Chapter 44
The Knife and the Crown
Flora
M
y first glimpse of the Altar of the Moon and the Loch of Rebirth comes from the same direction my ancestors would have seen it long ago.
Then the boats would have approached the harbour on Muilean’s western shore the moment the moon rose.
And the old Cailleach Queen in her silver robe and the Maiden in a cloak of white would have ridden to the loch together with the rest of the procession behind them.
The Maiden would have dropped her cloak and clothing and stepped naked into the loch to bathe. Moonclad and defenceless, she would have run the moment the doorway opened and the Anvar’thaine stepped through the Veil to Hunt.
But that is not how we arrive. With no moonlight, it’s impossible to tell the time, but there can only be a few hours left before the sun rises. Mere hours between life and death, and hours before the doorway remains sealed for another year.
Through all the fighting we’ve done to get here, Chyr’s words have carved a deeper rip through my heart. It’s hard to think of anything but the choice I have to make, and the promise that I can’t give him.
As hard as I try, I can’t see a solution.
The Riders have all made it clear that I can’t choose Chyr because that puts him at risk.
I won’t risk him, and I can’t kill him. Yet if I choose another Rider, then Chyr’s oaths to the High King could still force him to kill me and possibly the Rider I choose as well.
Then he’d be banished to the Gloaming, and that would be worse than killing him myself.
We arrive at the Loch of Rebirth with the Hunt long since over and Shadehounds and the Anvar’thaine at my back. That makes me feel no less hunted.
On the bright side, I’m fully clothed. These days, I count every blessing, however small.
We need every magical advantage now, so we arrive cloaked in Daire’s rune of silence and a more powerful rune that casts an illusion to bend the landscape around us and make us disappear.
The illusion drains magic fast enough that Daire won’t be able to hold it long, but it gives us time to survey the battlefield ahead of us and make a plan.
“Six Greys and three dozen red coats.” Lorcan tosses his knife in the air, catches the handle, and throws it up again. “Vheara didn’t want to make this easy for us.”
“Easy has never been the Raven bitch’s style,” Daire says, his blond hair dulled and damp beneath the unceasing rain. “She’s been playing with us.”
Chyr’s smile is grim. “Pay closer attention, both of you. Those aren’t the plain red and black uniforms of regular soldiers. The crossed knives on the sleeve are the Butcher’s insignia—the Black Knife of Alba. That’s his personal guard.”
Sean whistles through his teeth. “The fucking Duke of Cumarann himself. Then he’s here somewhere. We should have known he couldn’t resist a party. Where is he, though? I don’t see him.”
“I’m sure you aren’t meant to,” Chyr says. “He’ll have the same runes and probably more of the amulets Vheara has been giving him. We saw how he used those at Culodur.”
Shadow and Shade lift their heads in the same instant, growling. Warm breath touches my bad ear, as if someone is standing behind me. But there’s no one when I turn, and then the feeling is gone, and the Shadehounds look away.
A steady wind drives bursts of cloud and needles of rain into our faces, and there’s no moonlight to show us the wet bog around the loch or the great stone slab of the Altar of the Moon balanced on four black pillars of stone.
We shouldn’t see the landscape or the men at all, but purple-hued balls of magic light float in the air—the scoutlights that the Greys use.
They illuminate the scene so clearly that the trap might as well be flashing to capture our attention.
In the darkness beyond, more men and more Greys are waiting.
“There are at least another sixty or seventy men held back in reserve beyond them, ready to spring at us when we move to attack those beside the altar,” I say, “together with another half-dozen Greys. And there’s another group we’d have to get past before we even reach the ones beside the altar, and still more waiting farther down the loch. ”
The Riders are silent. The scent of the bog curls into my nose: the rain-softened citrus of myrtle overpowered by the sweet rot of peat breathing up beneath spring grass. Peat has an iron smell, too, as though it’s born to be soaked in blood.
“A few bolts of lightning would be convenient now,” Lorcan says.
“Wouldn’t they, though?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Shame I didn’t use you for target practice a dozen times in the last several hours so I’d be accurate.”
He grins and nods, and I go back to thinking about the sort of power I could use—that we could use.
“Killing the first group has to take priority. We’ll need to muffle any sound and even the slightest hint of magic while we do it,” Chyr says, crossing his arms as he watches Lorcan with narrowed eyes. “Ideas?”
“Air,” I say. “We lift them by the throats the way the Grey did at Dunhaelic. All of them at once. Then choke them until the men die. The Greys will still need to be finished off, but they’ll be held in place in the meantime.”
Chyr’s mouth twists as he thinks. “That’s a lot of precise air magic, and none of us will have the strength to handle all the units.
We’ll need to take it in turns—and save Sean for the group by the altar since they’re likely to be the most dangerous.
We’ll need to use the darksight runes as well.
Ronan, you’ll have to guide me, since I don’t have a rune of my own to see what I’m doing.
Hopefully, we’ll both be able to hold out long enough. ”
“Would it be easier if I gave you strength? It needs to be a single rope, and we’d want to wind it loosely to get all the targets at once. We’d also need Daire to make sure none of them felt the magic—”
“Until the rope is around all of them and ready to be pulled.” Daire’s eyes glitter in the darkness.
“Is that possible?”
Chyr rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’d have to push the rune-magic into the rope. It could work.”
“I don’t have much magic left to feed the runes,” Daire says.
“What if I feed them for you?” I ask.
“It would need Siorai magic, and you haven’t been drawing any of that.”
“I can give Daire the extra Veilstone.” Niall pulls the ring from his finger.
Daire accepts it and slips it on. I study the group of Greys and the soldiers beside the altar—the only group that isn’t hidden and ready to ambush us.
“Can anyone think of a reason this wouldn’t work?” I ask.
“Too many to count,” Daire says. “But your mind is lethal. Remind me never to make you angry.”
“You’re far too late for that.” Ronan’s teeth flash white against the bronze skin that almost matches his russet hair. Lifting Rua from around his shoulders, he lets her jump to the ground before swinging himself down from the saddle.
The rest of us dismount and tie the horses to stubby rowans that grow nearby. Lorcan activates a rune of silence between four stones, creating an area of silence around the horses. I wrap my scarf low across my forehead to hide the light from the Crown of Flame.
There’s no point in telling Shadow and Shade to stay with the horses.
They’ve made it clear that they’re selective about which requests they’ll follow.
They pad behind us as we move towards the nearest group of enemies, Chyr, Sean, Niall, Daire, and I walking together, and the other Riders follow with their swords already drawn.
The land is quickening with power. I can feel it, and I’m not alone.
Four Hallow Keepers appear, their too-thin bodies little more than shadows, and their eyes glowing that eerie blue.
Each takes up a position beside one of the black stone pillars, and they incline their heads at me.
The magic around me hums, raising gooseskin along my arms.
The altar is ready, and the Goddess is waiting. I touch my fingers to my heart, and it feels like a challenge that I’ve accepted. I feel dread and anticipation in equal measure.
The Riders and I skirt the head of the loch, keeping clear of the bog and slipping past the reeds along the outer edges. We’re close enough to the Greys that the corrupted magic seeping from them turns my stomach.
Chyr stops behind me, his big hands splayed wide around my waist, a gesture I remember. Without words, it says, “Trust me, Fierceness.” It says, “I have you.”
I close my eyes, leaning back against his broad chest, feeling the strength in his arms and the gentleness in his touch.
I sense his air magic coiling, building a thin current that twists itself into a rope, and I imagine feeding him slack to splice into a single, unbroken line.
Almost immediately, I feel Sean and Niall with us.
They find each of the individual Greys and soldiers and guide the rope while we loop it like an invisible noose around the enemies’ necks, one after another, until we have them all.
“Now,” Chyr whispers.
The four of us wrench the rope of air and lift it higher.
The queen’s soldiers and her Greys dangle like men from a hangman’s noose, scrabbling at their throats.
I feel their lives snuff out, that same thread snapping in my chest. Then only the Greys remain. The Riders pierce their corrupted hearts with celestial steel, and I feel nothing but relief when they die. Wind brushes my face, as if even the land around me sighs a breath.
We move on without a break, the nine of us working as a unit. Avoiding the odd purple light that illuminates the soldiers and Greys near the altar, we circle behind the enemy. And we repeat the rope trick with the men and Greys that crouch there waiting to ambush us.