Chapter 40
Forty
The next morning dawns cold and bright. I try to put the nightmare out of my mind, but it’s difficult.
I can’t stop thinking about how I awoke this morning to a roaring fire and a large stack of firewood and kindling in the cache.
Luckily for me, though, Valora is oblivious to my turmoil as we stroll through the castle on our way to the shore.
“Come on, we’d better hurry.” Her pace quickens. “We don’t have much time to train today. The commanders are getting antsy. And antsy means earlier and earlier morning meetings.”
Trying to keep up, I whine, “Yeah, earlier for you maybe. But I don’t want to cut training short. It’s my only reprieve from the mundane day ahead.”
“Enjoy the mundane! It means we aren’t fighting for our lives—”
I abruptly stop, clutching my scalp—a searing, lashing pain cutting through it. My fingers wind through my hair, pulling the strands to relieve the pressure as my throat tightens and my heart quickens.
The whispers flood my mind: hurry hurry hurry.
Something—no, someone—running through the castle’s main double doors in the opposite direction collides with me. My ears violently ring from the impact.
A taller, older woman peers down at me. Blood splatters her plain skirts, the crimson as vibrant as the fae-moon. It cakes onto her face, settling into the many lines time has etched there while her silver eyes are wide with fresh terror.
Time seems to slow.
Valora pulls me to my feet. The woman grabs both of my arms to steady herself, her jagged nails digging into my flesh before she collapses.
Frantically calling for the guards, Valora pulls her broadsword. The grounds are thick with morning fog rolling between the stone buildings, but that doesn’t stop her from immediately scouting the area.
The bloody woman speaks in the flowing language of the Dead-Fae, but I’m unable to comprehend what she’s saying. Not until I hear the word: king king king over and over as the whispers join her deep voice.
Before I can think or move, the Witch-King is at her side.
Sweeping relief courses through me at the sight of him as he helps her stand, responding with that same strange, fluent tongue that I’ve heard all my life from the male priests of the Spirit-Fae Cathedral.
His silver eyes meet her silver eyes like a thread binding them together—a wound trying to heal.
Footsteps in the courtyard grow closer as guards from every outpost gather to search the area, their armor clanking noisily.
Valora barks, “Where?”
“Ten miles north of the border. They’re headed south,” Ashland translates. He hands the older woman to a nearby healer who has just arrived. “Make sure she gets some food.”
The healer nods before half-carrying the woman inside. I watch in silence, my throat too tight to speak.
Ashland turns to Valora and orders, “Inform the other generals to move their units out.”
“Gladly.” She cracks her knuckles and stretches her neck. “Anything else you need?”
“Have the stables prepare the horses for a journey. Pack extra food. Make all the necessary arrangements. We’re going after them.”
“Right away.” She strides away with purpose and speed, not a backward glance at us, her duty taking every ounce of her concentration.
He finally addresses me. “Dress warm.”
* * *
We leave the castle with our bags packed, wagons loaded, and horses saddled.
It mirrors our initial ride through the village, as I’m not allowed to control the reins of my horse.
Ashland orders the attendants to tie the white mare, Pearl, to his black stallion, Salt, while his shadow hounds flank me on either side.
He won’t tell me where we’re headed. My only clue was uttered in the hall a few hours ago: “Ten miles north of the border, going south.”
The crisp air tingles my lungs as we travel down a long, muddy road and pass through ramshackle towns.
Despite Ashland’s silence during the ride, I notice his lingering attention, which sends a shyness to my gaze.
He’s thinking something, but he isn’t putting the words to his mouth—a mouth that now boasts a split lip from the oversized novel I threw at him last night.
Just as the sun sets, we finally reach our destination.
A spattering of silver-topped ivory trees clusters around a ring of behemoth-sized, flat gray stones rising high into the sky.
I look to Ashland with growing confusion, but he dismounts from his horse, casually declaring, “We’re here.
” He hooks me by the waist, helping me descend from my horse before I can protest.
The fifty or so soldiers we brought with us assemble campfires and build tents in the valley next to the towering boulders, all while Ashland focuses on sharpening a gleaming, iridescent ax. I tighten my cloak as the wind nips at any unprotected skin. It’ll be winter soon.
The shadow hounds sit at my feet, watching their master retrieve an ivory log like the one he sang on during the Celebration of Return.
Despite the chilly air, a squire helps Ashland remove the top half of his complicated set of armor, including his vambraces, cuirass, and underclothes, leaving him in just his leg armor.
With a graceful arc, he swings the ax, bringing it down with a deafening crack. The strike sparks with glittering magic as the ax splinters the wood. After he’s piled the pieces, he gathers the fallen silver leaves from the ivory trees and places them in the center of the stone circle.
Sweat drips down his bare chest.
It’s then that I realize I’ve been staring for far too long, so I turn to leave and find Valora.
“Wait.”
That one word binds me to the spot. With my arms folded, I obey him, but doing so leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Valora comes over and bumps shoulders with me. The wind blows her pink braids around her face until she wraps her cloak’s hood over her head.
“What is he doing?”
“A Fire of Sight.”
I frown in confusion. “What is that?”
She pauses, clearly considering. Finally, she says quietly, “It’s an ancient ritual to see into the Otherworld—to seek guidance.”
“Really?” I ask, a chill running up my spine. “I’ve never heard of a ceremony like that, not even within the Spirit-Fae Cathedral.”
“They would if they could. The priestesses are a bunch of opportunists. They use any magic at their disposal to keep their power, but lucky for us, these trees are the key, and they don’t grow south of the Ashland border for those pretenders to appropriate.
” She points at the pile of white kindling and logs. “This is what truth looks like.”
I narrow my eyes as Ashland uses an iridescent flint to light the foliage. “The ax and flint are Alexra—aren’t they?”
Valora purses her lips, but she doesn’t deny it.
Soon, the flame blazes with iridescence, much higher than I thought possible. As the smoke rises into the darkening sky, a buzzing runs through my skin, prickling at my fingertips and under my fingernails.
Ashland’s gaze meets mine through the fire; he stands tall, breathing hard. I’m overcome with an urge to go to him, but his strength scares me.
I’m so focused on the embers framing his determined face that I don’t notice when he marches over and grabs my hand. For a wild second, terror shoots through me—thinking he’ll throw me into the flames. Then I notice what’s in his other hand.
My circlet, gleaming in the shimmering firelight.
“What are you doing?” I screech.
“Only a female with true magic in her blood has the potential power of sight, and currently, you are the only one in our group who fits that bill,” he says, his grip loosening.
“We need to know where the missing girls are being taken. Our scouts can’t keep up with them.
” The warnings about womenfolk being stolen across the realm flash in my mind.
“You’re going to be a good girl and help us. ”
The mounting pressure of everything leads me to dig my heels into the ground. My voice is strained with panic. “Don’t you possess magic? Why can’t you do it?”
He lets go, and I leap back, tripping over a branch.
“I’m a male, if you haven’t noticed.” A muscle twitches in his jaw as he cautiously steps closer. He snatches me by the waist, lifting me effortlessly over his shoulder. My heart races as he hauls me toward the roaring fire despite my kicking legs and flailing arms.
Damn him!
Flames warm my face as the crackling wood snaps in my ears. One of my flailing boots comes into sharp contact with his ribs.
“Stubborn mule!” He drops me, his gaze simmering with wrath as he pants, clutching his side.
My skirts tangle around me as I clutch the ground. Taking a deep breath, I desperately struggle not to think about how Madame Phyrne claimed her vision felt like the worst type of torture. I close my eyes, trying to control my fear…
“Do you want this or not?”
My eyes fly open.
He holds my circlet.
“You would allow me to keep it?” I ask, a tremble escaping my throat.
“Of course not.”
“Then I refuse.”
The whispers in my mind let out a war chant, urging me not to surrender as we argue. Time passes, but I don’t know how long. He stares into my eyes, never blinking, before giving in. “Fine. It’s yours.”
I refrain from reaching out. Instead, I demand, “Say it.”
“This circlet belongs to you. By my word, I won’t take it back. Happy?”
“Neither your men,” I say, catching sight of Valora watching intently, “or your women.”
“Nor any of my people, no matter their connection to me. Are you satisfied?” he growls.
I rise to my feet. With Ashland’s hand still outstretched, I reach to meet his offering.
A shock shoots through my arm as we both touch the Alexra.
He releases his grip, and I behold the circlet.
It feels like home, like the soft petals of honeysuckle.
I gently return it to the crown of my head.
The next breath in my lungs grows clearer. The whispers cease chanting—for now.
I almost ask him what I’m expected to do next…
But behind him, the fire calls.
Beckons.
I stop seeing Ashland.
Stop seeing anything but the flames.
I inch closer. Each lick of flame glitters with a strange light, drawing my gaze. Doors summon, enticing me further into their depthless abyss. I’m transfixed until one shifts, opens, and washes over my vision entirely.
A colorless force of whispers and magic and power slides by me on all sides, claiming and devouring but never hurting. It happens so fast—
Another blink, and I’m sitting on the floor in the back of a wooden cart with iron bars on all sides; even the ceiling cages me in.
The moon shines through the open slats, revealing that every bench is full of women huddled together—holding tight as the speeding horses violently gallop, hitting holes and overgrown roots in the road.
The pull of magic tugs the cart forward at an unnatural pace, blurring the landscape as we pass.
The faces looking back at me from the benches are covered with bruises, cuts, and black eyes. All with terror imprinted on them.
Where am I?
The silhouettes of two males sit on the driving seat, gripping the reins. Their shoulders bear K&M for Klay Metalla. The flipped K positions its spine against the straight line of the M.
I remember Rett’s words: Onlookers described the general’s personal militia insignia and the Alexra cuffs of interlocking circles he wears on his wrists. They named him as the commander who gave the orders.
Something glints and glimmers along the dark countryside—the Hetaira River.
The wheels slow until they stop at a muddy riverbank. Every woman tenses as the men jump down and start unhitching the horses before leading them to the water. Neither of them looks at nor pays attention to their living, breathing cargo. But in this instance, it’s better to be ignored.
A little girl with corn-yellow hair pleads with round, silver eyes. It hurts that I’ve wasted so much time at Ashland Castle. I should have found a way to escape. I should have helped them sooner.
The child reaches out her tiny hand toward me, seeking comfort.
I try to reach for it.
My skin touches hers.
Without warning, his arms pull me to him, holding me as the darkness takes control.