Chapter 18
Gift of Illusion
Flora
T
he moon rides low above the battlements of the Guard Tower by the time Chyr and I are ready to leave the keep. Ash and grief swirl through the courtyard air, dissolving into the ice-crusted puddles left by the overnight rain.
Throughout the keep, the fires still burn, the stench of corpses masked by herbs and juniper boughs added to the flames. By morning, Morag and Catriona will clean the fireplaces and toss the last evidence that the queen’s soldiers were here onto the midden heap.
Faolan has already left to deliver messages in the village, and he’ll ride from there to Ben Aran to help Iain build a shelter. The horses will need to stay away from Dunhaelic as long as danger remains.
All of them—Catriona, Morag, and Faolan—refuse to abandon Dunhaelic in favour of somewhere safer.
My goodbyes are said—to the living and the dead—and I will not let them break me. My mother rests in the crypt beside my father, not far from all three of her sons. Whatever happens next, I will console myself that at least they will be together.
I wipe a fresh layer of ash from Bramble’s mane and check our supplies.
Bramble’s bridle jingles as she stomps her foot, and her breath rises in a cloud.
Eira, the pale mare I’ve chosen for myself, flicks an ear, watching wary-eyed as I check the girth on her saddle a final time.
She’s less sensible than Bramble, but she’s strong enough to carry two for as long as needed. I mount and extend my hand to Chyr.
His breath hisses as he pulls himself up behind me.
He’s in no condition for us to leave tonight, but he’s right that we have little choice if we’re to reach Muilean in time.
We’ll need to avoid using routes where the Raven Queen’s patrols might travel, and seven days is barely long enough for that.
“Be careful,” Catriona calls.
“You, too. All of you,” I answer. “And make sure the escape tunnel is finished as soon as possible. I’ll speak to Ailean about it on our way through the village.”
I do my best not to cry as I walk Eira to the gate. Morag turns away with her shoulders shaking, and Catriona moves to fold her into a hug. They stand together, heads bowed and their woollen plaids pulled over their hair to protect against the falling ash.
Family isn’t always the one you’re born to.
The wave of love I feel for this place, these people, catches in my throat.
But living has to be more than surviving another day, another battle.
Love is fighting with all I have to preserve a place in our world for the good and the light—love is not giving in to darkness.
The bridge creaks as we cross it, and Eira sidesteps nervously. Bramble crosses without a fuss, trailing behind us on a long lead rope tied behind my saddle.
Ahead of us, the moon gleams dark on the burned wood and blistered ruins of the outbuildings.
I count the charred carcasses of cattle and sheep in the fields, letting the atrocities fuel my resolve.
Then we reach the remains of Padraig’s house and turn to follow the stream that runs up the back side of the Sacred Wood.
I look back for a last glimpse of Dunhaelic Glen and the distant keep.
All my limbs go cold at once, and a lump of ice settles in my stomach. The bit clinks as Eira tosses her head.
Dunhaelic Keep has been destroyed. The buildings behind the outer curtain wall stand in jagged teeth of fire-blackened beams and piles of rubble, and where yellow torchlight glowed at the gate and the Guard Tower and the Lord’s Tower when we rode out, now there is only dark and moonlight.
Crenellations atop the battlements have fallen, and the stone is scorched and ruined by smoke.
“That isn’t real,” I breathe. “I know it can’t be real.”
Chyr tightens his arms around me. “It isn’t. Lord, Flora. I didn’t mean for you to see it like that.”
I shake my head. “What did you do?”
“It’s an illusion. A mask to keep the queen’s hunters from paying attention if they come looking for the Greys and the soldiers I killed.” Chyr’s voice is a low rumble in my good ear.
My heart unclenches slowly, and for a wild second, I want to throw Chyr off the horse. “Why didn’t you warn me? Great Mother, do you have any idea what I felt seeing that?”
“I can imagine, and I’m sorry. I tried to keep the magic from settling in place until there was no risk of you looking back. But it takes a lot to hold an illusion that size in my head, and I couldn’t contain it any longer.”
Catriona said you would argue with me.”
My heart speeds up again. “Why would I?”
Chyr remains silent long enough that I think he won’t answer at all, and then he says, “I left one of the Veilstones to anchor the illusion.”
“Are you insane?” I twist in the saddle, trying to see his face in the moonlight. “Why would you do that? You need the ring for healing, and we may need you to use that magic if we run into problems.”
“If you’re coming along to keep me alive,” he says in a voice that brooks no argument, “then I want to make sure the people you love survive until you come home again. This way, if any more of Vheara’s forces come by, they’ll see that the keep has already been destroyed, and they’ll feel a suggestion that they don’t need to look any closer. That’s the least I can do for you.”
For you.
Two words. They shouldn’t mean anything.
But every wisp of magic Chyr has spent protecting what I love is strength he won’t have available to heal himself. He will pay for giving up the Veilstone, and the price will be measured in pain.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Mist curls low along the ridge path, stirring with every hoofbeat.
My chest still aches with loss, and my body sags from fatigue, but Chyr’s presence is warm and solid behind me.
I’m aware of his arms around my waist, the muscles of his thighs against mine, the rise and fall of his chest against my back.
The clothes he wears belonged to my older brother, the kind one.
The buff coat still smells of Rory, of nettle soap and heather that brings back a memory of him left over from the summer I turned eleven, when we’d hide side by side in the purple blooms, stalking red deer stags.
It was Rory, soft, portly, and infinitely patient, who taught me how to hunt.
Chyr has none of Rory’s softness. The coat and the shirt beneath it strain across his muscled chest and shoulders, and he’s covered himself in weapons.
Bracers fitted with knives encase his wrists, throwing dirks rest in his boots, and a dagger hangs beside the empty scabbard from the belt at his hip.
He also wears the two swords he collected from the Greys across his back.
We reach the willow tree by the stream and turn onto the deer trail that leads upward to the ridge.
The bodies of the two Riders rest beneath the place I left them, and I rein Eira in and swing my leg over her neck to jump down first so I can steady Chyr as he dismounts.
We end up standing too close, and it feels as though he means to say something. But his eyes are focused on my lips.
That look is a promise—and a threat. It portends a kiss, if not now then soon, and the thought makes me forget to breathe.
I need to guard my heart.
As much as Chyr makes my defences crumble, I have to remember that Evers are dangerous—and that he has a plan that involves him leaving in seven days. One that he hasn’t fully shared with me. I’m certain there are still many things he hasn’t told me.
We are reluctant allies for the moment. We share a goal, and that is all.
Still, I can almost feel that kiss between us.
Chyr clears his throat and turns to examine the ground, searching for the grave.
“It’s here.” I point out the uneven row of river-tumbled stones Morag left as a marker after she buried the bodies. The churned earth is covered over with leaves, and if not for the stones, the grave would have been invisible.
Chyr sinks into a crouch, his spine bowed as he touches two fingertips to the ground. He closes his eyes, and I realise how much I’ve come to rely on th small changes within them, to tell me what he’s feeling. His face itself gives so little away.
I move behind him and lay my hand on his shoulder, saying nothing. A touch can be more honest than words.
For a heartbeat or two, he doesn’t move, but then he lifts his own hand and places it on top of mine.
The woods are quiet with the stillness of peaceful sleep.
Then the darkness stirs.
Two long shadows separate themselves from the trees and glide towards us, too impossibly thin to be human, but growing more solid as they approach. Their eyes glow blue in pale, nearly transparent faces that have no other features. They look directly at me and incline their heads.
Their appearance is terrifying, but I don’t feel fear. Why don’t I?
My heart stays steady. I’m calm because that’s what I feel from them.
There’s something solemn and dignified about them—something reverent and at the same time, familiar.
Whether Chyr feels it too, or senses something else, he lifts his head and looks directly at them. He gives them a nod of acknowledgement, and they nod back. Then they return to watching me.
Chyr braces a hand on the ground to steady himself and pushes to his feet.
“Let’s find the swords and go,” he says, his breath rough.
As if we’re of no further interest to them, the two shadows turn their attention to the grave. Unmoving and silent, they stand as though they’re keeping vigil.