I could choose Rogan—the human, the lighthearted prince, the heart of my childhood.
I could choose Irian—the Gentry tánaiste, the shadowed storyteller, the heart of my future.
Choose wisely, lest there be no one left to save you.
This wasmystory. And for the first time, I didn’t want to choose either man. I wanted to choose myself.
“Nature is not good or kind or clean,” I said. “But it is fair. It demands balance. Night and day, dusk and dawn. Winter and summer. Death and life. I did not know it, but I have always been that balance.”
The figure standing beneath the shadow of the Heartwood waited, as patient as the seasons.
“I cannot understand all the decisions that brought me to this moment. I cannot take responsibility for the actions of Folk who bound wild magic to Treasures, or human kings who seduced innocent girls, or bardaí who slaughtered helpless heirs. All I know is this—the balance was broken long before I was born. And though I still do not know who I am, I know this too—I was born with the forest at my fingertips. Though I have often fought it, it is my truest and dearest nature. My heart is of the forest. My heartisthe forest. I am—”
Once more, I looked down at the smooth, glossy river stone I’d pulled from my chest. The stone that had found me years ago, in the woods below Rath na Mara. The stone I had gifted to Rogan. The stone he had worn upon his chest for years. The stone that had once more found me in Tír na nÓg, through blood and violence and loss. I knew it now for what it was.
It was the Treasure of the Sept of Antlers. I had never asked what it looked like, what shape it took. But as the smooth stone pulsed heavy in my palm, winking up at me like a cracked eye, there was nothing else it could be. Deirdre’s inheritance, lost when she threw herself in grief from a high cliff into the hungry forest. The conduit between the vast elemental magic of the earth… and the vessel who could wield it.
I still didn’t know whether I was Deirdre’s daughter. I didn’t know how I’d lost my memories or why I’d been left as a changeling in the human realms. But it was clear to me now—what Irian believed of me was true. I was heir to a Treasure. But I was not heir tohisTreasure—not the heir of storm and wind and seething sky. I was the heir of earth and stone and trees of green.
I was the lost tánaiste of the Sept of Antlers. Its hope for renewal. Its hope forbalance.
I was the Heart of the Forest.
“I will not sacrifice my heart for any of them. Instead, I sacrifice my heart forallof them. For Tír na nÓg. For Fódla. Forbalance. I am your heart. And you are mine. I offer my willing heart to the forest, for Iamthe Heart of the Forest.” I gazed once more toward the figure at the base of the Heartwood. I lifted the stone nestled in my hand. “Let your lost magic flow through this, to me. Let me mend this broken heart. Let me end this sorrow. Take my life—then let balance decide who else must die. And who else may live.”
And then I was running—running toward the antlered figure, who opened leafing arms to embrace me. I wept as I ran. Wept with heartbreak but also with ecstasy.
Great green wings unfurled inside me, sweeping me up even as they rooted me in place. Sap whispered through my veins. Sun-sweet shadows cooled my aching skin. Mud-deep roots dragged me into the dirt. And I remembered the day I left this place.
A note of bright music. A mother’s grieving voice, singing one last lullaby. The press of deep green eyes so sorrowful I could hardly bear it.
I tumbled through the twilight, unstitching myself as I fell. Did I die as I came apart? Or was I reborn? The hasty pulse of mortal love pulled free from my throbbing heart. The impossible promise of immortality sang seductive songs in ears that could no longer hear. And then there was only me, and the shaded path between the trees, and the touch of sunlight on my skin.
I was glad to come home.
“A long time ago,” murmured that endless voice, “you were given to us for safekeeping. Now we give you back to yourself.”
I sifted silver-tipped fingers through a thousand dusk-lit skies, and distant stars stained my branches with the pollen of forever.
After
She preferred the nights.
She liked the moon rising soft and slow, striking silver sparks off the iron anvil of the lough. The rustle of birds in the muffled dark of the trees, their songs fading, then dying in the watercolor sweep of green and black.
She wished she had a voice, so she might join in.
But the nights were punctuated by the days. Bright days—burnished azure. Gilded wings, black feathers fluffed and ruffling in the winter-scented breeze. Diving: a silent susurrus against the pool floor, illuminating blossoms of algae and mollusks curled like fists among greening fronds.
Gray days—polished silver sky and ruffled mirror glass. Head bent against the wind, glass-sharp sand biting against pinion edge. The splash of icy water seeping quiet and strange against the scales of her feet. A feather’s touch—a mote of warmth, curling inward; an embrace like the silent forest.
The slow fade of sundown as the sun slipped away, trailing scarlet fingers along the bellies of drifting clouds. Night, long and sweet and lingering. Until dawn once more pinked the horizon.
A flash of green. She splashed to her feet, coughing up water as she pushed dark hair out of her eyes. Black feathers eddied around her hips, cutting silver ripples upon the surface of the lough. For a long moment, she didn’t know where she was, only that she was alone.
She wasn’t alone.
There was a figure upon the shore, and when he saw her, he strode into the lough, clothes and all. He smelled like moonlight and ice water. He caught her up with strong arms embossed with dark feathers. His hot embrace chased away the creeping chill of the water pooling dark around them.
