Page 202 of Mountain of Mirrors and Starlight
It swung open into the vault of Avalinth, a treasure trove like something out of legend. Caer half expected a dragon to appear out of nowhere. He could have spent days exploring the horde, but the Mirror held his focus with its dark, gleaming presence.
The party inched closer. Beside it was a glittering coffin made of glass.
“My prison and my sanctuary,” Cerridwen remarked, her fingers skimming over it. “I am still not sure how I came to be in it.”
“Markham traded a witch for it,” Hawthorn said, a name that clearly meant something to everyone else. “He tried desperately to keep you alive. Even more desperately to get you back. It cost him his life.”
“I see,” Cerridwen remarked, voice placid. “Thank you for telling me.”
Hawthorn approached the Mirror first, putting a hand to its frame, as if not daring to touch the glass. He sucked in a deep, solid breath. The glass rippled.
“Whatareyou?” Hawthorn whispered, as if it were some wild, mystical beast.
“Can you seal it?” asked Cerridwen.
“I think so. If we can just get it out…”
Hands came forward to pry it from the wall, but Caer couldn’t bring himself to touch it. A wave of nausea crashed over him. His head felt like a cannonball was inside his skull.
Something clicked behind him, and smoke streamed into the room, filling the space with thick, choking fog. Shouting raced through it, the noise of swords being drawn—
“Run, Caer!” Aislinn hissed beneath her breath. “Hide!”
Caer rolled away, diving behind a pile of coins. Steel clashed against steel. He heard someone cry out—Beau?
Not Aislinn. Not her.
He wanted to run, to get to her, but he couldn’t tell right from left. His lungs were burning. He could barely breathe as it was—
The sounds of fighting continued. Someone rushed an instruction, only to be cut off with a muffled scream. Fire hissed against the floor, extinguished. Chains were dragged across the tiles, dislodging streams of coins.
The sounds of resistance silenced.
And the smoke started to clear.
Caer leaned out as well as he was able. Aeron stood in the centre of the room, flanked by guards. Everyone else was in chains—Cerridwen, Hawthorn, Beau… Ais. They stared up at their captors with wild, furious eyes.
Aeron walked forward like a swan over water, extending a long, narrow-fingered hand under Hawthorn’s chin. He tilted his face towards him. “My, my, the mighty King of the Faeries,” he said, grinning. “Not so all-powerful in here, are you?”
He clicked his fingers, turning to the guard holding Beau, who pressed his finger to a wound in his arm, twisting it until he cried out.
Hawthorn lashed out in his chains. “I don’t know who you are, but if you hurt my children—”
“I don’t care about your children,” Aeron hissed, “I just want the boy. The mortal prince. Where is he?”
“We missed your deadline,” Hawthorn spat. “Where do youthinkhe is?”
“I think, most likely, you managed to do something to him to delay the call of the Mirror, but I can’t imagine you’d be so stupid as to bring him with you, would you?”
Aislinn promptly burst into tears. “Monster,” she sobbed. “You don’t know what it was like, how much he suffered… He made me promise that I wouldn’t make him go back, even if, even if…”
She trailed off into noisy, guttural sobs.
“You killed him,” Beau added for good measure.
Aeron’s expression flickered. Caer tried to remember—had they told him about Beau’s ability to lie? Aislinn hadn’t stated anything that confirmed his demise, but her performance was impressive.
Cerridwen—who was closest to Caer’s hiding spot—tugged on her chains gently. “Please,” she said, so quietly that no one but the two mortal guards holding her could hear her, “don’t hurt me. Let me go.”
