“A thread,” Arran said. “Through my entire body, through every layer of consciousness. But mostly around my heart,concentrated in my chest. A golden string that connects us, at any distance.”
“Percival?”
“We are not mates,” he cried through the sobs. “She is my sister.”
Cyara gripped his hand fiercely. For Diana. For Charis and Carly. “And before my sisters died, there was no being in the world who I cared for more. Find it—find something.”
He could not stop crying. But the sobs ebbed to quieter tears. He closed his eyes. It felt like minutes passed, but Cyara knew that was the Ancestors playing tricks on her.
“I… I can feel her.”
“Bring her back.”
“How?”
Arran knelt before them. The fire was out. Whether he had smothered it or she had let it die away to nothing… Cyara did not care. Not as Arran grabbed the man’s knee and spoke, his voice dark as the space between stars and the corners of souls. “You love her more than anything in the world. You demand that she comes back to you, that she stays with you. Because there is no other option. There is no world without her. No air worth breathing, no kingdom to save. There is you, and her, and everything else is a distraction from that truth.”
Percival’s eyes were still closed. Tears leaked down them, but he was silent. Then, suddenly, Diana was too.
Arran retreated; Cyara moved forward instantly into his space. But Percival beat them both. Faster than a human should have been able to move—even a half-witch human—he had Diana’s face between his hands.
“Are you here?” he demanded.
Diana blinked. “Yes.” Her voice was horribly hoarse, but she got the words out. “I am here. I am fine.”
Cyara pulled herself to her feet, retreated several steps. Percival and Diana were both talking quickly, embracing, muttering reassurances that she did not need to hear. She was too keenly aware of the male at her side to notice their words.
She did not flinch, did not still her impulse to study him. After what they had just seen, what Diana had endured… Cyara let herself study every inch of her king’s face, looking for any clue. She only found one.
Arran’s golden skin was eerily pale, his mouth wan as he spoke. “The white cliffs. I’ve seen cliffs like that before, at the entrance to Wolf Bay. They stretch for less than a mile, to the east. That must be where Accolon’s fortress is hidden.”
He did not mention the first two visions. Little bits of the past, from seven thousand years ago. Miraculous.
Cyara closed her eyes, let her back rest against the damp stone wall as she started the monumental task of sorting through the memories and their meanings.
But Arran did not linger.
Cyara jerked to attention. “Veyka.”
All of those words, the way he described the bond to Percival, the power of it… all of it was about Veyka.
Arran froze, his hulking body blocking the entire doorway. “Yes.”
“Tell her, Arran.” Cyara’s voice broke as she sank to her knees before her king. “I beg you. Tell her.”
91
VEYKA
The satisfaction of escaping the witch had dwindled away to nearly nothing by the time I arrived back Eilean Gayl. I did not go into the castle itself; was not quite ready to face my friends. Or Elayne. Or Arran.
Alone, then.
I walked alone through the woods, night falling fast and thick around me. Over the rugged hills. The lake appeared below me just in time to greet the moon and stars. Despite the storm that had raged outside the witch’s cave, the night here was silent and still. Cold. So fucking cold.
But the exertion of climbing and walking warmed me. I even jogged for a while, despite my visceral hate for running. A benefit of the leggings the cold weather necessitated—no chafed thighs.
Every step was a chance to turn over what the witch had revealed.
