Nightweaver #1

Chapter Twenty

“You’re distracted,” Killian says. Moonlight dapples his dark hair, washing the conservatory in silver radiance and giving Liv and the other pixies the appearance of shooting stars as they flit about the old oak tree.

Two weeks have passed since Henry invited me to join him at the Reckoning Day Ball, and little has changed at Bludgrave Manor aside from the shorter days and longer nights as summer finally concedes to autumn. The most exciting hours of my day consist of these moments spent studying with Killian in the conservatory. But tonight, I find it difficult to focus, as every word he says seems to blend into the next, a hazy blur of names and facts and dates I’ll never remember.

“I’m tired,” I grouse, tracing a groove in the bark of the branch on which I sit.

Killian cocks a brow, closing the heavy, leather-bound tome in his lap. “Strange, I thought the history of the Tamed Lands was a lively subject.” He scratches Dinah between her floppy ears, and the hound lets out a contented sigh. “What’s on your mind?”

Finding the Sylk.

Killing the prince.

Overthrowing a kingdom.

Will.

“Nothing.” I knock my head against the trunk, attempting to still the constant churning of my mind. “Are we going to talk about hunting Underlings, or not?”

“We could talk about constellations, instead?” He adjusts the buttons of his dark, striped waistcoat. It’s the first time I’ve seen the admiral out of his usual uniformed attire, and it makes him seem oddly human. “Flowers, perhaps? That seemed to be working.”

I glare at the ground where Will and I used to lie as I swipe the book from Killian’s lap, flipping through its pages. “Six hundred years of kings and queens. Six hundred years of war. Six hundred years, and my people have never known freedom. There’ve been rebellions before. What makes the Order of Hildegarde any different?”

Killian lights the cigar dangling from his lip, his face wrinkled with scrutiny. “Have you ever heard of the Red Island?”

My heart skips a beat, but I nod, trying to seem nonchalant.

Killian takes a long drag, puffing smoke. “When the war is over, a human will sit on the throne once again.” He hesitates, glancing at me sidelong. “Some believe it will be a descendent of Hildegarde, the Mother of Queens, who wears the crown.”

I shudder, remembering the crown of mystiks atop my head, and Will’s whispered words. I think you would make an excellent queen.

I fidget, turning the band of braided leather around my wrist. “Why do they call her the Mother of Queens?”

Killian flicks the ash from his cigar, squinting at the smoldering embers at his feet as if he were trying to divine something from them. “Long ago, the Eerie was ruled by a queen who believed in magic and freedom and goodness. Hildegarde was as fierce as she was just, as wise as she was brave. A practiced Sorceress, she healed her people in miraculous ways and protected them against deadly Myths even the most decorated warriors would not dare face. The True King, who looked down on Hildegarde with favor, sent an Elysian priestess to this realm to bless the queen with a power only he possessed.”

Killian’s eyes reflect the red smolder of his cigar as he pulls in a lungful of smoke. He exhales, and in the pale blue light of the moon, he gives me a curious look. “William told me the name of your ship was the Lightbringer .” He cocks his head, searching my face. “Were you aware that was another name for Morana, the Underling queen?”

My heart drops into my stomach, heavy as a stone. Feebly, I shake my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Mother and Father name our ship after an Underling?”

“Morana was not always an Underling.” Killian frowns, hypnotic ribbons of smoke unfurling from the cigar. “She was the True King’s second-in-command.”

The leaves rustle, filling the silence. Even Liv and the pixies have gone quiet, listening to Killian’s every word.

“When the True King gave Hildegarde a fraction of his power, Morana lost herself to jealousy. She passed through the gates of Elysia into this realm to steal the True King’s magic from the queen. Morana slayed Hildegarde, draining her of the Manan in her blood. But once she had the power she had craved for so long, the True King would not allow her to enter back through the gates of Elysia. As punishment, he sentenced Morana to Havok, a realm of utter darkness and despair, where she was to remain for all eternity. That was, until your people opened a gateway to Havok, releasing Morana from her prison.”

The Burning Lands , I realize. The gateway through which the Underlings flooded into our world. Will told me as much the morning after the Hackneys were murdered.

“What does any of this have to do with the Red Island?” I ask, tugging at Owen’s bracelet. The Red Island—Owen’s dream. Our dream.

“Hildegarde anticipated Morana’s wrath. Just before she died, she gave birth to an heir, whom she hid away on an island where it is said no Underling can tread. There the descendants of Hildegarde have ruled for centuries, waiting for the time to come for them to reclaim their rightful throne.”

“The Red Island,” I breathe, my heartbeat racing.

A nod. “Power was not the only thing Morana stole from Hildegarde. The True King’s gift to Hildegarde also came with a title.”

“The Lightbringer…” That same something I sensed in me that day on the train, when I first met Will, recoils at the words. But again it creeps forward, as if craning to hear—or be heard. “Why doesn’t the heir of Hildegarde just take the True King’s magic back from Morana? Why hide?”

Killian snuffs out his cigar on the trunk of the old oak, his expression drawn. “Because in order to reclaim such power, one would have to drain Morana’s true corporeal form of its Manan . But the Underling queen has not taken her corporeal form since the day she slayed Hildegarde.”

The Sylk queen. A shadow with no blood of her own. Frustration burns the back of my throat, bitter and acrid.

Killian hefts two daggers from his belt, hidden beneath his wool coat. Their dark iron blades shimmer with iridescent shades of green, purple, and blue. “The League took me all over the Known World—Kane, Tyton, the Republic of Ruin. During a journey from Hellion in the west to Nera in the south, we were shipwrecked. I alone survived. The family that rescued me took me back to their home on the shores of the Red Island. They nursed me back to health. Gave me these.” He extends the daggers to me. “They’re made of Elysian Iron—capable of banishing a Sylk.”

I grip the hilts in either fist. My stomach clenches as the muscles in my arms groan with misuse. I’ve let myself grow weak. But I can’t think about that now. Not when I’m so close to the thing I’ve spent my entire life seeking. For a moment, I forget the Sylk. I forget the prince. All I can think about is the look on Owen’s face that last morning; the way his kind eyes lit up at the mention of the pirate sanctuary where we could finally be free.

It’s real. The Red Island is real.

“Does that mean…” I swallow hard, my heartbeat like a painful throbbing in my chest. “Do you know how to get to the Red Island?”

Something akin to grief flickers in his eyes, but it’s so brief I think I’ve imagined it. He shakes his head. “When I was well enough to leave, they blindfolded me. Left me on a rowboat near the Cutthroat Coast.”

I try to hide my disappointment, studying the twin blades. Citrine jewels adorn the pommel on either dagger, their cross guards shaped like wings. Fine craftsmanship—lightweight, sharp enough to cut through bone. These daggers belonged to my people—to humans. “Why give these to me?”

Killian looks up at the sky through the panels of glass, and I recognize the way he gazes at the stars. As if they were his friends. As if he knew them all by name. “I know that look in your eye. I’ve seen it before.” He glances at the daggers, his expression hard. “If you continue down this path, you’re going to need them.”

When I tiptoe into our room, well past midnight, Margaret is still awake. I’ve hardly caught a glimpse of her tear-streaked face when she pulls me into a tight embrace, sobs hitching her breath. As much as I hated to part with the daggers, I’m glad I left Killian’s gifts to be watched over by Liv and the pixies for the night. If Margaret felt them on my person, she would ask questions I couldn’t begin to answer.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” she cries softly. “I’m so sorry.”

I return the embrace, my chest squeezing painfully tight. “Don’t be,” I say, stroking her hair. “I provoked you.”

“I’m the older sister,” she half-laughs, half-cries. “I’m not supposed to let you provoke me.” Her shoulders shake, her grip on me unrelenting. “I haven’t been able to sleep. I just kept thinking you left and weren’t coming back and I—I—”

“I’m right here, Marge,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She draws back, her hands on my shoulders as she eyes me suspiciously. “You aren’t?” She sniffs. “It just seems like you haven’t given up on it.”

I open my mouth, close it. Killian confirmed the existence of the Red Island tonight. It isn’t just a fairy tale or a legend or a lie Mother and Father allowed us to believe in. It’s real. We could go there. We could be free. Safe. I want more than anything in the world to tell Margaret exactly that.

But I don’t.

“You were right,” I say instead. “Finding the Red Island was a fantasy. This is where we are now.” But what I don’t say aloud is that although I don’t plan on staying here forever, I don’t intend on leaving anytime soon. Not until I’ve found Owen’s killer. Not until I’ve driven a blade through the prince’s heart. Not until the king and queen of the Eerie have heard the name Aster Oberon and cowered in fear of the girl the sea itself could not tame.

She cocks her head, her glassy, sapphire eyes piercing me in a way only Margaret’s can—as if she can feel the childish hope that has gripped me since the first time I ever heard tales of the Red Island. As if it grips her, too.

She gives a heart-wrenching smile, full of the kind of disappointment known only to those who have ever dared to dream. “It was a nice fantasy.”