Chapter Fifty-One
Fifty-one
Saoirse
It happens like a summer rain: a taste of metal, a hint of wind, and then a deluge that wants to drown the whole world.
Maccus starts forward, hand outstretched toward me, and a side door bursts open as Kiara and Faolan race inside.
Their skin is ashen, coal-dark streaks mixed with water, hides strapped over their clothing like the stolen pelt of an entire bull.
But it does nothing to slow them down—not when Faolan sees Maccus.
Sees me.
“Wait!” I start, but it’s too late.
Faolan hurls himself forward as Maccus snarls at his gray-cloaks, “Take them alive!” In one smooth arc, he draws his blade and meets Faolan’s seconds before it would have dug into his throat.
The rest of the room dissolves, Kiara’s guards launching forward as Maccus’s raise their weapons—axes, knives, ropes, harnesses that make my bones grow cold.
I scramble backward even as my head goes light again, swaying while Lorcan swears.
“Get back,” he says, though his eyes are on Brona—sword raised, wanting to go to her but duty bound to stay at my side. I push at his chest until he rocks forward.
“Go!”
“But—”
“Go to her, Lorcan!”
He peels off, racing ahead just as two of the gray-cloaks reach Brona, evading the swipes of her dagger—one of them trying to catch her by the wrist. Lorcan slices the man’s hand off before he can.
I fumble for the wall, for Tavin, whose long blade rests in one hand. But his leg is still injured. He can’t run—not like the others.
“Tavin, you’ve got to get out of here.”
“I won’t leave you.”
“Please—make sure everything’s ready to go.” Thank the stars, we moved the remaining relics to Kiara’s eastern port, readying a plan to flee in case the worst broke out. All but Aisling’s bone pipe, and the talon currently worn around Callen’s throat.
Tavin grits his teeth as he looks from me to Faolan, across the rest of the room, then nods. “I’ll gather the horses. Make sure he hasn’t found them.”
“Take two guards, lock the door behind you, and go.”
Swallowing hard, he nods and slips out another door—the one behind us, leading to halls secured from Maccus’s men. I hope. I pray.
My hand fumbles at my side for a dagger as I hear the bolt catch, drawing it just as a hand grabs my shoulder. I turn, blade swinging, then stop halfway through when I see the flash of red hair.
“Nes—”
It’s Kiara.
The Queen of Ashen Flame drags me back from two of Maccus’s guards, smoke still clinging to her shoulders like a cape. With a grunt, she drives her blade into one of their throats. Blood splatters the wall, the ground, one of the gray-cloaks dropping as the other swings down his axe.
I dive in, slashing my dagger across his stomach like Brona and Callen taught me as his arm catches my elbow, jarring me almost to the ground. He howls in pain as organs spill out from his abdomen and the ugly red slash I made.
Nausea hollows my insides, vomit climbing my throat.
I stagger back, reaching for Kiara’s hand—almost drop my dagger as my arm starts to tremble.
“Hey—hey!” Her eyes dart around us, but her hand finds my cheek. Slapping it once, hard. “Saoirse, you can’t do that. Not now. Did you have time to prepare?”
“Yes, but—”
“Where do I need to get you?”
I glance at the door Tavin just bolted, then across the hall where three others lie. There’s the one Kiara and Faolan ran through, the grand entrance Maccus and his guards entered, and a smaller one. A servants’ passage?
“The east stables. We had enough time to stash the relics there—to ready a slew of horses. But I’m not going without Faolan.”
“Oh yes you are.”
“We don’t leave wolves behind.”
Kiara looks me over, her lips falling open—quivering once. “The wolves—”
Another gray-cloak comes, and she swears, shoving me behind her.
My eyes leap across the room, looking for a pair of earrings, vibrant movements—a laugh that always chases a blow.
Faolan is fighting Maccus—dancing with him, really, swords moving so fast, it’s like silver dragonflies flitting through the air. But Maccus has no need for the pageantry, his arms powerful, his stance wide. Another of his guards approaches from behind, and I start forward.
Stumble as the room spins, the madness of all these people and their heightened emotions slipping beneath my dormant skin.
“Not now,” I shout, sliding onto my knees, the dagger clattering to the ground.
Brona appears at my side, scooping the weapon up—shoving the hilt back into my hand as Lorcan guards us both with the breadth of his body, grunting as someone’s blade catches his skin.
“Go, go, go!” Brona takes my elbows and guides me through the swarm of bodies and colors toward that small passage near the massive hearth—stopping when Aidan falls in front of us, a bloody wound gashed into his side.
Two of Maccus’s gray-cloaks reach for him, kicking away the weapon he’d just held, but Callen leaps between them, a leather pouch in their hand.
They throw handfuls of a strange pink powder into the guards’ faces, dropping them without a sound.
“Where are you taking her?” Callen asks, wiping their hand swiftly on their trousers as Aidan rolls to his feet, clutching at his side.
“Servants’ passage. It leads back to the stables.”
“Got it.” Callen loops Aidan’s arms over their shoulders, starting for the door, but a stream of guards—both Kiara’s and Maccus’s—block the way. They’re fighting each other without mercy now, the noise of the blades pounding in my ears like a waterfall as they drive them against each other.
“Aisling!” Kiara’s voice tears behind us as she emerges from a throng, her eyes locked across the great hall. The heir of Bridled Stag is trapped between two of Maccus’s gray-cloaks, sobbing as she fights to reach Etain.
But the old woman is still, clutched under Tadgh’s arm.
His blade scrapes her throat, scarlet blooming across the fabric below.
Maccus catches sight of it—Faolan as well, driving his sword down hard enough to knock Maccus’s sword to the ground.
“Stop this!” Faolan snarls, holding the end of it to Maccus’s chest. “Stop this right now, or I’ll rip your feckin’ throat out.”
Maccus’s eyes widen, glancing from my husband to Tadgh, to the rest of the room.
He gives one hard whistle and all his guards cease.
The abrupt silence is deafening.
Faolan blinks blood and soot from his eyes, body arched over Maccus, the tip of his sword cutting into the Stone King’s leather armor, slipping between the plates.
But Maccus doesn’t fight him off, or sneer, or cower.
He speaks in a steady voice instead.
“The Wolf of the Wild. The legendary pirate. You’re going to disappear one day.”
Faolan raises his sword higher, the setting sun glinting off the blade.
Sun and fire lick the horizon.
Maccus glances down at it, then laughs once, both hands raised.
“Stories are told by those who live on. Who will tell yours when you’re dead? What will they tell of it? Will they call you a hero? A villain? Will they speak your name at all?”
“It doesn’t fecking matter. Not anymore.”
“It does.” Maccus stares into my husband’s eyes, then slowly begins to smile. “Oh, but it does. Everything you’ve ever done in Kiara’s court has been for that purpose, hasn’t it? You tell yourself it’s for the people, but it’s all been for you. Your glory. Your legend.”
“I said stop it.”
“Wolf Tamer.” Maccus whispers the name, eyes narrowing. “That’s what they call her, isn’t it? Your bitch?”
“Enough of this, Maccus.” Tadgh’s own grip on Etain’s hair falters, his dagger slipping in his sweating hands.
I don’t need my magic to see his panic. His faltering conviction—his cowardice.
“Ring of Stars, gods again—that’s what you promised.
It’s possible!” He turns wild eyes on Aisling. “Call off Kiara and her cousin.”
Aisling looks between Kiara and Tadgh, then to Etain, another sob building in her throat.
The eldest queen is limp in his arms, but her eyes are keen.
Sharp.
“I-I can’t,” Aisling says, digging her nails into one of the guards’ arms. “I—”
“Do it, or she dies.”
Etain exhales, her breath fogging the knife at her throat. “I warned you for decades.”
“Shut up,” Tadgh says, his hand starting to tremble.
“The age of the gods is done.”
With a wrench of her frail body, Etain drives herself forward, Tadgh’s dagger slicing open her throat.
Aisling’s scream wrenches the room apart, even as Maccus drives a knee into Faolan’s stomach, catching his forearms—slamming them into the table so the sword spins across the room.
Faolan snaps his whole body forward, kicking Maccus in the side so he stumbles to the floor.
Another of Brona’s knives hurtles past me, landing in the Stone King’s shoulder.
Faolan starts forward, but I shriek his name.
Turning at the last second, Faolan races my way, ducking a gray-cloak’s sword, stealing a dagger from the man’s belt as he does. For precious seconds as he crosses the room, I think Maccus will catch him. One of his people will drive him to the ground.
But then Lorcan runs to meet him, fending off the attacks.
Kiara slaughters the guards holding Aisling with two hard swings of her knife.
Tadgh stares at Etain’s body, crumpled at his feet.
And Callen looks from Aidan to the vessel of Clodagh, my brother faltering—the wound too deep.
“GET TO THE DOOR!”
Kiara strips a shield from her back and shoves it into Aisling’s arms, pushing her toward us as more of Maccus’s guards close in.
Lorcan snatches Brona up, scooping Aisling as well as he pelts faster than I’ve seen him move toward the servants’ passage.
Faolan pushes me—hauls me with an arm around my waist—as I fight to see my brother even as Callen pulls him the other way.
“No. No—Aidan!” My fists meet Faolan’s chest, feet driving into the ground, but he just throws me over his shoulder. “Stop! AIDAN!”
Kiara backs up toward the passage, her feet faltering on the rushes, blade meeting three—four at once. It’s too much for her. Maccus’s guards grapple to get the knives from her hand, another bearing ropes, and she kicks at them, turning her face to us.
“I said RUN! Destroy the relics! Do what you have to, just—”
But the room spins again as Callen throws a desperate look over their shoulder at me, then takes up Clodagh’s vessel and pours its water over Aidan’s wound.
There is only a second left when I could fight Faolan.
When he could turn around and try to set Kiara free.
But Maccus is on his feet. Kiara’s guards are in pieces on the ground, side by side with gray-cloaks.
And more of his men are pouring through the door on the other side.
With a hard, decisive swear, Faolan steps into the servants’ passage and slams the door shut, bolting it from the outside.
“No. Faolan, we can’t just—”
“We have to.” He tears down the dark passage like it’s familiar, following the sound of Aisling’s wails. “I’m so sorry, love. I—”
Sunlight and smoke surround us as we run outside, Lorcan’s blade slick with fresh blood from the couple of Maccus’s guards who managed to find us out.
I’m still reeling, still pushing and clawing and kicking, when Faolan sheds the hide he was wearing and scoops me into a saddle, throwing himself just behind.
One of the horses is missing—Tavin must have already gone.
“I have to go back,” Aisling sobs, throwing herself against Lorcan’s chest. “I have to—”
“Kiara gave you the relic!” Faolan pulls the reins back to keep the horse from bolting, even as it snorts and tosses its head. “She gave you a chance to get away. Don’t squander it.”
“But—”
“Ash.” My voice warbles, fingers curling into the horse’s mane. “Maccus won’t kill them. We’ve got to go.”
Aisling’s arm digs into the shield’s surface, tears streaking her cheeks. She looks one more time to the stone wall behind us, then bites down on her tongue and turns, mounting one of the stamping mares even as Lorcan throws Brona onto the last one, climbing up behind.
“Where’s Nessa?” Brona asks, looking around. “Is she with Tavin on the ship?”
Faolan’s knuckles go white as he clenches the reins. Something flickers between us then—grief like I’ve only felt once before.
“…No.”
“What?” Brona jerks around in the saddle. “Faolan. Where is she?”
I tilt my head back to look at Faolan and only now see the distinct streaks of ash and liquid painting pale stripes down his cheeks. With a dig of his heels, the horse starts forward, so fast his words could almost be mistaken for a crackle of fire, a slip of the wind.
“Nessa is gone.”