The swan maiden floated free of the predators’ grasp, forgotten in their panic. Her form was barely visible in the depths, a point of stillness amid the thrash of pale bodies and green chaos. But she did not buoy to the surface, as she would if her lungs had air in them.
I propelled myself down, cutting through dark water on little more than a prayer. Somehow, I reached her. My hand closed around her wrist. If blood beat through her veins, I couldn’t feel it. I wrapped my arms around her chest, taking her ungainly weightonto me. I kicked, even as fingers folded over my ankle. I still clutched my skean in one hand—I curled down and slashed blindly. The blade struck flesh. The hand retreated.
Blood mingled with water as I kicked with feeble limbs toward the surface.
The next few minutes passed in a blur. I was a strong swimmer, but it wasn’t my strength carrying the two of us to shore. It was will alone that propelled me across half a lough in freezing temperatures, borne down by the impossible weight of a girl much taller than I. Will, and the belligerent, unrelenting hatred of failure.
I was made of weeds and dark water and unbreakable ice. I was not made to lose.
After what felt like an eternity, my feet struck ground. My boots slipped in the muck, but I dug them in. My legs were heavy as iron as I pushed through the shallows, dragging the girl’s motionless form behind me. I flopped her as high as I was able onto the pebbled beach, but cold waves still slapped at her naked legs. My gasping breath was loud in the silence as I shoved sopping hair off her cold face. I pushed against her chest to force the water from her lungs, almost hard enough to pop her ribs. I pinched her nose and breathed into her clammy mouth. Pushed and breathed. Pushed and breathed.
If nothing else, the grim rhythm of the movement began to warm me up.
My strength was failing when the girl convulsed, choked, then turned to vomit a gush of black water onto the beach. Relief unspooled my clenched muscles, and I nearly collapsed. The girl hacked roughly for a few long minutes, working to expel the water from her lungs. Finally, the spasms eased. She inhaled a few deep, rattling breaths, then crossed her arms over her naked chest.
“What’d you have to go and do that for?” she rasped.
I gaped at her. “What, save your life?”
She got to her feet, wobbly and still shivering, although she was trying hard to look dignified. The girl was likely a few yearsyounger than I. Extremely pretty, too, although her features surprised me. She didn’t look like many people living in Fódla, not even the capital at Rath na Mara. I’d seen her kind of beauty only in the delegations sent from Mother’s far-flung trade partners—rich amber skin, high sculpted cheekbones, wide tilting eyes the color of honey, hair like heavy silk.
But we weren’t in Fódla. We were in Tír na nÓg.
“I didn’t need you to save me,” she was telling me, indignant.
I was almost too exhausted to be annoyed by this blatant piece of fiction. “What was that I interrupted, then? A fun midnight swim with friendly fish-Folk?”
She glared. “I had a plan.”
“Oh, aplan.” I angrily wrung out the wet hair clinging to my cheeks. “Let me guess—you were taking a little nap before putting it into action.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, staring at me. An uneven burst of recognition blurred over her face. She peered more closely at my features, and I cursed myself for a fool. I’d forgotten what I looked like—whomI looked like. And I’d forgotten I’d taken off my hooded cloak before diving into the lough.
“Who are you?” Confusion carved furrows into her pretty face. “You’re—you’reher.”
“No.” The word punched out of me with such force I had to take a step backward to keep my balance. “No, I’m—”
I reeled another step backward and slammed into the unyielding frame of someone who was both exceedingly tall and blazingly, deliciously warm.
I froze.
“Go on.” The low voice caressed my ears, dark as midnight. “Whoareyou?”
The subtle menace was unmistakable, and thorny fear bristled through my veins. Reflexively, I reached for my skeans, but my chilly fingers closed on nothing. I had lost the blades in the lough.
I looked sharply at the girl I’d just saved. If I expected to find myown fear reflected in her expression, I was disappointed. Instead, she looked…relieved. Albeit slightly worried.
When a blade kissed the soft skin below my jaw, I realized the worry wasn’t for herself. It was forme.
“Tell me.” The guard’s voice took on an edge of command I found difficult to ignore. Or maybe that was just the steel at my throat. “Tell me who you are, colleen.”
Colleen.The colloquial term—simply meaninggirl—knocked me off-balance and distracted me from my impending death. In Fódla the term would have been considered deeply informal, almost rude. But in the Gentry guard’s lilting burr it didn’t sound like an insult. I struggled to imagine why he’d call me that, until I remembered what I’d said to him the last time I’d been in Tír na nÓg.
As far as I know, I’m just a girl. I’m justme.
All my life, I’d been calledlittle witch.Changeling. And now this Folk warrior had the audacity to call megirl? It was…hilarious, actually. A snort of inappropriate laughter escaped me.
The Gentry guard made a noise deep in his throat. The swan maiden’s eyes widened, and she gave me a tiny shake of her head. Although infinitesimal, the gesture spoke volumes.
