41. The Red Woman
I t had been cold as Aisling worked with Rodney and Lyre to prepare The Cut the previous evening. Her numb fingers could scarcely grip the sharp instrument Lyre handed her to etch markings into the frozen dirt before the altar. He crouched beside her, pointing to each empty space and describing the rune she should carve there. Rodney moved ahead of them, clearing snow from the circle with a branch of pine needles he swept back and forth like a broom.
Then, as she stood back with Rodney, watching Lyre continue on with his own preparations, her teeth chattered loudly when she said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Which part?” he asked dryly. He had his hands tucked beneath his arms and bounced from foot to foot to keep warm.
“Any of it,” she’d answered. All of it .
Caught up in the moment, she’d been so quick to paint the target on Laure’s back that the thought of what she was saying, what she was condemning the Seelie Queen to, had been far from her mind. Now, though, her shoulders were heavy with the burden of a choice she wished she didn’t have to make. She was a bystander in a war that wasn’t hers, a human ensnared in the tangled affairs of the Fae—and her human heart recoiled at the notion of ending another’s life, even for the sacred purpose of raising the Silver Saints.
Laure wasn’t innocent; Aisling knew that well enough. Her motives were corrupted by her own virtues, her actions rooted in self-interest and manipulation. Yet, even in acknowledging Laure’s misdeeds, the idea of taking her life for the ritual made Aisling’s stomach churn.
“You won’t be the one to do it, Ash,” Rodney had promised. But still, Laure’s name had come from Aisling’s own lips. Aisling might not be the one to spill the queen’s blood herself, but it was she who’d chosen her for the sacrifice.
Was it justifiable, she’d asked herself, to sacrifice one for the benefit of many when that one had no say in the matter? For Aisling, this wasn’t merely a question of simple ethics. Her thoughts swirled viciously, torn between a sense of duty to the prophecy and a stubborn moral compass that resisted the idea of spilling blood, even if it might bring peace.
The question haunted her dreams, too, despite having been lulled to sleep by the warmth of Kael’s skin against hers and the ebbing flames of ecstasy he’d ignited in her veins. So when she awoke to Raif’s low voice at the door, cold dread gripped her lungs so tightly that they felt filled with cement. This was all much, much bigger than she was prepared for, and she felt so small on the threshold of what they were about to do.
There was so much she wished to say to Kael before they parted ways, but the words all stuck in her constricted throat. Even if she had been able to force them out, they would have felt too much like goodbye. And this wasn’t that.
Now, waiting, Aisling paced back and forth across The Cut, careful to remain within the bounds of the protective runes Lyre had laid down when they arrived. Beyond the trees, the sound of armored footfalls was thunderous. The forest shook with the might of both armies approaching one another and soon, deafening clangs of metal slamming against metal rent the once-calm air. Shouts followed, deep bellows of anger and anguish. She wondered, briefly, what the echo of this battle looked like on Brook Isle. Whether there would even be a Brook Isle to go back to.
Oblivious, Lyre lounged against the trunk of a tree. Aisling wasn’t keen on spending time alone with Lyre on a good day, much less at a moment so fraught as this. Despite her nervous energy, he appeared absolutely at ease as he studied the long scroll of parchment he’d scribbled on. His lips moved as he recited the ritual’s words to himself voicelessly so that he would be prepared to utter them in one steady, unbroken refrain when the time came.
Another clash, louder this time, accompanied a pained shriek that shot straight through Aisling’s gut. She darted to the far edge of the clearing and retched twice into a tangle of ferns. Her skin felt clammy, drenched in the cold sweat of fear. Her vision warped and spun until she sank to her knees and braced her hands in the dirt. The battle raged all around them, and the smell of spent magic filled the forest with a choking, bitter stench that made Aisling heave again.
With her eyes squeezed shut, she tried to parse through the noise of the fray for a familiar voice: Kael’s, or Rodney’s, or even Raif’s. She strained her ears desperately, but the sound of combat was little more than a discordant roar.
It was an eternity before she finally heard running footsteps crashing through the underbrush. Lyre was on his feet and at her side in an instant, pulling her up roughly by the elbow and tugging her into the camouflaged hiding place they’d constructed behind the altar. Crouching there, Aisling could just see a flash of safety orange bobbing towards them. Rodney skidded into view, scrambling over roots to dive into the concealment beside her. Silently, Aisling seized his hand and gripped it tight.
A second behind, Kael’s silver-white hair streamed in the frigid wind as he ran. His footfall was nearly silent in comparison. He halted with his back to them in the center of the circle of runes, both hands free of weapons, waiting. There was hardly any light left to see him by as the setting sun’s last golden rays filtered sideways into the clearing.
Laure’s approach was preceded by creeping vines: they crawled across the forest floor and wound around tree trunks, tight enough to strangle, a poisonous shade of kelly green. She was stunning in her fury, amethyst eyes aflame and teeth bared as she faced down Kael. Two predators vying for dominance .
“I should have known you would flee to this place to seek protection from your so-called god, ” she snarled, stepping forward. “But Aethar walks with me; your idol is nothing, not even here.”
Through the branches that hid them from the circle, Aisling saw the ends of Kael’s hair rustle in a soft breeze, the only movement breaking the sudden stillness in the clearing. Laure was wrong—the Low One was there. The queen took another step forward, then one more still, crossing unknowingly into the circle. She was surrounded now by the runic inscriptions they had carved.
When Aisling rose from behind the concealment, Laure faltered for the briefest moment. Then, that burning rage reclaimed her features tenfold.
“You stupid, insolent child. ” She spat the last word bitterly. “You’ve chosen death and darkness over goodness and peace; you’ve damned us all.”
Aisling moved slowly, slowly, tracing her way around the circle in a bid to draw Laure’s attention away from Kael. “The Seelie Court is no more righteous than the Unseelie. Disguising your misdeeds doesn’t erase them.”
“You’ve let yourself be blinded, little girl. What the king has done to you is far worse than any of my enchantments.” Laure laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. “How do you imagine this ends for you? Happily?”
“It is how this ends for you that you should be concerned with,” Kael growled. He moved to Aisling’s side, briefly brushing the back of his hand against hers before continuing to advance on Laure. Shadows wove around his figure, drawn by the call of their master.
“I see you’ve improved upon your illusion of control,” she shot back. Despite the arrogance in her voice, Aisling thought she noticed a flicker of fear in the queen’s eyes as she studied the inky ribbons that rippled from Kael’s hands.
Laure jerked her chin upward and the vines that had surrounded The Cut surged forward, sighing and whispering as they moved. When their tapered ends reached the circle, they withered and shrank back. Not a single tendril made it past the edge of the runes. Laure’s enraged shriek was ear-splitting. She fumbled to unsheathe a golden dagger from its hilt at her waist, long with a distinctive wavy blade, and lunged.
But Kael was faster.
Her limbs were wrenched out until she was suspended spread-eagle just above the ground. She was held in place by Kael’s shadows—shadows over which he had full, unabated control. They danced for him now, did his bidding without protest. Laure was unable to move so much as an inch as he approached her. Her eyes were wide and wild, full lips open in a silent scream.
Having quietly taken his place before the altar, Lyre began his recitation. The foreign words flowed together lyrically, beautiful despite their sinister meaning. This was not the Fae language Kael had spoken to Aisling; this was a dialect far, far older. It was the language spoken during the time of the gods. During the time of the Silver Saints.
Kael reached up and took possession of the dagger Laure still clung to. He turned it over in his hand, then swung. The first slice of the blade split open her palm, sending rivulets of blood streaming down into the dirt. It collected in the runes at her feet. A second slash opened her other hand, adding to the flow.
Two vaporous streams of shadow reached beyond the circle of runes, disappearing into the darkness of the forest. The Low One was with Kael now, Aisling knew. She’d seen his shadows grasp at the presence of his god before, noticed the way they seemed to disappear into the air, pulsing as they connected Kael to the deity.
Then, all Aisling could see of the golden dagger was its hilt protruding from Laure’s breastbone. The Seelie Queen’s eyes rolled back into her head and her features slackened. When Kael released her from the hold of his magic, she dropped heavily to the ground. It was strange, really—an almost anticlimactic ending for an opponent Aisling had thought to be so powerful. But as she bled out into the earth, Laure appeared just as anyone else. Seelie or Unseelie, powerful or not, they were all the same in death.
Unable to look any longer at her lifeless body, Aisling turned to Lyre. The Prelate continued his invocation, steady and unfazed. His cadence hadn’t changed as she would have expected it to as he neared its end. Aisling glanced around, searching the forest for any sign that something had changed. That the ritual had worked.
Lyre’s attention was not on the parchment he held, though, but fixed on something else over Aisling’s shoulder.
When she wheeled around, Kael was kneeling before her. He gazed at her intently, with so much force that he could have only been etching her face into his mind. Every line, every freckle, every variation of color in her irises. He wanted all of it—he needed all of it. He looked every bit that fearsome warrior who she’d trembled before at Nyctara. Who’d marked her for death not once, but twice. But there was no hint of that cruelty when he looked at her now, no fear or anger in his expression. Only acceptance and love, overwhelming and powerful. In his hand, he held his own dagger. And a cold sort of realization hit Aisling like a punch in the gut.
“How long have you known?” she demanded.
Kael’s shadows were but thin filaments now, swirling around him gently. Caressing him. “Awhile.”
Aisling fell back a step, shaking her head fervently. “No. I’m not doing this.”
“You have no choice. This is the prophecy, Aisling.” He was so calm, so sure when he spoke. He’d come to terms with this on his own, without her.
“Fuck your prophecy!” Her voice broke on the word. “I didn’t ask for this!”
Kael reached out and took Aisling’s hand in his. He held it firmly, calluses scraping across her freezing palm. “Our fates are immutable. We never ask for these things. The futures we are destined for find us, no matter what we do. You cannot escape yours any more than I can mine.”
“I won’t kill you.” She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.
“I don’t regret this. Us. I never could, not in a hundred lifetimes. Even while I knew this would be our ending, I would not trade the time we had for anything. And someday, in some other form, we will find our way back to each other. I’m sure of it. But this was never our story—yours and mine—it was only ever yours.” He smiled at her softly, sadly, as he slid the hilt of the blade into her hand then gripped it tight under his own and moved it to rest against his throat. “I will do all the hard work. Just close your eyes.”
She wanted to. She wanted to clench them shut and picture herself anywhere else, with him, safe. But she couldn’t. Instead, Aisling kept her eyes locked on Kael’s as he slowly drew the blade from left to right across his throat. Hot blood splattered across her face, shooting from the wound they created together. The spray coated her neck. Her stomach, as his head dropped forward. Her legs, as he fell to the ground. The deep crimson pooled around her feet. But she remained stuck in place, rooted to the ground where she stood. Her vision tunneled around that creeping, expanding puddle.
Besides the movement of the blood, those first few moments after his death felt so unbearably still. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even remember how. Like she had to hold her breath as he drew in his last.
She looked then at the dagger still clutched in her hand. Blood flowed in slow motion from its tip, dripping down into the growing puddle that was spreading past her feet now. She could see it there—see her fingers wrapped around its handle, the hilt resting on the first knuckle of her thumb and her forefinger—but she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything at first.
When the pain finally hit a full minute later, it washed over her as an avalanche: suffocating, all-encompassing. Her entire world was reduced in an instant to the searing, ripping, breathless pain of her heart cleaving in two.
Despite being only a few paces behind her, Lyre’s voice seemed infinitely distant as it crescendoed through the rite’s final litany. He’d known, too. They all had .
Aisling only vaguely heard Rodney call her name from someplace to her left. As she turned in his direction, unsteady on her feet, he stood still for a moment to take her in.
From the soft rounds of her cheeks to the soles of her shoes, Aisling was stained red with the blood of the Unseelie King. A twisted sort of laugh bubbled up her throat. She understood it now: her title. She thought she could shape the prophecy on her own, to rewrite her fate. Kael’s fate. In the end, it was exactly as it had been foretold.
In the end, it was Kael’s death that made Aisling the Red Woman.