The huge fangs of a scaled and twisting ollphéist pierced upward from the loam, hungry for long-forgotten flesh. A bare-breasted bean sidhe screamed into eternity, her marble bones melting intodust. Giant Fomorians wrestled between primeval oaks. A massive dearg due reared up from the earth, dark maw yawning like death. Reclining Folk evanesced into moss and lichen, their names lost to time and earth.
Disgust mingled with awe as we walked. This place reeked of Folk magic and yet seemed somehow unbearably human. These statues were old—as old as the Folk, who were said to live forever. And yet they were lost. Forgotten. Mortal, if only in the way they dissolved into the forest. Grotesque yet beautiful. Profane yet silent enough to be sacred.
“Do you—” I turned toward Rogan, thinking suddenly of Corra, who’d been invisible to him. “Are you seeing this? Are you seeing them?”
“Yes,” Rogan whispered, stricken. “Do you think she— Has Eala been trapped somewhere like this for all these years?”
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. “Some say Tír na nÓg is a paradise. Others believe it to be a tortuous underworld.”
As if in response, a breeze lifted the edges of my hair. Leaves spun away like birds. A flat path paved in stones appeared, curving between the trees. A beam of weak sunlight filtered down and transmuted the stones to gold.
“They must be flecked with mica,” I murmured.
“What?” Although Rogan’s eyes followed mine, his gaze was unfocused. He’d been able to see the statues, but he couldn’t see this?
I didn’t have time to question it. Quickly—before the path disappeared—I followed it to a stone bridge arching over a rushing stream. A willow tree combed her hair across the glassy swirl. I tested the arch of the bridge with my boot—despite its age, the stones were sturdy. I stepped to its center.
Beyond, ancient trees reached silver branches over the path. I glimpsed a sunlit glen ringed in jewel-bright flowers. Flaxen leaves crowned trees swaying like sheaves of wheat. The distant swell of lively music teased the edge of my hearing—a familiar melodysweeping away my unease. A sweet breeze dragged me through roots and branches and vast skies all the way to a place I’d never known.
Home.
Wonder and hope and everlasting melancholy pushed me over the bridge. And for an aching, unbearable, unbreakable moment, I knew where I came from. I knew what I was made of, and what I was madefor.
“Changeling.”
A rough hand caught my wrist, wrenching me around. I thrashed, fear bursting hot in my veins as I fought to free myself. Another palm closed over my other wrist. I snarled, throwing back my head and kicking out with my legs. We both went down, thumping onto cold, hard earth beneath silent trees.
“Fia!” Strong arms wrestled me against a broad chest. Stubble rasped my cheek. The scent of warm steel and spiced soap filled my nostrils. “Fia, get ahold of yourself!”
My eyes snapped open. I shivered against the cage of hot skin. Finally, I recognized the voice, recognized Rogan. He loomed over me, the weight of him pinning me against the cold ground. We were both breathing hard. After a moment, he released me and rolled away. I heaved up onto my elbows, tried to get my bearings.
“Amergin’s knees, changeling! My nose!” Rogan grunted wetly, raising a hand to his face. Blood gushed over his mouth and chin.
“Here.” Embarrassment came in a hot flush. I sat up, tried to press the edge of my sleeve to his face. He pushed me away, continued pinching the bridge of his nose. “What happened?”
“You went mad, is what happened.” His voice was tight with pain and panic. “You stepped over that bridge, and—I don’t know. Your eyes were wild as the forest and I heard—well,heardisn’t the right word, but you were singing or laughing or—” He took his bloody hand from his nose and pressed it to his forehead. “No, it’s all jumbled now. But it looked like you were going somewhere I couldn’t follow, and I… I couldn’t let you.” His voice cracked on the last words.
I sat back. Mother’s remembrances of Tír na nÓg sounded much the same—a confusion of sight and sound. Feverish images like half-remembered dreams.
Which could mean only one thing.
“I think we found it,” I told him. “This is the Thirteenth Gate.”
Rogan cursed, rolled to sit beside me. His arm brushed mine; steam rose from the blood clotting his nose. He faced me. “Is it broken?”
“Just bruised,” I said, still a little abashed. “It’s still a nice nose.”
Rogan’s eyes flicked to mine. So close to the gate, they glowed with strange intensity. The green around his pupils was like calm seas; the blue flecks, like clear skies.
“Lucky me,” he said with a snort. “I’ll get to meet my future wife with a bruised nose. But at least it won’t be crooked too.”
The mention of Eala as hisfuture wifeburned away my lingering embarrassment. I jerked my arm from his. Stood, brushed off my trousers.
“If she can’t handle her future husband looking like a common brawler, then she probably shouldn’t marry you.”
Rogan got to his feet, more slowly. “You pick far more fights than I do, changeling.”
“And endeavor to win them.” I made my voice sweet. “Princeling.”
