All That Glows

Twenty-Nine

Dinner is a small, unremarkable event. I pick at my baked chicken—my stomach is turning too much even to think of putting food down there. I keep sipping at the tongue-twisting lemonade. It washes, the perfect combination of sour and sweet, down my throat.

“Mab’s reply isn’t here yet.” Breena breaks our arbitrary silence. Her chilled words slide down the long, glass-coated dining table. “That’s not normal. Something went wrong.”

As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. I sent my message over twenty-four hours ago. Any response, especially for a situation this urgent, should’ve arrived by now.

But Mab received the letter. I felt her open it.

“The message must have been intercepted on its way back.” Breena frowns. Her stare drifts aimlessly around the gilded room, over tiger lilies and gold-plated utensils.

Even if that happened, Mab would know. She’d try a different way of getting the message to us.

“Maybe she’s still trying.”

But no matter how many times we move the pieces around a particular excuse, nothing fits the way it should.

Something isn’t right, Breena. I feel it. Maybe Mab’s court has been compromised.

Blood abandons Breena’s face, leaving her vampire pale. “Then we’re trapped here. Blind. Without protection.”

“Can I get you anything, Emrys?”

“Oh, nothing.” I straighten up, hoping Anabelle hasn’t noticed my intense staring match with the vacant space next to her.

“I hope we aren’t boring you,” Anabelle says, her fingers winding delicately around the stem of her fork. “Things will be a little more lively tomorrow when the rest of the family gets here.”

“The rest of the family?”

“I thought it would be nice to have the entire family here for a few days.” Richard nudges me underneath the table.

It means more Frithemaeg, but also more people to protect. The Old One will come in here and wipe out the entire royal line like pieces from a chessboard.

“Oh, lovely,” I say, my voice growing weak. “I’ve been wanting to meet them.”

“What did the raven say?” Breena’s nails tap against the table’s sleek surface, regaining my attention. “Tell me the exact words.”

I shut my eyes, struggle to remember the prophecies. All of this mental juggling is giving me a headache.

Something about a shadow. Her hand is moving. Two paths grow for Albion. When the full moon arrives, she will strike. The Lord of the Wood is waiting. Beware the crown! Seek the power in the blood. I falter at the last few sentences, suddenly facing those hidden meanings I couldn’t wrap my mind around before.

“Beware the crown.” Breena’s lips tremble, a bruised, sickly shade of blue. “So Mab’s court has been compromised.”

Of course. The crown in the prophecy wasn’t talking about Anabelle or Richard. The danger lurked in Mab’s court, where I’d sent a youngling with all of our vital information. My only hope is that Mab managed to destroy the letter before it reached enemy eyes.

I’ll bet it’s Titania. She always was after Mab’s power.

Breena’s hands rise over her face, shielding her from everything. They stay there for ten long breaths. In, out. In, out. I mirror her lungfuls of air, try to fight the despair and hopelessness that creep up like the tide.

“There’s no use speculating.” My friend’s hands fall back to the tabletop. They stay flat and unmoving, like the depths of her eyes. “It could be any one of the courtiers. All that matters is there’s no help coming. And no way of knowing where we should go.”

How did we get into this mess?

“It’s easy to see now. Whoever infiltrated Mab’s courts must’ve had control over the scouting parties. It’s no wonder they couldn’t find anything. They were being led into dead ends the whole time!”

Something inside me breaks. It’s myself, my spirit as it was before countless years of humanity’s sugarcoating. From the years before Camelot, when I was a wild thing, tearing through the moors and mountains. Unbound. If I give in to it now, the room and everything in it, except Breena, will be destroyed.

Breena sees the breaking. “Save it,” she says. “You’ll need it for what’s coming.”

I close it up, stitch by painful stitch. The beast inside roars with protest, aching to be let out. My rational self silences it. Breena’s right. I’ll need it for what’s ahead.

I pick up the polished fork and jab it into the closest piece of chicken. It doesn’t matter that the food will upset my stomach. Not a lot matters now.

“Anabelle’s afraid you don’t like her,” Richard tells me later. “I tried to tell her you were just tired, but I don’t think she bought it.”

“I was busy talking with Breena.” I’m blunt, in no mood for apologies.

But Richard doesn’t ask for an apology. He doesn’t even ask about my conversation with Breena. His mind is focused on one thing. “Will you take me to Herne now?”

I look through his bedroom window on to the fading scene of the Great Park. I feel him, roaming somewhere beneath those silver-etched trees. He won’t be pleased to see us again.

But now the fear is gone. Herne’s voice has already spoken. It said no. Let Richard have his turn. There’s nothing left to lose.

“Yes,” I speak into the panes. “I’ll take you.”

“Thank you.” I feel him draw in close behind me, but he doesn’t touch me. His reflection in the glass is all worry. It’s the only anxiety I’ve seen on his face this whole time.

“Have you really given up already?”

I turn, meet him face-to-face. Deep-creased lines of concern around his eyes quickly blend into the rest of his skin.

“I’m sorry. It’s just hard to see how it’ll turn out any other way. Mab’s court has been compromised. There’s no help coming. We’re alone now.” I try to keep my voice flat, like a windless lake, but there’s too much roiling underneath. Some words break.

“Then we’ll just have to convince Herne, won’t we?” Our hands lock together. In this moment, his fingers twisted and curled into mine, the future isn’t full of dark and burning.

“And if not,” he continues, “we’ll face what’s coming together. I don’t regret a moment I’ve spent with you, Embers. Even this.”

Now. Tell him now. I realize I’m not afraid. Somewhere in these long weeks of emotions, I faced my sea serpent and jumped. I love Richard even more than I fear death. More than I fear losing my magic, my self. Because my magic isn’t my self anymore.

It’s not panic but a peace, released in my chest. This is it. The moment between moments—the time for me to give myself to him.

“Richard?”

He looks down, eyes full.

“There’s something I want to tell you.”

A question flutters behind the twitch of his mouth, but he waits, silent.

Another breath reins in the rapid gallops of my heart. I look. Really look at him. The night falling outside shines in his eyes. I see myself there, haloed by hazel and dusk.

“I love you.”

Richard smiles, cups my face with his free hand, and brings our lips together. I feel his fingers move, sliding through my hair’s copper depths as his kiss strengthens. I pull him close. My arms wreathe around his neck, anchor us together. The moment is enveloping. I want to stay in it.

A great sigh fills Richard when we fall away.

“I think—I think I’ve made my choice.”

He stiffens. His eyes grow wider, letting in more of the dark.

“But,” I continue, “before I do anything, I need to know that this is going to last. Is this forever?”

“I can’t,” he says.

All of the sudden I feel like an ax-bitten tree—hacked, hacked, and hacked until I fall dead against the ground. Rotting and devastated.

“I can’t ask you to give everything up. Your magic. Your life . . .” He shakes his head. Relief washes over me, sinks in like raindrops meeting parched soil. “I can’t—I won’t be the reason you die.”

I blink, try to recover from the awfulness of his pause. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, Embers. You are my yes. You’re the one I’ll love until the day I die.” Every word is sure, a stone mortared into place. They block up, brick by brick, filling me. And I know that, as long as I have him, my soul will feel whole. “But that doesn’t mean you have to die too.”

I rest my head against his chest and memorize the pulsing beat of his heart, how it murmurs its unsung ballad into my ear. He strokes my hair, his fingers threading through the long, smooth strands. But his fingers don’t stop there. They continue down my back to the curving base of my spine.

“I can’t keep living like this, Richard.” I think about everywhere I’ve been, everywhere I’m going. “The sickness . . . Being apart from you . . .”

“But your magic. Your future.” Concern for me aches through his chest.

“That was my past. That world is falling apart,” I tell him. “It’s my choice. But I don’t think it’s going to matter. The way things are going . . .”

“We’ll get through this. You’ll see,” he promises.

“I hope you’re right.” I look back out the window, at the milky white length of the Long Walk stretching far into velveteen darkness. “Let’s go.”

When we reach line of thick, tangling trees I almost turn back. Leafy spirits stare through the darkness; their eyes rake over us, full of unwelcome. Richard walks forward with blithe, agile steps, unaware of the forest’s hostile inhabitants.

“It’s better if you stay behind me.” My voice fills the empty spaces between the trees and I fall silent, feeling as though I breached something sacred.

Richard wheels around, backtracks to the patch of earth behind me. “Is he close?”

I pause. Herne’s presence is everywhere. It’s impossible to tell how close or far he is in a place like this. His magic soaks the soil, rolls in the air. It’s only when I see him with my own eyes that I’ll know for sure where he is.

“I don’t know. But he knows we’re here.” The Dryads’ whispers travel fast. I’m sure they’ve reached his part of the woods by now. “He should come.” Out of blatant irritation or curiosity if nothing else.

We’re stopped by the base of a sprawling, many-limbed oak. It stretches over us like a squid, its reach tangled and endless. “I think we should wait here.”

Richard starts to lean against the worn, grooved trunk.

“Don’t touch anything.” I reach out and stop him. “Herne’s very protective of his trees.”

Richard grunts, but stands straight again.

We don’t wait long. The low thunder of Herne’s horse rises into the air. The thick hedge of trees leans aside to let the commanding rider through. In the darkness, all I can see of Herne are his coal-glow eyes. They burn through the evening—twisted, throbbing stars.

“I’ve already answered your request. What more do you want of me, young woodling?”

“King Richard wishes to speak with you.” As I say this, Richard stiffens and looks into the same empty spot of trees. “Will you show yourself to him?”

The request catches Herne off guard. His piercing eyes roll from me over to Richard. Their orange depths flicker, as if seeing the mortal for the first time. “The king? What words does he have for me?”

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “You’ll have to speak with him yourself.”

For a terrible moment, I think Herne will turn away, but the Lord of the Wood is too curious. He stares at Richard, studying every facet of the mortal’s face. Something about the king seems to satisfy him.

Beside me, Richard jumps, focusing on the patch of darkness as it shapes into the horse and its fearsome rider. Richard’s fingers twitch, but his expression is set, unmoved by the rider’s spiral horns and furnace eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, making a tiny half bow.

All of the muscles in my body grow tight. Was this a mistake? I thought that bringing Richard here couldn’t have done any more harm than good. Maybe I was wrong. The slightest insult could send Herne over the edge.

Windsor’s spirit returns the bow, bending close to the towering neck of his horse. I feel like I can breathe again.

“What is it you want, O king?” Herne’s voice booms a strange mix of disregard and respect. Despite all his earlier statements, it seems Herne still holds the mortals’ crown in special consideration.

“I’ve come to ask you to reconsider your decision,” Richard says.

“Is that so?” Herne grunts. “Well, I’m sure your Frithemaeg has told you of my reasons. What have you to offer instead?”

Richard begins to pace. Dead leaves kick up under his feet as he walks the same line, as though he’s patrolling a courtroom. “Is the destruction of England’s humanity really the answer to your problem? For years, the mortal and immortal have existed, side by side—but then your kind chose to plunge us into ignorance. Faeries and other spirits vanished. They forced humans to push them into the realm of myths and legends. And now you’re angry for what we’ve created instead. We can’t know that we’ve damaged magic if we aren’t even aware of its existence.”

Herne moves. I almost throw myself in front of Richard, but there’s no need. The old spirit is only dismounting his horse.

“Go on,” he says.

Richard doesn’t flinch as the towering being draws closer. Even off his steed, Herne is nearly as tall and solid as the trunk of the nearby oak.

“Since I’ve met Emrys, I’ve begun to understand that spirits and humans weren’t meant to live apart. We’re supposed to work together, side by side. That’s what made Pendragon’s kingdom so legendary. That’s what brought England to its golden age. We can have that again. We can create a new alliance.” Richard pounds his fist into his hand to emphasize his point.

“And how would this benefit me?” Herne interrupts. “This is all well and good, but how is it not easier just to let you be killed?”

My heart drops, like a starling struck dead in the sky. Herne—like so many other spirits—is truly a neutral force, indifferent to the lives and deaths of all around him.

Richard jumps into his argument without skipping a beat. “Even if the Old One takes my crown, the mortals will put up a fight. There’ll be chaos, pandemonium. People will run into the woods to hide. I’m sure many trees would get destroyed in the process. If we face the Old One together we can avoid that destruction.”

Herne is frozen, almost impossible to pick apart from the sentinel-still trunks of the woods. Richard has found the spirit’s one weak spot: his love for his forest.

The king goes on, “I promise you that once the alliance between mortals and spirits is cemented, I’ll focus on rebuilding the forests. Your forest will be wild—and I mean truly wild again. You have my word.”

“And what assurance do I have that you’ll keep this word of yours?” Herne growls after a moment’s hesitation.

“It’s my life.” Richard spreads out his hands in surrender.

My heart beats faster, like a rabbit startled into flight. For the first time in days, a real tangible hope sits in front of me. Herne hasn’t said no or ridden off into the bushes. He simply stands there.

“You.” His eyes flick back to me, burn twin holes into my gut. “What does your queen have to say about all of this?”

“I—I don’t know,” I manage. “We’ve lost all communication with Mab’s court. We believe it’s been compromised.”

“Treason? Mab’s grip got too tight, did it? Or maybe it wasn’t tight enough,” the woodlord adds grimly.

I bite my tongue and wonder if I should resort to begging. But Richard speaks again before I can open my mouth.

“So that’s your choice. You can help us establish a kingdom of mortals and spirits and allow your woods to prosper. Or you can stand back and let anarchy destroy what little wilderness you have left.” He faces the forest spirit, arms crossed. Gone is the young man who refused to face his future. Somewhere, in the past few days, a monarch has risen from the ashes of his fear.

Richard is a king now.

The lofty air has vanished from Herne’s aura—replaced by a keen sense of wariness. He’s studying Richard, his glowing eyes scour the king’s face.

An owl’s call breaks the silence, low and lonely. None of us move.

“I like you,” Herne says finally. “You have backbone. But I need more than your word that my trees will survive.”

He’s talking about his price. A spirit with no loyalties must be bought.

“My magic.” My offer spills out before Richard substitutes something dangerous or equally irretrievable. “If we survive the battle, you can have my magic.”

All of Herne’s energies focus in on me, digging a shudder out of my body. The spirit glides forward, horns twisting so far above me they seem to spear the light of the stars.

“You are the Lady Emrys, are you not?” he rumbles. “Mab holds you in high esteem. She says you’re gifted for one so young. . . . Your power isn’t something to be given lightly. Tell me, why would you sacrifice it?”

“It—” I glance over at where Richard stands, straight and rigid like a toy soldier. “It doesn’t matter. It’s my choice.”

“For him?” Herne’s voice rises with surprise.

“But only after the battle,” I tell him again when he takes another step forward. “I have to be able to defend myself.” And Richard.

“Certainly. If only I might have your word.” The spirit extends a dark-gloved hand.

I take a deep breath, knowing what will happen when I lock fingers with him. There will be no going back. No second chances. But the choice was already made, long before this moment. My hand stretches out, out.

“Emrys, no.” Richard steps in front of me. My fingers crumple against the center of his chest. “We’ll find something else. There has to be another way.”

I shake my head. His heart slams hard; I feel every beat beneath my nails.

“It’s okay, Richard.” I swallow and try not to think of everything I’m about to give up. I focus on what’s in front of me. What I’m touching. “Death . . . it doesn’t matter. Because being with you is worth all of that.”

“Are you sure?” Richard’s hands reach around mine, hold me to him. I look at him and wonder how he can doubt, how he doesn’t know that he’s worth all of this.

“Yes, Richard.” I smile and repeat those words he offered only minutes before. “You are my yes.”

Richard still holds my hand, looks at its nails and creases like they’re some sort of treasure. After a long, lingering moment he steps aside and lets go.

There’s a sound like the cracking of thunder, Herne clearing his throat. “Does your offer still stand, Lady Emrys?”

“It does,” I tell him, and step forward.

My hand slides into Herne’s and I feel the magic beginning to work. It fuses us together, weaving the words of my mouth into an unbreakable contract, cementing and binding them. My future is sealed now. Either way the battle turns, I’ll meet death.

“You have my sword then,” Herne says once he releases me. Even though our hands fall apart, I still feel the harsh tug of my promise to him. “When do you expect the Old One to arrive?”

“The ravens said it would be at the full moon,” I tell him.

“Four days.” The spirit glides back to his horse. “Barely enough time to get the Hunt together.”

So he’s gathering the Hunt. The idea should reassure me, but all I feel is a nervous rumbling in my innards.

“I’m going to round up my followers.” Herne mounts his horse and it whinnies, haunches rippling and ready. “When I return, we will meet to decide battle tactics.”

With that he’s off, the earthy rumble of hooves ruling the night air. I stand still, eyeing the broken underbrush the darker-than-night animal just plowed through.

“So it’s done.” Richard stares too, eyes wide at the empty space the woodlord left.

“It’s done.” I nod, watching as the woods creep back to reclaim the path Herne carved. The gaping darkness soon fills with bark and leaves. “He agreed. How did you know what to say to him?”

“I was improvising.” Richard’s lips turn sheepish with a grin. “Reading him. You have to do that a lot when you’re dealing with politicians. Dad taught me how to do it.”

“Well, it worked. And Herne really does seem to admire you.”

Wind breaks through the stillness of the trees. Moonlight leaks and swells through cracks in their branches.

“Emrys?”

I look over. His face is so sharp, so beautiful under the moon. It’s almost Fae-like.

“Thank you.” He wraps his arm around me, drawing me close.

Few words can contain what it feels like, his shoulder curling over mine. Full, complete. No more hole. No more gaping.

And I know, no matter how many days I have left, that my choice was the right one.