Her eyes lift to meet mine. “Used me.”
“And yet you forced him into that vow.” I keep my voice light, but can’t hide the hint of bitterness behind it. You still took away his choice.
“He wasn’t wrong,” she says, staring into the fire again. “I am no better than my former master. I became the very thing I hate, I admit that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Goodness doesn’t last, Falconer. If enough time has passed and enough people hurt us, we all become cruel and heartless bastards.” She stares hard at me. “So would you, if humans lived long enough.”
I press my lips together. “Aithinne’s not like that.”
Sorcha snorts. “You think Aithinne is so special because she believes humans aren’t completely useless. You might have seen her fight, but I’ve seen her in war. You believe she’s incapable of being cruel? I’ve walked through whole battlefields covered in her victims.”
I flinch and look away, toward Aithinne’s sleeping form. “She was defending those she loves.”
“Aren’t we all?” Sorcha’s tone is mocking. “We always try to play the hero first, Falconer. It makes it easier to justify the worst of our actions later.” Then, after a moment’s consideration: “Maybe I should show you.”
She seizes me in a hard grip. Her palms are at my temples, and before I can stop her, her mind connects with mine.
CHAPTER 34
I’M IN a cavern illuminated by the dim light of a single lantern on the ground. The first thing I notice is how vast the cavern is, how dark and endless, with shadows thick and pressing against my skin. The second is the stench, so strong I almost stagger. Death. Decay. The iron burn of spilled blood squeezes through my lungs. I press the sleeve of my coat to my face to stifle the odor, but it doesn’t work—it’s a memory. Not real.
A silhouetted figure is sitting next to the lantern, a bucket beside her. As I approach, I notice how small she is, slight enough to be a child. She hums as she stands up, a long strand of black hair escaping the hood at the back of her dress as she takes a few steps and leans down . . .
I jerk back when I realize that what I thought was a dark mound of rock just beyond the lantern light wasn’t part of the cave at all. It’s a huge pile of bodies. Hundreds. Thousands. They span farther than the light can reach, rows and rows of dead fae soldiers still wearing their armor.
The girl grasps a body by the arm and drags it off the pile. She makes quick work of removing the armor, moves the body into another pile, then hauls the armor toward the light. She picks a wet brush out of the bucket and scrubs the blood and dirt off the metal, her movements quick, efficient. Her fingers are as graceful as a pianist’s, long and tapered. She drums them against the metal as she hums. The song is familiar; I heard it once, by the banks of a loch in the Sìth-bhrùth.
No, it can’t be her. She’s much too small to be—
But she is. Sorcha. Who else would it be? This is her memory.
I crouch next to her, watching her fingers move deftly over the armor as she scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. If I thought she looked ill in her memory with Lonnrach, it doesn’t compare to this. Dark circles bruise the pale skin beneath her eyes. Her skin peeking out beneath the tattered, dark wool of her hooded dress is paler than usual, as white and ashen as a specter.
She’s frail and fine-boned as a newborn foal, and just as unsteady. She sways slightly as she rises to her feet with the armor, dropping the heavy breastplate, helmet, and shining metals in their own piles on the opposite end of the cave. Returns. Picks up another body. Divests it of armor. Scrubs the metal clean. And again. And again. Every so often, she dumps the water and refills the wooden bucket from the underground spring. Again. And again. And again.
I wince as she hums through the work, even as her hands shake. Even as her voice grows hoarse. Even as her breathing grows uneven, ragged with exhaustion. She’s so tired that she has to sit on the ground as she scrubs.
This isn’t the work of a royal consort. This is the work of a—
Her song is interrupted by the metallic click of a latch. I look over as the heavy wooden door leading into the cave is pushed open. A man stands there, silhouetted against the brightness of the afternoon sun. Sorcha shuts her eyes at the onslaught of light. Sucks in a sharp breath. From the feel of her mind, I can sense her yearning to go outside.
She’s been in this cave for so long. Scrubbing. Preparing the dead for their funeral rites. Salvaging their armor for new soldiers to die wearing on the battlefield against the Seelie. She’s been among the dead for so long. For so long.
She’s been in this cave for hundreds of years.
The man shuts the door and approaches Sorcha, a shadow of a smile on his face. Like the rest of the Unseelie, he’s beautiful. The burnished copper of his hair glows in the soft light from Sorcha’s lantern. His eyes are twin pools of black, sharp with malice and . . . something else. A satisfaction I don’t understand.
She goes still when he flicks the crudely woven hood away from her hair and slides his hand down the long, shining strands. “You’re making good time, ban-òglach. You do your work so efficiently. I’m pleased with you.”
Sorcha remains motionless on the ground, but I notice how her eyes sharpen with hatred. The way her fingers dig into the dirt at her feet like she’s holding back from hurting him. Why doesn’t she? She’s not chained or bound—
He strokes her hair again, as if he’s baiting her. Something inside me twists with revulsion, with anger. For her.
“Have I not been fair? Am I not merciful?” he asks her gently. “I’ve given you four hundred years. When will you take your place by my side?”
Sorcha jerks out of his grasp and spits on his boots. “Not now,” she hisses. “Not ever.”
The faery’s lips press into a cruel line as he plucks a kerchief out of his coat pocket and flicks it down to her. “Wipe it off.”
With a growl, Sorcha snatches up the fabric and cleans the saliva off his boots. “Satisfied?” The word comes out like a curse.
“No.” He grasps the blade at his hip and tosses it to the ground. “Pick up the dagger and press it just over your heart.” Sorcha’s hand shakes, but she does what he asks. Her eyes are hard, murderous. “Slide it in, girl,” he says in a hiss.
I press a hand to my mouth as Sorcha pushes the blade through the fabric of her dress and through skin. Her breath comes fast, her eyes shut hard, but she never screams. I can tell she wants to. A small cry escapes her lips, but she bites her lower lip hard.
“Stop,” the faery finally says. “Just there. One more push, and I can force you to end your own life. Every time you think of defying me, remember this moment. Remember it well.” He orders her to remove the blade and Sorcha pulls it out with a rough gasp. “Shall I ask you again?” he asks her as she presses a hand to her wound. “Will you take your place by my side?”