Chapter 34
On the way to the ceremony, Taliesin and I take a short detour along the battlements overlooking the sea.
We stand side-by-side, wind whipping across us beneath a blackened sky.
I clutch my fur-lined cloak tighter around myself, the green fabric of my dress fluttering beneath it.
As we stand there, I become intensely aware of him beside me.
His steady presence, his calming strength.
He remains silent as I lift the talisman before me, then hurl it into the abyss.
A second later, it’s nothing more than a speck against the dark. And a second after that, it’s gone.
For the first time since leaving Caer Draen, I feel an absolute certainty about my choice. It was the right thing to do. If I kept it, it would be nothing but a haunting specter of my past. Destroying it means there’s no going back. The Order is my enemy now.
They always have been.
After a long moment of stillness, Taliesin asks, “Would you like to say a few words?”
I gift him a wicked smile. “Fuck the Order. Fuck the king. Fuck every single person who has hoarded power at the expense of everyone else. It’s time for their reign to end.”
He grins back, his eyes sparkling. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
As he extends his arm, I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow. Even through the layers of his cloak, the contact sends a flicker of warmth through me. And together, we descend the stairwell into the celebration itself.
A bonfire rages in the center of the courtyard, casting dancing shadows across the looming stone walls and sending plumes of smoke dashing into the air.
Ribbons and vines loop from one side of the courtyard to the next, while swirls of red and orange paint decorate the wooden huts, rising and falling like cresting waves.
All the rebels are out. At least a hundred weave past one another, all bearing smiles and… hope.
Taliesin leans down to speak quietly into my ear. “How are you feeling about this?”
“Rhian seems certain it will work,” I say.
One corner of his lips tilts upward. “I didn’t ask what Rhian thinks. What do you think, Angharad?”
“I think…” I glance toward the firelight illuminating the gathered rebels. “I don’t want the harp destroyed. But I understand why it must be done.”
“And the return of the stars?” He searches my gaze, reading me in a way only he seems capable of. “You don’t seem as excited as I thought you’d be.”
“If it works, I’ll scream as loud as anyone else here,” I say with a sigh. “I just…it feels like we’re missing something, Taliesin. This all feels too easy.”
He chuckles. “Easy? I hunted for that scroll for what feels like centuries. I examined every piece of rock on that stars-damned ridge. And there was nothing. Until you.”
The way he says it sends another ribbon of warmth curling through me. “Well, here’s hoping my gut feeling is wrong, because to see the stars glimmering in the sky again feels like an impossible dream. One I would want to never wake from.”
He cocks his head, looking at me strangely.
“What?” I ask.
“You said again. Like you remember them.”
An uneasy sensation slithers through my chest. “No. Of course not. It just came out wrong, that’s all. The stars will be in the sky again if this works. That’s all I meant.”
But he continues to look at me strangely, like I’ve said something remarkable instead of merely stumbling over my words. A sick feeling burns in the back of my throat. There’s something on the tip of my tongue again, but as soon as I think it, it’s gone.
The crowd suddenly parts. Rhian drags a crate beside the bonfire and leaps on top of it, her boots ringing against the wood. Her curls dance wildly in the breeze as she claps her hands, commanding the attention of everyone gathered.
The courtyard falls silent save for the crackle of the fire.
“Welcome to the first annual Starlit Night!” she shouts.
A boisterous cheer erupts, filling the night with celebration. Rebels stomp and clap. Several link arms and swing in circles, dancing despite the lack of music. The promise of the stars is enough for them.
But my mind snags on her choice of words. Starlit Night. It feels like the opposite of its sister, Culling Day, when the stars first died. And despite my unease, despite my doubt, I so desperately want to believe she’s right. That this will be the first of many.
She holds two scrolls aloft in her fist. “This is the Ballad of the Gods. With it and the Harp of Arawn, we will usher in a new era. One of peace and prosperity. One where magic runs free again. One where the Order no longer commands enough power to wield its tyrannical control over the rest of us!”
More cheers. More screams. The ground beneath my feet rumbles with their pounding.
“And none of this would have been possible if not for the newest members of our beloved family. Angharad Morgan and Taliesin Wynn!” Her face beams as she gestures our way.
My first instinct is to shrink beneath their attention. The old Angharad would have. But as their cheers rise around me, my chin lifts with them. No shrinking anymore. I let the sound wash over me, let it remind me of who I was once.
Someone even kings once feared.
My smile falters. Where did that thought come from?
“Now!” Rhian shouts. “We’ll begin this celebration with a dance. Take it away, Gethin!”
As Rhian jumps down, Gethin springs up behind her, taking her place. He lifts his fiddle high overhead, like a challenge thrown to the night, then brings his bow down across the strings.
An upbeat tune bursts into the air, and instantly the rebels are on their feet.
They whirl and stamp and spin, like the music has hooked into them and pulled their bodies into motion.
Illegal, dangerous, wrong. The Order’s words echo in my ears, but for once, they’re easy to ignore.
The strings break into a fast, lilting reel.
The bright, full notes ricochet through the firelit air, making it almost impossible to stand still.
Indeed, Taliesin bows and extends his hand toward me.
For once, I don’t hesitate. I place my hand in his.
He guides me into the dance with surprising ease.
Around us, bodies blur into motion, boots striking earth in rhythm.
And when he spins me, the world tilts—not from the dance, but from him.
His hand tightens on my waist for just a moment longer than necessary, before the next step finally breaks us apart.
Then he turns me back into him, and for a fleeting instant we are close enough that I can see the detail of him—the soft curve of his mouth, that ancient darkness I should fear but don’t. And the scent of his rowan blossom eclipses everything else.
The fiddle drives on, faster now, dragging everyone deeper into its rhythm. My steps begin to match his without thinking. Around us, the rebels are a blur of movement and color, laughter rising in delighted bursts between the thud of boots and the cry of strings.
“Not bad,” he murmurs as he draws me into another turn. “For someone who just tried to kill me.”
“It wasn’t me,” I protest, but then I see the glint of amusement in his eyes.
I push at his chest in jest, but he gently catches my wrist mid-motion. He holds it there against him, and a dangerous tension pulses in the air between us. There’s barely an inch of space separating us now. If I lean forward just a bit, just the slightest rise onto my toes…
My pulse races.
The music surges one last time, like it refuses to let go of the night. Then, with a final flourish of strings, it cuts.
We stop mid-step, still close, both of us breathless.
His hand lingers against the small of my back.
I don’t move away. My hand is still pressed to his chest, bunched in the fabric of his tunic, and I can feel the hard, uneven pound of his heartbeat beneath it.
His eyes flick to my lips, then stay there long enough to send a rush of heat through me that has nothing to do with the fire.
I tighten my grip without meaning to.
His head dips lower, slow enough that I feel every inch of distance vanishing between us. The rest of the world blurs at the edges, voices and laughter fading beneath the rush of blood in my ears. I know he’s giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
“It’s time!” Rhian’s shout cuts through the moment.
A low sound rumbles through Taliesin’s chest, something caught between frustration and amusement. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he steps back, slowly enough that his fingers drag against my spine before slipping away entirely.
Together, we move toward the ledge with the others. Gethin and Brioc are already waiting there beside two rebels I haven’t met yet. They’re gripping the harp’s curved frame to anchor it against the gusting wind now that the ropes have been removed.
Gethin settles before the harp, his long fingers brushing the strings like a test, while Brioc steps beside him with an unfurled scroll clasped in one hand. The others around us fall silent almost immediately.
Then Gethin plays.
The first note rings out low and clear, trembling through the night air with a strange, aching beauty. Another follows, then another, the ethereal melody cascading through the quiet darkness.
My breath catches. I know this song.
Not truly. Not enough to place it. But I’ve heard fragments of it before, hummed low beneath Taliesin’s breath beside the fire, or from the firebird’s aching melody.
I knew there was something about it then, but now…
. hearing it fully played beneath Gethin’s hands, something inside me twists hard enough to hurt.
Brioc begins to sing from the scroll.
His voice folds into the music, rich and powerful, the ancient words carrying out across the sea. I don’t understand the language, but the sound of it crashes through me anyway, pushing at something buried deep in my mind.
A strange rush of emotion slams into me so suddenly my knees nearly buckle.
Anger. Defiance. Grief. And beneath all of it, woven through every note, a fierce and terrible kind of love.
My heart pounds as thoughts and feelings flicker through me, vivid and disjointed. The urge to fight. To protect. To burn the world down for someone I cannot name.
Then an image flashes through my mind. Taliesin’s face, a crown on his brow, his short hair sweeping across his tipped ears. Then another. Fire raging like an inferno, devouring everything in its path.
Another. The stars—there one moment, gone the next. A firebird’s wings flared across the sparkling constellations.
Beside me, Taliesin goes utterly still.
And then I realize it. The song is making me remember.
From the moment I first heard it, it has been drawing something out of me, bringing back pieces I thought I’d lost. Not just the music, either. The tapestries. The paintings of firebirds on the ceiling. Every work of art reaches inside my mind and pulls at things long hidden.
Art makes me remember.
And like a starving woman offered her first meal, I become ravenous for it. More songs, more paintings, more poems, more life.
A faint shimmer ripples around the harp strings, so brief I almost think I imagined it. But the next chord sends tiny sparks of silver drifting into the darkness. Soft murmurs spread through the crowd as more flickers dance through the air. Flickers that look like stars.
Hope rises so fast in my chest it nearly hurts.
Gethin’s hands move faster across the strings. Brioc’s voice swells, echoing against the cliffs with enough force to rattle the stones beneath our feet. Then the light suddenly vanishes.
The music falters. Brioc lowers the scroll slowly, his expression tightening as Gethin’s hands still against the strings. Above us, the sky remains dark and empty.
Despair rises within me. It didn’t work.