Chapter 19 Rhianelle #2
The eighth passage is different.
This one I do not call so much as invite. There is a difference. Some things from Astefar must be dragged toward the opening. Others need only be shown an open door and given a reason to cross.
I draw a smaller circle, no wider than the span of my hands, and scatter crushed flower petals across its center.
“Little Thistle,” I call gently. “Come into the light.”
A tiny hand appears between the petals.
Little Thistle pulls herself through, no taller than my thumb. She has dragonfly wings, a dress made from overlapping leaves, and a crown of yellow flowers tangled in her dark hair. A spear made from a sewing needle rests against one shoulder.
She takes one look at the open sky and covers her eyes.
“It is too bright,” she complains.
“The light will fade when the battle begins,” I vow.
“Promise?”
She peers at me through the narrow gaps between her fingers.
“I promise.”
Little Thistle lowers her hands and gives a sharp whistle.
A distant buzzing answers.
The sound grows louder until a dark cloud appears above the trees. Thousands of bees sweep across the plateau, led by one enormous golden queen. Sadie. Behind them come moths, beetles, wasps, and every winged creature that still answers Little Thistle’s call.
She climbs onto my shoulder and settles beneath my hair to hide from the sun.
“Better,” she declares.
The ninth circle opens before I finish the invocation.
The ground beneath it caves inward.
A circular mouth rises from the darkness, wide enough to swallow a wagon. Rings of hooked teeth turn inside it as the first enormous worm forces its way through. Its pale, segmented body is covered in hard plates of stone and grit.
A second follows. Then a third.
The earth tears open farther as three more emerge, until six colossal worms writhe across the plateau. They tower above the soldiers when they rear, their bodies long enough to coil around the base of a fortress.
The largest turns its eyeless head toward me.
Hungry, it whispers into my thoughts.
“Then eat until you are full,” I tell it.
The six worms plunge beneath the ground. Ridges of broken earth race toward the front line as they burrow into position.
I draw another circle and nearly fall while kneeling.
Rainer’s hand closes around my elbow. “You are already weakening.”
“I need to do this, Uncle,” I insist.
“You have summoned fifteen ancient fae.” His grip tightens, but he does not pull me away. “You can barely stand.”
“Neither will our soldiers if those mammoths reach them.” I pull free of Rainer’s grip and force myself toward the next empty space.
The sixteenth creature arrives in chains.
“Rhazel, Horned Prince of the Wastes. I release you to battle.”
A fiery bull smashes through the center of the circle. Broken chains drag from its neck and legs. Smoke rises beneath its hooves. It lowers its enormous horns toward me.
“You release me?” he asks.
I nod. “Only until sunrise.”
The bull stamps the ground hard enough to crack it.
“Until sunrise, then.”
Rhazel charges from the circle, each strike of his hooves leaving fire burning in the grass.
The mages stare at me, waiting for me to step away. Several of them are already trembling from the strain of maintaining the passages open.
Beyond them, the Fae King’s army continues to advance.
Sixteen will not be enough.
I begin drawing another circle.
“Rhianelle.” Arescaine catches my wrist. “You are bleeding.”
I look down. Blood runs from my nose and falls in dark drops onto the grass. “Then I have less work to do for the next circle.”
His expression hardens, but I pull free. I have to keep one hand on his arm to remain standing as I lower myself to the ground.
I know whom I must call.
Once, the thought of seeing her again would have filled me with terror. Now it brings something almost like affection.
I kneel and place my palms against the runes.
I call her differently from the others. This is not a demand or the invocation of an old debt. It is a request made to a friend.
“Jessica, my dear friend. I ask you to cross.”
The earth trembles.
Eight enormous legs rise from the darkness.
Soldiers stumble backward as Jessica pulls herself onto the plateau. Her abdomen is larger than a carriage and patterned in black and crimson. Clusters of shining eyes sweep across the assembled army before settling upon me.
Little queen, she says, her mandibles clicking around the words. You remembered me.
“I never forgot you.”
Her many eyes narrow. And my children?
“I remember my promise,” I say aloud.
Her mandibles spread in what I have learned is a smile.
Then I will fight. She moves away from the circle, and soldiers scatter from her path.
Seventeen creatures of Astefar stand on the Great Plateau. The wind has stopped. Even the long grass goes still.
My arms tremble as I move to call the last creature. Arescaine steps between me and the empty ground.
“No.” He plants himself in my path.
“Move.” I try to step around him, but my knees nearly buckle.
He catches my shoulders before I fall. “This is already killing you.”
“My people are about to face fifty thousand demons.” I push against his chest, but he does not move.
“And they will still need their queen when the battle is over.” His hands tighten around my arms.
I meet his gaze. “They need one more creature now.”
His jaw tightens. Fear burns beneath the anger in his eyes. “You do not have enough strength.”
“Then lend me yours.”
For a moment, he does not move. Then he kneels behind me and places his hands over mine.
“One more,” he says. “Then you stop.”
“One more.”
I close my eyes.
There is only one creature powerful enough to answer this call.
One creature Blaire and I once swore we would never approach again.
The memory rises before the summoning begins.
Blaire and I are children, crouched inside a thorn bush beside an old road in Astefar.
A woman sits in the middle of the path, weeping into her hands. Her dress is torn, and long dark hair hides her face. Every sob sounds soft and broken.
Blaire grips my wrist.
We both know what she is.
The Wailing Woman. A trickster.
A human traveler approaches along the road, leading a brown horse laden with bolts of cloth and sacks of spices. He hears the crying and slows.
Blaire and I wave frantically from the bushes. Even the little pigeon perched on Blaire’s shoulder flaps its wings at him.
Go back.
The trader sees us and frowns. Then his gaze moves to the weeping woman.
“Madam?” he calls to her.
She does not answer.
He ties his horse to a tree and walks toward her.
We wave harder. Blaire rises halfway out of the bushes, and I yank her down by the sleeve before the woman can see her.
I press a finger to my lips and shake my head. No sound. We cannot risk it.
We point desperately toward the road behind the trader. I jab my hand toward the trees, toward the direction we came from.
Please. Please look. Please understand. Run.
The trader’s gaze flicks toward us at last. His brow furrows as he takes in two girls crouched in the thorn bushes, waving like mad and pointing at the forest.
“Madam?” he calls, slowing. “Are you all right?”
The woman only weeps harder.
“My name is édouard.” He takes another step toward her, then glances back at us. “édouard Lemaire. Let me help you. You’re frightening the children.”
The woman lifts her face.
She is beautiful. édouard goes still.
The hungry creature searches his heart and finds the shape of the person he longs for most. Her features shift and her hair changes. Even her torn dress becomes familiar to him.
“Bernadette?” he whispers.
The woman smiles through her tears.
“Yes.”
He runs toward her.
“No!” Blaire and I scream together.
He drops to his knees before the woman. She cups his face tenderly between her hands.
“It’s me,” she whispers.
The trader says her name again, softer this time, as though it is something precious. “Bernadette.”
We scream until our throats hurt, but he cannot hear us. Or perhaps he no longer wants to. He reaches out and touches her face. “Oh, my Bernadette.”
The woman’s mouth opens too wide, stretching past any natural hinge before splitting sideways across her face. She closes it around the trader’s head. He vanishes between her jaws before either of us can look away. His body drops hard to the road.
She swallows once.
Then she turns.
Her borrowed face settles back into a gentle smile as she looks directly toward our hiding place. “You should have stayed quiet, girls.”
Blaire shakes beside me.
The creature glides toward the thorn bush.
“What is your name?” she asks, her gaze settling upon me.
Blaire clamps both hands over her mouth.
We know better than to answer. Names are power among the fae. A true name should never be given freely, because the wrong creature can use it as a chain.
My knees are trembling but I plant my feet. "Tell me your name first," I say.
The woman crouches before us.
“Why, mine is Bernadette, of course.” Her smile reveals row after row of narrow teeth. “Come now. It is rude not to tell me yours.”
Blaire presses herself against my side. Her pigeon burrows beneath her hair, trembling so hard that its tiny claws catch in her dress.
We are going to die here.
The thought fills my mind with a strange sadness. No one will know what happened to us. Rainer will search, but he will never find anything except two small sets of footprints beside an empty road.
I force myself to stop trembling.
“Are you a shapeshifter?” I ask.
Her head tilts. “Shapeshifter?” She laughs softly, as though the word is too small for her. “No, little nameless girl. Shapeshifters borrow faces. I can become anything.”
She leans closer, her smile widening.
“Men have crossed oceans for me. Kings have opened gates.” Her dark eyes gleam. “Mothers have walked into the dark because I called with the voices of their children.”
Blaire makes a tiny sound beside me.
The woman’s gaze flicks toward her, pleased.
“I have been bride, daughter, sister, saint.” Her teeth show again. “I can become anything a heart desires.”