And in the silence … I began to tell him.
About that first night I’d seen him. When I’d heard that voice beckoning me to the hills. When I couldn’t resist its summons, and now … now I wondered if I had heard him calling for me on Calanmai. If it had been his voice that brought me there that night.
I told him how I had fallen in love with him—every glance and passed note and croak of laughter he coaxed from me. I told him of everything we’d done, and what it had meant to me, and all that I still wanted to do. All the life still left before us.
And in return … a thud sounded.
I opened my eyes. Another thud.
And then his chest rose, lifting my head with it.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe—
A hand brushed my back.
Then Rhys groaned, “If we’re all here, either things went very, very wrong or very right.”
Cassian’s broken laugh cracked out of him.
I couldn’t lift my head, couldn’t do anything but hold him, savoring every heartbeat and breath and the rumble of his voice as Rhys rasped, “You lot will be pleased to know … My power remains my own. No thieving here.”
“You do know how to make an entrance,” Helion drawled. “Or should I say exit?”
“You’re horrible,” Viviane snapped. “That’s not even remotely funny—”
I didn’t hear what else they said. Rhys sat up, lifting me off him. He brushed away the hair clinging to my damp cheeks.
“Stay with the High Lord,” he murmured.
I hadn’t believed it—until I looked into that face. Those star-flecked eyes.
Hadn’t let myself believe it wasn’t anything but some delusion— “It’s real,” he said, kissing my brow. “And—there’s another surprise.”
He pointed with a healed hand toward the Cauldron. “Someone fish out dear Amren before she catches a cold.”
Varian whirled toward us. But Mor was sprinting for the Cauldron, and her cry as she reached in— “How?” I breathed.
Azriel and Varian were there, helping Mor heave a waterlogged form out of the dark water.
Her chest rose and fell, her features the same, but …
“She was there,” Rhys said. “When the Cauldron was sealing. Going … wherever we go.”
Amren sputtered water, vomiting onto the rocky ground. Mor thumped her back, coaxing her through it.
“So I reached out a hand,” Rhys went on quietly. “To see if she might want to come back.”
And as Amren opened her eyes, as Varian let out a choked sound of relief and joy— I knew—what she had given up to come back. High Fae—and just that.
For her silver eyes were solid. Unmoving. No smoke, no burning mist in them.
A normal life, no trace of her powers to be seen.
And as Amren smiled at me … I wondered if that had been her last gift.
If it all … if it all had been a gift.
CHAPTER
78
Amongst the sprawling field of corpses and wounded, there was one body I wanted to bury.
Only Nesta, Elain, and I returned to that clearing, once Azriel had given the all-clear that the battle was well and truly over.
Letting Rhys out of my sight to wrangle our scattered armies, sort through the living and dead, and figure out some semblance of order was an effort in self-control.
I nearly begged Rhys to come with us, so I didn’t have to let go of his hand, which I had not stopped clutching since those moments I’d heard his beautiful, solid heartbeat echoing into his body once more.
But this task, this farewell … I knew, deep down, that it was only for my sisters and me.
So I released Rhys’s hand, kissing him once, twice, and left him in the war-camp to help Mor haul a barely standing Cassian to the nearest healer.
Nesta was watching them when I reached her and Elain at the tree-lined outskirts. Had she done some healing, somehow, in those moments after she’d severed the king’s head? Or had it been Cassian’s immortal blood and Azriel’s battlefield patching that had already healed him enough to manage to stand, even with the wing and leg? I didn’t ask my sister, and she supplied no answer as she took the water bucket dangling from Elain’s still-bloody hands, and I followed them both through the trees.
The King of Hybern’s corpse lay in the clearing, crows already picking at it.
Nesta spat on it before we approached our father. The crows barely scattered in time.
The screams and moaning of the wounded was a distant wall of sound—another world away from the sun-dappled clearing. From the blood still fresh on the moss and grass. I blocked out the coppery tang of it—Cassian’s blood, the king’s blood, Nesta’s blood.
Only our father had not bled. He hadn’t been given the chance to. And through whatever small mercy of the Mother, the crows hadn’t started on him.
Elain quietly washed his face. Combed out his hair and beard. Straightened his clothes.
She found flowers—somewhere. She laid them at his head, on his chest.
We stared down at him in silence.
“I love you,” Elain whispered, voice breaking.
Nesta said nothing, face unreadable. There were such shadows in her eyes. I had not told her what I’d seen—had let them tell me what they wanted.
Elain breathed, “Should we—say a prayer?”
We did not have such things in the human world, I remembered. My sisters had no prayers to offer him. But in Prythian …
“Mother hold you,” I whispered, reciting words I had not heard since that day Under the Mountain. “May you pass through the gates; may you smell that immortal land of milk and honey.” Flame ignited at my fingertips. All I could muster. All that was left. “Fear no evil. Feel no pain.” My mouth trembled as I breathed, “May you enter eternity.”
Tears slid down Elain’s pallid cheeks as she adjusted an errant flower on our father’s chest, white-petaled and delicate, and then backed away to my side with a nod.
Nesta’s face did not shift as I sent that fire to ignite our father’s body.
He was ash on the wind in a matter of moments.
We stared at the burned slab of earth for long minutes, the sun shifting overhead.
Steps crunched on the grass behind us.
Nesta whirled, but—
Lucien. It was Lucien.
Lucien, haggard and bloody, panting for breath. As if he’d run from the shore.
His gaze settled on Elain, and he sagged a little. But Elain only wrapped her arms around herself and remained at my side.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, coming toward us. Spying the blood speckling Elain’s hands.
He halted short as he noticed the King of Hybern’s decapitated head on the other side of the clearing. Nesta was still showered with his blood.
“I’m fine,” Elain said quietly. And then asked, noticing the gore on him, the torn clothes and still-bloody weapons, “Are you—”
“Well, I never want to fight in another battle as long as I live, but … yes, I’m in one piece.”