My fingers tighten around her throat. Surrender, I think to her. That inner voice is as harsh and cold as any fae. I sound powerful. I sound like the Cailleach.
I shove into her mind again just as my fingernails break through her skin. I said, surrender.
Sorcha’s struggles grow fainter now, her defenses weakening. I can’t help the small stir of triumph that she’s finally helpless against me. Finally. Finally.
Don’t, I think to myself as revulsion knots my stomach. Don’t become so much like Lonnrach that you forget why you’re doing this.
I focus on my task: to find information. Like with Derrick, my human mind can’t comprehend the stream of images that make up the span of Sorcha’s experiences. There are thousands of years of thoughts, events, and emotions to sift through. Each one is perfectly intact, all of it happening at once. As if time is different for her, meaningless.
When Lonnrach did this, he sorted through my memories with care and precision, as if he were running a thread through a needle. I try his tactic of calling memories forth, coaxing them out of the stream of images based specifically on what I want.
The Book of Remembrance. Show me what she doesn’t want me to see. Show me. Show me.
Sorcha uses the last ounce of her strength to resist and send me off in another direction, but I hold firm. I bend her to my will. Her last vestiges of resolve vanish under the force of my command, my power. I feel her body go slack in its chains and I loosen my grip on her throat.
Her mind opens, and I walk into her memory.
I’m standing in a glen just after twilight, beside a tree that reaches for the sky with sharp, bare branches. The beautiful, fresh scent of spring flowers is fragrant in the air. Beads of water have collected along the bark, signs of a recent rain. Etched in the tree is a fae symbol I’ve never seen before. When I reach out to touch it, my fingers go right through the trunk.
It might look real, but it’s only a memory—so perfectly intact I can see every groove in the bark.
Sorcha is standing next to me and I’m shocked by her appearance. What’s wrong with her?
She looks sickly and too thin. Beneath the gossamer glow of her fae skin, she has a fevered flush to her cheeks. Sweat glistens along her brow, and her hand trembles as she pushes her hair back. Her eyes are filled with depths of emotion I’ve never seen from her. Desperation?
I flinch at Lonnrach’s voice behind me. “I can’t come with you.”
I turn, expecting the same harsh gaze I’d seen so much of while he kept me prisoner. But, like Sorcha, he doesn’t resemble the Lonnrach I’ve come to know. This isn’t the cold faery who bit me every day just to read my memories and discover my secrets.
In contrast to his sister, Lonnrach’s skin is startlingly beautiful, glittering in the moonlight. His pale hair is gathered at the nape of his neck, the salt-white strands shining in a halo around the crown of his head.
As he regards his sister, Lonnrach’s expression is stern, but sympathetic. I’m startled by how open he is, how readable. He often tried to hide his feelings from me in the mirrored room, especially when he searched through my mind. Sometimes, when he pulled up memories of me and my mother together, I think he felt sorry for me. Those glimpses of his true self were always overshadowed by what he’d done to me and Aithinne.
But in this memory . . . his eyes aren’t the same battle-weary ones that settled on me with disdain every day between his torture sessions.
Sorcha’s mind tells me why: This happened before Lonnrach was imprisoned. Before both kingdoms fell. Before Kiaran killed his Falconer and gave up his throne.
“Bheil thu eagal?” Sorcha’s question is teasing. At Lonnrach’s sudden sharp look, she smiles. “So you are afraid. It’s only a book.”
“Bi sàmhach,” Lonnrach snaps. He glances around, as if he expects to be attacked. At Sorcha’s laugh, Lonnrach scowls. “I heard the Cailleach never really killed the Morrigan. You’d better hope she’s not trapped in there.”
“Oh, stop it. Those stories are for children.” Sorcha waves a dismissive hand. “Even if they were true, the Morrigan was weakened. While imprisoned, she’s—”
“Still stronger than you,” Lonnrach interrupts. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“If you’re so worried, then come with me.” She sounds teasing again, but I hear the hint of worry beneath her words. I can sense from her thoughts that she needs the Book, not just to own it for the power.
Why then?
“I promised I’d help you find the door. Now I have,” he says. “If I go with you, my Queen—”
“Would execute you for your betrayal.” Her lip curls in disgust. So she loathed Aithinne even then. “I know. You told me.”
Lonnrach stares at the tree for a moment, as if he’s tempted to help her even at the risk of death. “Maybe you should let him die,” Lonnrach says, his voice so low that I barely hear him.
Sorcha looks at him sharply. “No,” she says. “He’s my friend and my consort.”
“Sorcha—”
“Mo chreach!” She throws up her hands. “Do you realize what you’re asking? I won’t stand aside and let Aithinne become the Cailleach.” Sorcha spits out Aithinne’s name like it’s a curse. “She’d execute me on sight.”
Lonnrach’s expression grows cold. “I’ll beg for your life.”
“It won’t matter and you know it.” Sorcha shakes her head. I hear her thoughts: You are so na?ve, Lonnrach. You always have been. “We’re at war. If Aithinne takes the throne, she’ll slaughter my people until the rest bow to her. I can’t let that happen.”
“That’s not what this is about, though, is it?” he asks. “Do you think I haven’t heard the rumors? That I can’t see for myself that you’re wasting away?” Sorcha stiffens at that and her brother laughs bitterly. “You might as well admit the truth: Your friend and consort is letting his kingdom rot because he fell in love with some human and won’t kill them now.”
“Tha sin gu leòr,” she bites out.
“No. I’m not done.” He exhales, his features softening. “What are you risking your life for, Sorcha? Do you think if you break his curse he’ll choose you over her?”
His curse. Oh god, she was looking for a way to save Kiaran?
“Finding the Book won’t change anything.” Lonnrach’s words are surprisingly gentle. He reaches to grip her arm, as if to make her understand. “He won’t love you back. Do you understand that?”
Sorcha stiffens, but she doesn’t pull away. “He’s my king.” “Not what I asked.”
Sorcha is silent for the longest time. Emotions flutter across her face: grief, uncertainty, and finally, longing. As if she’s already lost him. I didn’t realize she felt so strongly for Kiaran.
“I understand,” she whispers. “He’s worth everything.”
Lonnrach stares at her in disbelief—and when her expression confirms the truth of her words, he grimaces.