.

I never had true mastery over Creation beyond weaving glamours.

And frankly, I can’t recall the last time I tried anything besides. ”

It was a lie, but not a big one. He could recall—he simply chose not to.

Self-preservation was as threaded through his nature as the magic itself.

He suppressed a shudder with a wry smile, then added, “Though I do enjoy surpassing our religious scholar in value on this little expedition. You may not be needed after all, Lyre.”

Before Lyre could bite back, Aisling appeared at Rodney’s side. She was still angry with him—he could tell by the way she held herself, by the way she kept her distance and dug her fingertips into her crossed arms. Still, he was glad to have her there.

“How will you know what to Create for Him?” she asked.

“We might simply ask,” Raif suggested. He’d finished honing his blade and fine-tuning the other weapons he carried: ensuring each arrow in the quiver slung across his back was evenly placed, the dagger at his hip hung at the right angle, and the hilt of the other tucked inside his boot stuck out just enough to be easily reached, but not so much as to be easily noticed. The soldier looked positively lethal.

Lyre scoffed and his voice dripped with derision when he snapped, “One does not merely ask a god these things, Captain. And this, púca , is exactly why I am needed. I have studied the Low One, worshipped Him, communed with Him, since I was a boy. You may be able to weave for Him, but you do not know Him. Not as I do.”

Rodney raised both hands in mock defeat. “My sincerest apologies, most magnanimous High Prelate. Your wisdom is truly—”

“Knock it off, the both of you. Or you two can stay here and Raif and I will go alone,” Aisling scolded. Then, to Lyre, she asked, “What do you think He might want?”

Lyre stood and straightened his robes with the press of his palms, dragging his hands over the rough fabric in long strokes. “When I meet Him, when I finally stand before Him, I will know.”

Rodney suppressed a sarcastic comeback with a cough, but he couldn’t hide his annoyance.

In the span of minutes, Lyre had not only outed him as a Weaver, but had made himself indispensable to Aisling.

The Prelate knew what he was doing; he was far better at this game than Rodney cared to admit.

Amongst all of them that had been swept up in the Red Woman’s prophecy, Lyre seemed to be the only one who had come out ahead.

Both Raif and Lyre had their own preparations to complete, and following their unresolved planning session in the armory, they skulked off into the depths of the Undercastle to do so.

Aisling sat now on the edge of the dais at the foot of Kael’s empty obsidian throne.

Her head was lowered as she methodically unpacked and repacked her bag.

Each time, there was something that didn’t make it back in: a third sweater, an extra pair of socks, a set of spare boot laces.

She was attempting to distract her mind with the mechanical task, but Rodney knew by the way she bounced her knee as she worked that it wasn’t doing the job.

Abandoning the track he’d been pacing between the pillars, Rodney went to sit beside her.

He leaned back on his hands and tipped his chin to peer upwards.

The naturally-hewn cavern stretched and stretched above them, the ceiling so high it was shrouded in darkness.

Only the very tips of the longest stalactites were visible if he squinted.

“Lightening your load?” he asked, glancing at Aisling from the corner of his eye.

“I overpacked,” she said quietly. “I didn’t have a chance to make a list.”

“You packed fine,” Rodney assured her. “Though I’m not sure about this.” With a teasing smile, he held up the umbrella she’d removed in the second round of cuts.

“You didn’t even pack a raincoat; you’re going to wish I had kept that.” There was a hint of humor in her voice—slight, barely noticeable, but he was satisfied to hear it there nonetheless.

“I’m sorry for doubting you earlier,” he said sincerely. “About closing the Thin Places, I mean.”

Aisling jaw tightened briefly before she could respond. “It’s okay. I doubted myself too.”

“I shouldn’t have reacted that way. You’re giving up a hell of a lot more than I am.” When she didn’t answer, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder then added, “It won’t be forever, though. When all this is said and done, we’ll find our way back home. I promise.”

She turned to look at him and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” he said after a moment. Shifting forward, he dug around in his own sparsely-packed bag that he’d dropped between his feet. He pulled out a sealed white envelope and passed it to Aisling. “Here.”

She took it from him and turned it over between her hands. “What is it?”

Rodney watched her work carefully to open it without tearing the paper. She upended the envelope and dumped several clusters of dried berries into her palm. “Rowan berries. They’re what I make the quicken tea from.”

Aisling groaned, but the corners of her lips tugged into the beginnings of a smile. “Please tell me they taste better than the tea.”

Rodney shook his head. “Worse, really. But they’ll protect you better this way, I think. I hope.”

“And this?” She withdrew the second object from the envelope.

“Rent check,” Rodney said. “First of the month.”

Aisling looked at the check in one hand, and the shriveled red berries in her other. Carefully, she curled her fingers and funneled the berries back into the envelope. Then, she ripped the check in half.

“I told you I don’t want your money,” she said, finally smiling—the first smile she’d given him in a month. The grin Rodney returned was full and wide.