Chapter 27
I awake on horseback. My body bounces and jostles, tucked into one of the elvish guards, arms and legs tied up and pulled side-saddle. I jerk my neck up, knocking the guard’s chest. He grunts.
“Where we goin’?” The words come out slurred, as if the magic coursing through my body is some sort of sedative.
“New York City,” the guard says.
I twist my neck around to find that it’s the one who yanked open my palm earlier.
Rad doesn’t meet my gaze. Just stares intently at the path ahead.
We’re on one of the highway-side horse trails that the elves started blazing shortly after they arrived on Earth.
I look down at my hands, checking to see if light is still flowing from the cut, but I find them wrapped in gauze and bound together.
“Whas in Neyork?” I ask, blinking against the darkness encroaching on the edges of my vision.
Rad is silent, and I think he’s going to ignore my question. But then, just before the darkness closes, wiping out the whip of the wind and the pound of the hooves, he says, “The King of Elaerion.”
When I regain consciousness, the first thing I hear is birdsong.
Northern flicker and the common yellowthroat, two birds that used to call during fall in Minnesota.
I think, for one delusional moment, that I’m back home.
That, when I open my eyes, I’ll be lying in next to Lake Hiawatha with Michael and our parents.
But when my eyes blink open, they find not sand and waves but hills of grass and swaying leaves. A cluster of rocks. Down the hill, a gravel path lined with benches. A bridge over cloudy grey water. This doesn’t look like New York. This looks like—
“Welcome to Central Park.”
My neck snaps over to the source of the voice.
From my place curled up in the grass, I find, seated on a throne made entirely of bedrock, an elf with light brown hair that hangs past his shoulders, a slightly crooked nose, and a thin metal crown woven with golden leaves.
His long hands, smooth and sun-worn, dangle over the arms of the chair.
To either side of the throne stand Daerios and Saechon, hands clasped behind their backs. Both are laden with weapons—sabers, daggers, bows slung over their shoulders—as if expecting trouble. Saechon stares straight forward, but Daerios’s neck is bent, eyes on the ground.
When I see him, my heart breaks all over again.
I’m not even going to pretend otherwise.
It aches and bleeds. I don’t care if it makes me weak or foolish; when I think of his betrayal, I feel as if I have been scooped of all my innards and filled with gravel.
Pebbles that grate against the underside of my skin. I want to cry, but I can’t.
Instead, I look directly at the king. “So, this is your throne room.”
Varith Ariar crosses his legs. “I prefer to be close to nature.”
“What do you do when it rains?” I push myself up onto my elbows. “Use human children as umbrellas?”
Varith lifts an eyebrow. “That would be a most inefficient method of coverage.”
I struggle over onto my knees, keeping my eyes firmly away from Daerios.
“So.” I crouch and rise slowly. To either side, guards inch closer, sabers held at the ready.
“Here I am. Your human sacrifice.” I hold out both arms. “Are you going to fatten me up before we head to Elaerion, or am I good to slice up as is?”
The King surveys me for a long moment. “My son said you figured out our code.” He leans forward, laying his chin on his fist. “I must say, I’m impressed. No human before you thought to look to academia.”
“No human before me had her brother kidnapped by your kind. At least, as far as my research shows.”
“Ahhh. Yet another piece of the puzzle: who took Michael Kallister?” The King leans back, folding his hands on his lap. “Because, I can assure you, it was not me.”
“I have very little reason to believe you.”
“I’m aware. Pray tell, what did the elves look like who took your brother? If you remember.”
Oh, I remember, all right. I’ll never forget their faces.
Their black eyes. Their pale, near-translucent bodies.
Every detail of the elves who murdered my father are burned into the back of my eyelids.
I see them as I lie awake at night, as I daydream in class, as I conjugate verbs from English to Mandarin.
“They were tall,” I start. “Pale grey skin, almost white. Like moonlight. Black cloaks with hoods. Black eyes. Long nails. Hair tied into topknots. The spear they used to—” I can’t say murder my father. “The spear they used had intricate designs carved into its length.”
The King gestures to Daerios, who walks over to me carrying a book under one arm, eyes still on the ground. I jerk backward at his approach. He registers the reaction. Pauses, eyes flitting up to me before quickly looking back down. Without a word, he holds out the book and flips it open.
The cover is heavy, faded, like a dictionary that spent too much time in someone’s basement.
But the paper is thick and waxen. It crinkles as it turns.
It feels old—older, even, than scroll or papyrus.
My eyes fall to an illustration that takes up the entire left page.
An elf. An elf with pale grey skin and hair in a topknot.
And below the drawing: Zolae Aldar
I inhale.
“Something like that?” asks the king from his throne.
I look up but say nothing.
“We believe that the Shadow Elves snuck onto Earth, took your brother, and brought him back to Elaerion.” The King pauses.
“We believe that, in their effort to thwart our search for the one thing that could save our realm, they mistook him for you—the true Lightbearer. We believe that they hold him hostage there still.”
“How do you know they haven’t killed him?” I ask. “Surely they’ve tested him and know by now that he isn’t the real Lightbearer.”
“We cannot know for certain that he remains alive.” Varith rubs two fingers together absentmindedly.
“But I do know the elf who calls himself the Shadow King. He is a cautious sort. Even with a failed test, if the Shadow King believes there is any chance at all that your brother could contain the light that would dispel the dark, he would not risk an accidental sacrifice. He would keep your brother in his clutches, imprisoned but alive.”
My brain chews slowly over this information. “Alive,” I repeat slowly.
At that single word, a helix of tension unwinds in my stomach.
Michael. Alive.
“I would like to offer an exchange,” the king continues, sitting up straighter in his chair. “A life for a life.”
Beside him, Daerios stiffens.
“Sorry?” I ask.
“A life for a life. You give your life to save Elaerion; in exchange, we rescue your brother and ensure his safe return to Earth.”
Wintry dread creeps into my stomach. You give your life.
I see myself, strapped to a stone platform in the middle of a shadowy forest, demons snarling in the bushes, as King Varith carves a saber from my forehead to my pelvis.
I see light exploding from within me. I see it sweep across the land, expelling the demons and the shadows.
And then I see myself again, body a pile of ashes, burned up by my own light.
Dread spreads, leaking steadily out into my limbs.
“You wish for me to be a willing sacrifice,” I say at last.
The King nods. “I do.”
“And if I say no?”
He gestures to the many guards surrounding the clearing. “You have little choice, Quinn Kallister. I will get what I want regardless of your answer. Offering to rescue your brother is purely a kindness.”
“Father—” Daerios begins. It’s the first he’s spoken since I opened my eyes.
Varith waves his son quiet. “Let us hear what Quinn has to say.”
“How can I trust that you’ll rescue Michael? From what I’ve heard, the Shadow Elves have full dominion over Elaerion. A rescue sounds impossible.”
“It would be impossible,” the king says, “under the realm’s current conditions.”
As the implication of his words sinks in, I go rigid. Through gritted teeth: “You mean to save him once the shadows have been dispelled.”
“That is correct.”
“Which means that, even if you do keep your word about rescuing Michael, I won’t be alive to see it. How am I supposed to trust that kind of promise? How am I supposed to trust anything you say?”
The King steeples his fingers, looking out at the park.
Down the path, a pair of squirrels race each other up a tree.
“You make an excellent point. How can you trust the word of a species that has done nothing but harm your family and take up space in your realm? I wouldn’t trust me, either.
However.” He pushes himself up out of the throne and descends the three stone steps into the grass.
I take a step backward, then curse myself for showing my fear.
“From what I’ve gathered, you’ve grown rather fond of our kind.
” He glances at Daerios, and every organ in my body wants to fall out at once.
“If there was ever any fondness where your kind is concerned,” I grit out, “it vanished the moment I discovered your son’s true intentions.”
“Ah, but did it?” Varith draws closer, gathering his cloak around his ankles. “Your hatred for the elves runs deep, but you clearly found it in your heart to empathize with our plight if you managed to grow close to Daerios.”
“I did,” I say, “and it was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the prince jerk backward, as if I threw stones at his head rather than words.
“Be that as it may.” King Varith paces to the end of the lawn, speaks with his face turned away from me.
“You strike me as a vengeful woman, Quinn. Single-minded in your pursuit of your brother. Dedicated to fostering a deep, black hatred of our kind.” He turns, hands clasped behind his back.
“You must want us off Earth quite badly. And you can make that happen.” He raises an eyebrow.
“I meant what I said when I first arrived here: once we get what we want, we’ll go. ”