The tableau was like something out of a story: a proud, tragic queen; a druid foretelling doom; a golden prince promising heroics. But stories were by nature false—designed to fool the eye and twist the mind, to make us believe in things that couldn’t ever be true. Stories gave us hope, and I hated them almost as much as I hated my stolen face, my uncertain origins, and my wild and wicked magic.
Real life wasn’t like the stories. Real life ended in deception, betrayal, or tragedy. Which meant this pretty tale was either untrue or incomplete.
“So we’re to use this Thirteenth Gate to rescue Eala?” I cut in.
Mother nodded. “The Folk have no reason to suspect we know of it. When the veil between the human realm and Tír na nÓg is stretched thin—during a full moon—it can be breached.”
I cocked my head. “But to pass through, don’t you also need the still-beating heart of—Oh.”
The answer crashed over me like a winter sea, cold and inevitable. Sothiswas why I’d been called here to stand beside Rogan and plot the princess’s grand rescue—because my blood ran green and black as the dark parts of the forest. Not because I’d been raised by Mother and she wished me to be the first to welcome home her truedaughter. Not because of my childhood rapport with Rogan. Not even because I’d been unflinchingly trained as a queen’s warrior and spy.
They didn’t need me. They needed my death.
I forced the painful blossom of my resentment to die on the vine, where a thousand small bitternesses hung like corpse flowers. I’d never belonged in this world. Maybe leaving it would be easier than staying in it. If this was what Mother required of me, I would do it. She’d given me so much over the years—not least, her love. I wouldn’t deny her something as little as my life in return.
Rogan was studying my face, and I saw the instant he understood. I loved him for the way he squared his shoulders and set his mouth, willing to defy a queen on my behalf.
“No,” he said firmly. “There must be another way.”
“Calm yourself, Mòr,” Mother said with a touch of amusement. “We are not the Folk. Do you really think I would sacrifice one daughter for another?”
Relief dragged me up from the cold, choking sea of my compliance—relief so profound it forced a sigh from my throat. Mother glanced at me, her brows drawing together as she realized I had leapt to the same conclusion as Rogan. Hurt pooled in her pale eyes, her injured stare wordlessly chiding me for ever believing she would demand such a thing of me.
How could I sacrifice you?it seemed to say.I have only ever loved you, when no one else could. How could you think so little of me?
Contrition and shame bowed my head. I blamed that damned blackberry wine—it must still be lingering in my veins. Only alcohol and wild fruit could grow such sharp, dark thoughts inside me.
“Then how?” Rogan asked.
“The darrig was helpful in that regard,” Mother said. “The Gates are all linked by the same powerful Folk magic—a magic that has been damaged. The integrity of the Gates has weakened, the Thirteenth Gate included.”
“The queen speaks true.” Cathair narrowed his hazel eyes at me and smiled. “The boundary is beginning to come apart at the seams. Something might find a way toslitherthrough the cracks.”
I bared my teeth at him. “I suppose a snake would know.”
His smile only widened.
“Folk heart-blood and a full moon are still required to pass through,” Mother explained, glancing again at me. “But it need not be more than a few drops. That should be enough to prick a hole big enough for you—bothof you—to cross over into Tír na nÓg. Once there, you will find the dún on the hill, above the lough of shadow. You will find the swan girls—you will find my daughter. And you will bring her back home where she belongs.”
It seemed very neat. But when it came to the Folk, things were rarely as simple as they seemed.
“Why now?”
“The Book of Whispers speaks to me whenever the balance between our worlds shifts.” Cathair said this with the air of a prophecy. “These past few years, we suspected the Gates were weakening, but had no way to pass through them without exposing ourselves.”
“I grieved, thinking we had missed our chance to strike against the Folk and rescue Eala,” Mother said. “The discovery of the hidden Gate changes things.”
“We will not fail you, my queen,” Rogan interjected solemnly.
“Good.” Mother didn’t wait for my response. She simply passed a rolled map to Rogan. “In Bridei, beyond the town of Finn Coradh, you will find a half-ruined fort—Dún Darragh, it is called. It is close to the Thirteenth Gate. It will not be luxurious, but it will keep the rain and wind off your backs.”
“I know of it,” Rogan said with an odd expression.
“And how are we to find the Gate from there?” I asked.
“I have seen it,” Cathair said portentously. “In the forest beyond the lough, in a place called Roslea, where monsters lurk in shadows and the trees have silver boughs.”
Unhelpful, dramatic nonsense. I tried a different tack.
