And then?—
Twang.
A string cut loose. Her music died. Gasping, Trisha let go of the lyre. It thud as it fell to the ground. Trembling, she stared at the instrument, not believing what she had done. What she’d lost.
The leaves rustled as the fairy dove from the tree. She stepped closer to the instrument but didn’t touch the broken string that lay flaccid on the dark grass, a lifeline rent to the mortal world. Rilka looked up, dark eyes wide, mouth open. Before she could utter a word, Trisha buried her face in her hands. She wept.
21
Rilka’s shape soared above,vanishing now and then into the dark trees. A shimmer of her charcoal skin, the mismatched wings catching the light of the constellations that peeked through the canopy.
“Tell me again,” she called down, shrill voice fracturing the woodland hush. “What are you hoping to achieve?”
She didn’t say ’now that you broke your lyre.’
Trisha’s gaze fell to her feet. If only she could answer.
To return to the mortal world, Trisha needed her lyre restored. More than that—she needed to know. Why had her parents brought her here? What had they said when they gave her away? Anxiety skittered down her spine. She resisted the impulse to pat the leather purse on her belt. Without her music, she was woefully unprepared.
“Answers,” Trisha said. “You heard Tilia. Teoryin can tell me why my mother abandoned me.” The words stuck in her throat. Seven years for nothing. Even if she found her family in the mortal world, they wouldn’t want her.
And once she learned the truth… How to fix her lyre and ensure it wouldn’t break again?
She refused to think about it. Or the fears that had driven her away. The bonfire, the man she’d left behind. That she might never see his face again. The loss of the broken string ached inside her.
“Would Grentuff fix the lyre?” Trisha asked, looking up with hope.
Rilka plunged, landing on the crown of her head. Light like a butterfly, a memory from her childhood, both familiar and painful. “Perhaps,” Rilka muttered. “He’d want a payment, though.”
Trisha’s fingers lingered on the leather pouch at her waist, where the flower from the sylvan rested. “As will Teoryin.”
The forest swallowed Rilka’s silence as she stroked Trisha’s hair. Leaves murmured, and the grass kissed her bare soles. Moss dangling on the low-hanging boughs swayed as the trees sighed.
Mortal woman. We smell your sweet blood.
Trisha’s teeth clenched, the throb of old wounds flaring back to life. A swarm of moths with wings of silver crowded the twilight. Low hum of a song droned among the ancient trees.
Magic pulsed beneath her skin, a muted captive without her song. Grentuff could fix the lyre, but she dared not ask the artisan. Not if she didn’t know what in her had broken it.
The music grew, Trisha’s careful steps carrying her through the narrow path, passing crumbled statues covered in vines. Blind stares of lifeless stone watched her, as though asking,Why are you here.Blinking away the burn behind her eyes, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t regret.
Crystalline sounds cascading, ethereal like a dream. A voice singing. Not a man’s, not a woman’s, but something else.Darker, deeper, alien. She knew who it was even before she cleared the forests.
Moonbeams and scintillating lights illuminated the meadow where grotesque figures moved in tattered outfits spun of moonlight, cobwebs, and shadows. Beyond their sway of bodies, on a throne carved of wood and bone and silver, sat a figure in an outfit of lakewater and feathers: the High King. And behind him…
Trisha swallowed, suppressing her wince.
The white scales of a serpentine form sprawled over the dark stones. Shi’as’ sharp fangs glinted, spheres of light pulsing around him. Two eyes, those yellow lanterns in the dark, fixed on Trisha. A knowing smile, his ridged lids closing shut as Shi’as raised his neck and crooned to the night. His low voice slithered down the woman’s spine.
“The night dance,” Rilka cooed. “If only the king had left the serpent behind,” she scoffed. With a flutter, Rilka bolted among the dancers. A breath, and the fairy had vanished from her sight.
A trio in dark shrouds stood between the king and the rock where the serpent lay, coaxing music from their instruments: an obsidian harp, a skull-shaped drum, a flute fashioned of dragon bone. The Shadow Sisters, Trisha’s teachers from the past.
Memories of their lessons ached in her fingers. Yet desire to join their song crested, magic throbbing in her bones, thirsting to soak in their notes. The same ache burned her soul. The songs she had learned, the brightness she could unleash… Releasing a breath, Trisha pushed the yearning away. Not as long as her lyre remained broken. Not as long as the serpent waited.
But it was too late to back off. Both the king and Shi’as had seen her, the horned king watching her, onyx eyes flat.Shi’as’ gaze burned like a torch. Slow, she approached, attention fixed on Teoryin, not affording even a glance behind the fae king. Shi’as’ voice dipped as a hollow drum echoed against bone. Whispers and moans, Teoryin’s court ebbing and flowing around her as though a starless sea. The mass of bodies thinned, revealing glimpses of wings, hooves, and deer-shaped heads. A sliver of black tail disappeared in the mouth of a creature with tentacle-like arms. A lick from the lipless mouth, round liquid eyes finding her, and the creature smiled. Trisha forced herself not to shiver.
She stopped before the king and bowed. “Greetings, High King.”
