“Before I give you my willing heart,” I hedged, “let me tell you what is inside it.”
“Have you not blurted enough drivel to me about love, Sister?” Eala sighed heavily, as if this, of all things, was the burden she could not stand to bear. “Surely there is nothing left to be said on the matter.”
“Once upon a time,” I began, as if I had not heard her, “a dark, strange little changeling arrived in a castle in the place of a princess. A princess so fair and kindhearted and graceful that her light hardly cast a shadow. Except there, inside that small sliver of shadow, was where the changeling lived. She looked like the princess, you see—as much a blessing as it was a curse. She longed for the gods to change her enough to pass for that shining paragon.Please, she prayed.Make my hair a little lighter. My smile a little brighter. My eyes a little kinder.But they were not listening. At least, not in the way she wished. For appearances can be deceiving. And few can forget their true nature. Even those that might wish to.” I paused, and Eala almost looked at me, her profile silver against the moonlight. “You see, in the stories, sisters are always two sides of the same coin. One fair as snow and the other red as a rose. One who speaks with jewels and the other who spits toadsand snakes. One with a heart pure and true and the other with a soul like tar.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Sister,” Eala said, unkindly, “this is not a story.”
“Indeed. Why were we forced into storybook roles when we ought to have been simply sisters?” I raised my hands toward her as if in supplication. “Can you imagine? The two of us, so close in age and appearance, running riot through Rath na Mara. Charming and defiant in equal, even measures. Wild and willful and wonderful. Step in step, arm in arm. How might we both have lived? How different might we both have become?”
“What do you wish me to say?” At last, Eala looked down at me, letting the moonlight spill over her features. Her face was hollowed in, her skin so cracked and fissured with rot that her features were nearly unrecognizable. Her diamond-blue eyes blazed like beacons. “That I would have let you play with my dolls? Lent you my gowns? Shared your secrets? Your little dream is just that—imaginary. Even if we were raised together, you would have never truly stood beside me. I would have still been a princess. And you would have been nothing more than the bastard get of a Folk harlot who couldn’t keep her legs closed.”
“I wished you to say that you might have loved me. As I surely would have loved you.” I glanced at the sky—white light bleached the landscape to bone. It was nearly midnight. “If you had ever truly been my sister, I would have loved you. But thank you for reminding me that you never would have returned the favor. You do not believe I complete you, Eala. You simply want to use me—as you have used everyone you have ever known.”
“If you will not give me your heart,” she snarled, with a wave of her gloved hand, “then I suppose I must take your head. Rogan!”
With a stiff but practiced swing of his legs, Rogan dismounted. The steel of his blade gleamed silver in the moonlight as he bent his knees, whipped his cloak to one side… and charged at me.
I fought the paralysis of fear and sorrow, caught in a suddenwhirlwind of long-lost memories. My senses dulled as Rogan thundered toward me across the courtyard, my attention narrowing to the drum of his boots and the hammer of my own heart. I wanted, suddenly, to run. To put this confrontation and this battle and this war behind me, and flee back to Tír na nÓg. Back to Irian. Backhome.
I wouldn’t have a home if I didn’t fight. None of us would.
So I crouched. Pointed my blades toward my childhood friend. And prepared to battle the man I’d once loved for a future I wasn’t sure I had.
Rogan thrust himself toward me. Our blades kissed, then parted with a scream of steel. I spun away as his sword sliced the air where I’d stood, then ducked back in to parry the blow. But when my skeans shrieked against his claíomh, I felt a strange resistance—as if Rogan had not used all his strength to strike me.
As if he fought his own violence.
“Rogan,” I panted, too quiet for Eala to hear. “For the last time, you mustfight. You are strong enough to resist her.”
His sword came low this time, aiming for my ribs. I whirled away, the wind of his blade brushing my skin. I slammed one of my daggers into its sheath, then drove my shoulder into his chest. He stumbled but didn’t fall. I hooked my free hand beneath his wrist and yanked, using his momentum against him. We collided as I trapped his sword arm between us. I twisted. Rogan’s grip slid away like butter.
His sword came free in my hand.
“Yield,” I cried, as I lifted the cold steel between us.
Rogan surged forward.
I fell back a step. Angled his claíomh higher. “Yield!”
Rogan twitched. Swiveled. And plowed chest-first onto his own sword.
The metal drove between the plates of his armor into his sternum. I jerked back instinctively, but Rogan’s hands wrapped around mine, driving the blade deeper into his own torso. Bloodgushed over the gilded hilt, slicking my hands. I screamed, the sound scouring my throat like shattered glass.
“No!”
Thorns splintered from the earth, dislodging cobblestones to rattle and rumble. Briars spiraled up into a tight, vengeful barrier encircling me and the prince. Eala was also screaming—her revenants lunged forward, breaking the bubble of stillness surrounding her. But I was faster—vast rosebushes surged toward the sky, thorns thick as forearms piercing between fluttering blood-red petals.
Rogan collapsed, his knees striking stone before he keeled sideways like a tree falling over. I flung myself next to him and gently—oh so gently—rolled him onto his side. I set my hands around the hilt of the claíomh jutting from Rogan’s ribs. I wanted nothing more than to pull the blade from his chest—but for now, it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.
Again, I heard Eala scream in rage and frustration. The revenants groaned as they flung themselves onto my briars.
“The joy is in the thrill of the fight, changeling.” Inexplicable amusement varnished Rogan’s rasping, ragged tenor. “Not the promise of a kill.”
A deadly arrow of anguish winged toward my heart. My eyes fluttered to his face—the face I’d known for as long as I could remember. Hard jaw, soft lips, bold brows. Eyes the same shade as the ocean below the hill at Bré, although they were shadowed now with agony. I wound my fist in his mantle, as though if I just held on to him hard enough, I might be able to keep him here.
“Idiot princeling.” I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn’t obey. “I’m not trying to kill you. I gave that up a long time ago.”
“Good thing too. I have a feeling I’d already be dead.”
