Page 115 of Throne of Dreams
My queen.
If only Tiernan could find the strength to utter such words in her presence.
Maeve looked over at him then, uncertainty warring across her fractured features. He took her hand, encouraging her to accept their oath.
With lips pressed together, she faced the Furies without fear. “I am honored to be your queen. But before we return to Faeven, there is another task at hand.”
The Furies watched her. They did not speak. They did not argue. They simply awaited their orders with silent patience.
“First, we must go to Kells.” Maeve lifted her eyes, and he knew she sought Kells in the distance or what remained of the forsaken city. “I need to find Saoirse Doran.”
Balor pointed in the same direction as her line of sight. “The silver-haired warrior resides within what’s left of the castle upon the Cliffs of Morrigan, Your Grace.”
Maeve nodded once. “And then we must go into the Scathing.” Hardened determination gripped her, and any shred of warmth faded away. “And defeat the source of power there.”
The source of power.
Fearghal.
The Furies bowed at once. “We are yours to command, Your Grace.”
Maeve captured Tiernan’s hand with her own and linked their fingers together. “To Kells?”
He pressed a kiss to each of her knuckles. “To Kells.”
* * *
TiernanfadedMaeve and himself onto a balustrade that jutted over the Cliffs of Morrigan. Behind them stood the castle that once belonged to Carman. It was quite possibly the only structure still in one piece in the whole of Kells. Its towers remained intact, as did all its windows and stone walls, but as far as he could tell, there were no signs of life.
Wind howled in from off the coast, biting through his layers and carrying with it the scent of the sea. He pulled Maeve closer to warm her. The Furies appeared a moment later, never touching the ground, their shadowy bodies hovering as though they lingered between this world and the next. Tiernan’s gaze stole across the city below them. From his vantage point, he saw the port and everything below, everything that had once been thriving and flourishing before the assault of the Scathing.
The absolute destruction of Kells was far greater than Tiernan could have imagined. Devastation was everywhere. What he supposed was once the city’s center was now a crumbling pile of ash and ruin. Buildings were burned down to cinders, footpaths were blackened, and a light mist hung from a blanket of low-lying clouds, covering the fallen city in shades of gray.
Maeve’s hand, tucked into his own, tightened in his grip. She stared down at the roughened stone flooring of the balustrade, and as he watched her, he knew. Her skin had lost some of its pallor and her bottom lip trembled, but he knew this was the place where she killed Carman. This was where she’d brought the Furies back and where blood had been spilled. This was where Casimir had stolen her away to the Spring Court.
He wanted to offer her encouragement. Strength. Anything he could possibly give her. Yet words failed him. Instead, there was only more of the dreadful, empty silence of a place marked by death. No sound could be heard, save for the rush of wind whistling off the Gaelsong Sea and the thrashing of angry waves against the rugged shoreline.
The hairs along the back of Tiernan’s neck prickled.
An otherworldly sensation thickened the air. Beside him, Maeve stiffened.
The Furies sensed it as well. Their fiery gazes prowled the castle and the derelict city below.
“Dark magic,” Balor murmured, inhaling deeply.
“Darker than that. Vile.” Dian shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “Ruthless and cold.”
He was right. The magic brought here by either the Scathing or by Fearghal himself was something straight out of a nightmare, promising nothing but terror.
“Come on.” Tiernan nodded toward the massive archway of obsidian stone. “Let’s go see if we can find her.”
“The throne room.” Lines pinched around Maeve’s bloodied mouth. “If Saoirse is anywhere, she’ll be there.”
Tiernan led the way, and the Furies followed them into Carman’s former throne room. Surprisingly enough, it looked to be in perfect condition. The floors were gleaming bronze and stole the dwindling light from the few sconces that were lit. A throne with three spears pointing up to the sky stood empty, abandoned, and the number of lifelike statues carved from ivory set his nerves on edge.
Tethra glided forward. He scooped up a rock and tossed it at the throne, not even caring when it shattered into dozens of tiny pieces that skittered in every direction.
In the distance, the slamming of doors crashed through the solitude of the castle.
