Chapter Fifty
Fifty
Saoirse
When Maccus enters the hall, it’s nothing like our meeting at the autumn equinox.
There are no special gowns, courts, or crowns.
I am far from the soul pools, my friends and allies wounded, bandaged, wearing plain travel clothes and hard expressions.
His footsteps fall heavy, same as the rest of ours, but I know the truth now.
He is just a man. A cruel, cold man in search of power.
And I will not give him that.
I stand in Kiara’s great hall, because she doesn’t keep a throne room, Callen and Aidan waiting on either side.
Aisling stays slightly behind Callen, not quite a queen but not one of the wolves or guards either.
A little over a dozen of them stand at attention against the wall behind us, Brona, Tavin, and Lorcan hovering close by.
Smoke spills past the windowpane, tinging the air we breathe.
I hope Faolan is outside of it. Riding here. Running away from the flames.
I hope I’d know if something happened to him, with my magic or that mark on my palm.
But there’s no time to race off on horseback or cut myself open and whisper pleas against my skin.
Instead, I tuck my hands by my sides as Rí Maccus approaches our line of people, Rí Tadgh and ten of his own gray-cloaks following him inside.
Ríona Etain is nowhere to be seen.
“Rí Maccus.” I’m surprised by the strength of my own voice as I nod to him, an effect of the enchanted willow bark I chewed to push away some of my pain.
He does not return the favor, head tilted slightly as he takes me in. “Bandia Saoirse. You stole my relic.”
“You stole my blood.”
His lips tug up at the corners as he gestures to the others in the room. “Did you not offer it freely to me, in front of all those gathered here?”
“Not for what you intended.”
“Only because you did not understand my plan.” Maccus folds his hands behind him, but I step closer before he can speak.
“I know of your plan. You want magic. The power to become a god.”
I expected shock to cross his face, or even contempt.
Never would I have anticipated bemusement.
“That is exactly what I seek.” Maccus’s smile is as small and precise as the slide of a needle through a cloth’s weave. “But do you know why?”
My mouth opens and shuts, tight this time, as I slip my fingers into my skirts for something to hold on to.
He carries on.
“Before the autumn council, I laid out my plan as it was: to awaken Eamon’s hammer and build the world anew.
However, I forgot in my excitement that there have always been seven gods.
” His iron eyes flit to Aidan, to Callen, to Aisling, back to me.
“Seven gods, and seven relics to shape the world by their hands.”
My brother stirs at my side, his arm brushing against mine. On the other side, Callen goes completely and utterly still.
“In talking with Etain as you schemed with the others, I realized my error,” Maccus says, starting to walk in a small pattern, close enough to taunt without being a proper threat.
“One god could never hope to satisfy all our islands, but one for each? Carrying on in our Ring of Stars as true celestials—divine beings with the power to save our islands, our people. To forge magic once more. That is the true goal.”
“Tell them how you would do it, though.” My chest buckles as I let out a breath. “Tell them how you’ll ‘make’ magic again.”
Maccus doesn’t hesitate, his eyes locked on mine.
“With your sacrifice. Into the Knowing Sea.”
I step back, staggering slightly, until Aidan catches my arm, but Maccus doesn’t look away.
“Have none of you questioned it? Truly? The power that lies within her veins? It’s the same as the soulstones—useful but fragile.
Corruptible. Dependent on someone else—something else—but I have seen a new way for us, aided by Ríona Etain. ”
Maccus nods to his gray-cloaks, who part to reveal…
“Nana?”
Gone is Etain’s cheeky smile, the wisdom in her eyes.
Like Aisling, she’s dressed plainly for the first time I’ve seen, hair unbound, unadorned by jewelry.
But more notable than that is her appearance.
What seemed to be illness in her carriage mere days ago has deteriorated our eldest queen further, bones sticking out harshly, all the warmth bled from her skin.
“What have you done to her?” Aisling asks, lurching forward to catch Etain in her arms. Maccus and his people do nothing to stop it.
“Clodagh had the power to heal,” he says, “and the ability to see truth. To force those who drank her waters to speak the truth.” He watches Etain fumble her arms around Aisling, blinking hard as though to clear her mind.
“To see it as well. You can imagine after fifty years of hiding it, the power of revealing it might take its toll.”
“Hiding what?!” Aisling asks, smoothing back Etain’s silver hair. “There’s nothing that could be worth this!”
“There is.”
Maccus beckons, and one of his court steps forward, a bowl in hand.
Clodagh’s vessel is larger than I thought it would be, though still dwarfed by Maccus’s hand as he lifts it between us.
Inlaid with abalone and sculpted of fine clay, gold flaking along its lip, the pictures of Clodagh carved into its sides are obscure, weathered thin by age, but even now—even with my magic as it is—I can feel the tug in my gut.
It’s her relic. I’m certain of it.
Maccus holds it low for all of us to see, then places it on one long table, Tadgh stepping forward to keep it in reach.
“Clodagh, Odhrán, Eabha, Róisín, Maira, Muireal, and Eamon were not born divine. What magic they wanted, they had to take. From the Knowing Sea, and from soulstones, with sacrifice and strength.”
“No.” I shake my head, faltering a step when it throbs. “No—that’s not how it was. It was given, gently and willingly, when they asked.”
“A child’s understanding of power. Of faith. Fitting for your purpose, Soulgazer. You see, I’d thought you might be an adversary for a time. Then, perhaps, a companion. But I realize the truth of it now.”
Maccus walks toward me, and Aidan lurches forward until Callen shakes their head.
The Stone King meets my eyes, his fingers grazing my chin.
“You’ve never been anything but an obedient little lamb.”
There is a flash of silver.
A yelp of pain.
And Maccus staggers back, a knife stuck through his hand.
“Get your fecking hands off my friend!”
Tavin rips me back from Maccus with a hard grip under my arm, Lorcan catching the other one—dragging me away as Brona marches forward, looking ready to strike again.
“What is wrong with you?” she snaps at Callen, Aidan—Aisling too.
“The rules are done! He’s murdering people—advocating for killing her! ”
But Maccus, hissing out a breath, holds up his unmarked hand to call back the gray-cloaks who’d started forward, and plucks the blade free like it’s a thorn.
Then he walks over to Clodagh’s vessel, pushing the injured hand inside as he reaches for a blood-colored pouch hanging from his belt.
He extracts a soulstone from it like it’s nothing, eliciting gasps as he lays it on the table and then strikes it with an ordinary blacksmith’s hammer.
No one moves when he drinks it.
Or when he spits some of it back into the bowl.
I shudder as he bites down a groan, then pulls his hand free a second later, the skin closed over. Not a mark left behind.
Brona steps back, another knife in her hand, glancing from me to Maccus, some of her fire fading.
I try to press forward as he approaches her on easy steps.
“Faolan’s navigator.”
She doesn’t speak.
Lorcan tenses, hand still on my arm, the other shifting toward the blade at his hip.
Maccus glances toward me. “She wouldn’t have to die, you know. Only submit.” He holds up his hand, turning it slowly left and right. His eyes slide to Aisling then. “I could heal your grandmother. Join me, and it will be done.”
“Liar,” I spit out.
“One drop, and I’ll convince you.” Maccus steps back, gesturing toward the bowl. “We’ll find and claim the Knowing Sea, and with your blood the whole world could be born again. Think of it. One life to spare thousands. Magic as our ancestors knew it, without limitation—without having to beg.”
He looks at Aidan. “Your father knew the value of it. Even without knowing the details, he was willing to let her go.”
“My father was a bastard,” Aidan says, and this time he doesn’t hesitate to unsheathe his blade. “And so are you.”
“Don’t be foolish.” Maccus looks to Callen. “You’re not a fool, are you?”
Callen stands completely still.
“What could the Isle of Painted Claw be, with someone as powerful as Róisín at its helm once again? Gifts of talent without the obsession. Beauty absolved of its poison. Isn’t that a sort of freedom on its own?”
Etain starts to stir then, her hand tightening on Aisling’s even as Maccus turns on her.
“You could preserve your tender heart. All those decisions a ruler must make—how many will eat, how many will starve. Who will die when pestilence comes. All that weight, gone. You could create food plentiful enough for the entire Crescent—and I could heal Etain. She could continue to rule forever, leaving you to enjoy the gardens you love.”
Aisling grips Etain tighter, curling an arm around her shoulders as she stares at Maccus almost childlike.
My heart sinks, even as outside, the carnyx rises again.
Pulling me back to the Damhsa, and Etain’s words cast over the gentle waves.
And who among you would dare to slaughter a god?
“The people would reject it,” I say, rocking back onto my heels, tugging at Lorcan’s hold. “They won’t tolerate it.”
Maccus’s head whips back to me. “They revere you.”
“For now. But already, some were growing angry. Eventually, they would rise up to kill you as well.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No, we’ll learn from the Slaughtered Ones. Their mistakes, their abuse—”
“You’re already guilty of it!” Trembling, I shift on my feet. “You destroyed souls.”
“To create magic. Life.” Maccus starts forward—stops when Brona raises her arm.
“I’ve done what none of you have managed.
What no one has since the gods. I know what it is to sacrifice.
To weigh life and death between my hands.
Purifying metals means losing some of the core, putting it through fire—beating it when necessary—to create something new. Something good.”
“You’ll create nothing. You forget, Maccus, I’ve seen your soul.”
For the first time since he came into the room, the Stone King blanches.
Finally, I stride forward, leaving Lorcan’s grip behind. “I’ve seen the emptiness inside you. The places you carved out for power. There may have been goodness there once, but there is nothing left in you now.”
Maccus’s eyes darken. Flash with sparks, iron, and flame.
“Then there’s nothing left to lose.”