Page 119 of Promise of Darkness
“And the Mother has the power,” Thiago says, cursing under his breath as he paces. “She has the skills. She created spell craft, so if there’s anyone who knows how to break that link, it’s her.”
“Angharad seemed to think there was a specific sacrifice required,” Kyrian says. “Do we have any idea who it is?”
Another little chill runs up my spine.
Thiago insisted I wear long sleeves, and I’m grateful for it now, as the blue silk covers the fetch’s mark.
“No,” Thiago lies, looking his friend in the eye. “No doubt a queen. Or a prince. Or someone of equal power. The Hallows required a powerful sacrifice to create the link to the prisons. No doubt they require one that’s just as powerful to break them open. Either that, or one of the great relics like the Sword of Mourning. But most of them are lost.”
I don’t understand. I don’t have the power required. My magic dwells beneath the surface, caged by the wards Thiago laid over me the night I nearly burned the bed. But it’s no greater than that of any pure born fae. I know, because my mother had both Andraste and me tested when we were twelve.
And as far as I can tell, my memory loss begins and ends on the day I first met Thiago, so that previous memory must be real.
“Watch your back then, my friend,” Kyrian says, slapping a hand on Thiago’s shoulder.
“You too. And start preparing for war. I’ll send my armies west, to Mistmere. We need to stop her before she can get the Hallow working.”
“My ships are at your disposal,” Kyrian replies. “And my men. Send word the second you’re ready to attack.” He turns to me. “In light of certain revelations, you may consider my grimoire a gift. I think you may need it, Your Highness, though next time… ask.”
* * *
It’sa quiet trip back to Ceres.
Though the thought of travelling through the Hallow and meeting that saltkissed bitch haunts me, the trip is uneventful. The gold cuff on my arm goes ice-cold, but there’s no frightening whirl of seawater, no screaming saltkissed hissing in my face.
I’m almost disappointed.
29
One day later we have word from the other kingdoms.
The queens have discussed our tale of Mistmere, and have decided to send their own emissaries. We’re to meet them near Mistmere where we’ll continue on foot. Each queen has sent ten retainers. No more. No less.
Even a single extra guard might be considered a threat against the other retinues, or a plot to exploit the situation.
“Maia help us if Angharad intends to invade and has an army awaiting us,” Baylor says, pacing the shadowy forest outside the tents we’ve set up.
“At least it shall be a glorious death,” Finn points out.
“Or a swift one,” Eris mutters.
The edge of the swamp that runs into Mistmere lake is the best place to meet, as the brackish waters will hide our scent, and it’s unlikely banes will be patrolling here. A castle turret sticks out of the water ahead of us, moss lining its crenellations. It looks like the swamp has swallowed a castle whole, and only the tip emerges.
Maybe it will swallow us whole too.
That’s a cheery thought.
A light flickers in the top window, highlighting a pale face, and then it vanishes.
“They’re here,” I murmur, blowing warmth into my cupped hands. I forgot how cold it was this far north.
“It’s about time.” Eris wades into the shallows, pushing the boat out a little further. “It’s not as though the fate of the seelie alliance rests upon the other kingdoms actually getting off their asses, for a change.”
“Ah, Eris, my love,” Finn says quietly, “You expect everything to be straightforward. It’s your uncouth unseelie nature showing. This is Seelie. If we don’t stab each other in the back, slit someone’s throat while they sleep, toy with our allies’ emotions, or promise everything and nothing in the one breath, then can we even call ourselves fae? The only good news is that at least we look good while we do it.”
“Never trust a beautiful face,” Eris murmurs, as if she learned the saying by rote as a child.
“And never trust a seelie smile,” Finn adds.
