I slap my hand into hers and echo, “Deal.”
And then she tugs me to my feet.
Shadows glide around my collarbone.Climb onto your father’s back, Behach Éan. Aoife will fly Gabriele.
However many times my heart whispers,Dante dies, you live, my mind smudges my confidence and replaces it with,The Crows fall, maybe you do as well.
On my way to my father, my head spins, and I stagger as though Lore were tossing the ocean again. But the sea is mirror-smooth. Lore must worry I’ll end up keeling over, because his shadows swirl around my body like a buoy.
My father crouches low to facilitate my climb. As I drape my leg over his back and lean forward to clasp his neck, I watch Fionn help Gabriele climb atop Aoife while his mate secures my wounded friend with coils of rope he must’ve clipped off the collapsed sails.
After she takes off, the two Crows take a moment to press their foreheads together. Though their lips don’t form words, I’ve no doubt they’re whispering inside each other’s minds.
Lore, send everyone back to Luce. If Dante has Meriam, then he has Shabbin blood at his disposal. I won’t risk any of their lives.
My father spreads his wings and springs off the galleon right as Justus appears on the deck, face mottled by fatigue and blood. Though spent, his strides are fluid as he approaches Fionn and Colm. With a hard kiss, the mates separate and shift.
My grandfather climbs atop Colm with the familiarity of someone who’s flown on dragon-sized birds his entire life. Lore may not trust Justus, but my grandfather seems to have been accepted by the others.
I glance around the deck for my mate, realizing that not only has he not answered my entreaty about sending everyone away, but the coils of his shadows have also slipped off me.
Lore?
The ship shudders as though it’s collided with a rock, but it isn’t a rock—it’s a murder of riderless Crows.
I circle my arms around my father’s neck a little more snugly as I peer past his wings. Like a snapped biscuit, the ship splits into two halves that sink so fast, the Crows are still climbing into the air when the foam gobbles up the masts.
The surface settles in seconds, smoothing like a shroud over this wooden grave full of Faeries who picked the wrong camp. Though our enemies, my heart twinges for the families and friends they leave behind.
Wars are ugly things, Fallon. Full of injustice and needless loss.
I stare at the Crow who, like the ship, breaks apart. Two of Lore’s birds glide on either side of me, while the other flies to the front of the winged procession, stopping beside each one of his shifters and circling the Faeries.
Though no longer a shepherd, my mate seems to be counting his sheep, making sure his flock is complete. No wonder Mara chose him to lead his people.
Send them all home, Lore. There’s no need for them to risk their lives. This fight is between me and Dante.
I passed along your message before sinking the galleon, Behach Éan.
Then why is everyone flying in the direction of Glace?
Because we’re a tribe, Fallon. A family. One who sticks together through thick and thin.
But Dante has Meriam and Gods only know how many soldiers.
And you’ve got me and fourteen of my best fighters.
Can they at least fly extra high so that no arrow or pellet can take them down?
I’ll suggest it.
As the air grows chillier, I manifest our victory by picturing the giant stone hallways of the Sky Kingdom swarming with noise and life. The streets and canals of Tarecuori and Tarelexo bursting with carefree purelings and halflings. The swamp lands, the forests, and the desert overrun by jubilant humans free to grow their hair to whatever length they desire. Free to travel without papers because our world will no longer be quartered into districts dictated by the amount of magic inside one’s blood. And finally, I picture women with jeweled eyes sailing up to our shores, liquid gowns snapping around their sun-kissed bodies—since Phoebus insists Shabbins wear silk to everything, even to war.
I know my vision of this future Luce is quixotic. Change may come, but it’ll be gradual, and it’ll be littered with rebellion, for no regime appeals to all. Still, as we ride the wind toward Luce, I glut myself on this dream of peace, willing it to buoy my spirits and inject steel into my spine.
Do you think Dante’s expecting us?
Yes.
