“Of course not!” Torvil grinds his teeth.
Desmond offers an easy yes, while Sabre remains silent, concern and a question in his dark eyes as he stares at Aowen. I don’t think he wants her in any kind of danger. And I don’t need to see her face to imagine her expression right now. Brave. Determined. A hint ofSabre, if you don’t agree to this, I’ll tear your balls off.
He smirks—I must be imagining correctly—and barks out, “Approved.”
Torvil blows a sharp breath through his nose, fists clenched at his sides, but, having been outvoted, poses no further objections.
“Wonderful.” The head priestess summons Aowen. “Lady Macán, please take your place by your queen’s side.”
Aowen rustles up to kneel beside me, a long braid draped down her back over a thick, crimson cloak. She grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers and pressing our palms together. As if she can will strength and power into me with the force of her affection alone. I clutch her hand tighter to let her know it’s working.
“It is time for the assembly of the Bannrhorn,” the head priestess says. “Acolytes, if you please?”
Three young fae women in fawn-colored robes rise from the pews, each carrying a box.
Idid that. I found all three fragments. Pride buoys my head momentarily above water, even as facing the consequences of my success drowns me once more.
The acolytes bow before each duke, then open the boxes to offer each his piece of the horn. The head priestess floats over to a stone font carved with the celestial symbols; a faint shimmer rises above the rim.
“Duke Torvil Áine of Tír na Lune,” she intones, “do you agree to hunt this quarry and bear the responsibility of kingship should you claim her?”
“I do.” Torvil smirks before settling his fragment into the font.
The head priestess nods, then turns to Sabre. “Duke Sabre Cernunnos of Tír na Dubh, do you agree to hunt this quarry and bear the responsibility of kingship should you claim her?”
“I do,” Sabre growls as he tosses his fragment in.
“Duke Desmond Macán of Tír na Strelle, do you agree to hunt this quarry and bear the responsibility of kingship should you claim her?”
“I will.” Desmond’s vow echoes through the nave as he settles the final fragment with the others.
There’s a harsh flare of light, so bright I’m forced to shield my eyes. The priestess bends over the rim and pulls out the restored Bannrhorn. Given the size of the fragments, it’s much larger than I anticipated; the bell falls well below her knees.
She steps to the front of the altar. “Then by the grace of Danu, our Eternal Mother, let the Wild Hunt commence.”
The sun outside winks out, and she blows the horn. Three long, resonant blasts that shake the foundation of the sanctuary.
With each note, the seed of novillum within me stirs. It pulses outward from the base of my throat, a balmy, flourishing warmth that soaks into my skin, my muscles, my veins, my bones. I am still human, but there’s new strength in my body. New power. I can feel it.
As the final horn blast fades, Aowen grips my hand tighter, and we disappear in a burst of shimmering, golden light.
Chapter
Fifty-Two
When the world reforms, Aowen and I find ourselves in the hollow of a gigantic oak, likely one of the behemoths I spied from my bridal chamber earlier.
The ground is spongy but dry, covered in fallen leaves and branches, and there are a few narrow holes carved into the trunk that lead out into the forest.
“What just happened?” I ask, the end of my white silk wrap snagging on a splintered root. I rip off a good chunk in an effort to free myself.
Aowen frowns. “We’ll have all been scattered to different sections of the Eldergrove.” She flings off her red cloak to reveal a quilted leather jacket, two blunt daggers with serrated edges in her belt loops, and an awful, ammoniac scent.
I cover my nose. “God, what thehellis that smell?”
“Púca piss” is all she says. As if that explains why I’m somehow smelling the dried urine of several different types of animals. What is a púca? Where did she get its piss?Howdid she get it? The only clear answer is why—to mask our own scents from Torvil’s báshounds.
When she unzips the jacket, poor Vesper flies out coughing and gagging.
