Page 17 of Mountain of Mirrors and Starlight
From what she could work out from their stories, they had all lived in Avalinth, the great dwarven stronghold beneath the earth, but had left it for undisclosed reasons and come here some years ago. They’d taken Caerwyn in when he fled from the palace, even helping block up the path when King Owen sent guards after him.
Caerwyn was silent whenever the conversation fell to his origins, and he never elaborated on the details. Even the dwarves skirted over his role in the story, preferring to emphasise the action of the events.
“My mother caused an avalanche once,” Aislinn announced. “Flooded half of Winter, from the way she tells it.”
Aislinn paused in her tale, remembering that her mother spoke more of the action of that day too—largely to distract from the pain of having lost her oldest friend shortly after the mountains stilled.
“She sounds like a great warrior,” Minerva said stonily, as if she could read the thoughts that Aislinn wasn’t speaking.
“She is.”I hope I can live up to her legacy one day.
One by one, the dwarves traipsed up to the loft. Diana and Flora stayed a while longer, helping Caerwyn set up a bed in one of the alcoves.
“You’re in his,” Flora explained.
“He’s welcome to have it—”
“You need rest, girl, if you are to heal. Caerwyn can sleep a little rougher for a few days. You don’t mind, do you lad?”
Judging by Caerwyn’s face, he clearlydidmind, but he shrugged and went to bolt the doors.
The remaining dwarves headed upstairs, and silence quickly settled over the house.
“They fall asleep fast,” Caerwyn explained.
“Right…” Aislinn’s eyes drifted to her temporary accommodation. It felt too early to sleep, especially as she’d slept away half of the day, but she was equally unsure of how to spend the rest of the hours.
“Sleep well, Princess,” said Caerwyn, effectively dismissing her.
“You keep using my title, my name is Aislinn.Ash-linn.Spelt—”
“I know how it’s spelt. Your language was ours, once.”
“Given how old my language is, I suspect it is the other way around, and Aislinn is Irish, not Welsh.””Aislinn paused, waiting for a reaction that never came.“You don’t like the fae, do you?”
“I have my reasons to be wary.”
“Would you care to share any of them?”
“I would not.” His eyes drifted towards her door. “Make sure the window is shut fast,” he said. “It tends to bang in the wind, otherwise.”
Inthedream,Caerwas always small, a boy of maybe ten, not a man of twenty. There was something about his mother’s illness that had rendered him senseless, made him feel like a child again, a helpless fawn in a forest of wolves.
His mother lay on the bed, her skin paper-thin, so white you could almost see through her. Her black hair had lost its lustre, grown brittle and grey, like the last clumps of charcoal after a fire. Only her lips retained any colour—blood red beneath the rough cracks.
He took her hand, fearful of crushing it. Her bones almost protruded the skin.
“Caer…”
She turned towards him, her chapped mouth moving into a smile. Her thumb brushed his knuckles, like she had done countless times throughout his childhood, singing him to sleep.
There would be no singing now. Her song had vanished long ago.
“My sweet boy…” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Why did you do this to your mother?”
Caer frowned. “Do? I didn’t—”
But suddenly his mother’s skin shrivelled from her bones, until she was no more than an animated corpse, a skeleton held together by threads of flesh. Her eyes sunk, her cheeks hollowed, her lips vanished leaving only a stark, hollow gap, which chattered as the world screamed around him.
