Chapter 21
Rilka’s shape soared above, vanishing now and then into the dark trees. A shimmer of her charcoal skin, the mismatched wings catching the light of the constellations that peeked through the canopy.
“Tell me again,” she called down, shrill voice fracturing the woodland hush. “What are you hoping to achieve?”
She didn’t say ’now that you broke your lyre.’
Trisha’s gaze fell to her feet. If only she could answer.
To return to the mortal world, Trisha needed her lyre restored.
More than that—she needed to know. Why had her parents brought her here?
What had they said when they gave her away?
Anxiety skittered down her spine. She resisted the impulse to pat the leather purse on her belt.
Without her music, she was woefully unprepared.
“Answers,” Trisha said. “You heard Tilia. Teoryin can tell me why my mother abandoned me.” The words stuck in her throat. Seven years for nothing. Even if she found her family in the mortal world, they wouldn’t want her.
And once she learned the truth… How to fix her lyre and ensure it wouldn’t break again?
She refused to think about it. Or the fears that had driven her away. The bonfire, the man she’d left behind. That she might never see his face again. The loss of the broken string ached inside her.
“Would Grentuff fix the lyre?” Trisha asked, looking up with hope.
Rilka plunged, landing on the crown of her head. Light like a butterfly, a memory from her childhood, both familiar and painful. “Perhaps,” Rilka muttered. “He’d want a payment, though.”
Trisha’s fingers lingered on the leather pouch at her waist, where the flower from the sylvan rested. “As will Teoryin.”
The forest swallowed Rilka’s silence as she stroked Trisha’s hair. Leaves murmured, and the grass kissed her bare soles. Moss dangling on the low-hanging boughs swayed as the trees sighed.
Mortal woman. We smell your sweet blood.
Trisha’s teeth clenched, the throb of old wounds flaring back to life. A swarm of moths with wings of silver crowded the twilight. Low hum of a song droned among the ancient trees.
Magic pulsed beneath her skin, a muted captive without her song. Grentuff could fix the lyre, but she dared not ask the artisan. Not if she didn’t know what in her had broken it.
The music grew, Trisha’s careful steps carrying her through the narrow path, passing crumbled statues covered in vines. Blind stares of lifeless stone watched her, as though asking, Why are you here. Blinking away the burn behind her eyes, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t regret.
Crystalline sounds cascading, ethereal like a dream. A voice singing. Not a man’s, not a woman’s, but something else. Darker, deeper, alien. She knew who it was even before she cleared the forests.
Moonbeams and scintillating lights illuminated the meadow where grotesque figures moved in tattered outfits spun of moonlight, cobwebs, and shadows.
Beyond their sway of bodies, on a throne carved of wood and bone and silver, sat a figure in an outfit of lakewater and feathers: the High King. And behind him…
Trisha swallowed, suppressing her wince.
The white scales of a serpentine form sprawled over the dark stones.
Shi’as’ sharp fangs glinted, spheres of light pulsing around him.
Two eyes, those yellow lanterns in the dark, fixed on Trisha.
A knowing smile, his ridged lids closing shut as Shi’as raised his neck and crooned to the night.
His low voice slithered down the woman’s spine.
“The night dance,” Rilka cooed. “If only the king had left the serpent behind,” she scoffed. With a flutter, Rilka bolted among the dancers. A breath, and the fairy had vanished from her sight.
A trio in dark shrouds stood between the king and the rock where the serpent lay, coaxing music from their instruments: an obsidian harp, a skull-shaped drum, a flute fashioned of dragon bone. The Shadow Sisters, Trisha’s teachers from the past.
Memories of their lessons ached in her fingers.
Yet desire to join their song crested, magic throbbing in her bones, thirsting to soak in their notes.
The same ache burned her soul. The songs she had learned, the brightness she could unleash…
Releasing a breath, Trisha pushed the yearning away.
Not as long as her lyre remained broken. Not as long as the serpent waited.
But it was too late to back off. Both the king and Shi’as had seen her, the horned king watching her, onyx eyes flat.
Shi’as’ gaze burned like a torch. Slow, she approached, attention fixed on Teoryin, not affording even a glance behind the fae king.
Shi’as’ voice dipped as a hollow drum echoed against bone.
Whispers and moans, Teoryin’s court ebbing and flowing around her as though a starless sea.
The mass of bodies thinned, revealing glimpses of wings, hooves, and deer-shaped heads.
A sliver of black tail disappeared in the mouth of a creature with tentacle-like arms. A lick from the lipless mouth, round liquid eyes finding her, and the creature smiled. Trisha forced herself not to shiver.
She stopped before the king and bowed. “Greetings, High King.”
Teoryin leaned back in his throne, the antler shapes rising from his back, white bone melting into dark wood, a streak of silver catching the moon’s glow.
“So. You’ve decided to return,” he said, propping his chin against his hand. “Didn’t the mortal world’s sun offer you what you sought?”
Trisha reminded herself to choose her words carefully. “I’m still seeking, my king.”
Shadows danced around his sharp-boned face, the black horns jutting out through his wheat-colored hair. “You may chase all your life and never find them. I already told you so.”
“I understand, and yet, I must know.”
Teoryin smiled, although it held no warmth. “But here you are.” Flat eyes narrowed to Trisha’s empty hands, his brows arching like wings of a dove. “Though not to play, I see. Brave or foolish, I wonder?”
“Perhaps both.”
“Once past the threshold of the white stones, you’ve returned without my blessing. This I also told you before you left”—his eyes slid to the white-scaled form—“chasing a memory you ought not to remember.”
“High King…” Shi’as’ black tongue forked out. A pluck of a harp, a bone flute whistled, his words merging with the song. “Do I hear a reprimand in your tone?”
Hushed murmurs, the dancers faltering.
“Serpent,” the fae king said. “I wouldn’t do that, not without a cause.” His face lifted toward the constellation of the sleeping gods. “But I shouldn’t need to remind you of our… agreement.”
Shi’as smiled and said with a silky voice soaked in poison. “Even eternity, my king, can die.”
Teoryin’s face went still. The music waned.
Shi’as’ white scales scraped against the rock as he advanced. “Don’t fault me for the chaos you permitted yourself.” His wedged face turned toward Trisha, bent fangs glittering in the night. “You know what I am.”
A tremor beneath Teoryin’s black eyes, anger tightening the king’s mouth before he flicked his hand. The music resumed, and the dancers continued spiraling in the clearing.
“You’ve arrived before me for a reason,” Teoryin said to Trisha. “What is your plea?”
This is it. Drawing a deep breath, she raised her chin. “I have need of answers, High King.”
His chuckle was low and dark. “Answers cost. You know that, Tilia’s daughter.”
“But what if I bring with me something new, something not seen since your kin left the sun?” Trisha fingered her purse, the red flower tucked inside its folds.
Teoryin’s black eyes were a depthless sea. “If a memento is what I need, I’ll walk through the Opening myself.”
“And yet, you would not. Not once in all these years have mortals witnessed anyone from this place.”
“I’m no ‘anyone,’” Shi’as rumbled out a deep laugh. “You would do well to recall that.”
The king shifted, his long cloak leaving a glimmering dew over the dark leaves. “I may,” Teoryin said. “But only if you dance.”
Trisha’s face blanched. The shadowy forms flickered behind her, mixing with the mist. A breath of cold air slid down her neck.
The king stood. “Dance, Trisha an Tilia. Find me among my people. If you can, I’ll answer your question. But you’ll get one.”
“Three,” she challenged, pulling the flower out of her pouch.
The king didn’t move, didn’t accept her offering.
His stare didn’t stray from the bloodred shape, its starlike blossoms. A flicker of hunger shone in his onyx eyes.
“One for the dance. One for your tribute. And that’s all you get.
” He walked down the stairs, his lake-water cape leaving droplets on the ground, a shimmering path in its wake.
“Oh, I’ll enjoy this,” Shi’as hissed. “Be mindful of your broken heart, Trisha. An iced corpse would allow me to inspect it in more detail, but rob me of my amusement.”
She jerked. “I told you already. You won’t carve me open, Shi’as.”
“We shall see about that,” the serpent rumbled. “Go and find the king. If I’m entertained enough, I, too, might offer you advice.”
“Keep your advice.” Not giving him a chance to respond, Trisha spun around.
Dark forms swayed among the eddies of white mist. Before she could backtrack, before her fears could get the better of her, she sucked in a deep breath and dove into the night dance.
The mist was cold against her skin. Through the whorls of damp fog, Trisha twirled.
Silver-white haze moved in lazy curls that stroked Trisha’s cheeks, leaving droplets of pinprick-cold water on her skin.
The first partner that emerged was a sylvan.
This one resembled a juniper shrub, and its eyes shone clear like an icy mountain stream.
They embraced. Its needled hand drew pricks of her blood, but Trisha swallowed the stinging with a polite bow.
The sylvan’s eyes glimmered, and they joined the swirling mass of dancers.
Slow and seductive, the music and Shi’as’ low-pitched song swept over her.