Page 71 of The Red Woman and the White Bear

Aisling reluctantly withdrew her hand from Kael’s arm to fish in her jacket pocket for the folded bit of paper she’d stowed there alongside his note. She unfolded it carefully and handed it to him to examine. The bright moon overhead and the soft, blue glow of the angel’s trumpet blooms illuminated the printed page.

“Do you recognize this?” she asked.

“I do; I have the original artwork,” Kael mused, then ran his thumb over the ragged edge where Rodney had torn the page from the book. “Where did you come by this print?”

“The Seelie archives,” Aisling admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “It shows the first three courts, right? Yours, the Seelie Court, and the Silver Saints?”

Kael stopped walking to look down at her, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Is that what you call them?”

“It was the closest translation Rodney could come up with.”

“The Silver Saints,” he repeated, then said their true name in the Fae tongue. “They came even before the division of our courts and disappeared not long after. They were Tuatha Dé Danann—Light Bringers, the first Fae race. Neither their race nor their magic, has been seen in Wyldraíocht for a very, very long time.”

“They were really real?” Aisling wondered. “The book we found made them sound like legend.”

“Many claim them to be. The truth about your Silver Saints is difficult to come by.” Kael looked again at the page in his hand then passed it back to Aisling. She returned it to her pocket.

“But you know about them?” she asked.

Kael nodded. “There is a book in my collection, one of very few in existence that tells of their involvement in the creation of the courts.”

“What if they could be found again? What if they could fix things?” Aisling was aware of how farfetched her words sounded, but she had clung to the hope of this solution so desperately since they’d found the page in the archives that she didn’t care.

“You know as well as I that they play no role in this prophecy.” There was a wistfulness in Kael’s voice that told Aisling maybe he longed to feel that same hope, too.

“The prophecy isn’t clear; who’s to say it isn’t for us to determine what it means?” she argued.

“That is not how prophecies work.”

“Says who?” she challenged again. “You don’t even know who wrote it, much less the intention behind their words. It’s a prophecy, not an instruction manual.” She repeated the words the Shadowwood Mother had said to her in the thicket that night—the very words that had so frustrated her now offered the possibility of a different path.

Kael raised an eyebrow. “You’re beginning to sound like one of us.”

Aisling smiled back, briefly. “I’ll consider that a compliment.”

Taking her hand again, Kael pulled Aisling to resume their slow, meandering walk through the garden.

“I notice but one flaw in your plan,” he said. “And it is not insignificant.”

Aisling held her breath. “What is it?”

“You would still see my court lose its autonomy.”

“Not necessarily,” she insisted quickly. “I envision them as more of a neutral third party. Like an impartial body that could oversee a transition to peace. Surely you wouldn’t see this war continue forever just to gain control over dominions you care nothing about?”

“You seem to forget I am a creature born for war.” Kael cast her a sidelong glance as his lips pressed into a dry smirk.

“Raisedfor war, maybe. But born for it?” Aisling shook her head solemnly, tightening her grip on his arm. “There’s much more to you than that.”

Without answering one way or another, or acknowledging even the possibility of her plan, Kael directed their path back to the Undercastle. “It is cold out tonight,” he offered by way of explanation. “You need to get warm.”

Aisling didn’t press further, but she hadn’t given up just yet. Though he hadn’t agreed to her idea, he hadn’t said no, either.

Sweat beaded across Kael’s brow as he lunged forward, longsword gripped tightly in his hand. It gleamed when it caught the light. Raif parried the blow easily, letting it glance off his shield.

“Your strikes are slow tonight,” he commented, dodging another swipe. “Soften your grip.”

“My grip is fine,” Kael growled. His hair slipped loose from where he’d tied it at the nape of his neck and stuck to the sweat that dripped from his temple. Finally, he landed a strike on the outside of Raif’s thigh, the blade biting into his thick training leathers. The pair had been sparring for nearly an hour, and to Kael’s great frustration, he’d only manage to land four hits to Raif’s six. He was out of practice, and he was distracted.

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