“I am as surprised as you.” I smiled up at him, pushing away the sensation of forgetting something important. “Although perhaps even more grateful.”
Boots and hooves clattered on gravel. A platoon of human fénnidi trotted up the rise, weapons drawn and helms lowered. Their leader threw out an arm when he saw me, then dragged off his helmet. I recognized him—Breas Mac Cúg, under-king of Delbhna and the high queen’s brother. Clearly, he had recognized me too.
“Fia?” His tone was half accusing and half wondering. “What has passed here tonight?”
I hardly knew. “A tale for another time, I fear. The battle is won, but there is work to be done. Can you put out the fires?”
“The Eternal Fire extinguishes after a few days—we can only ensure it does not spread.” He glanced toward Roslea. “My men can carry water from the lough toward the forest.”
I nodded, though I was not sure how much good it would do. “Tell them not to attack the Folk warriors. Their leaders wear swirling glass pendants over their armor. Kill them if you must—the rest will yield.”
I was not sure that was true. But this night had begun with violence—perhaps it could end with peace.
I descended the narrow path toward the grotto. There were far more Gentry here, near the edge of Roslea. They, too, recognized me—a half-hearted cheer roared from the warriors of the Summerlands.
“To the Gate!” someone cried. “The battle is won!”
As the Folk host began to sing, exhaustedly and off tune, my heart began to break. For them, a little. But mostly for myself.
When I unforged the Treasures with my starshine, all the elemental magic had been released back into nature. The sources had been unchained; the conduits, destroyed; the vessels, freed. And the boundary between the worlds had closed, each Gate a wound to be stitched and salved.
Balance, restored.
I feared there were no Gates to return to.
Still, I allowed myself to be caught in the throng of fénnidi trooping back through Roslea. Maybe I hadn’t fully accepted it—maybe I needed to witness it with my own eyes. Or maybe I couldn’t bear to confess to these Gentry that I had willingly stranded them here in the human realms with no path back to Tír na nÓg.
Here, with me.
Forever.
The forest smoked, patches of fire burning in the undergrowth. The bridge at last arose, its stones dull in the dawn light netting between black-bone trees. The willow was scorched, her long tresses little more than char. The stream was choked with bodies, and the sight of it closed my throat. My fists clenched.
One of them still held a folded square of parchment.
As the Gentry host realized what had happened, they began to keen. They wailed into the smoke-draped morning, pounding their fists upon the stones of the bridge. They pushed deeper into the forest, as if Tír na nÓg might be hiding behind singed trees.
And I—I finally looked at the prophecy I’d read a thousand times. It was the same image Cathair had torn from his Book of Whispers—the swans, on their lake. The falling stars.
Except, at the bottom of the page, a new line had been added. I did not recognize the handwriting, although it had a quirky flourish that reminded me somehow of Corra. And it read:
From death one may rise, through a mother’s despair,
Her breaking heart the balm mending sorrow with care.
Anguish swept over me, followed immediately by immense, unrelenting joy. And I knew—I had not dreamed Deirdre. She had found me. She had held me. And her love had saved me.
Somehow, she had given me my new beginning. At the cost of her own ending.
I fought back great dark wings of loss that threatened to overwhelm me. I had surrendered too much for this Pyrrhic victory. My friends, who in turn had sacrificed their willing hearts for Eala’s defeat. My husband, who was now separated from me by an insurmountable barrier. My mother, who had traded her life for my own.
“Lady?” Balor boomed down at me. I turned—I had not noticed him follow me from Dún Darragh. “What now?”
I swiped tears from my cheeks as I forced a smile at his mountainous figure, outlined in dawn’s cheery pinks and golds. “I have a few ideas.”
He smiled back. Somewhere, above the seething smoke and keening Gentry, a single lark began to sing. Beside my boot, a lone fiddlehead nudged, bright green amid the tumbled dank bodies andcharred tree trunks. I crouched to touch it with the tip of my finger. Green embroidered my arm, decorating my unmarked skin like lace. The fern unfurled, a single spot of life in a sea of death.
Every ending was its own beginning. And every story… began somewhere.
