CHAPTER EIGHT
Cutting the ceiling into neat hexagons, wooden beams cross the length of it, and through the spaces where stone ought to be, the sky peeks down at the maps scattered atop Kieran’s desk. The hollows shift everyday, oftentimes mirroring Kieran’s mood. Today, they’re stormy.
He never thanked Faye properly for the birthday gift. The words were always too slippery, and the risk of showing affection too great. His uncle taught him the lesson. One minute, the ceiling was as solid as the rest of the house, the next, midnight struck and Kieran grew one year older. The illusion uncovered itself above him.
Kieran stares out the window, toying with the note in his hands. What shall he do? He could keep it in a drawer, read it himself. A sigh escapes his lips. Outside, a commotion of maids and guards prepare for his father’s funeral. The windows stay open, white sheets covering the mirrors, lest his soul travel to the manor and be trapped.
A soft knock disrupts Kieran’s thoughts, and a servant pops her head in. “It’s time, my Lord,” she says with a hint of pity.
She doesn’t know how much he and his father despised each other. Nonetheless, the air tastes wrong, and the chirping of birds sounds misplaced. Maybe Kieran has earned her pity.
“Take this to Faye.” He thrusts the note into her hands and walks away.
Conan barges into Kieran’s bedchamber, alongside a battalion of busy servants. He places Father’s cloak over the shoulders of Kieran’s black and silver jacket, buttoned from top to bottom. Heavy and lined in fur, the fabric’s darkness rivals the night sky.
Kieran checks the dagger at his belt and the sword at his back—the ruler’s blade, a wolf’s head carved at the pommel, thorns at the hilt. The Thorn’s heirloom, now his. Such an unmanageable burden.
Conan squeezes his shoulder. “You’re going to make the most excellent ruler.”
Misplaced faith.
Unclenching the sword, Kieran pulls Conan into a half-hug. “I’m not worried about that.” He clings a beat longer, hoping Conan’s gentleness rubs off on him. It’d be an ill-fit on someone as unrelenting as Kieran.
“You are a worse liar than old drunken Barry, the eldest Lucky Coin’s regular.” Conan’s levity is as clear of a sham as Kieran’s forged confidence. “I’m going to check if everything’s going according to plan,” Conan says, commanding the servants out. That should be Kieran’s responsibility.
Through the standing mirror, he catches sight of her.
Faye wears a black, long-sleeved gown with a high neck. How he wishes he could untie the bow at her throat and sink his teeth into her skin.
“Are you ready?” Faye asks softly. A horde of guards waits behind the door as if she’s the most prolific bandit in Invernia.
“Give me a moment.” Kieran steps back into his room. The necklace is weighty against the palm of his hand. He returns to Faye, brushes stray hairs from her shoulders, and slips the chain around her neck. The bird rests between her collarbones. “You do not have a crest,” he explains.
Kieran remembers when she came to the manor with only the dress she was wearing, no treasures to carry with her. He offered to send off servants to pack up her possessions at the Sanctum, to which she responded the only thing of worth she owned was too heavy to fit in a bag. Her one piece of jewelry was the tattered bracelet made with seashells she wears to this day. When he met Sienna, Kieran recognized the identical trinket adorning her wrist.
Faye caresses the wings of her pendant, a small smile parting her lips. “Is it a nightingale?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have it around in case I’d need to attend a funeral, or did you intend to gift it?” Her voice is soft like shared secrets, and Kieran remembers Aoife, swinging down the rope.
It’s not merely for her family name, but to adorn her with a glint of silver. Those are wolves’ colors—black for the gloominess of night, silver like the shade of their magic. A silent way of letting her know she’s not below them.
“It was your birthday gift. I shall think of a different one.” Kieran’s eyes drift to the wooden panels, the nearest portrait, the stars and wolves depicted in the ceiling. Everywhere but Faye. She looks like a deeply buried guilt.
“Thank you.”
When Faye lifts her arms, he thinks she’ll hug him. Her scent engulfs him, small fingers straightening the crest at his chest. A sword, meant to represent the letter T, pierces a full moon; within it, two roses entwine.
“There,” Faye murmurs, tracing the frame of thorns at the bottom. “It was crooked.”
“Father wouldn’t like it if we were late for his own funeral.” Kieran takes a step back, breaking the spell.
She nods, and the shadows hide her gaze as she dips her chin. With her eyes downturned, he cannot read her for hidden messages. She must grieve her security—in his insatiable, meritless dreams, she grieves for him, or the version she could never meet.
Glancing over her shoulder at the mirror, Faye widdles the pendant. “I didn’t like you very much when we met,” she muses, ignoring the dead ruler’s punctuality fixation.
“No one’s spying on us.” Kieran steps closer. “Speak freely.”
Faye’s eyes find his reflection. “Should I? You told me before how you might not be able to change anything in Invernia. I should have maintained my dislike.”
“But you didn’t?” The question comes out too eager. “You need not be so guarded. He’s dead.”
Her lips part as she whirls around, the blood draining from her face. “He is,” she murmurs. “I shan’t be guarded if you want honesty: sometimes your name grates my ears. It’s like a noose, looming over me.”
Kieran fists and unfists his empty hands. “I’m sorry.”
“And when you show so little care for the ones like me, despite the fact you made me what I am, I cannot help but hate you.” A smirk tinged with something akin to self-loathe dances on her lips. “Might be a short-lived emotion, but it’s intense.”
What can he say? Everything she fears about the Thorns has been proven correct. They have used, disregarded, scorned her. “Promise you’ll always be frank with me. Even when you’re a little mean, it is…” His eyebrows rise, surprised at the truth of it, “refreshing.”
“Oh, that’s delightful to hear.” She grins, unrestrained. “I shall be a menace, then.”
For an instant, Kieran is not the ruler who can’t balance a crown atop his head. He’s only a man. There’s not a bone in his body strong enough to refuse her tonight.
✵
Outside the manor, deep in the woods, Moonblessed families surround a wooden slab where the guards deposit Kieran’s father. Dead, the man is as inconsequential as the ants crawling over the soil. Yet Kieran averts his gaze from the linen, fearing the corpse might burn holes through it to spy on his indiscretions.
Arm laced through his, a veil covering her pious face, no one can begin to guess Faye is a sorceress, not a wolf. That’s why Kieran clings to her so. His warmth hides the chill of her sorceress blood, his scent camouflages her own.
Moonblessed march behind them, each bearing necklaces made of teeth and wearing ceremonial black. One by one, the representatives of the noble families bow to Kieran, lamenting his loss, as ancient and overbearing as the weathered trees around them.
Kieran can’t thank them, his stare roaming up to the canopies and the ravens perched on the branches, mocking the little boy with a crooked crown on his head. A silver twist of thorns, it centers two wolves, jaws open to each other. Kieran wishes to toss it to the ground. Instead, he squeezes Faye’s hand.
She thanks the families and representatives for him, even as they stare her down. She doesn’t waver. Though it’s highly inappropriate, it’d be worse to stay mute before so many self-important people.
Up ahead, the elder wolves shift. Their pelts sputter from their pores, covering their ancient bodies, no need for a full moon. No youth joins them—scarce is the young Moonblessed who can shift at will. All of them can show off sharp fangs without the moon’s aid, eyes as bright as stars, pointy ears to catch the faintest of prey, but not the complete form of a wolf.
One by one, the Moonblessed families send a representative to the body, where they lay down a farewell gift. Parents line their finest daughters and most gallant sons in a row, praying the new ruler’s gaze might land on one of them. Some must be in their mid teens. Kieran delights in imagining cursing their parents into an early grave.
An exhale escapes him, dense as the mist lowering around them.
Clara wears the mourning version of her uniform. Black and silver, proper and impressive even without her armor, she chooses not to shift. Along the hems of her sleeves, threads run like rays of moonlight. Her hair is braided and coiled in an intricate style. She kisses their father’s forehead and lays a carnation—the flower of devotion—over his heart.
Eyes puffy, Conan lays a stem of lilies of the valley on their father’s chest. Fragile flowers, easily plucked.
Necklaces are placed upon the other offerings. Soon, his father’s corpse rests under a collection of fragrant plants—to hide his rot—and wolf teeth.
Timeworn O’Shea approaches the body, cradling a robin to his chest. The bird struggles to open its wings as O’Shea holds it over the dead ruler. During his life, Kieran’s father spoke nothing but ill words about the man. O’Shea’s daughter was engaged to Kieran’s uncle, until the reckless heir deserted his duties for a sorceress. Which is why O’Shea cradles a bird. Not a stallion, or a fattened pig, not even a hunting hound. A meager bird. He doesn’t strive for Kieran’s approval.
The weapon of choice is a long needle, which O’Shea sinks deep into the robin’s heart. The bird’s wings stop flapping. He discards the lithe body as if it were nothing.
Kieran’s stomach threatens to crawl up his throat.
Hunched Brigid Keller is guided forward by a man with a thick mustache, who must be the son she took out of Maranish’s line of succession. Steafán, if Kieran recalls correctly. After his father’s poisoning, Brigid fled back to her own court. She said she couldn’t stay put in Invernia with a murderer afoot. If only she knew she stands before one now, who finished the task she most likely left incomplete.
For a moment, Kieran’s brow lowers over his eyes, searching for life inside her pockets. Brigid brings forth no bird, or small animal, and gives passage to Orla, Montier’s ruler. Kieran has never been to her territory. Too much of a hassle to visit such an inconsequential place, his father used to say. The gods have neglected Montier, like most other territories. Those aren’t his people, yet Kieran cannot help but commiserate. Once he finds his footing, he can alleviate Montier’s burden—if they’ll even accept his kindness.
Orla clutches a black cat. She shares a glance of acknowledgement with the Kellers. An ally lost, already?
“Close your eyes,” Kieran murmurs in Faye’s ear, as he watches the cat yawl in Orla’s arms. “Don’t look until I say so. They’ll try to outdo one another, prove to me they’re allies worth keeping.” At least the ones who do not conspire to throw the Thorns off Invernia’s throne.
Orla slashes the cat’s throat.
Animal after animal is sacrificed. White turns scarlet, the woods soaking up the drops that escape. Under the wooden slab, red buds bloom.
Dragged by the elbow, a girl around fifteen—like Aoife was—stands before the stained fabric wrapped around Kieran’s father. The guard departs, leaving her at the mercy of old Brigid. Even her barren son distances himself in backward steps, though the stories about him never painted a portrait of compassion.
“That is quite enough.” Kieran’s voice quivers like a child’s, drawing everyone’s attention to him. He clears his throat. “I believe my father’s passage is more than bought.”
Brigid’s yellowed smile shrinks her face, broken teeth on display. “Imagine it’s not. I cannot be expected to cause the Ruler’s soul to get stuck on this side of the veil or, worse yet, send him where he doesn’t belong.”
He makes to move, but Clara rests her steady hand on his shoulder, clasping hard. “Do not move a muscle,” she whispers. “They’ll think you’re weak.”
“It’s a child,” he says as Brigid yanks the girl off the servant’s arms and guides her to his father.
“I know. Still, you cannot interfere. If the child is here, it’s because she was offered to Brigid in exchange for compensation. By the looks of it, she was already dying,” Clara explains. “It’s tradition. You cannot break it.”
This is madness. No children were sacrificed at his mother’s funeral, but Kieran bet her entrance to the Other Side was much likelier than his father’s.
Behind the bushes, curious yellow eyes spy on them. Tap, tap, tap. A white creature’s long talons rap against a trunk. The world slows down.
He lets go of Faye and heads toward Brigid. But he’s late. Clara held him off too long. “No!” The scream erupts from his throat, echoing through the forest.
Brigid’s knife slashes the girl’s throat in a straight line, just as Kieran reaches them. Brigid drops her hands carelessly, and the girl falls into Kieran’s arms. She convulses, her pupils blown and fixed on his, her blood splattering his clothes. Her skin is pasty, her temperature too cold. Though he can’t tell which kind, she’s no doubt a sorceress.
“I’m sorry,” Kieran says, but it’s a hollow, useless thing.
Brigid rips the girl from him, bending her head forward. The girl’s blood seeps into the linen. “May she buy your passage, old friend.”
Kieran stares at his palms as if he wielded the knife himself. He might as well.
Clara tugs him back, and Faye is at his side again, her hands cupping his face. “It’s done. Come away,” she murmurs. “It’s not your fault.”
It is.
Releasing the girl, Kieran rises and stumbles as soon as he tries to straighten his spine. “Bury her,” he orders one of his guards. “Properly.”
Despite Faye’s blank expression, face pale, her jaw sets. She’s much more composed than Kieran could ever hope to be. “You’re not alone.”
This is so very different from their usual bickering that Kieran fears the moment his bliss will burst into a million jagged pieces and slice his heart. Still, he nods and drinks up her lies, the sweetest poison.
They return to their previous spot, but doubt has been cast among his people.
Whispers rise, and Conan clears his throat loudly. “Call forth the sorcerers.”
A handful of them form a circle around the body, chanting a low, sorrowful song. Kieran’s father catches on fire.
“Your turn.” The flames project dancing shadows across Brigid’s wrinkled face.
With his hearing muffled and his vision hazy, Kieran didn’t even notice her approach. It’s a relief when she disappears behind the fire again, joining the pompous ruler of Arvion. The man’s mocking stare daggers Kieran’s skin.
Flowers won’t suffice, not from the new ruler, not after Brigid’s sacrifice.
Faye holds his forearm. “Let me help you. Do as I tell you.”
And, gods, he needs it. He needs the guidance, the quiet confidence.
She presses a hand to her forehead, another to her stomach, like the spectacle might have indisposed her. Gone in a heartbeat, Faye disappears between the trees, and no one pays much attention to the fainting maiden.
Panic climbs up Kieran’s throat as the seconds chase one another, and he wrecks his brain for an answer. He’s expected to have come prepared, but small animals won’t do it now.
Conan shivers at his side, opening and closing his mouth. He’s shown such grace, such strength too, and here is Kieran, cowering.
A figure emerges from the opposite side of the clearing, her skin milky as pearls, a blue veil covering her hair. The goddess’s halo is a glorious star behind her head, and each spike ends in a miniature wolf skull. She’s wondrous, piety kissing her stare. Her lips part as if to let out a cry, but she stays silent.
Kieran would recognize Faye, no matter the disguise—her scent is too distinct. She replaced her gown with a light blue dress, neckline wide to expose her shoulders. Around him, people shift and tremble, exclaiming words of astonishment.
“Is it Lupa?”
“It cannot be…”
Faye is every inch the portrait of the Moonblessed’s patron goddess. Unlike the Eyra, Lupa presents as a beautiful, young woman. She walks amongst them, and folks rush to give her space.
She stops in front of Kieran. “Bite me. Let my blood flow to your father.”
Kieran takes a step back. “I can’t.”
“Please. It’s befitting, is it not? I’m the goddess of wolves. Let me bless your ruling in front of them.”
O’Shea falls to his knees.
Steafán takes a step forward. His eyes flash brighter than the flames, in a trance, before his mother snaps him back.
Faye’s magic is poisonous. It gets inside one’s head, tangling her ideas with theirs, until she is the one in command. Many would beg to die for the ecstasy of drinking her blood.
The false Lupa reaches a mothering hand to Kieran’s face, and he bends his head so she can whisper in his ear, “Do it, Kieran. Haven’t I drunk yours, too? Let us be equal for once.”
After such a potent show, she’ll probably have to drink from his veins to replenish her magic again.
“Let us be equals forever,” Kieran vows, leading Faye by the crook of her arm. “What is a Thorn good for if not to change laws?”
The blood of the child is still warm in his hands.
Faye asked if she’d been foolish for believing him different from his father. This is his answer. No child of Lunaris deserves to be plucked and shredded like a stubborn weed.
People pray as Faye’s light blinds them into submission.
Kieran steps in front of the burning pyre. How can he do this? How can he tear her skin open, knowing it’ll hurt her? Ravenous eyes scrutinize him, counting on his failure, planning his demise.
Do it.
He lowers his lips to the curve of her neck. “Are you sure?”
She trembles. “Give your father the finest offer yet, and show them you’re the kingdom’s strongest ruler. You do not fear even the gods.”
Unable to shed his skin and turn into a wolf, Kieran sharpens his teeth into lethal fangs, silver slipping into his eyes. His growl reverberates, loud and clear. As he presses his mouth to her neck, instinct takes over.
No more than a whimper escapes Faye’s mouth.
It’s an inversion of the first time. Was Kieran’s blood as sweet as Faye’s, dulling her every sense, getting her lost in the haze until she felt like she must drink to the last drop? Was it worth life as a sorceress?
Kieran yanks his fangs out of Faye’s neck, crimson trickling down his chin and raining into the flames. Faye’s fingers slide from his shoulders, and her body sags.
Drenched in sweat, strands of Kieran’s hair plaster themselves to his face. “Faye. Open your eyes.”
Clara is as fast as her sword, cutting through the sea of gaping mouths and praying hands. She pushes and guides them out of the woods, headed to the manor.
It’s too far.
No matter how much he pleads, Faye doesn’t open her eyes.