“He is a blade sheathed in silk, Fia. You will not know you have cut yourself until you are already bleeding.”
“I am well versed in the way of blades, Sister.” A note of pleading crept into my voice. “I realize you do not know me well. But you must trust that I have your best interests at heart. That everything I do, I do for you—for Fódla.”
“Then do itwithme.” She stepped forward, gripped my outstretched hands. “Together, we can discover a magic equal to the Treasure. A magic that will set me and my maidens free. I want you by my side—as my ally, my friend, mysister. Imagine what we could accomplish with our minds set to the same problem. Imagine the power—themagic—we two could wield, in a world that has always wanted us powerless.”
Her words made my pulse jump—twin vines of green and black rushing bold and brilliant through my veins. The first was exhilaration—the feverish, instinctive thrill of wielding powerful magic that others could not. The second was dread—for I knew, better than most, what the cost of that magic was. All too often, I had found, the price was death.
“I know more of power than I would wish on anyone, Eala,” I murmured. “And I would think you’d had enough magic to last you a lifetime.”
“Magic being donetome,” she said, vehement. “Against my will, without my consent. But I am so tired of being powerless—tired of being a coin to barter or a tool to wield or a heart to trade. I want to stand on equal footing with Irian—with the bardaí. With Mother. With all the grasping, power-hungry princes and kings of Fódla. Come, Fia—tell me you’re with me.”
Indecision tangled within me. Part of me wanted nothing more than to acquiesce to her—to let her passion guide me, command me. But all my life, I had let others lead me. Mother, Cathair, evenRogan—I had let them tell me how to behave, what to believe, whom to trust. But it suddenly occurred to me—if I was truly as brave and competent and valued as they assured me I was… wasn’t I capable of making those decisions on my own?
“I do stand with you. But I must do this my way,” I told her, as gently as possible. Between my discoveries in the archives and Irian’s admissions, I was close to getting answers about her geas. I just needed her to trust me to do it on my own. “Tell me you understand that.”
Eala released my hands. Her expression shifted, some brightness extinguishing in her pale blue eyes.
“I think I do understand.” She gave me a suddenly assessing glance, as if I were a horse at auction whose value she could not quite calculate. “Let it not be said that I didn’t warn you to stay away from the heir of the Sept of Feathers. I would hate to see a girl as softhearted as you outwitted by a man as heartless as he.”
Eala turned on her heel. Her shining hair swept out in a moonlit train behind her as the forest swallowed her up.
Something snapped inside me, releasing all my pent-up emotions—guilt, shock, disappointment, indecision. I whirled around and slammed my fist into the nearest tree. The bark splintered around my hand, long vertical cracks running the length of the trunk. Lichen sprouted from the fissures, followed a moment later by tiny blue flowers. Pain slivered up my arm, but when I lifted my hand, my skin was unblemished.
“As far as sparring partners go, trees have never been my favorite.”
I spun toward the voice. Irian stood where Eala had been moments before, his wings of shadow stark against the blooming trees. The moment he saw my face, all humor drained from his expression, replaced with terrible, towering menace. In three long strides, he closed the distance between us. Momentary fear throbbed thunder through my veins, until I realized—his fury was not for me.
“You are upset.” Irian slid a palm beneath my chin, tilting up my face. His touch sent sparks flaring along my skin, and I suppressed a shiver. He wiped a traitorous tear, thumb sliding featherlight against my cheek despite his vengeful expression. “What did she say to you?”
“How long were you there?” I jerked my chin out of his grasp, swiped at my cheeks.
His hands fell to his sides. “I do not make a habit of eavesdropping.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t hear what she said.”
“I heard her exhortation to stay away from me. That is all.” A shadow slid across his opal eyes. “But I doubt that was what prompted you to assault a tree.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then tell me what troubles you.”
I couldn’t look at him. Everything Eala had told me twined into an impenetrable knot inside me. Eala… Rogan… Irian… me. What a strange little square we four made. The prince, the princess. The changeling, the monster. But much as I tried to disentangle our stories, they only twisted tighter.
My sister’s ambitions for power had surprised me—I suddenly had to wonder exactly who she was. Irian, on the other hand—I did know exactly who he was. He was Folk Gentry. He was tánaiste of the Sept of Feathers. He was powerful, merciless, and likely self-serving. And he was still the key to everything. He held the Sky-Sword, the means of my kingdom’s salvation. His lineage held the Gate bardaí at bay. He held the geas binding the maidens as swans—and potentially the knowledge to unbind them, if only I could wring it out of him.
“Only this.” Making my expression serious, I lifted my gaze to his. “If I am to stay away from you, then who will protect you from all the ravening monsters trying to make a meal of your innards?”
He tilted his head. “Iamquite a delicacy.”
I dragged my gaze down his lean, sculpted figure. “I suspect you’d be rather gamey.”
His lip curled up. “Taste me and find out.”
I flushed, the sound of those suggestive words in his rough voice flooding me with heat.
“No need, tánaiste. I already know you to be an acquired taste.”
“And how could you know that?” His smile slid wider. “Unless you have already begun to acquire it?”
