This time, it was me who gripped Rogan’s arm. “Where is she?”
Beneath my fingertips, his bicep jumped. “Who?”
“Eala.” My voice was urgent. “Where in the Morrigan’s name is she?”
I needn’t have asked. Across the Folk host, near the dais where Irian knelt, bound and bowed, a woman with a long, elegant neck stepped to the front of the crowd. She had hair like moonlight and was resplendent in a gown of white feathers. Her gaggle of maidenswere dressed in incandescent colors—the blue of swirling water, the red of dancing fire, the gray of swirling clouds, the green of creeping grass. They lifted her up onto the dais, and her feathers fluttered like wings behind her.
“Kith and kin, strangers and friends, I bid you welcome to the Feis of the Ember Moon!” Eala’s voice was fluted and piercing, carrying across the crowd. Some heads turned in confusion, but many among the Folk seemed to know her. Uncanny voices rose. Sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight. “You may wonder why it is not Dualtach of the Ivy Gate who addresses you tonight. I hope you will be patient with me instead, and the unexpected joy I wish to share with you.” She shaded her eyes against the lanterns and stared out across the revel. “Rogan? My prince? Where are you?”
“Don’t,” I cried. But Rogan had already left my side. I grabbed for him. My fingertips grazed his elbow, caught on his sleeve.
“I’m done having my choices made for me.” He shook me off. “Let me do what I should have done a long time ago.”
He shoved through the crowd. I pushed after him, but the Folk host was like a wall in front of me.
“There you are.” Eala reached out her slender hands and helped Rogan up beside her. He was golden-haired and strong, effortlessly and undeniably human. Again, the Folk host murmured. I kept shoving my way through their lean, lithe bodies as Eala’s laughing voice filtered down toward me. “I have heard it said,Like calls to like. Although I have lived among you all these years, it seems I am nevertheless fated to accept the love of a mortal. Is that not amusing?”
An obliging titter sprinted through the revel.
Eala turned toward Rogan. “Is there something you wish to tell me, beloved?”
Rogan leaned down to murmur something in her ear. Eala stiffened. Her expression flickered in the light from the lanterns, and for a split second she looked like one ofthem.
Marble face. Candlelight eyes. Hungry teeth and feral desire.
I wanted to scream at Rogan to get away from her. But he stayed by her side, even as regret pooled in his eyes.
“I am sorry, beloved—I did not quite hear you.” Delicately, she brushed blond hair from her ear and tilted her head. “I thought you said you would not pledge yourself to me, after all your fine words and heroic actions. But surely a prince as clever as yourself would not make such a stupid mistake.”
Rogan’s face hardened. I cringed—if Eala and I had truly been sisters, I would have told her long ago that Rogan hated being called stupid. Hated it even more than he hated being told he was wrong. But she was not my sister. Not in any of the ways that counted.
I pushed harder through the crowd. The Folk host stood transfixed by the drama unfolding before them.
“I cannot offer you my heart.” Rogan bowed, princely and penitent, to the seething swan maiden before him. “Not even to break the geas holding you captive. It would not be right—it would not be honest. My heart has long belonged to another. And I bestow it, willingly, to her.”
Rogan looked out and fixed his river-stone eyes on me. I froze, a half-dozen paces from the dais. My gaze flew, reluctantly, to Irian. He’d seen me now—how could he not, as I careened through the host in my extravagant gown and cape of night-black feathers, stolen from his own shadowy wings? His eyes held hope… sorrow… resignation. A cold edge of restrained violence. He jerked against his bonds, sending his torn mantle swinging into the dusk. And waited.
Both of them waited—two sets of eyes fixed on me. One blue-green. One silver. And I—I stood motionless in front of a host of leering, murmuring Folk. My heart throbbed unevenly in my chest. I was running out of time. I had to do something. I had to decide. I had to—
“I did not want to do this.” Eala sighed brokenly. “But I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice.”
She lifted her hands to her hair—to her glittering crown of palefeathers and pale flowers. But I saw now—tiny spots of blackness nestled between the white.
Eala plucked one of the black flowers. Blood trickled down her fingertips. Fast as a viper, she stood on her tiptoes. Grabbed Rogan by the stubbled jaw. And shoved her fingers into his mouth.
Dread grasped me. Irian’s voice filtered through my hazy memories of the Feis of the Wild Hunt:The black flowers leave humans… open to suggestion. They overcome loyalty, love, allegiance. Only a will like iron can withstand them.
Rogan jerked away, but too slowly. Red smeared his lips as his mouth worked. He gagged, spat out mangled black petals. Clawed at his throat. Shuddered. Fell to his knees on the dais.
My dread blossomed into horror as I helplessly watched. When I’d ingested the flower, its effect had taken hold instantly. I had little hope Rogan would be able to withstand its potency.
He had many admirable qualities.A will like ironwas not one of them.
Finally, Rogan was still. Eala wiped her bloodstained hand down the front of her gown, leaving a smear of red across the white. She gripped Rogan’s hands, pulled him to standing. His golden curls hung over his face, and his eyes were lowered.
“You do belong to me, my prince—whether you like it or not.” Her words were tender, regretful. Then she turned and pointed straight at me. “Now bring me my sister.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
