Obair nodded as he gathered Miriam to him, embracing her and placing the long iron blade against her back. She kissed him then and the surprise in his eyes softened as his smile grew.
“It was never intended to be a single soul, Devin,” he called out. “The forgers of the Wyrde were close but they never truly grasped it. One soul alone was enough to power the Wyrde as they intended, trapped and directed by the living druids working the ritual. But with two it is a power unending. The ritual would never be needed, the Wyrde would be maintained from within. One soul to power and one to guide.”
Devin froze at the words, struggling to free his mind from the strands of the ritual that bound him as he fought to understand what the old man meant. And then it was too late. Obair thrust his body forward as he drove the blade through Miriam and into his own chest.
There was a moment of utter silence, and then the stones exploded in light as the glyphs flared brighter than a noon-sun. Devin staggered back, shielding his eyes as he stumbled from the circle, stumbling over Klöss who groaned beneath him. His mind burned as the steps of the ritual seemed to repeat themselves, coursing on and flowing ever faster until it was one blinding blur.
He heard screams, though at least one was his own as he lay in the grass. A force seemed to snatch at him, tugging but somehow unable to get a firm grasp. Above him them the veil grew stronger, passing over the moon until nothing remained and the skies fell into utter darkness as the light of the stones guttered and died. Devin lay in the darkness. In the stillness that followed he felt it, the first stirrings of the Wyrde.
***
Ileriel spat curses as Aelthen vanished and allowed the flow of the battle to carry her back away from the manlings. The stench of fehru was everywhere and the foul taste of it covered her tongue with every breath she took. Manling arrows rose high above the host, bringing crude slivers of the stuff down towards her and she reached out with her Grace, slashing the shaft that would have taken her in the throat.
“Variska!” she called out, lending strength to her cry with what reserves she had. The sight of the Lady, half-obscured by some black taint, filled her with dread and she tried to keep her gaze away from the sky.
The fae'reeth had ceased their attack as soon as Aelthen vanished and the Swarm turned in lazy circles above the battlefield. Variska shone at its heart, easily visible to both fae and manling. She turned her burning gaze to Ileriel for the barest moment before looking away, unconcerned with whatever the fae might wish of her. Ileriel spat a curse. The manling impudence knew no bounds and their use of fehru was taking a toll that she doubted Aelthen had ever imagined.
The satyrs were hurling themselves against the manlings. Riahl's horde of beasts were mad with bloodlust and barely seemed to notice that they were being cut down with each surge they made against the line of fehru facing them. She could easily pick out Riahl himself, more than half lost to the blood-rage as he stood and ordered his horde onwards.
This was not a fae battle. Fae did not line up in these neat rows and crash together in an endless succession of screams. This ebb and flow was reaping as much fae blood as manling.
As she watched the satyrs gave up their endless clashing against the manling lines. Instead, they hurled themselves high into the air with shining eyes as they employed what Grace they could. The beasts crashed down, deep into the manling lines, laying about them with blade and fist. The humans fell into chaos for a moment, but then flares of sapphire exploded within their ranks. The tactic was useless.
Riahl seemed to ignore the losses, sending more and more of his Great Revel leaping to their deaths as two fae sought to stop him. The creature was a liability, too far gone to the wilds to respect the order of things. She had been right about him from the beginning.
The sensation built slowly, a thin shard of pain that wrapped her fear around itself and bore through her until it was buried deep into the core of her. Ileriel looked up at the moon in terror. The black hole in the sky told her as much as the thick green mist that rose from the fae around her, whipping away in a wind that seemed to have come from nowhere.
Pain took her and she staggered further from the front lines until her terror overcame the agony and she fled, stumbling past fae and satyr who held their hands before them in wonder as the Lady's Gift poured from them, surrounding them in green torrents that seemed to rush about, tugging at them, pulling.
The manlings seemed to have stopped their attack, looking on in wonder as the armies of the fae fell about in panic and dismay. Ileriel scrabbled at her quiver, dumping the fine white arrows out onto the ground until the bundle of cloth fell free. Desperation robbed her of any grace as she fell to the ground, scrabbling at the cloth in panic. Already she could feel it tugging at her. Already the foulness of it pulled at her, seeking to drive her from this world.
Blue fire flared between her hands as she grasped the arrowhead and Ileriel screamed bitter agony as she fled through the fae host, burning what Grace she had by forcing more speed from her legs until she left the battle behind her and reached the trees. The fire burned away at her hands, flaring bright between the wreckage of her fingers but already the flames were lessening, no longer the raging furnace they had been.
The fae stopped, leaning against a tree as she glanced back at the battle. The mist was thicker somehow, filled with motes of something darker. Flecks of black sand tossed about in the wind-driven mist. The screams reached her easily, cries of panic and despair as the specks grew larger until they looked like ashes tossed up from a fire.
Ileriel glanced at the fehru in her hand. The fire had gone but never had she felt so utterly drained. The tugging of the Wyrde was still there but somehow it was slipping past her, unable to find purchase.
A howling reached her from the satyr on the fringes of the host and she looked over in time to see the closest of them dissolve into fragments, blown like ash in the wind as the Wyrde tore them from the world. Hundreds of satyr fell in moments and a keening wail pulled her gaze to the Swarm and the glowing fae'reeth at its centre. Variska screamed and all about her the fae'reeth exploded into fragments.
Panic spoke to her in a voice that was too quiet for her ears. Her legs listened and she fled through the trees, deeper into the forest. The cave had the scent of beast about it, damp fur and musk, but Ileriel barely noticed. She retreated to the darkest corner, hidden far from the reach of the Lady or her jealous sibling. As she curled into a ball around the fehru arrowhead still clasped to her breast she smiled. The Wyrde had no hold on her. What the sun or moon might bring she did not know but for now she was free.
***
Devin came to slowly, blinking at the light. There was something between his lips, a cold texture on his teeth and he probed at it with his tongue. His mind was slow, his thoughts struggling over each other as he fought to make sense of it all. The taste hit him first and he spat, mud and grass mixed with the blood from his split lip. There were noises around him, voices that sounded familiar. Slowly he pushed himself onto all fours, dizziness threatening to pull him back down to the mud as he fought his way up to his knees.
“Devin?” The voice seemed over-loud, everything was too bright. He waved a hand, not really knowing himself what he meant by it as he pushed the sound away.
“Halther?” he said, frowning at the sound of the name.
“Here, lad. Get this inside you.” A flask was pressed to his hands and made its way to his lips. He coughed and sputtered at the brandy, pushing it away.
“Are you all right, lad? Are you hurt?”
“No.” He shook his head, then regretted it as a wave of dizziness hit. “Just a bit groggy.” He looked around the clearing, eyes registering but not quite understanding the scene before him. A small crater had been driven into the soft earth at the edge of the stone circle and the grass that surrounded it was blackened and scorched. Halther's scouts were huddled around a small fire, tending to their own wounded.
“What happened to the others?”
he asked Halther.
“The Bjornmen?” Halther pointed, not waiting for the answer.
Klöss lay in a tangled mess, half-curled around one of the stones at the edge of the circle. Ylsriss had slumped down beside him.
“They're all right, just out cold by the looks of things,” Halther confirmed. “Come and let me get a look at you. You could use something to eat if nothing else.”
“Obair!” Devin gasped as the memory hit him. “Miriam!”
“Don't, lad. They're gone,” Halther warned him but Devin was already moving. The figures were bound together in an embrace with the knife driven through both of them. Whatever force the ritual had let loose had stripped the life from them. Their skin had an odd grey tone and stretched over hollows left by sunken cheeks and wasted muscles. He reached out gingerly.
“Don't,” Halther whispered but it was too late. The flesh crumbled where Devin reached for Obair, tumbling down in a cascade of fragments, closer to ashes than skin and bone. The fragments tore others free until the bodies collapsed in on themselves with a soft sigh.
Devin staggered back with a horrified expression.
“I told you, they're gone,” Halther said gently. “Don't beat yourself up over that, there was nothing left there but a shell.” He led Devin over to the fire and sat him on a section of log, spooning stew out of the pot for him.
The food was almost tasteless but it was hot and Devin found that the more he ate the more he came back to himself. “How long?”
“Were you out?” Halther finished for him. He shook his head with a shrug. “It's about mid-afternoon by my reckoning, so throughout the night and most of this day. Most of us didn't move until morning. I checked you over and left you be until you started moving.”
Devin grunted and poked at the stew with a spoon. He sat for a while, soaking up the heat from the fire and trying to coax the stew into tasting better than it did. Klöss and Ylsriss came to after another hour and the group around the fire grew.
The silence that surrounded them was thick and decorated with the frequent glances cast toward the stones as each of them wrestled with memories that felt closer to being dreams.
“Is it done?” Ylsriss asked finally.
“I don't know…” Devin began but stopped himself, letting his eyes drift out of focus as he concentrated. The Wyrde was there, as strong as it had been during the ritual but far easier for him to feel. It was almost as clear as the pain he'd felt from the passage of the fae through the worldtrails but subtly different, somehow familiar.
He nodded. “It is, I can feel the Wyrde.”
Ylsriss stared at him for a moment and buried her face in her hands for a moment before rushing away from to the fire for the solitude of the trees. Klöss stared after her, reaching for Gavin's arm and shaking his head when the wiry man made to follow.
It was only as Klöss turned and looked at him expectantly that Devin realised they had no way of communicating without Miriam or Joran. Ylsriss was obviously not going to be of much help right at the moment. Devin frowned at the Bjornman and shrugged helplessly as the man sighed and pointed first at the axe, then the trees, and finally the fire. He nodded as a smile of understanding showed on Devin's face and made his way over to where the body of Tristan lay.
The remains of the cottage provided some easy lumber but even with everyone helping it still took time. It was growing dark by the time Klöss judged the pyre to be ready. It towered above them and the Bjornman refused any offers to help as he worked to light the bundle of twigs and tinder at its base. Klöss stepped away from the heat as the flames rose, seeming surprised to find the others gathered around the pyre as Ylsriss reached for his arm.
They did not speak. There were no words even if they had been able to understand each other. Devin thought back, remembering a different pyre formed from the ruins of another cottage. So much had changed since Artor's death but it yet seemed he had come full circle. The conflict between Anlish and Bjornman would be settled by wiser men than he. For now it was enough that the threat of the fae was over.
He looked up, following the sparks of the fire as they rose into the skies. The moon was bright, just rising above the trees and Devin gazed at it with wonder. He closed his eyes for a moment and forced himself to concentrate, to feel. The Wyrde coursed onward, and through it he felt that same familiar presence. His could feel his mother. Miriam was out there with Obair as he guided her steps in a ritual that would never end. She always would be. Devin looked up at the moon and smiled.
Epilogue
Ylsriss burrowed deeper into the furs piled thick on the bed. “Burning hells, what possessed me to come back here?” she muttered to herself.
Hesk was freezing. Winter had come early and wrapped the city in an icy embrace. She hadn't been able to get warm since they'd arrived. Anlan had been cold but Hesk was bitter. It was a cold that crept in past the thick walls and warm fires and leeched away at you until your bones ached. Perhaps some tea would help. She needed something hot inside her.
A low crawl took her to the edge of the bed, moving careful1y so as not to let the chill under the blankets. She reached out blindly for the slippers and worked them onto her feet before wrapping herself in the furs and braving the cold air in search of clothes that would go on quickly.
She should have lit the fire in the bedroom when Klöss left that morning. “Daft idea, woman.” she muttered. “He should have lit it himself.”
A shuffling walk, trailing the furs, took her down the stairs and through into the kitchen. The stove was lit at least, that was something, and the warmth of the kitchen was a blessed relief. She sloshed the kettle experimentally and set it onto the stove to boil.
Snow was falling heavily outside. She peered out through the window and shuddered at the sight. The snow lay thick on the rooftops and was filling the streets. Winter was here in earnest and in Hesk it would be no fleeting visit. The city would be cloaked in snow for the best part of three months now, and even then it would only be tempered by the driving rains of early spring.
The Realm of Twilight had been a warm land. Winter was unknown there, and for the first time she found herself almost envying Joran. Just thinking of the name brought a host of memories and feelings with it, tumbling over each other as they fought for her attention. She pushed them aside as thinking of Joran would only lead to thoughts of Effan and that just led to tears.
She been inconsolable for much of the trip back to the Barren Isles, avoiding most conversation and spending as much time as she could alone by the stern as she looked out over the water. “I hope you're happy, Joran,” she whispered.
She reached out with one finger, drawing idly in the condensation on the window, and then stopped herself. The glyphs stared back at her, a simple series that would have worked to activate a runeplate. The water droplets were already running from the bottom of her finger strokes, ruining the image, but for a moment she wondered at it. The glyphs almost looked like the Dernish script that she'd often seen on the precious casks of keft that Klöss so loved. She'd never noticed the similarities before.
The hiss of the kettle brought her back to the stove and her hands worked automatically, producing cup, leaves and honey. She filled the pot and poured. The tea needed to steep but she needed something hot to hold. “Flavour can wait for the second cup,” she told herself as she cupped her hands around the mug.
The knocking was insistent, less of a request than a demand, and Ylsriss hurried to the door.
“Gavin!” She flinched back from the snowflakes and the cold wind that burrowed through her furs, seeking exposed flesh.
“I thought I'd see how you're getting on,” he said.
She stepped back. “Come in, you look half frozen. Oh, for all that's good and right, you don't even have a cloak! Kick the snow off your boots and get in here.”
She pulled him through into the kitchen and poured him hot tea as he stood near the woodstove warming his hands.
“What brings
you here?” she said, passing him the cup and setting two chairs close to the stove.
He took it gratefully, hunching over it and blowing at the steam. “Nothing really. It's just been a week or so and I wanted to see how you're doing.”
She gave him a look. “Klöss sent you didn't he?”
Gavin blew on his tea.
“Oh, Lord of the Frosts, I'm fine!” she said. “I don't need checking up on.”
“If you say so.” Gavin sipped at the tea as she glared at him.
“If anything, you need more checking on than I do,” she told him. “What have you done since we got back? Where are you even living? Back in that cellar?”
“I'm still finding my feet,” he said with a shrug.
That gave her pause. They were more alike than she really liked to admit. “It hasn't been easy,” she muttered. “The cold doesn't help.”
He glanced over to the window. The snow settled in the frame and stuck to the glass. “It was a lot milder in Anlan.”
Hmm.” Ylsriss nodded. “Do you think about them?”
“Who?”
“Devin, Obair, all the others.” She waved vaguely.
Gavin shrugged, sipping at the tea again. “Sometimes. It's more Tristan for me than anyone else. Though I suspect Devin is going to have his hands full with that red-headed girl.”
“Erinn.” Ylsriss nodded.
“That's the one.” Gavin smiled. “Still, the boy got his happy ending.”
Ylsriss looked down at the cup she nestled in her lap. “Happy endings only happen in faerie tales, Gavin. In life you need to work for any ending you can get. The happy ones always seem to take their price in tears. Yours or those of another, the price must always be paid.”
He looked at her for a moment. “We didn't have to come back so soon you know? We could have stayed for the coronation at least. Part of me wanted to see their queen get her man too. Rhenkin is as clueless as any man I've known.”
“I don't have any interest in foreign queens.” Ylsriss sniffed. “Besides, this is my home.”
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