The Vanishing Throne (6 page)

I'm not at full strength to defend myself, and she's suggesting we go through
there
?

“Hell,” I mutter. Louder: “Couldn't you open a door somewhere else?”

“I could open one anywhere,” she says, not seeming the least bit concerned. “But if we don't want Lonnrach to send an army after us in mere seconds, we must go through there. That's where the wind changes.”

I realize then that Aithinne is making our platform move out of synch with the rest of the rocks and buildings. We rise above the dark ravine, higher and higher, until we are level with the edge of the cliffs. From here, I have an even better view of the forest.

If anything, it's only more frightening close up. At least from afar the trees didn't seem capable of mortally wounding me. The branches are sharp and pointed, like spikes shooting off in all directions, and so knifelike that a mere brush against them could prove fatal. They gleam black, smooth as polished chalcedony. Despite their semireflective surface, no light escapes from between them.

The platform reaches the edge of the cliff and Aithinne waits for me to step off. My slippers touch the soil; the rocks beneath my feet glitter like smooth, perfectly cut and polished clear gemstones. Diamonds, perhaps. At any other time, I would have stopped to admire them. Instead I stare up at the trees with dread.

“Whatever you do, don't wander off,” Aithinne says, moving to stand beside me. “
Ruaigidh dorchadas
.
The shadows in there are living creatures. Do you understand?”

“Not really.” I have visions of murder by tree. It's rather gruesome.

Aithinne straightens. “It's really very simple,” she says, looking up at the branches. “Try not to die in there. Don't trust the darkness. Easy. How humans managed to survive from caves to tenements without knowing any of this, I'll never understand.”

I bristle, offended on behalf of my own kind—but then haven't I thought the same thing? I've marveled before that humanity—which was once hunted to near extinction by the fae—let their wisdom be whittled away to mere children's stories. Half of the stories are misleading nonsense, and the other half are outright rubbish. The folly of humans is truly astounding.

“People know about the fae from stories,” I tell her, listening to the metal tree limbs sing and whistle as the breeze rushes through the forest. “They just don't believe in them anymore.”

She studies me quietly, for the longest time. I don't miss the flicker of pity that crosses her features, quickly chased away. “You're wrong,” she tells me. “I'd say they believe in them now.”

I think of the scenes Lonnrach showed me what seems like so long ago. Princes Street in ruins. Ash falling from the sky. I've lived with those images in my mirrored prison.
They're burned into my memory. Eventually I had to stop wondering whether Gavin, Derrick, and Catherine survived. I had to stop picturing the horrible ways they must have died. If I hadn't, Lonnrach would have found a way to use those memories against me. He would have broken me.

If anyone had survived, they'd have new nightmare stories to tell their children. About how one day an army of fae came through Scotland and destroyed everything. They'll never even know about the girl who failed them all.

“Aye,” I say softly. “I suppose you're right.”

Together, we enter the forest.

B
EYOND THOSE
first few trees, the darkness in the forest is thick. It presses against me, a solid weight. The temperature drops. Suddenly, the air is frigid enough that I shiver in my thin shift.

It smells of ash in the forest, like smoke and embers from a recently extinguished fire. The taste of power here is strong, a dryness like soot, with a lingering taste of peat. It's abrasive, as rough as pumice.

A high, thin whine sounds from somewhere nearby, like sharp nails scraping against metal. It echoes through the forest from no discernible source. My hand drops to my waist—where I would normally keep a weapon—and I get a fistful of air. Of course there's nothing there; Lonnrach made sure of it. “What the devil was that?”

“
Mara
.” Aithinne keeps her voice low, barely above a whisper. “I believe your kind call them demons.”

Somewhere in the dark woods, teeth click together in a hard bite, followed by a soft whine. Muttering a swear, I edge closer to Aithinne when I'm startled by a sudden burst of illumination. A ball of light at least the size of my fist appears between her cupped hands. It swirls and glows brighter until it stings my eyes to look at directly. She tosses it into the air and it explodes above us, casting flickering stars across the sky.

The shadows flee. They actually
flee
, leaping behind trees to hide from the light. Although it's not bright enough to illuminate their bodies, I can see that their fur gleams lustrous and thick. Farther into the forest, huge, shadowed bodies hunch among the sharp branches. A thousand pairs of eyes watch us from the darkness.

The shadows in there are living creatures. Do you understand?

Now I do—all too well. I never encountered another faery in all my time in the
Sìth-bhrùth
, not even a glimpse when I first arrived. At times I wondered whether it was empty except for Lonnrach and me. Whether he did that deliberately so I was more isolated.

It seems some creatures have been here all along, gathered away from the crevasse. These faeries are wild. Their stares are unsettling, intense, and ravenous. I swear I can hear them licking their teeth, jaws clicking with hunger.

I stay close to Aithinne as we hurry through the trees. Our pace is slowed by the bladelike branches pointing out in all directions, only just visible in the dim light. As the last orb fades, Aithinne readies another ball of light.

A growl to my left is close. Though I've managed through sheer force of will to overcome the dizziness left by Lonnrach's venom, I don't have a blade to defend myself from the
mara
.

“I don't suppose you have another weapon?” I say in a low voice, skirting around a long branch. I can't help it; I test the end of the branch and my skin gives as though I'd pricked it on the edge of a knife. My finger comes away with blood.

Well. That proves my theory that the trees really could kill me.

Aithinne pauses. Her grin is slow, devious. She pushes open her coat and I realize she's wearing two belts, one for each blade. She unbuckles one and passes it to me. “I always come prepared.”

I'm starting to like Kiaran's sister.

She hands me a raploch pouch from her pocket. “And this, in case of emergencies.”

Seilgflùr
. All right, I
really
like Kiaran's sister.

I pick out a few heads of thistle and twist them to knot around my neck, leaving the remainder in the pouch fastened at my wrist. Not only is the thistle deadly enough to fae that it burns right through their skin, but it gives me the ability to see them at all times. Without it, if the
mara
—or even Aithinne—willed it, they could disappear from my human vision and I'd never even know they were there at all.

Once my necklace is secured, I push my tangled hair out of my face to see where the sword belt buckles, pulling the strap tightly around my hips.

Aithinne smiles. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “your hair rather looks like an octopus.” Then, as if to reassure me: “I love octopi.”

And Aithinne is obviously a bit barmy, but nobody's perfect.

She readies another ball of light for us to move forward. Though we continue quickly through the trees, I'm beginning to wonder whether this forest has an end. No light is visible from the other side, only a ceaseless number of trees.

A bray from somewhere behind us makes me jump. My fingers close around the hilt of the sword. “I assume they see us as . . . a meal?” I can't think of a way to word it more delicately.
Bloody hell, these faeries want to dine on me
.

“No, no,” Aithinne says. “They're here to eat you, not me. I don't think I'd taste very good to them.”

“Comforting,” I say dryly. “Very comforting.”

I might have a blade, but I doubt I'd be terribly effective in a fight. It's been too long since my training; my body is slighter than it was when I battled last. But I can run. At least I can run.

“Don't worry,” Aithinne says. She casts up more light. “They'll keep to the shadows.”

“Are they Unseelie, then?”

Human books about the fae always split them between two kingdoms: Light and dark. Seelie and Unseelie. The Seelie are considered the not-so-bad faeries. They're described as seductively beautiful and are said to ride on
gleaming horses. The Unseelie, on the other hand, are creatures of shadow. They're described as cold and brutal to any human unfortunate enough to meet them. They're rumored to enslave and eventually kill anyone they steal from the outside world, while the Seelie—considering themselves better—return humans to their home realm, even centuries after they're taken.

Such is the supposed
mercy
of the immortals. Bastards, all of them.

“The
mara
were devoted to our former monarch,” Aithinne says. “Not the courts.”

Though we continue at a brisk pace, Aithinne's feet never make a sound as she strides beside me. I am clumsy in comparison, my slippers crunching through the gemstone soil.

I remember Lonnrach's words.
No one has seen the Cailleach for thousands of years. The heirs she left behind to rule were . . . unworthy
.

“The Cailleach?”

Aithinne doesn't answer right away. She tosses up another light and it sizzles as it disperses. Shadows flee through the trees in trails of gleaming fur and burning eyes. There are more than there were before. They're so quick that I can barely see what they look like, but from their height, they're bigger than wolves.

Finally, her gaze flickers to me, her expression unreadable. “Aye. When the Cailleach left, the
mara
chose not to align themselves with either kingdom,” she murmurs. “This forest belongs to them now.”

A low growl comes from behind us, a rumbling, full-bodied sound. All the fine hairs on my body stand straight up and I shiver. Going through this forest is like wandering the Highlands at night, with wildcats lurking in the darkness, just waiting to pounce.

I know with certainty that the
mara
are watching and preparing for the moment Aithinne's light dims just enough, and I'm theirs. They wouldn't even take me back to Lonnrach. They'd devour me, flesh to bone.

Aithinne is quick to make sure that never happens. As soon as the stars twinkling above us begin to dim, she casts up more. They flicker, so abundant and beautiful, as if we were looking at the night sky through the trees instead of her own created light. As if we are at the center of a private galaxy.

“Quickly, Falconer.”

Aithinne increases her already hurried pace. I can barely keep up with her anymore. The muscles in my legs are trembling. I haven't used them this much in a long time.

I'm breathing hard, shaking all over. Lonnrach's venom has this effect if I go too long between bites. My stomach cramps with nausea.

I try to ignore it and continue, only to stumble and lose my balance. Gasping, I realize I was mere inches away from impaling myself on one of those blasted tree branches. “Wait,” I call, skirting around the branches with more care. “Slow down.”

Though no emotion crosses Aithinne's features, I can sense her urgency. “Very well.” She slows ever so slightly, just enough for me to catch up. Though we maintain haste, I match Aithinne's pace with only a little difficulty. The pain is bearable.

She sends up another light, bursting up to the tops of the trees. This one reminds me of nights in Edinburgh beneath clear skies. Moonless winter evenings spent in the garden when the stars are bright and abundant.

I can't help it. My fingers brush one of Lonnrach's marks at my wrist and I picture the Edinburgh he showed me. My home is gone and in its place is ruin, destruction. Perhaps I really am just leaving one version of perdition for another.

“Aithinne? What's it like in the human realm now?” At her hesitation, I say, “I know what happened immediately after the battle. That Edinburgh was destroyed.”

I almost ask her how long it's been, but the question sticks in my throat. I can't. Not yet.

She seems reluctant. Her hand is cupped, a ball of light swirling in her palm. “It's difficult out there,” she says carefully. “But you'll be with your own kind, at least.”

My breath hitches in surprise and I stop walking.
You'll be with your own kind
.
Surely she can't mean . . . ?

I reach out and clamp a hand around her wrist. “There are survivors?”

Aithinne seems surprised by the force of my words. “Well. Aye.”

I
break
.
I can't help it. When she tries to move away, my grip tightens. Hope is a traitorous bastard and I'm letting it squirm its way into my heart all the same. “Catherine. Gavin. Their surname is Stewart. One of them might have a wee pixie with them. Does that sound at all familiar?”

Something flickers in her gaze as she tries to extract herself from my grip. “I can't say.”

I breathe a curse then, a vile one I learned from Kiaran. I don't give a damn about whether Lonnrach has discovered I'm gone, or even about the
mara
surrounding us. I need to know. Hope already has its claws sunk inside me, deep and relentless. After all that time I spent thinking I was the only one left, Aithinne has given me my single most important wish and now she won't share a thing.