Chapter 33
I can tell from his expression it’s not good.
“Do we still have time?” I ask.
“I think so, but she’s already started to connect with Interra. We need to hurry.”
I look across the battlefield, taking in the writhing mass of dark iron that makes up Evanthe’s soldiers, relentlessly striking up against the fae. I may have evened the odds a bit, but if I leave now, more of our allies will die.
“Ella, everyone will be destroyed if we don’t stop her,” Ruskin says. Of course he knows what I’m thinking, and what he says is true. Still, it’s an effort to make my feet move, knowing I’m leaving our allies behind to die.
“Tell me where to go,” I say to him.
“She’s on the other side of the lake, by the mouth that runs in from the mountains. We can portal there from the bank.”
Ruskin and I climb up onto Parsley, and we begin our journey through the battlefield. I clear as many of the iron soldiers as I can on the way, but I can feel myself slowing, and eventually Ruskin puts his hand on my arm.
“You need to save some strength.”
We ride on. All around us, bodies lie trampled underfoot, limbs peeking out from beneath piles of crumpled metal. The battle at Cavalil was a skirmish compared to this, and the bloody, brutal reality of it is impossible to compare to anything else I’ve experienced. The crows are already here, finding quieter spots to land and eat their fill, while the bitter smell of dark magic and blood fills my nostrils.
My eyes land on a familiar head of curls to our right.
“Destan!” I shout, as my friend rams an iron soldier’s helmet so hard it goes flying.
He dodges the soldier’s counterattack and rides over to us.
“You’re going to Evanthe?” he asks breathlessly.
“Yes, she’s by the lake, on the mountainside.”
He looks like he wants to insist on coming with us, but I think he knows we would argue against it. We can’t afford to bring a bystander Evanthe could use against us.
“Destan,” I say, as an idea occurs to me. “The humans shouldn’t be here, and they’re being slaughtered. Prince Gawain is leading them, though I’m sure he’s only here on his father’s orders. Could you get to him and try to convince him to surrender?”
He raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think I could get him to do that?”
“He saw you with us in the castle; he knows you’re a friend of ours. If you told him they won’t be harmed if they give up the fight, he might listen.”
Destan shrugs. “All right. I’ll try. Good luck.”
We leave our friend behind as Parsley gallops towards the lake. Once on the banks, Ruskin portals us across to the other side, where the mountains stretch up above us—a silent, ancient audience to what’s about to unfold.
“This way,” Ruskin murmurs, leading me up a slope past a small waterfall. The rush of water hides the sounds of our footsteps, but it also means we don’t hear the hoofbeats on the trail up ahead.
“Stop there,” Albrecht says, and I look up into the mean, black eyes of my once betrothed. He’s wearing armor of cold iron and brandishing a sword that likely hasn’t seen a shred of action in the last decade, unless you count executing a servant in a fit of pique.
The king grins at us stupidly, as if we’ve walked into his perfectly laid trap.
“Get down on your knees, Blackcoat,” he orders. Both Ruskin and I ignore him.
“Where’s Evanthe, Albrecht?” I ask, relishing the fact that this man no longer has any power over me.
He squints at me, the recognition slow to come.
“Is that the Gold Weaver? Well, well, I wondered what this thieving bastard had done with you. I hope you’re not expecting me to take you back, girl. I won’t touch some other man’s spoiled goods. Besides, I have better prospects ahead.”
I feel Ruskin tense beside me.
“Did the queen promise you riches?” I ask. “Whatever it is, she’s lying to you, you know.”
Albrecht sneers. “Fae can’t lie, and that’s no way to talk about my future bride.”
Ruskin makes a choking noise of disbelief. “ That’s what she promised you? Let me guess, she said you could sit on a throne beside her when the Seelie realm flourishes again, or something like that, right?”
I recognize the childish rage building on Albrecht’s face. “When it’s returned to its glory days, actually. Now, you heard me. Get down on your knees.” He smiles with horrible pleasure. “Or watch your little whore’s head get separated from her shoulders.”
“Actually, I think we’ve heard enough from you,” I say, and crush Albrecht’s armor inwards.
The metal of his breastplate constricts dramatically, tightening around his throat. The king scrabbles fruitlessly at his neck, his eyes bulging, his scream silent. His body gives out quicker than I expect, and a minute later he slumps forward across his horse, dead.
“That’s for my father,” I say, feeling a cathartic rush. Tears prick at my eyes, even in the middle of my rage, as I think about all the damage he’s done; how many lives he’s ruined. “And for everyone in Styrland.”
I stare at his limp body, taking in a ragged breath. It feels good, knowing he can’t cause any more suffering.
Ruskin touches my arm. “Come on, we have to hurry.”
We continue up the track to where the waterfall opens up into a small inlet of Lake Irnua.
Evanthe is bent down on the other side from us, one hand buried in the lake. As we get closer, I see that the water isn’t actually touching her, instead it swirls around a dark portal, the depths of which swallow up all light. Shadowy tendrils of Interra crawl forth, twining around her fingers and up along her body. With each new wave, the shadows seem to get darker, layering on top of one another. They’re growing stronger, I think. Making Evanthe stronger too.
The queen opens her eyes and lifts her head. When she settles her gaze on us, the sight chills me to the bone. There are shadows dancing in her eyes, blackening the whites of them, her pupils shining pinpricks in the haze.
“I take it Albrecht is dead?” she says.
“Yes,” Ruskin replies. “A poor choice of ally, Mother.”
“A means to an end,” she replies. “You have my thanks for disposing of him for me. It’s such a bother to tidy everything up one’s self.” Her voice is deep and rasping, and I think I can hear the roars of Interra’s beasts within it.
I swallow. She knows we’ve come here to stop her, but it seems I’ll need to provoke her attack. It’s the most dangerous part of our plan, but she has to cast at me before my magic will work on her. Ruskin’s supposed to shield me from the worst effects of whatever she throws at me, but I’m sure it won’t be pleasant.
“This is your end, Evanthe,” I say, taking a step away from Ruskin. I hope my words will make her angry, but she simply laughs.
“All this effort for a realm that would be better off without you. Just because you managed to get yourself a fae face and snag a prince, do you think that qualifies you to decide the fate of my kingdom? A place that existed for millennia before your grubby, pathetic kind walked your realm? Do you really think you know what’s best for Seelie? You, a human, a peasant girl.” She shakes her head. “The arrogance of it. But then, I suppose that’s what makes her a match for you, Ruskin. I’ve heard plenty of tales of your arrogance recently. The court quite hates you, you know. What a shame. Both my children were nothing but disappointments.”
Ruskin doesn’t look eager to banter like he did when he faced down Cebba. His mask is on, cool and collected, but beneath it I can guess that he’s wondering how his mother could’ve changed so much, perhaps remembering her words to him once, about how he shouldn’t care what other people think of him. But it’s me who needs to engage Evanthe, and soon, before those shadows get much thicker.
“That’s strange,” I say. “I wonder why most of the Seelie are out there fighting your puppets right now, if they hate Ruskin so much?”
Evanthe switches her gaze to me. “Because they’re selfish, short-sighted fools. But they will learn soon enough.”
“Or not,” I say, lifting my hands to indicate that I’m about to conjure.
It’s as I’d hoped—Evanthe pulls her own hand from the portal in order to counter-cast. She doesn’t choose an iron spell for me, knowing how easily I’d redirect it. Instead, the darkness that billows between her fingers is clearly a curse, one she releases towards me a second later. I reach out my magic to meet it, expecting the familiar warmth of Ruskin’s power to wash over me, shielding me. But when I glance at him I see only the flash of iron erupting from the ground.
Evanthe’s attacked us both at the same time.
His eyes are on me, concentrating, and he only looks down at the last moment. Meanwhile, my magic is focused on Evanthe, desperately searching for an opening to send back my own spell. It means I can only watch as he throws himself back, and the iron slices through the flesh in his leg, leaving a gaping wound.
Then Evanthe’s curse hits me.
Pain spears through my body, but it’s not my groans I can hear. I stare across to Ruskin; he’s on his knees, his eyes fixed on me, but I can see his body shuddering. Is the curse hurting him too? It must be, through the bond, and yet I’m powerless to do anything to help him. His head slumps forward, limp, looking horribly like a corpse. I try to scream his name, but I don’t know if it makes a sound.
The curse closes around me, burning tendrils licking across my skin. They sear me with every touch, pulling me down…down into the depths of somewhere far from reality, from my view of Ruskin, until I’m standing in a place with many corridors and rooms.
The palace, the Unseelie Court, Dad’s cottage, Sana’s house…I know all these places, and I finally realize where I am: my own subconscious. But I’m not alone here. The building shakes like an earthquake has hit it, the walls vibrating with a hissing, screeching sound. I clap my hands over my ears, but there’s no escaping it. The sound is inside my head, the shadows of Interra burrowing through my mind.
Like it did to Ruskin, its dark vines twist through the chambers of my memory. To my left, they swallow up the moment when Ruskin proposed to me, the joy on my face in the memory blotted out by the thick, ugly knots. To my right, my mother hugs me as a child, stroking the back of my head, until the vines puncture their way through the scene, choking it with darkness.
The curse is going to obliterate every memory I have, and then I have no doubt it’s going to come for me.
You don’t need those memories to stop her. Use the connection.
The words come to me as Ruskin’s voice. Whether it’s really him or not, I know what I need to do. I can’t worry about myself or my memories. I’m here to deliver the magic that will stop Evanthe. That’s all that matters.
The shadows of Interra are coming from somewhere. Like Ruskin’s mind, they must have a source, and I’m going to find them.
I sprint through the endless complex of rooms, dashing past the vicious vines as they swallow up everything behind me. My determination spikes when I pass the memories of the battle we’ve just left. There’s the moment I watched Maidar die, when Thatch cursed me…and there’s Evanthe by the lake.
I watch her call me a peasant girl, watch Ruskin’s blood spray across the mossy earth as the iron bites his flesh.
The portal is open at Evanthe’s feet just as it was in reality, but here in my mind, Interra’s black shadows don’t just collect around her, instead they pour out into my mind, streaming past me into the recesses of my subconscious.
My thoughts are still scattered by the shrieking noise echoing around me, but I can just about hold on to enough of them to realize that if the curse is coming from the portal, that must be the point of connection between me and Evanthe.
With my mind collapsing behind me, I don’t know how much time I have, so I shove my magic out towards the abyss.
What I find is familiar.
Evanthe’s power wasn’t just given to her by Interra and Cebba. The terrible blend of her magic has an element I know too well: the High Monarch’s. The feel of it pulls me back to the last time I was near the founding stone.
Something deep and ancient brushes against me as I struggle to hold on to the memory. It’s the founding stone itself, I’m sure of it—the source of the High Monarch power. And it’s calling to me. The first brush of its presence was like a greeting, and now it’s tugging at my own magic, trying to draw me along with it, pulling me towards…towards a seam of augium, rich and glittering. My magic latches onto it, reading it.
The founding stone is showing me its memories.
I glimpsed them before, the many hands that have been laid on its surface over the years, asking to be made king or queen. But this…I can feel the weight of stone above me, pressing down on the seam, enclosing it. It seems to stretch on forever, the augium buried far from any light or sound. Why is it showing me this, the stone in ancient times, before it was ever dug up and taken to Seelie? The memory is suffocating, like being drowned in airless darkness…or is that Evanthe’s tendrils finally choking the life out of me?
The stone doesn’t want the kingdom destroyed any more than I do, does it? So why is it overwhelming me with this memory, forcing the connection? I explored the depths of those mountains before, the same ones that surround us now, and it nearly cost me my sanity. Now I feel like I cannot catch my breath, cannot look away from a sight I do not want to see.
Maintaining the connection to something so old and big could destroy me…
But that’s happening anyway. Evanthe’s magic is attacking every aspect of my memory. I can feel it, still scratching and screeching away. So what do I have to lose? Maidar always told me to dig deeper. That’s what I have to do now, even if I might not be able to come back from it. I stop fighting the stone. Even as my mind cries out under the pressure, I let the stone guide me down deep into the seams of augium in the peaks surrounding me.
That’s when I feel it—the lifeline it’s trying to give me: this augium is the same metal that I’m using to communicate with the stone, and I can use it to literally ground me too. I feel the earth beneath me once more, as the ore’s presence allows me to scrabble back some awareness beyond the strange subconscious state Evanthe’s curse has pulled me into. I’m halfway between—the shrieking of the vines still echoes in my ears, but I can feel the damp air on my skin, can smell the grass.
Which means I can feel it when the mountains begin to shake.
I’m doing this , I think in astonishment, putting pressure on the augium running through its foundations so that the stone quakes around it. It must catch Evanthe by surprise too, because I feel the hold of her curse weaken, and my vision starts to come back to me. She’s staring up wildly at the soaring peaks.
I don’t dare look over my shoulder for Ruskin. I’m too afraid that whatever I see might bring my balancing act tumbling down.
Instead, I keep my eyes fixed on the Queen of Seelie, readying another tendril of my magic even as I continue pushing hard on the augium in the stone—the same kind of stone that forms the rock bed beneath us.
It’s like wading through a rushing river in lead boots. The memories of the mountain try to crowd in around me at the same time as the heavy stone resists the push of my magic. I think I must release some kind of primal noise, trying to hold on to what strength I have left. I told Ruskin, didn’t I, that it didn’t matter how badly the odds were stacked against us. You still had to try.
I give the stone a final, brutal shove, and the earth beneath Evanthe opens up.
I got the idea from Maidar—and it works like a charm. Evanthe sinks into a churning pit, faster than she can refocus her magic, releasing a cry as the stone closes up around her, burying her to her waist.
The shadows around her intensify, and I feel the curse on me withdraw. She’s pulling her power back to herself, trying to break free. Her beautiful face twists in frustration, and I sense the dark tendrils of her magic slithering away from me, leaving a battered but whole mind in their wake.
She’s not quick enough.
Evanthe clutches her chest. She knows something is wrong.
“It’s time we took that iron out of you, Evanthe,” I say.
When she was pulling her magic back, I buried my own spell within it—a small tendril of my magic, trained to make a beeline for whatever metal is left within her. At this moment, it’s burrowing its way into her heart.
A voice beside me speaks.
“Keep going, Ella.”
It nearly breaks my concentration, but I risk glancing at Ruskin. He’s no longer on the ground, but standing tall, if with all his weight on one leg while the other still bleeds. He’s watching Evanthe clutch her chest—he knows what I’m doing.
My magic continues to root out the iron. Without the shadows to protect it, the jagged shard isn’t hard to locate, lodged deep inside the soft walls of the muscle. I begin to break it down into tiny parts like I did before, drawing it from her system.
“Don’t do it, Miss Thorn,” she barks, an edge to her voice that tells me she can feel what’s happening. “You’ll be dooming this kingdom.”
I ignore her, extracting the tiny flecks of metal from the very pores of her skin, eradicating every speck of it from her body.
“That’s it,” I say to Ruskin, and his eyes look bright with emotion. “It’s all gone. There’s nothing left.”
His face is solemn as he begins to limp towards Evanthe.
“Mother, it’s all right,” he says, approaching the spot where she’s still trapped by the earth. “The iron’s all been removed. You’re free.”
Evanthe blinks at him for a moment, then lifts her hand, stretching it out to him. He hesitates, unsure whether to trust her, and her face hardens.
“Seelie will never be free without a firm hand to guide it. It will never change, Ruskin. That court will rot from the inside out without me?—”
Ruskin’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back. I suddenly wonder if that outstretched hand wasn’t another attempt to conjure iron to attack Ruskin. She can’t do it anymore—that power was taken from her when I removed the last speck of the metal.
Yet Evanthe has access to other powers.
The ground around her erupts. The plants that twist out of the ground are black as the vines of Interra, as terrifying as the ones that tried to tear apart my memories and my mind. Their huge, creaking roots, conjured using Evanthe’s High Queen power, push the ground aside, growing at such a rate that Evanthe’s able to grab hold of one to pull herself free.
She straightens, turning amid the sprouting trees?—
And freezes, a look of surprise fixed to her face.
Ruskin withdraws his sword from his mother’s torso. His face is wracked with sorrow, and he throws his blade aside to catch her before she slumps to the ground. The bewildered expression is still there on her features, but her face looks softer than I’ve ever seen it outside of Ruskin’s memories, the shadows clearing from her eyes so you can see the green of them again.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Ruskin whispers. “I should’ve let you go the first time, but I was too afraid. That was my fault. You can rest now.”
As he gently lays her down, Evanthe’s chestnut hair splays out across the black roots like a crown.