The air is crisp with new snow, the bite of the cold lessened a little by the storm. I’m surprised that I can sense the slight shift in temperature at all; apparently, I’ve been here in this frozen land far too long—nearly six moons now. By my calculations it should be nearly Samhain, summer beginning to blur into autumn back home. And yet on this mountain, it’s still ice and rock, the trees bare, only the ghosts of ash and birch standing as sentinels.
My blood is crying for the vivid green of home. I’m losing my mind among all of this death.
I’ve made my decision to leave, if only for a little while. I know my king will bring me back, like an escaped prisoner, but I must see my woods again. And so tonight, when he is on his hunt, I’ll slip away.
The sound of snow crunching underfoot comes from the path behind me. A rider moves up beside me. It’s the demon himself, clad in heavy black fur, his large raven perched on his shoulder.
I rode ahead of him on the pathway, needing a second to breathe without his silver eyes on me. Since I lost the child three moons ago, he’s been watching me like a hawk. I’ve barely had a moment’s peace except when he leaves me at my bedroom door at night.
There’s an unspoken urgency in the air between us now. I haven’t been able to bring myself to do as my mother said and surrender to him. If anything, my iron will to stay out of his sheets has only grown stronger. I could never love this beast.
Lailoken believes I should obey, but he says that I’ll know when the time is right and not to rush. He’s a monk, however, so what he knows of the bed and the heart is all of nothing.
The king is silent as he watches the sky. His raven, Bran, lifts off his shoulder to settle on a high branch, and the rush of his horse’s breath curls around us. The gray steed is a beast—like its master. His speckled wolf pads past us, wandering ahead on the path, looking for hare or mice.
The only sounds around us are of crackling ice and branches creaking under the weight of the snow. Soon Fionn reappears overhead, emerging from the trees. I hold out my arm, and he lands heavily, a vole crushed in his beak. “Well done,” I whisper to him, scratching his puffed-out chest.
“You’ve trained him well,” the king finally says. “He’s very loyal.”
Fionn lifts off again, finding a branch ahead so he can consume his meal.
We nudge our rides forward at a meandering pace, side by side. I decide to speak freely since our ruse of being civil to one another will likely be broken by tonight when I take flight myself.
“Do you believe you’re training me?” I ask.
He keeps his eyes forward, responding casually. “Is that what you’d prefer? To be trained like a falcon or an owl?”
“I’d prefer to be free,” I say.
He’s silent. Then he asks, “What would you do if you were, as you say, free?” He says the last word as if it tastes bitter on his tongue.
I didn’t expect him to match my challenge. It takes me a moment to think about an answer. In the end, I simply say, “Everything.”
Laughter rumbles from his chest. “Yes, you would, I’m sure. You are a true child of fire. Adventure and risk are in the blood.”
Warmth fills my cheeks at his familiar tone. “And what is in the blood of a child of death?”
His smile turns wry. “Many dark things, if allowed.” He turns his head to look at me. “But death can also be painfully beautiful, Lily.”
I shiver at the sound of my human name coming from his lips. The last person who called me Lily, I loved. And then destroyed.
My thoughts are broken by a sudden screech of pain. My head snaps forward, recognizing the cry of my friend.
“Fionn!” I shout, kicking Spark onward, urgency filling me. We gallop a ways before I find my friend splayed out in blood-speckled snow, just off the path. An arrow pierces the owl’s chest.
I slide from my mount and scramble over to the bird. Its wing is at an off angle, perhaps broken from the fall. It’s still as death.
I hold back tears, reaching out, but then I hesitate. I could hurt it more with my touch. It’s foolish to have grown so attached to a simple owl. But this is the only soul in this place that doesn’t make me wish for horrible things.
“It’s dead,” the king says, coming up on foot behind me. “A hunter’s shot. Perhaps it went for the intended prey.” He glances back at the trees, watching for the hunter.
The tears on my cheeks turn to steam and anger fills me, melting the snow beneath me. “Be silent,” I snap. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He kneels down beside me. “You feel so much for the creature?” he asks, his tone curious.
“Of course, he’s my friend.”
The king turns his attention to the bird. “So you have come to love my gift.”
I nod, my chest aching. It seems everything I care for turns to ashes.
The king shifts, then reaches out, pulling the arrow shaft from the flesh with a swift yank.
I choke out a sob at the violent movement, grabbing his arm. “Don’t touch him!” No doubt the beast would pull apart my bird right in front of me.
He grips my wrist, moving it away, then places his other palm over the owl’s body and closes his eyes, muttering under his breath in the ancient tongue: “Broken vessel, weave back into place, the thing that was taken . . .” His voice is a low hum.
I go still, listening in wonder, realizing what he’s doing. He’s calling the spirit back to the bird. A thin silver fog lifts from his arm and wraps around the owl, and I watch the tear in its breast fold back into place as he heals the flesh with his own ability to heal himself.
Several feathers regrow. The smell of rich earth and warmth fills the air, steam rising in a hiss from Fionn’s form. The snow melts around the bird.
Its wings twitch, its talons flex. And suddenly the bird is twisting back upright, flying up into the branches. I cover my mouth, saying through my fingers, “Holy Mother. What have you done?”
The king hunches over, obviously depleted. “I stopped death for you, my love.” And then he collapses into a heap in the snow.
THIRTY
FAELAN
It’s late into the morning and Sage hasn’t emerged from her cottage yet. Marius hasn’t come by to see how she’s doing yet either. Which is maybe a good thing. I feel like I need to talk to her first before I tell him my concerns about Kieran and the new torque. Before I confess what I’ve already kept from him, like the fire, and that kiss.
I knock on her cottage door around ten. No answer.
I sniff the air for smoke, but I don’t smell anything except the overcast day—the morning dampness of the plants, the crisp water from the lagoon pool. I search for her power, for the connection I should have with her after the ceremony last night, but I don’t sense anything. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I know it’s working to a point, since I felt her anxiety at the tribunal, but I still can’t tell how solid the connection is. It’s possible her power is rejecting it.
I turn the knob, and the door clicks open as I call into the entrance, “Sage?” I step inside, looking around. The dim sunlight gives a gray tone to the room. I walk toward her bedroom door, deciding I should just wake her. But as I move through the small living room, I hear her breathing.