Tirbyas. The Isle of the Dead. The Witch Isle. Percival and Diana’s birthplace.
“She would have had time.”
Cyara’s face remained still as her mind raced beneath. Yes, Merlin would have had time. But how had she gotten there and back? What dangers had she faced? She should have had this conversation with Percival before leaving Eilean Gayl, with Merlin still at hand. But there had been no time. There was never enough time. The succubus was not coming; it was already there.
And Cyara knew that if she did not find the grail and return before Veyka found the Ethereal Queen…
Veyka would not wait. She would give her life to banish the succubus.
There was no time.
Tirbyas was on the other side of the continent.
Osheen appeared in the clearing below. They were too far away to hear, but Cyara recognized him giving direction to the woman and child, the beginnings of making camp for the night. Maisri began digging in the snow, searching for hard ground beneath on which to build a fire. Diana started for the edge of the forest, sent for firewood.
She was still prone to hysterics, but there was more confidence in her steps. Cyara felt a surge of pride and affectionfor how much the woman had grown and healed. Diana was not the same woman—
“Diana,” Cyara whispered.
Percival’s head whipped around so fast that his neck cracked. “What about Diana?”
Diana was the answer.
But even Cyara winced at the thought. “You are not going to like it.”
30
GUINEVERE
There were no festival celebrations to mark the approach of spring. Celebrations spoke of hope—an emotion in short supply in both the human and fae sections of Eldermist.
Winter showed no sign of loosening its grip on Eldermist, though a thin layer of frost and occasional dusting of snow was nothing compared to the feet and feet of it that still buried the terrestrial kingdom. Still, neither the humans nor the elementals were used to prolonged cold. At least they did not have to worry about fuel. Now pierced with amorite and no longer under constant guard, the human men of Eldermist had made short work of the buildings damaged by the earthquake. What could be salvaged was set aside for rebuilding. What could not be was broken down for firewood. The elementals, of course, need only flick their wrists to start a magical fire.
But even the slums of Baylaur were superior to the camp they’d constructed on the edge of the Eldermist. The slums, at least, were their home. Here, the fae could not take a step without having it marked by the humans.
Gwen told herself she was accustomed to it. She’d come with Arran to Baylaur for his Offering. She’d felt the heavy threat of hatred and violence from the eyes of every elemental courtier.
At least a dozen sets of eyes watched her as she walked through the village from Sylva’s home to the central square and her destination beyond, the makeshift elemental camp. Gwen forced herself to keep her own eyes forward.
The envoys and messengers had been sent out. Elora had not returned. The communication crystal that Gwen carried with her everywhere was silent. But she’d be damned if she’d sit and wait for something to happen.
Despite their raggedy camp, there were able-bodies among the fae refugees from Baylaur. And now that the male half of Eldermist had been returned to safety, the women no longer required to shoulder every burden on their own, there were fighters available from that quarter as well.
If all that remained to her were weeks, Gwen would use them. She’d organize a fighting force to join up with the terrestrial army—and the elemental, if any part of it had survived. If Elora ever returned. Too many ‘ifs’ to linger on them. There was a task before her now, and she’d accomplish it. Execute one task and move on to the next.Just. Keep. Moving.
Being alone with her thoughts and emotions was where the true danger lurked.
The sounds of the village changed as she moved through the streets. The sun’s progress toward the horizon marked the time as late afternoon. The sky would turn to the gray of evening soon. But instead of the sighs of a work day drawing to a close, there were urgent whispers. Doors clicking shut and latches scraping across wood.
Gwen let her eyes stray.
A curtain whipped over the window of the house to her left, hiding the occupants from view. On her other side, a womanstumbled in her urgency to get into her half-ruined house, a man gripping her upper arm and dragging her the last couple of feet.
She knew the humans were wary of their new fae neighbors, even fearful.
This was outrightterror.
It followed her the last dozen yards to the village square, where a command station was set up. Sylva had overseen its staffing with half a dozen of the village’s warriors, those not on patrol with the contingent of fae guards that Elora had left behind. Notwith, Gwen corrected. Separate patrols.
