CHAPTER SEVEN
The Hermit called out again, his voice the only sound in the clearing beside my labored breathing. “Erys.”
I froze, my heart thundering.
“Erys.” He whistled once more.
The pounding in my chest intensified as the witchmoth appeared above the darkened treetops and flew overhead.
His blue moonstone-colored wings shimmered in the dark against the deep green of his body.
Gods. Erys. He looked exactly as I remembered him.
His long body was as tall as any man, and wide enough for two riders to sit comfortably on his back.
I blinked, my vision blurring with tears as he soared above the lake, his reflection lighting up the water.
Circling around, he flew lower, his feet dipping into the still waters—something he’d always loved to do.
Then he soared back over to the grass, landing at the feet of the Hermit with his head bowed in obedience to the male witch.
My throat tightened. That obedience had once been reserved for my mother, and my mother alone.
“She gave him to you?” I asked, my voice shaking. For some reason, the knowledge of that betrayal, the shifting of Erys’s loyalty, stung worse than the final words my aunt had said before I left.
“Gave him?” The Hermit shook his head, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “One does not give a witchmoth.”
“You know what I meant,” I snapped. “Erys is special.”
“Because Erys was your mother’s? And therefore yours?
” he drawled, raising a dark eyebrow. He resheathed his stave and placed a hand on his hip.
“Come now. What did you expect? You’ve been gone, completely abandoning Erys.
What was a poor witchmoth to do?” He pouted.
“Wait in his enclosure for seven years, refusing to fly or socialize? Sitting in mourning every day until your return?”
I snarled.
“Shamhira.” The Hermit shook his head. “He’s a moth, not a man. He’s not trying to insult you. Let it go.” His eyes ran down my body, and along the weeds he’d used to make me his captive. “There’s no reason to get yourself all tied up any further.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Come now.” He cocked his head to the side.
“I’m a little funny. But I’m also not the person you should be attempting to taunt right now.
You are my prisoner, and therefore the Queen’s.
Your queen still—even if you fled her rule.
And I know you haven’t asked it of me, but perhaps you’ll accept a word of advice?
When finding oneself in such a delicate situation as this, where one does not have the upper hand, one might find it wise to hold one’s tongue.
” His nostrils flared as he stepped closer, his movements feline.
“You don’t want me to speak? Fine. Counsel accepted,” I gritted.
“Consider my tongue held.” But my eyes were still on Erys.
He hadn’t even noticed me. Like he didn’t know who I was.
Like he’d forgotten me. By the Gods, old and new.
I was wearing my true face, the one I’d been born with, the one he had known my entire life.
The one he’d seen grow every day for twenty years.
And he hadn’t come over to me, hadn’t even seemed to recognize my scent. Another betrayal.
“Rest assured,” the Hermit crooned. “Erys remains loyal. He still serves your bloodline. He still serves the Queen. Just as he always has.”
My bloodline. Not my mother. For my aunt was the Queen. My aunt, who hated me, who knew I was the reason my mother was dead.
I tried to shake the feeling away. But the Hermit was right.
What was Erys supposed to do in my absence?
He was only one of a dozen witchmoths that survived the Doom, and one of the first to migrate to Azeal.
Like the chimera and my people, witchmoths lived in exile.
As our main allies in survival, they’d become sacred to the witches, even part of our royal sigil–a reminder of where we’d come from.
But they were more than that.
A witchmoth could not be ruled, not even by us. They had free will. They would fly to whomever they wanted, when they wanted, and no spell or amount of pleading could change their mind.
Erys had been different. He’d loved my mother, and he’d loved me.
He’d agreed to every flight, every trip and whim I’d ever made.
He sometimes came to lie by my feet when I’d sit outside the castle reading, or fly upon me, to lick my face and zoom off.
I’d been flying on Erys since I was a baby, something no other witch could claim.
And after all that, all those years of friendship, all we’d shared, he no longer recognized me.
“It’s lucky we came out here tonight.” The Hermit took my arm in his hand and pushed me toward Erys’s prone body.
His hand swept under my knees as he lifted me into his arms, stepping carefully onto Erys’s back, and sat us down, shifting me to sit beside him.
“I had a hunch I’d find something out by the lake tonight. I was right. Wasn’t I?”
“Are you trying to bait me?” I asked, “Or shall I continue to hold my tongue?”
“Do as you wish, Princess. I have you now.”
The weeds tightened around my wrists and ankles to further his point. I stared ahead. If I thought too much about it, about Erys, or home, or the last time I’d been there, I would cry. And if I started to cry, I wouldn’t stop.
“Home, Erys,” the Hermit cooed, leaning forward to smooth his hand over the witchmoth’s furry head.
The moonstone color of his wings began to glow, and then we were lifting up into the sky, the Hermit’s face and neck cast in blue.
I looked back one last time, at the lake, knowing Brennan was on the other side.
Brennan, who knew what I was. Who somehow had conjured my true face. Who had to be telling Kienan and Rowan what I was.
Were they headed back to the castle to recover? Were they helping the injured at the tavern?
Or were plans to hunt me down and place me in a box already underway?
It didn’t matter. I’d never see him again.
He was House Lafir—related to Jaron, to the king.
And despite how I’d felt, how his energy had made me light up from within and charged me with more power than I’d known in years, it was time to move on—to forget he existed.
To leave the life of the brown-haired dancer named Samara behind.
Including Finlay and Thomas. And Cecelia. And all that happened.
Erys’s silent wings flapped harder, until we flew higher. The treetops faded into a dark blur below us, and they remained so for several miles of our dark flight. All the while, the Hermit remained eerily quiet.
The first time I’d met the male witch, I still had my baby teeth.
He’d been gone from Azeal since my birth, and no one knew where.
Not even my mother. I almost hadn’t believed him real—imagining he was as made up as the characters in a fairy tale.
Other kids would warn that if you weren’t careful, or disobeyed your mother, the Hermit would appear and snatch you away.
He came to collect when I turned five—but he didn’t snatch me.
Just everyone’s attention. We were sitting in court, my mother on her throne.
Witches had lined up for hours, all to ask her questions, voice complaints, or offer suggestions on how she might rule differently, including offering their unasked-for opinions on how she might settle a dispute.
I was on a miniature throne beside her, observing.
Proud of her and excited to finally be allowed to sit at her side.
I thought my mother was the most beautiful witch in the world, like a Goddess of old.
She was patient and kind, listening intently to even the most ridiculous complaints that were made.
Like one witch who was upset that her lover snored.
As if my mother had any responsibility for this woman’s lack of sleep.
Even as a child, I saw its silliness. But my mother was patient and recommended a potion to offer her man before bed.
The line of witches to see her had finally begun to dwindle. Suddenly, the doors to the throne were pushed open, and the Hermit entered.
My mother stiffened, sitting back in her throne, her knuckles white as she held onto the armrest. She was afraid.
I’d never once seen her afraid. She took a second to look my way and smiled bravely.
But I was left unsettled. I knew I could feel emotions by then.
And whenever my mother smiled at me, I felt warmth.
Felt her love. Her joy. But not that time.
“Your Majesty.” The Hermit’s eyes darkened as he took in the line of petitioners who stood in front of him. “I must speak with you. At once.”
My mouth fell open because no one—no one—made demands of my mother. Ever.
Except the Hermit.
She cleared her throat and sat forward, her face once more schooled to neutral. She looked like herself again. Confident. Kind. Strong.
“You have returned from your travels then.” She did not address the Hermit by name. He had no name, though I’d thought for many years it was simply Hermit. He never corrected anyone if he was called that, nor offered another name or title to use instead. “Welcome back to Azeal,” she said gallantly.
“Get out,” he yelled. The petitioners turned to him in horror. He waved his hands in the air, his energy darkening to the point that the room felt heavy. “Get out, get out, get out!” he roared.
The power he showed was far greater than that of any other witch. It was the sort of power that was life-draining, life-ending, and he was exhibiting it with ease.
Many of the petitioners fled, not waiting for the queen to contradict him. Meanwhile, her guards stood at attention, their staves drawn, ready to fight.
But she shook her head, ordering them to stand down. No one, not even the queen herself, refused the Hermit. A few petitioners remained behind, still looking to her for guidance—unsure who to fear more.