She smiled. Again. “Lhynion was the visionary. The dreamer. But his half brother, Galadaine, was the planner. He organized Lhynion’s vision into a manageable venture. Without Galadaine, none of it would have been possible. The Queen endorsed their efforts, backing the Exorcism with coin and an army of pixies. My ancestor soon joined in the endeavor, but Meléan was different than the others. Her line had been blessed with the magic of nature. She was?—”
“Tempestuous,” Isobel said, focused on the middle distance.
Autumn regarded her in silence, her smile finally dimming.
Kywyn rested his elbows on the table. “Perhapsfinickyis a better word.”
“She was difficult.” Bel’s voice was harsh. “She did her part when she was asked, but she was wishy-washy.”
Autumn nodded. “But she inspired loyalty, and she was an extraordinary beauty.” Pausing, her gaze found David. The hairs on his arms and neck fell victim to the intrigue and dread, lifting to attention. “Galadaine fell in love with her first. His abilities were rare and treacherous, not to be trusted. He had Morgan’s magic—command over emotion and free will.”
For a split second, David’s restraint slipped, and his eyes widened.Not to be trusted.
That made sense. David wouldn’t trust someone who could dowhat he could do, but it wasn’t something he could change about himself. This power existed inside him for better or worse.
The magic no one trusted.
“Meléan was taken into his spell, but she came to learn she was being compelled to love him, so she left. She fled to his brother, and…Lhynion fell in love with her, too.”
Oh.
Fuck.
The realization hit like an avalanche—slow at first, a mere shift in the foundation, and then all at once. The fear in those strangers when he’d fallen through the mist. The terror in Isobel as she gazed at his face. The reluctance of Kywyn to give him this story.
Your mother believed it too dangerous to raise you here.
He’d done something. This man, who’d passed down his face and his untrustworthy magic, had done something terrible.
Kywyn sighed. “Galadaine was so jealous Meléan chose his brother that he snapped.”
Autumn took over. “He meant to kill her, raising the blade against her, wanting to punish her for betraying him.”
“But Lhynion stepped in the way,” Isobel said. “Galadaine killed his brother and let Meléan watch as the man she loved bled his life out for her.”
Autumn’s warm fingers brushed David’s arm. “He didn’t let her free. He imprisoned her with his magic and eventually killed her.” Her voice grew quiet. “We aren’t sure what happened to Galadaine after that. His ideals changed. He grew to begrudge the control humans held over us, resented the throttling of our magic. He drew in disciples who wanted to use them as a source of power, the way the Indies do, to overtake that realm and rule humanity. They named it the Plague—an epidemic of diseased thinking that amassed thousands of supporters. The Followers of Galadaine, they were called, an army set on crossing the mist and conquering the mortal world, and in response, the Queen raised her own army. Lhynion’s army.”
Bree-Blaire found her voice. “In death, Lhynion became asymbol, a martyr to fight for. With Rhiannon taking Lhynion’s place at the helm of the Exorcism, the Queen’s army rose against the Followers.”
Autumn shook her head, her eyes lost in memory. “A great battle was fought, and both Galadaine and Rhiannon fell. The Followers were defeated, Galadaine’s holdings stormed. Afterward, the Exorcism continued, but without Lhynion, it’s become a shadow of what it was, and the Indies steal more of our magic every day.” Her gaze moved to David. “Those things you see in your head are Galadaine’s memories.”
His body stiffened. “Why do I have his memories?”
Autumn shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He sought Isobel, because if he had Galadaine’s memories, that meant— “Do you have her memories?”
She wouldn’t look at him, at any of them. “Yes.”
Fuck it all.
No wonder she hated him.
“Do I look like him?” he asked.
Her head lifted slowly, like it hurt to match his stare. “His eyes weren’t green.”
Fear created a tiny blackhole in his chest, a growing threat of gravity. No escape.
