Chapter 43
THE NEXT DAY in the labyrinth is something of a daze. Sometimes I think I hear Drystan or catch a glimpse of him out the corner of my eye, but when I turn, he isn’t there.
Last night has clearly imprinted on my mind.
Between the revelation of my magic and the revelation of us, I find myself exhaling a surprised laugh or smiling a secret smile as we walk and rest our way through the morning. The Collector throws me curious glances every so often.
By the time the sun sets, I’m dead on my feet.
It turns out staying up most of the night making love to the King of Death is just as tiring as staying up most of the night doing anything else.
The stories always make being taken by fae sound dreamlike and magical—the kind of thing that feels effortless and restores energy rather than consuming it.
Lies and fantasy.
When I return to the fortress, I’m intensely grateful for the simple pleasure of a chair.
That night, I go about my usual Underworld routine—sleeping, getting ready, going to lunch.
Playing the part of Drystan’s fiancée a little too well.
It’s just fun, like the baker’s daughter. I remind myself of what Drystan said as he first sank into me. You’re nothing. But I can’t help remembering how he kissed me when he does not kiss.
Then, there are the carpets.
Or, specifically, the way they grow as I walk over them. Pretty five-petaled flax flowers follow me through the palace, a dusk-blue wake.
Oh, and the furniture.
After lunch, I get up and find my chair has sprouted branches of fragrant yew while I’ve been eating. Courtiers eye me, then bend their heads together in hushed discussion.
Drystan lifts his head, unruffled, and places a hand at the small of my back, ushering me out.
Later, when we’re entwined in the heady haze of after, I ask what they’re saying.
He twists his mouth and I’m sure he won’t answer, but after a prod, he sighs.
“They think you’ve been keeping your magic hidden and have finally chosen to share it.
That’s a source of curiosity. They wonder why you’d do that. ”
“I’m trying to keep it under control.” I wince.
“I know.” His hand finds the dip of my waist and he traces a circle over my hip bone. A reassurance.
“At least it’s just rugs and chairs.”
He arches an eyebrow at another branch of blossom that’s grown from the headboard. “And my bed.”
I’m dreaming about that moment later, back in my room, when a rap at the door wakes me.
Stretching my aching limbs, I drag myself up, wondering if Drystan’s come back—hoping—but instead it’s Kishel who enters.
His knowing smile makes my throat clench.
Is it me and Drystan he knows about? Somehow.
I remind myself that he is a seer, so I probably shouldn’t be surprised.
And then I remember Drystan’s deception after I collapsed. Everyone thinks we’ve been making love for weeks anyway.
“I understand my favorite student has a little surprise for me.” Dark eyes glinting with amusement, Kishel gives me a meaningful look. “Magic so secret, even you didn’t know about it.”
“Ah, so the king told you.” I chuckle with more than a little relief.
“I have to admit, I’ve spent the day wondering if that really happened.
” Both my magic and sharing Drystan’s bed.
“I’m thirty-three. I’ve never heard of magic taking that long to awaken.
It happens for most people in their teens or early twenties at the latest.”
“Mm.” Kishel steeples his fingers together, nodding. “It could be something was blocking you before—a belief, perhaps.” He eyes me for a long while as though he sees the doubts I sometimes have about myself. “Or maybe it’s that you’ve been here for a while now and the Underworld is affecting you.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking. I feel more…
healthy since coming here.” I choose my words carefully, treading between cracks that will reveal my illness.
Though, it feels like it would be safe to tell Kishel.
He hasn’t told anyone about my Fatework failings; I don’t think he’d tell anyone about my illness.
“Mortals can’t help but be affected by their environment.
We unseelie are more permanent beings—more fixed in our nature.
Your kind are more mutable. Our horses are the same—they’ve adapted to our world.
” From someone else, Phaedra for example, that could sound like an insult, but he says it thoughtfully and adds, “I rather envy you that.”
My mouth is still hanging open at the idea of a fae envying humans anything when he pulls out his scrying bowl. “Since we had luck with you reading ink in water last time, let’s try this again. But with this newfound power of yours, let’s see if you can direct the ink yourself.”
I wince up at him. “You mean, I’m on my own?”
“Never alone, Rhiannon. I’m still here.”
It is a comfort.
I can never tell how old he is. One minute, I think he must be ages old—that’s what I see in his eyes and calm patience. But then he gets this playful look, accompanied with a mischievous grin, and I’m sure he’s more in the range of human reckoning, maybe younger than me.
But whatever age he seems, he has this way of speaking that sounds True—the kind of True that must be written with a capital T.
So I lean over the bowl, let my gaze drift softly and follow the threads of ink that he drips into the water.
“What do I do to make it move?”
“You don’t need to do anything, just relax, remain steady and open and feel the energy flow through you.”
I try to do as he suggests, but I’m not sure what remaining open means.
And I have no idea what energy feels like.
Last night, I somehow made those plants grow—the cherrywood of the headboard and the cotton and linen of the bedding.
But I don’t remember how that felt. It was all wrapped up in the feel of Drystan, of his body, but also his words and the quiet, shared space within the curtain of his hair.
And the feeling of warmth, of connection within me, like I’d found a place that could be mine.
The ink curls. My fingertips tingle with the constant brush of sensation, like I’m dipping them into dry sand.
Warmth spreads in my chest. I’m part of something.
Of this place. I feel the trees outside, the sap moving slowly, the buds furled tightly—not dead, just waiting for spring to finally come.
The ink twitches. Splits. Six strands. Six horizons. A horse gallops across each one. The black horse rears and its outline shifts into a shape I recognize—the towering hulk of Rigor Gard.
“Six horses,” I murmur, voice distant. “One is Drystan. The others…”
“Good. What are the others doing?”
Not just horses, I realize as I peer closer. There are riders on their backs. “Riding hard. Coming closer.”
A droplet breaks off from each horizon, and the horses dissipate. The droplets merge, bulge, form an oval shape like one of my tablets. My commentary for Kishel breaks off. The shape cracks in two, dissolves into a skull, a tear drop, spreads into a long, flat line.
It trembles, then thrusts upward, forming the unmistakable shape of our home upon its clifftop perch. Like a bird, I dive closer, through the window.
I breathe a laugh of pure joy when I see my brother’s face.
But my joy is short-lived.
His hair is a mess. His eyes shadowed. His jaw thick with a beard—I didn’t even realize he could grow one that thick.
He’s bent over a book. Working on something. Eyes darting, bright. Feverish.
I mirror him, craning over the scrying bowl.
A plate of food sits beside him. Flies crawl over it.
That shirt. I recognize it. Blood on the cuffs. It’s the same one he wore the night I was taken.
When is this? The beard. It looks a few weeks old. I’ve been here almost three.
My pulse grows heavy. My throat tight.
What is he doing? What’s wrong? Why hasn’t he washed? Changed his clothes? He can’t have gone to work like that.
He huffs and sweeps the book off the table, then grabs another from outside of my narrow view.
I gasp at the title.
Forbidden Rituals of the Underworld.
No. He isn’t. He can’t.
He cracks open the tome, a desperate frown on his brow. “Annon.”
The word ripples through ink, space, time—a thread connecting us.
I reach for him, my finger into the rippling surface, my heart into the world that lies between us.
It’s like surfacing from water. I can breathe. Smell. Hear.
Rotting food. Dried herbs in the rafters. His voice, rougher than usual, pained.
“I’ll keep my promise if it’s the last thing I do.”
He is. Oh gods, he is.
“No.” I try to tell him, but he doesn’t look up from the book.
He can’t come after me. It’s too dangerous.
“Lowen,” I call. “No.”
I’m standing over spilled water and ink, the scrying bowl on the floor.
“Rhiannon?” Kishel rises, leaning in, concern etched into his brow. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I swallow, rubbing my chest.
I’ve been so wrapped up in pretending to be Drystan’s happy fiancée and getting closer to him, I’d forgotten about my obligations on the surface.
My brother. My little brother.
He thinks he’s coming to save me.
But if he makes it to the Underworld, he’ll be the one who needs saving.