Page 52 of The Red Woman and the White Bear

Having now known calm, having now known what it meant to be in control through the release of the very same, Kael’s shadows were more unsettled than ever. He’d not lost his grip—his center—in this way in a very long time, and his court was grateful for it. Now, as he hid away in the pitch-dark of his chamber, the pain he bore was unimaginable.

He couldn’t eat, couldn’t rest. Couldn’t think. Every breath was an agonizing endeavor.

Raif tried to talk him down. Methild attempted to care for him. Werryn sought to bring him before the altar, to pray to the Low One to ease his struggle. None were successful.

Their hushed tones carried through his thick doors, murmured prayers and whispered discussions about what could be done asthough their king was unable to hear. But he heard everything, felt everything. And he knew there was nothing to be done.

In his solitude, Kael’s mind raced, his thoughts an array of shattered fragments. He thought of Aisling, the Red Woman, who had loosened his iron-clad control. How she’d saved him only to damn him. This was her fault.

As his vision blurred, he was once again confronted by his past, the relentless thirst for power that had driven him to this point. This was his fault.

The rub of his clothes against his ruined skin was excruciating. The brush of the damp air, even more so. There was no abiding the pain he was now stricken with. Wracked with torment, it was all he could do not to collapse to his knees and curl up on the floor.

Ever the warrior, he fought against the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole with every fiber of his being. But this time, he thought he might not be pulled back from this familiar precipice. If he was lucky, they’d let him fall. His magic could take what was left of him.

Maybe they’d all be better for it.

Rodney had only ventured as far as the front lawn of the palace, waiting impatiently with his ever-present frown, idly unraveling a series of tiny braids in Briar’s long tail. Aisling gracelessly dismounted her horse and passed the reins off to a waiting hob.

“I’m going to reek of flowers for a month,” he complained by way of greeting.

She scratched Briar’s head, then Rodney’s. He swatted her hand away. “You offered to stay,” she reminded him.

“How was your field trip?” Rodney gave up on the braid he’d been working on and leaned back on his elbows.

Too sore to sit, Aisling stretched her calves against the base of a statuette of a dancing pixie. “Interesting. I never realized how much religion meant to the Fae.” For all of her mother’s musings, andall the time spent pouring over books in the Brook Isle library and scrolling through slow-loading pages on the internet, Aisling had never once encountered mention of the Low One, or Aethar, or any other Fae deities.

“We’re not all heathens. How did you get all the way up there, anyway?” He cupped his hands over his eyes and looked across the valley toward Solanthis. From this distance, it looked even higher up the mountain than it had felt when Aisling and Laure had been standing at its entrance.

“Steps,” Aisling said. “Lots of them. I told you to wear better shoes.”

“Why?” The trepidation in his voice was obvious.

“That’s where they keep their archives. Laure said we could visit.”

Rodney groaned. “Forwhat?”

“For research.” Aisling gave up on her calves and eased down beside him to rub her aching thighs. “Unless you happened to find out how the Red Woman is meant to stop a centuries-long war, then we need any information we can get.”

He groaned again, this time accompanying the sound with a dramatic eye roll. “I was hopingHer Majestywould be able to help you with that.”

“She didn’t seem to know much at all,” Aisling said quietly.

Rodney caught her tone. “Your mom?” When Aisling just shook her head, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Ash.”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting much.”

Her attention was caught then by movement amidst a grove of citrus trees a short distance away, where two impossibly thin femalesin sheer white gowns were leading a plump boy with golden curls in a dizzy sort of dance. One held him by the wrist, spinning him around and around while he giggled and reached out a chubby hand for the other. His cheeks were flushed with pleasure and his laughter was giddy, but his eyes looked similar to the singing woman’s: flat and lifeless. Like one of the fish that occasionally washed ashore near the docks, gills clogged with oil.

“A changeling,” Rodney supplied. “There’re fewer running around here than I expected; likely most were taken by the Solitaries.”

“For what?” Aisling couldn’t look away from the boy’s awkward toddling.

“Dinner,” he said salaciously, then backtracked when Aisling’s face paled. “Kidding—kind of. Usually they just live amongst them. Faeries find humans remarkably entertaining.”

Aisling turned her back to the trio and focused instead on the gentle rise and fall of Briar’s chest. When she could only hear the child’s laughter, without seeing those dead, dead eyes, she could imagine him as a normal boy enjoying the company of friends. “Do you think he’s here somewhere? The real Rodney?”

“I’m more Rodney than he is,” her friend said, almost defensive. “But no, likely not. The baby whose place I took was frail and sick; born too early. I was nothing short of a miracle for his parents.”

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