“Kyrn.Thehorse knows the word. Just get on, speak it, and ride.”
“‘Kyrn’?”
Haskel nodded. With that, he spurred his mount into a gallop and disappeared alongside the tall hedge, Dorian vanishing with him.
I stared after them. Something about the grove tugged at my mind, but all I could focus on now was mounting Pettifey.
Some naïve part of me had thought that once we escaped the maze, we’d be swept back to the citadel on a cloud, fed fruit and wine. Maybe that had been my delirium while dragging Dorian those last ten paces.
The rain had eased to a mist. A familiar green haze hung over the maze—the same I’d seen so many times in the Kingdom of Storms. My chest twisted. I had hated the acid rain for years, but it was the only reason I was still alive now. I didn’t know why it had come or what it meant, only that it felt like the wrath of my kingdom.
Getting onto Pettifey was its own trial. She didn’t resist, but my body did—trembling limbs, waterlogged leathers, no strength or balance. My fingers could hardly grip. I slipped, cursed, tried again.
Eventually I hauled myself up and collapsed against her neck, face pressed to her coarse mane. She smelled sweet. She stood still.
“Thank you,” I whispered, hoarse. Her ear twitched toward my voice. I stroked her mane. “When we’re back, I’ll steal the court’s whole supply of carrots for you.”
Then I spoke the word into her ear.Kyrn.The filly started into motion.
Riding was a tenuous thing. I had to trust she knew the way—had no choice but to trust it.
She walked the whole journey, the hedge looming high on my left. It only took an hour to reach the hard edge of the Eldermaze; from here, I could see the edges of Sylvanwild’s forests.
One hour to reach the maze’s edge. Yet inside, it had felt fucking endless.
For some, it is.
Pettifey and I reached the grove late in the day. The sun was low, tree shadows stretching long. The pond lay still, and the grove was empty. No spiritstag. No Haskel. No Dorian.
So we rode on to the stables.
A young fae boy poked his head from a stall, eyes wide as he saw me. “Tethryn,” he breathed. I was beginning to understand:tethrynconveyed something like wonder.
That was when my body gave out. I slid from Pettifey’s back and into the soft Sylvanwild grass.
I remembered little of what came next. A man’s voice above me. Hands lifting me. Then indoors—the citadel, I think. A woman’s voice. Warmth. A towel. A bed.
When the mattress met my spine, I didn’t even have time to cry. Sleep took me with grasping hands and pulled me tight against its chest.
I didn’t dream, didn’t think—I just slept.
When I woke, I was back in my bedchamber. The bed, the dresser, the doorway to my bathing room, it was all there. On the table beside me lay my mother’s journal. Its pages were wavy with moisture but otherwise intact.
Beside it: Thalassa’s pouch. And my knife, folded. Whoever had brought them here had known they were mine, not court-issued.
I lay there for hours or days. Dry. Warm. Without pain. Not even thirsty or hungry. Someone must have fed me, but I didn’t remember waking to eat.
Light footsteps sounded in the hallway. The door opened.
“Faun?” I called.
A tawny-haired young fae stepped in with a start. “Faun? Oh, no, she’s…”
My fingers clutched the blanket. My breath caught.
“She’s still in the trial,” the girl said. “I’m here in her place.” She stood awkwardly with her cleaning supplies like she hadn’t expected me to be awake.
Faun was still in the maze. Alive or dead—I had no way to know.
