We sit in silence, her lost in her thoughts, me scrambling to readjust my worldview with this cataclysmic news. She’s accusing the Seelie of deliberately disobeying the laws governing our Courts. If it’s true, their need for power after their last fall from grace was strong enough they risked upsetting the balance of nature, of life itself, to claw back enough magick to maintain their pride. She’s admitting she was too naïve to realize they took advantage of her.
It’s impossible to believe. Yet it makes perfect sense. It explains everything, from the extreme changes in the harvest that even humans have started noticing, to Sláine’s defection.
It means this war was born out of greed, not boredom, and the nature of their intended conquest rocks me to my core. They will not obey laws of combat if that would prevent their victory.
“Mother,” I manage, “we cannot fight a war against an enemy who is incapable of showing mercy. They will kill everyone in their attempt to dethrone us and claim our power for their own.”
“That’s why we must stabilize our Court. We need to recall our people to the sídhe before there are further attacks. We need to bolster our numbers, even at the risk of Lugh’s life.”
“Keiran will protect him.” My mouth’s strangely dry. Goddess, the world’s gone mad. My little brother is about to risk his life in a suicide mission to earn the allegiance of fae who have spurned either Court for millennia, while I smile and wave him cheerily on his way because there is no other choice.
She nods absently. “Keiran will. Roark, we need Sláine back. We’ll be blamed for starting the war, but we cannot risk his power remaining in the Summer Court. If my Knight cannot retrieve him, the Cat Sith will step in.”
Has it come to that? Sending our Court’s assassin to slaughter one of our own? The cruel reality lies unspoken between us: I must save my brother or, with my failure, ensure his death.
“Will you be strong enough to take on the mantle?” she asks me.
I want to deny it, to demand why I am forced to be the sacrificial lamb. I want to force her to explain how she could choose to damage me, her most faithful son. I want her to tell me that it’s part of her plan and that I won’t actually be destroyed. But asking these questions would do nothing to quell my resentment. My mother has made it clear: My path is fixed. This is the sacrifice required by war. This is the cost to keep Smith, and my people, safe.
“Yes,” I promise.
The shimmer of a tear cascades over her lashes, spilling down her cheek. She faces me, her glamour shredded in her grief.
“I never meant for this to happen to you,” she whispers, voice catching and breaking on the words. “I never meant for my sons to pay the price.”
At least the numbness I’ve clung to since leaving Mathers aids me now. I reach for Mother’s hands blindly, gripping them while the world falls down around us.
Days ago, my mother held me when I wept, protected me so my grief and pain could leach from me like poison from a festering wound. Today, I wrap my arms around her, holding her bird-light bones together as she weeps for her sons. Sláine, the prince of betrayal. Lugh, the prince of impossible quests. And me, the prince who will be unmade.
When she finishes, she pulls away and wipes her face carefully. I watch while she rearranges her glamour. Her voice doesn’t tremble when she says, “Roark, you alone are privy to this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Together, we return to her desk and finish planning the evacuation of our people from their homes outside the sídhe and their return to this underground fortress. We complete our work long after the rest of the sídhe has fallen into sleep. I return to my chambers and crawl into bed.
It doesn’t hit me until I lie there in the darkness. Seven days. I only have seven days left before I take on the mantle and begin to lose myself.
Terror crushes the air from my lungs. I will become the Knight and my memories will be eaten away by the magick until there is too little of me left to stay alive. I’m not sure why I do it, but my hand reaches up and finds the wall. It’s nothing like the wall at Mathers, but I relax at the pressure against the backs of my fingers. I close my eyes and pretend I’m back there. I imagine Smith is asleep inches away, separated by thin drywall alone.
I tap against my stone wall and let the air fill my lungs when I hear him grumble in my head, Stop worrying. Just go to sleep, Lyne.
He’s there with me. He always will be. I obey and let sleep take me under.
Chapter Twenty
Phineas
Accepting the absence of Roark in my life doesn’t follow a linear progression. There are good days and bad days. The migraine splitting my skull and the new bruises and split lip I received in Defensive Magick make this one of the latter.
I’m beginning to think that magick doesn’t work like I thought it did. Turning off the ley line was probably a bit premature, since I’m taking classes which require its use to be successful. On the upside, I haven’t lit anything on fire in several days, and the thought of Roark is no longer like a knife to the gut.
&n
bsp; At least, it’s not until I lift my hand to knock on Gumba’s door and remind him of his promise to help me with my watershed management coursework. The muffled sound of that familiar voice can’t be real. My knuckles freeze over the fake wood and even the door handle turning isn’t enough to coax me from this stupor.
He looks like shit, too. It’s petty, but I take what little pleasure I can from it. Roark’s never looked delicate until now. His skin hangs from his angular bones and a deep exhaustion seems to have settled into the lines of his face.
He hasn’t moved since opening the door. We’re trapped, both unsure where to look, where to move, and I regret not cleaning up before coming over here. The first time I saw Roark again, I didn’t want to be wearing a pair of gym shorts and a ragged tee shirt I turned into a tank top. I’d imagined him seeing me in something slightly more impressive.