Chapter 43
T he triplets stalked towards their respective targets—Neamhní closing in on Lachlan, Teárlach advancing on Calder, and Bás casually striding towards Emer.
Bás spun a sword in one hand while his other was shoved arrogantly into the pocket of his breeches. The wide arcs of the swords became too perilous for Emer to remain near Calder, and given she could do little to aid him with only her knife, she attempted to use the Well as a barrier.
Bás lazily drew his hand out of his pocket, resting it on the edge of the Well as he studied her before pulling himself onto it in one fluid motion. Gripping the wooden arch above him with his free hand, he leaned over the mouth of the Well, entirely unconcerned by the dark abyss below. He looked down at her with an expression that was equally cruel and curious—like a little boy staring at a dragonfly the moment before he pulls off its wings.
Emer looked past him to where the others fought, but Bás, still leaning against the arch, shifted to the side to block her view. Emer gripped the edge of the Well, her blade scraping against the stone and reminding her of her disadvantage in this fight. Her knife meant she needed to get close, and his sword meant she needed the element of surprise in order not to be cut in half once she did.
“I saw you that day in the crowd. You didn’t hurt me then. You don’t have to now,” Emer pleaded.
If she had not been looking into his eyes, she would have missed the way they slightly widened—the color in one writhing like molten metal. His lip twitched and then he lunged.
By the time Bás landed on the ground, Emer had already broken into a run toward the trees. When she risked a glance behind her and saw she was alone, she ducked behind one of the thick trunks.
Though her mind was hyper-alert, carefully listening for the sounds of her pursuer, her body had grown numb from fear, unable to feel the branches of the tree behind her biting into her shoulders through the thin fabric of her tunic. Her violent pulse shook her bones as she listened and waited for her moment to strike.
Although he was light on his feet, Emer still heard the faint crack of nature beneath his footfalls as if it, too, sensed that he did not belong there and wanted to warn all that did.
He released a haunting and melodic whistle as he stalked her—a taunt. A subtle shift in his tune signaled that he had turned away, and Emer slipped from behind the tree as Calder had done to her. She gripped the cold steel of the blade between her fingers and held her breath.
When Bás turned back to her, she hurled the knife through the air, embedding it in his chest. Thick crimson began to spread as he fell to his knees. The blade made a slick sound as he pulled it from his heart and threw it to the ground.
“We will dance together soon.” His words, spoken in a voice that was like winter air and apples picked too soon, slipped between her parted lips and tightened her throat.
His eyelashes flickered and he collapsed .
Emer retrieved her knife and his sword and raced back to the clearing, praying she was not too late.
The sound of the fight that still raged brought her a strange relief. If there were still swords clashing, that meant they were still alive.
Calder fought Teárlach in the distance while Neamhní sat on the edge of the Well, pleased to use them as entertainment. Emer raced forward but tripped over something solid as she made her way into the clearing.
She crawled away from Lachlan's body. There was no blood or gore, but he was unmistakably still, and his eyes unblinking. He had betrayed her. He had poisoned her father. He had sought to use her. Yet, seeing the shell of the man she had once known caused a painful twisting sensation in her chest. She had mourned him once. Perhaps one day she would mourn him again.
Neamhní smiled cruelly, and with a snap of her fingers, Teárlach lowered his sword and backed away from Calder, turning his attention to his sister.
Calder stumbled slightly at the sudden absence of his opponent. His hair was sweat-slicked, his shoulders heaved from his shallow breaths, and blood pooled at the corner of his mouth. He looked exhausted, but he still held his swords ready to continue the fight.
Emer prepared to advance on Neamhní when a rough hand slipped around her throat and pulled her back against a hard chest.
“Miss me?” Bás whispered, his lips pressed against the shell of her ear.
Calder charged forward, but Neamhní hopped off the Well and intercepted him.
“None of that, little bird. Be still.” Magic imbued her voice, and to Calder’s horror, his body halted.
Looking at Emer, he found the same fear reflected in her eyes, and he wanted badly to tell her it would be alright, that he would protect her, but his lips wouldn’t even form the lie.
“It’s a shame Mother doesn’t allow us pets. If she did, I would be tempted to keep you. I would have to break your wings, of course.” Neamhní circled him, running her finger over his shoulders as she did. “Brothers, should we make him kill her or make him watch?” she asked coolly.
Calder fought against her magic, but even as she came to stand before him, he could not raise his sword.
“It’s always more fun to let them fight, only to lose in the end. The hope makes the failure that much more delectable,” she explained.
After tapping Calder playfully on the nose, Neamhní began to back away.
Teárlach snatched Emer from his brother and her boots scratched against the stone as he dragged her to the Well. She clawed at his hand, finding no relief from the crushing pressure. Darkness began to creep into the corners of her vision, but she could still make out Calder standing just a few paces away. The veins in his neck and forearms were raised and dark.
It hurt. The way she could feel his soul screaming to hers. Emer did not have the air to speak, but her lips formed the three soundless words.
Close your eyes.
The cold stone of the Well collided with her back as they forced her to bend over its edge. Despite the blur in her vision and the stone scratching against her spine, she kept her eyes on Calder.
“You should have stayed in your meadow, sweet Emer,” Neamhní whispered before placing a soft kiss on her cheek.
She didn’t need to see the sword—she saw the fear widen Calder’s eyes as the blade plunged through the center of her breastbone.
Faintly, Emer realized Neamhní must have released at least some of her compulsion over Calder because she could hear him screaming. A slow warmth spread over her, but it quickly grew cold. The faint tickle of blood as it spread over her throat, now free of Teárlach’s vice-like grip.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip
She was mesmerized by the echoing sound of the persistent trickle of liquid. However, with each drop, it seemed further and further away. She was so tired. Her eyes grew heavy and she lost the battle to keep them open—a small kindness as now she could no longer see the siblings as they watched the life drain from her.
Instead, she saw Calder. She saw Keane. Singing sea shanties at the pub. Lounging in the field. She saw them shielding her as they outran the beast, and finally, she saw Calder’s smile.
The thought gave her comfort as her body grew weightless. Embraced by the nothingness as she fell into the Well. The last thing she heard was the piercing cry of a single raven before she once again found peace beneath the quiet cold of dark water.
One: men and women grunt when they die.
Two: painful moments linger.
Three: death is cold.
Four: despite it all, she was glad she left the meadow.