Page 37 of Mountain of Mirrors and Starlight
“Do you ever feel that?” Fort asked. “Do you ever feel like you’re in the place you’re supposed to be?”
“No,” Aislinn said, pausing longer than she meant to.I have no idea where I’m supposed to be.
Fort smiled. “You will,” she said, “and if not—you’re allowed to choose it. You’re allowed to choose the place that makes you happy.”
Aislinn swallowed. Since Cass’ death, even the places where she’d once been happy felt haunted.
Something thudded outside.
Fort frowned, glancing at Aislinn. They left the stables and hurried outside. Other dwarves appeared, too—all gazes turned towards the waterfall.
The ground rumbled. A horn sounded.
Aislinn stilled. She knew the sound. It was Miriam’s horn.
They were being sent a warning.
Minerva’s eyes widened. “Get the mounts,” she snapped. “Quickly now! Mags, Caer—get the last of the bags. Hurry.”
Luna and Diana sprung towards the stables. Magna cowered in Minerva’s shadow before scuttling off to the cottage after Caerwyn. The remaining dwarves banded together, pulling out axes, crossbows, pistols. They waited.
Beau reappeared by Aislinn’s side, tucking his notebook into his breast pocket. He met her gaze, and they nodded at each other. Aislinn drew her sword.
“We should glamour ourselves,” Beau whispered. “Make ourselves look like dwarves to Owen’s men. Avoid a diplomatic incident, and all.”
Aislinn wasn’t sure she could hold a glamour in the midst of battle, even with the help of her cloak—it was too much magic, too much concentration. She found most glamours easy enough to draw on, but to hold them—
“Can you…?” she started.
Beau sighed, waving his hands, soft, powdery magic settling over her. She couldn’t see it, of course, but she trusted it to work. “I guess that’s me out of the battle,” Beau said. “I can’t hold twoandfight. Is that deliberate?”
“No,” said Aislinn, “but I do like keeping you safe.”
Beau muttered something under his breath, and retreated to the back line.
A lumpy, grey shape burst through the waterfall, followed by another, and three green-skinned, silken-winged creatures.
Two ogres. Three pixies.
And a dozen soldiers, all armed to the teeth.
Fort’s pistol cracked through the air. Bell’s crossbow fired. Minerva’s axe went flying. Aislinn dove forward, skidding under the ogre’s belly and slicing it across the thigh.
Some kind of explosion went off, dividing her from the others. It was all that kept them safe. She turned to dispatch the limping ogre, but a hot burst of fire did the job for her, and a shield of light sprung up around her.
Aislinn looked up. Her father. Her father was here. “It’s a glamour,” he rushed, gesturing towards the flaming explosion. “It was all I could think to do to buy us some time. It won’t last long—and the Unseelie won’t be fooled.”
“Father…” she mumbled. It felt like years since she had seen him.
Hawthorn groaned under the weight of the multiple glamours and the shield. Sweat beaded his brow, his arms splayed out. “You’re all right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Any reason you didn’t return to the castle?” His arms buckled against the side of the shield. It would not last long with Minerva’s magic dampeners. Hawthorn must have been able to feel something.
“Yes,” Aislinn answered. “Caer—the prince—he can’t go back.”
Hawthorn grimaced. “‘Can’t go back, worth losing an alliance over, can’t go back’ or just ‘doesn’t really fancy it’?”
