Page 13 of The Shadowbound and the False God

“You don’t know how long that’s going to take, if ever,” Rodney insisted. He sounded panicked now.

“I know.” He yielded—just—when he saw the same panic reflected in her eyes. She wished that the image of her friends, of Briar, safe and oblivious on the other side could have been enough to make the request hurt a little less. But from the moment she was cornered by not-Cole in the trailer park, Aisling knew she had no choice.

Which had made her goodbyes all the more painful.

“It is already done,” Merak said. “Your realm is safe.”

Of course it was; of course they’d known. Aisling reached a hand up to roughly brush away a stray tear. “Thank you for coming back.”

“Thank you for calling.” If they had mouths to smile, she thought they might have done so, just briefly, before departing and taking their light with them.

The Unseelie armory was pristine, fully stocked and immaculately organized. If Aisling hadn’t known better, she’d have guessed the weapons were newly forged. Longswords, broadswords, daggers, and battleaxes hung from the walls, all gleaming and honed to lethal sharpness. Smooth, arched wooden bows were propped beside quivers filled with feather-fletched arrows. Now that all the companies had returned from afield and the fighting was over, they’d given up their issued weapons and armor. Aisling imagined Raif had spent much of his time there since the final battle, cleaning and sharpening and putting the armament meticulously back in its place. Maybe he’d needed the distraction. Maybe the armory was his Ben’s.

Rodney and Lyre walked the perimeter of the small cavern, shopping the wares. Aisling stood in the center, still holding Kael’s dagger gingerly.

“Here,” Raif offered her a bundle of leather. A sheath, already attached to a slim belt. “It isn’t the one Kael carried, but it should hold his dagger fine.”

She began to thank him but he was already in motion again, strapping on segments of his leathers before leaning down to dig through a chest of chainmail. He worked with quiet efficiency; his practiced hands knew which pieces to reach for, which weapons to select for each of them. When he handed Aisling a chainmail tunic, he finally paused long enough for their eyes to meet. The unspoken weight of their shared loss—her love, his king—hung heavy between them.

“Thank you,” Aisling said earnestly. Raif only nodded once before turning sharply away. The tunic Aisling slid over her head was fashioned from the same cool, pliant metal links as the one of Kael’s she’d worn before. She was grateful that this onestopped just below her waist, rather than falling nearly to her knees as his had. She layered it over her shirt, beneath a sweater and a rain jacket. It was so light she might not have been wearing one at all.

“What do you think, Aisling? Does this one suit me?” Rodney’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he clumsily twirled a stocky broadsword. It was far too heavy for him; he had to hold onto its hilt with both hands just to keep it aloft. He was trying to distract her, she knew. Likely himself too.

“My weapons are not toys,” Raif growled. He seized the broadsword roughly then handed Rodney a much narrower, much shorter blade. Rodney rolled his eyes in Aisling’s direction.

“Spoken like a true soldier,” Lyre quipped. He refused to carry a weapon and had turned down Raif’s offer of chainmail. So confident that his god would protect him, the High Prelate would enter Elowas unarmed.

Carefully, Aisling slipped Kael’s dagger into its new home on her hip. Its weight there was a reminder: of him, of his sacrifice, of her purpose. She cleared her throat. “The Silver Saints said Kael’s soul—his aneiydh—was captured. What if the Low One won’t give him back?”

Lyre hummed, considering her question. “It is a possibility.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for. And for Lyre to be the one to have given it—the one of them closest to the Low One, who knew the most about the dark deity—made her stomach sink. She began to pace as she thought out loud. “Fae like bargains, right?”

“This is a god, Ash,” Rodney said.

She shot him an irritated look. “So how do we bargain with a god?”

“It would have to be a significant offering,” Lyre posited. “An artifact, maybe. A trade—something powerful for somethingpowerful.” He dragged a long finger over a bowstring, snapping it once. Though she was expecting it, the sharp sound startled Aisling.

“Do you know of anything like that?” Her voice came out smaller, more timid than she intended it to. The little hope she’d been clinging to was rapidly dwindling.

“The most powerful of our artifacts were destroyed centuries ago in a bid to protect us from ourselves,” Raif chimed in. He sat apart from them now, sharpening his blade. “And those with lesser power have been lost over time.”

“Perhaps one might be made.” Lyre’s lips curled like he knew something the rest of them didn’t. Aisling had observed that particular expression on his face often enough now to understand that it never meant anything good for anyone other than Lyre himself.

“How?” She steeled herself for his response.Anything, she pled silently,anything other than a blood rite.

“Saothrealain. Creation magic.” Lyre said simply.

Raif sighed. “We’d need a Weaver.”

Lyre turned that sly grin on Rodney and said, “We have a Weaver.”

Rodney balked when Lyre looked pointedly in his direction.

He knows. How the fuck could he know?Every clever retort drying up on his silver tongue, Rodney could only stare back at Lyre, wide-eyed.

“Tell me I’m wrong, púca,” the High Prelate taunted.

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