All That Glows

Thirty-Three

I’ve never woken up before. It’s one of the simple facts of a spirit’s existence. We don’t sleep. We don’t need to: magic gives us all the energy we need.

But when I stared so blankly into the darkness, I left myself. I can’t say how. Maybe it was the grief or the shock of the blood magic. Whatever it was, I was gone, lost for hours.

Something, someone is shaking me. Light forces through the cracks in my eyes. My body feels stiff, old, as if all of the years I’ve lived have finally passed through it. I sit up from the damp leaves and look around, my neck robotic and slow.

Morning—the clearing is bright and blue with it. The ground oozes wet with last night’s storm. Gashes of movement scar the drying mud, leaves splay everywhere.

“Emrys!” The princess is next to me, her hair mussed and golden like a lion’s mane. Bright, angry pink lines her eyes, framed by the old smear of coal-black makeup. “Emrys, wake up!”

Breena’s body is haunting in its closeness. I can’t not look at it, angled and sprawled like a broken marionette. The sight makes my insides hollow, drained like a cracked egg.

“What happened? Where’s Richard? Is he hurt?” Anabelle looks as unstrung and desperate as I feel. “I lost him when I was running through the woods and I thought he might come back here. . . .”

Something explodes, sharp and hot, inside my chest as memories of the night before rush back. Heartbreak all over again. I look away from Breena’s broken corpse and steel myself for what’s beside me. My hand goes out to touch him, but it falls into slimy ground.

Richard is gone. Stolen. There’s a slight imprint in the earth where he lay next to me, so rigid, so cold. Mab’s cronies must have arrived during my trance and taken it.

“No. No, no, no,” I sob, bringing my fist down into the rotting leaves. After all this, they still got Richard. They wrenched away our last moment together.

Anabelle stares into the mess of mud and mulch beside me. Her face is crypt white—tattooed with fear. “What happened?”

I look around the clearing, scanning for anything that can get me back to him. Last night’s footprints are everywhere, littered and preserved in claylike ground.

Anabelle’s hands snag my shoulders, firm and determined. I find myself looking into her eyes. They’re the color of earth. “Emrys, where’s my brother?”

My head buzzes with truth I can’t make myself speak. Dead. Richard is dead. I failed. I lost him.

“So, you’re both alive.” The sudden, gruff voice makes my body jerk.

Herne slips out of the trees, composed of shade and gloom even under glaring daylight. He looks smaller after the battle, all of his terrible energy released on some poor souls.

“It was her all along then?” His citrine eyes pick out the spot where Mab fell. He’s reading the spells, piecing together everything that happened. “Wouldn’t have guessed it. That’s why I tend to stay out of these affairs. Never know who to trust.”

“Have—have you seen the king’s body?” I manage. “It’s gone. I’m afraid it’s been stolen.”

Anabelle’s cry is desolate, filled with terrible knowledge and loss. It shatters what’s left of my heart.

“Body?” Herne steps closer, studies Richard’s shallow casting in the leaves. “The king is dead?”

I nod, fighting hard against the sobs that try to claw their way out of me. I can’t even bear to look over at Anabelle. “Mab’s magic tore him inside out. No mortal could survive that.”

Herne kneels down to touch the earth. One by one, leaves fall back, tattered and brown, through his gloved fingers. “Tell me. How did you manage to kill the Old One? You’re far too young to manage such a thing on your own.”

“Richard stabbed her and I finished her off.” I don’t want to think back on those last moments. Not now. Spare the princess those last, awful details. Her crying is mewling and awful. It scratches at my back like a pitifully angered kitten.

“There was something else. Something old,” Herne says, and brushes the last of the vegetation off his hands.

“Something happened—” My throat collapses. I can’t find the will to get past the choking.

Herne walks over to Mab’s other victim. The body they left.

From here I can see Breena’s fragile sketch of a face. Even in death she clings to her beauty. Her hair springs around porcelain skin like a crown; eyes glazed in a mysterious, knowing way. There’s no fear in them, no terror at the emptiness. Only peace.

Peace that’s beyond me now.

“Let’s take her back to the castle. It will do us no good to linger here,” Herne growls, his ember eyes flicker meaningfully toward the princess.

With her shoulders slumped and her hair inextricably knotted, Anabelle reminds me of a lost, young girl. But when her eyes meet mine, they harden and all thoughts of weepy children are lost to me.

“You promised you would protect him! He’s dead because of you!” she yells, her stare pinning me like gravity. Her accusations are only lighter echoes of the condemnations ringing through my mind.

I don’t speak. I don’t move. I just stare back into the devastation.

Anabelle keeps screaming words she doesn’t mean. Words she has to say.

It’s Herne who finally intervenes. He approaches the princess and touches her on the shoulder with surprising gentleness. There’s magic in his fingers—a soothing, merciful spell that causes Anabelle to crumple into his arms, fast asleep. Golden hair spills over the woodlord’s leather gloves as he gathers her to his chest.

“Come, Lady Emrys.” He steps toward the edge of the clearing. “I’ll see to it that the Dryads bring Lady Breena after us.”

There’s no will in me. No reason to fight. I follow the wild spirit through his woods, my thoughts buzzing with Anabelle’s words of blame. Not once do I look back.

There are many dead. More than I thought possible. Corpses drape Windsor’s turrets and walls—macabre garlands. Limp bodies of Black Dogs and Green Women lie tangled with the hollow forms of Fae. I recognize some of them as we separate the bodies, burning the soul feeders and setting the Frithemaeg aside for a final good-bye. Others, like Titania and her attendants, have vanished altogether, unmade by more brutal spells.

I feel useless without Richard, floundering in the middle of this desolate sea. His body isn’t among the others. Not that I expected it to be. It’s far from us now, in the clutches of some Banshee or Green Woman scavenging it for blood magic. They’ll find nothing. It isn’t Richard anymore. Just a carved-out shell.

It’s evening when we begin the funeral rites. It isn’t often that Fae must say good-bye to their own. Some of the younglings have never even been to such a ceremony. I stand by Breena’s body.

Tears blot my eyes as I arrange the leafy tiara perfectly against her head. Breena had been there even in my earliest days. Her words were the ones I followed. Her counsel and confidence had been as vital as water.

And now, like Richard, she’s gone.

I stroke her hair. Each brush of my finger brings back a separate memory. Of how, in the early days, we flew along coasts without tiring, grazing cliffs and skimming the iron-gray waves of the North Sea. Of the battles we fought with magic and steel, of the ballads that sprung from them. Of the gowns and gavottes, the cellos and long, candlelit dances drenched with wine. Of her pouch of birdseed and those dirty, adoring pigeons.

There are well over a hundred bodies laid out on Windsor’s emerald lawns. Like Breena, the dead are dressed in white, crowned with garlands the Dryads fashioned for us. Every surviving spirit and even some of the mortals are here, gathered around the fallen with closed, solemn faces. My breath grows weak at the sight of so much death and, for a moment, I’m not sure I can stand.

“Lady Emrys?”

It’s Helene, now next to me. Several younglings fan out behind her, their mouths drawn tight. I stare at them, keeping my precious words to myself for a moment longer. My throat hasn’t released me since that hour in the clearing.

The Fae is undeterred by my silence. “We were wondering if you might conduct the ceremony.”

A quick scan at the ranks of the living confirms what I suspected. In light of Breena’s death and Titania’s disappearance, I’m the oldest here. It’s my duty to perform the funeral rites, to cast the farewell spell.

“Will you do it?” Helene nudges after another silent moment.

“Yes,” I say because I must.

Satisfied with my answer, the younglings return to the group of observers. I feel eyes on me. The gazes of both the dead and the living, waiting for me to speak.

“Friends and Fae,” I begin. My voice wavers as it breaks its dormancy. “It’s easy for us to forget that this life comes at a price. In the end we all must pay it, whether it be a score of years or a millennia from now. These noble sisters of ours have willingly accepted that debt so that others might live.

“We do not know what lies beyond this plain. We can’t imagine where our sisters might be now—yet we know they aren’t gone. Not really. We must not let their sacrifices be in vain. We must continue to defend what they died for and live in the acceptance that sooner or later there’s an end. One day, when the dark glass between lives is lifted, we’ll all be together again.” The choke returns, trapping what other words I might speak in the lump of my throat.

I wrap my hand around Breena’s rigid grasp. Her fingers are like stone, pale and unyielding.

“Thank you, friend, for standing by me all these years,” I whisper into her wintry ear. “I’ll see you again, soon enough. Hæl abide.”

At my farewell spell, the dead Frithemaegs’ bodies begin disintegrating. A light, great and gold, wells up from inside each departed Fae. Every secret of Breena’s alabaster skin is illuminated with the brightness. Pieces of her begin to dissolve, fly apart like dandelion seeds blown straight into the sun. I hold on as tightly as I can, until it’s only my own palm my nails dig into and Breena is gone.

I stand here as the others disperse, disappearing back into the castle. The sun is just slipping out of sight. Its rays wash over everything: my bare arms, my bloodstained skirts, the empty grass. Every detail is redeemed in this dying light.

But not everyone is gone. I see his shadow first, long and terrifying. The sharp edges of his boots creep into my sight.

“We had an agreement, Lady Emrys. Lest you forget.” The evening trembles against Herne’s cold words. With them comes the night.

“I know.”

The spirit holds out his hand, ready and waiting. I stare at the smooth, eternal leather of his glove. Even with Richard gone, I have no desire to cling to my immortality. Death is something I’ve already embraced, a much-needed end.

“There’s something I must to do first. I need one more night,” I tell him.

The woodlord grunts. His coal-glow eyes pierce through the gathering darkness. “I’ll give you until dawn, woodling. Then I’ll take what’s rightfully mine.”

He turns and flows back to his woods, where his trees and hounds are waiting. And I stand alone, aching for everything that will not return.

I spend the night on the battlements, gazing into the black space that holds the stars. Constellations are strung tight and unwavering, telling the same stories they always have for those who take the time to listen. Everything is so quiet, so bright after the battle. I stare on and on, trying to keep the pain from eating me alive.

And I know now that the emptiness will always be there, yawning wide until the end. Because some cruel twist of fate decided that Richard’s sacrifice was better. Because I lived and he did not.

It’s still dark when I enter Anabelle’s bedroom. The princess is curled on top of the comforter, in the exact same spot Herne placed her almost an entire day before. His spell was a powerful one—staving off her grief and hysterics with heavy, dreamless sleep.

Her eyelids flutter as I draw close, but she doesn’t open her eyes. I’d never noticed before how much she looks like Richard. The same high cheekbones, the light splash of freckles coaxed out by the sun. Their resemblance is so strong that I can’t bear to look at her long. Instead I stare out the window, where the moonlight tangles with the tops of Herne’s trees.

The memory spell builds; I weave it slowly, deliberately. It has to be just the right strength—potent enough to make her forget everything that happened in the woods that night. Strong enough to stanch some of the princess’s agony. If I could I would erase everything, give Anabelle a fresh start, a childhood without Richard. But the world, and the order of things, won’t allow that.

Once the magic is finally ready I look back down. Anabelle’s face is serene, despite her mass of tangled hair and the smudges of dirt. I can’t make myself speak the word that will release her from her past. She needs the pain and memories as much as I do. She needs to know that her brother died well. Who am I to take that from her?

My hands drop to my side, and the magic slips away, unused.

It’s almost, but not quite, dawn. Herne will be waiting for me. I’ve already stalled as much as I dare.

“I’m sorry, Anabelle. I’m sorry I failed.” There are so many other things I could tell her, but none of them seem fitting. In the depths of her slumber she won’t hear them anyway. “Good-bye.”

I turn and go.

Mist gathers at the edge of the woods, wreathing in and out of ghoulish trees. I expect Herne to rise out of its embrace at any moment, but everything remains still. I draw closer to his woods with hesitant steps, feeling for his magic.

“Herne?” My call is little more than a whisper. The stillness of this night’s end seems holy, something I shouldn’t break.

The answer I receive is not from the woodlord, but his trees. The Dryads have returned to their leafy abodes. They stir the branches without any wind to guide them, their leaves brushing together hushed words.

Farther in. He’s waiting.

I follow their subtle movements, leaving a trail of scattered dewdrops in the mossy, morning earth. Here, in the dark woods, it’s impossible not to think about Richard. Just a few nights ago we were walking this very path together to see Herne, to bargain for our lives.

I don’t realize where I am until it’s too late. The clearing seems larger than normal. The impression of the king’s body still scars its center. The trees have retreated from it.

I collapse to my knees, press my fingers into the chewed, rotting leaves. Birdsong, the hymn of nightingales, bursts into the glade. Their notes punch into the silence like a drum, trill and hopeful. What was once—what is—beautiful, only causes my fists and teeth to clench.

“Shut up!” I scream into the branches. All I want is silence. I want to drown in it.

“Yelling at birds, are we?”

I shudder at the voice behind me, but I don’t turn. The gloom of Herne’s presence is obvious enough.

“Why did you bring me here?”

The woodlord steps around into my sight, eyes burning fast into mine. “Bring you here? What are you talking about?”

“Your trees, they guided me to this place.” I look past the wild spirit’s gaze into the surrounding woods. The darkness beyond them gives way to the sun. The morning light is soft, casting pale greens and yellows through the tree branches.

“The ways of Dryads are strange.” Herne shrugs. “I have little to do with them. Are you ready to give me your magic?”

A sound apart from the birdsong emerges from the woods before I can reply. It’s the noise of dead branches breaking, snapping under the weight of unseen feet. Both Herne and I look up to the same edge of clearing. Duchess Titania stands under the arch of two young saplings. Her platinum hair is loose and luminous in the dawn’s growing gold. Her face is just as severe and composed as I remember, worlds beyond the dying Fae in the castle.

“You’re alive?” I manage in my shock. Like everyone else, I assumed that Titania’s disappearance meant her undoing. She’d only been waiting, deep in the wood’s embrace, until her sickness retreated.

“Yes, and it seems that I’m not the only one.” Titania glances back over her shoulder, waves to someone hidden in the trees. “We found him just a short while ago. He wandered into our camp, as if he was sleepwalking.”

I barely hear her words as a new face breaks out of the foliage. Everything I’ve grown to love is still there: the clean slant of his jaw, his almond eyes, the light laugh lines that will only deepen with age, his smile, clear and bright. But there’s something more now, something just beneath the skin that causes him to glow.

I sit still, stunned. The man I saw two nights ago, blue and caked with blood, could never become the one that stands here now.

“We thought the art of magic was lost to the mortals, that the crown was simply a carrier of the power and not a wielder. We were wrong.” Titania shakes her head. “Something woke it up in him.”

Richard finishes the distance between us in three strides. When he reaches me he falls to his knees, brings his eyes down to mine. Two strong, steady arms pull me into him. Our chests press together, breathing in unison, and all doubt vanishes. This is my Richard.

“You’re alive.” My words are made of laughter and a great, joyous gasp—they don’t feel like mine. “Greater Spirit. You’re alive!”

He hugs me tighter, gentle fingers tugging through my hair. His breath curls over my neck, taking in my scent. My skin rejoices under it.

“How?” I pull back and the sight of him is new all over again. New and glorious. “I saw you dying.”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I felt myself die. Or, I think I died. I don’t know. But then I woke up and I was wandering through the forest. They found me.”

I leave Richard’s eyes and reenter the glade. Herne stands with his arms crossed. Titania and her company stare at us—utterly beautiful sculptures—both surprised and unreadable.

“Something woke up the blood magic,” the duchess offers. “It healed him. There are traces of it all over him. And even some on you,” she adds, her eyebrow quirked.

The blood magic. Just what the ravens predicted. But what woke it? The kiss? We’d kissed before. What made that night so different?

“Tell me, has there ever been something between you two? A connection?” Titania looks between us, as if trying to read our short history together.

“The first time we met . . .” I pause. “There was something like electricity. I don’t know. It wasn’t magic necessarily.”

“It’s called a soul-tie. It’s rare, uncommon, but it does happen. Your souls tied together. It also meant your magics connected. When Richard gave himself up for you, your magic responded. It sparked his to life.”

I breathe in, the dawn air dewy and deep in my lungs. “So our—our connection saved him?”

“It takes true love to die for someone.” The older Fae stares at Richard. Admiration, bare but bright, gilds her face as she takes him in. “That love, that bond you both share, saved him.”

“What happened at the court?” I ask.

Titania’s expression hardens. “There was no warning. There were too many soul feeders, hundreds upon hundreds. A whole swarm of them. In the end though, it was Mab who trapped us. She lured us into the throne room. It was then I saw the sickness in her eyes. I ran, the other court members held the way long enough for me to escape. I knew of the gathering at Windsor—I was there when Mab received your letter. I knew I had to come warn you, before her army came.”

“This is all well and good, but I have yet to receive my payment,” Herne interrupts. In all of his sulking silence I’d forgotten he was there.

I turn to face our growling ally, pulling myself to my full height. “My magic is yours. I don’t want it anymore. I want to be with Richard, to be mortal.”

Slight, silvery gasps from the other Faeries fill the clearing. Titania’s expression goes sour then sharp, as if she wants very badly to say something. Richard is the only one smiling.

“So be it,” Herne says in his typical brusque fashion.

My eyes squeeze shut and my whole body grows rigid as I brace myself. I don’t know what to expect: pain, emptiness, or at least a little discomfort from the separation.

“Your Majesty, may I?”

Richard’s hand slips out of mine to be replaced by Herne’s rough gloves. My skin prickles like ant bites as he probes beneath it, seeking a good grasp on my magic. In the end, my power finds him. It flows toward Herne like a magnet. For a moment I feel like a ship off ballast, all heavy on one end. Then it leaves.

It isn’t what I thought it would be. Not a draining but a weight, shedding off of my chest. Weakness takes over. I feel cemented to the earth, a wizened old oak that’s lost the desire even to sway. I open my eyes, find Richard. He stands close; his smile gives me something to cling to. It fills the strange absence of my magic.

Herne pulls away, all suddenness and jerk. Not all of my magic is gone. I feel the last dregs of it stirring in me. I look up at the woodlord, eyes narrowed.

“I’ve left you some,” he explains.

“I want all of it gone!” My hand goes out again. “Please.”

He shakes his head, the twin spiral of his horns dig into the deepening sapphire of the sky. “You should never forget what you were. Don’t worry. It’s not enough to stave off death. It’s not even enough to do anything more than a minor spell.”

He’s right. There’s hardly any magic left. It coats my insides like a thin film of oil. All of it gathered together is enough for a mending spell or something equally small. I blink and pass a few fingers over my stomach. The nausea is gone. All of it. It’s been so long since I haven’t felt the sickness.

“It worked?” Richard’s question is soft, barely there.

I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him. This kiss is different from all of the others. It’s pure, unhinged. There’s no danger between our lips. I don’t have to worry about breaking him like a doll. It’s just him and me, together.

It’s like I’m diving into him, swimming down, down and never coming up for air. And I never want to. His tongue grazes mine, inviting me deeper. To places I could never go in the presence of so many watchers. Still, these waters are full of sunlight and joy.

“Yes,” I whisper back between breathless kisses. “I’m one of you now.”

I don’t let Richard out of my sight. Not when he returns to the castle to wake up his stunned sister. Not when the other Fae cluster around him in amazement. Not when we go to visit Breena’s final resting place. I keep my hand always wrapped in his, afraid that if I let him go, I won’t be able to get him back. That this will all prove a dream.

It’s Titania who finally breaks us, drawing up beside us as we stand over my friend’s grave. “Your Majesty, do you mind if I speak with Emrys alone?”

Richard doesn’t reply, he only squeezes my shoulder and looks down at me.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, even though my insides are frantic to stay close.

I know he feels the same. There’s reluctance in the way his arm slides from me.

“I won’t be long,” Titania promises.

Goose bumps plague my skin as soon as Richard pulls away. I shiver when a breeze whips past and cross my arms over my chest. I’ve never felt so bare before, stripped of magic and without Richard. It’s a strange feeling, being so exposed and raw. But I won’t trade it. Not if it means being with him. Being whole.

Titania waits until the king is beyond hearing. We’re alone in the yard.

“You did well, Emrys.”

I look at Titania. Her face is like Mab’s used to be—unreadable and without cracks—encasing secrets. I turn her words over in my head. Well. You did well. That statement feels so far from the truth, now that I’m standing by Breena’s grave.

“You protected the crown. You did what needed to be done. The Guard will be sad to lose your services.” Titania pauses. “You’re sure you won’t reconsider? I have some sway with Herne. I can get him to return your magic.”

How can I explain to her that none of this was for the Guard or the crown? That it was all for Richard? For a life and a future with him? “I—I can’t.”

Silence holds the duchess for a moment. The wind wreathes through her hair, sparking off brilliant glints of light. “Mab was in love once, you know.”

Mab? I think back to the rabid creature in the woods, the one that scorned my love for Richard. “What?”

“She loved the Pendragon. It’s one of the reasons she bound all of us to him. She wanted to keep him safe from Mordred and all the soul feeders that were out for his blood.”

“Mab loved Arthur?” I can barely believe the words I’m saying. They sound absurd coming from my lips.

“She never told anyone. Not even him. I only knew because I plied the truth out of her. I thought an alliance with the mortals wouldn’t be in our best interests and I told her so. It soon became clear that she’d let emotions interfere with politics.” Titania sighs, a sound full of years and loss. “When Guinevere left to become the Pendragon’s queen, it crushed Mab’s heart. I thought it might be the end of her—but she was stronger than that.”

Memories of Mab’s wrath after Guinevere’s choice return. I see them in a new light, from the other side of the looking glass. It wasn’t Guinevere’s loss that our queen was mourning, but her chance at King Arthur’s heart.

“I suppose though, she always held a seed of resentment against the crown after that. As deeply as she buried it, she couldn’t protect it from the madness. When it started stealing her reason, she took all that anger against the crown and started wreaking her revenge. As twisted as it was . . .” The duchess’s words fade, eyes hazy with memory.

For some reason the betrayal seems easier to accept, now that there’s some pain, some emotion behind Mab’s actions.

“I’m staying with Richard,” I tell her. “It’s what I need to do.”

“It’s your choice.” The way Titania says this makes me think she wished it wasn’t.

A cough, brutal and filled with pain, racks Titania’s body. I hear the blood rattling just behind her lungs. Despite the closeness of Herne’s woods, the Fae is too old to be here.

“You’re going back north?” I ask, my question pointed. It would only do harm for her to stay, inviting the madness.

“It seems I must,” she admits between coughs. “There will be much to tend to in light of Mab’s unmaking. Herne has told me of the accord he struck with King Richard.”

“Yes . . . the world will be very different now. For the better, I think.”

“Such hope. Such youth.” Hair like water-strung comets pours over Titania’s shoulders as she laughs. The sound rings like a church bell, full of sorrow. “The world has always been spinning forward, evolving. . . . Only time will tell us what difference this will make. But I hope, youngling, I hope for all our sakes that you are right.”

It’s strange, looking at her and knowing our worlds are now severed. I won’t be in the court when the new queen rises from the swell of courtiers. I will not watch as the strongest, most ruthless of the Fae first rests on Mab’s earthy throne. But there’s little doubt in me which Frithemaeg it will be. Titania’s sway in the court is already strong. Not many will challenge her.

“Peace be with you, sister,” I say.

She nods. “And with you.”

Those words mark the end of my life as I know it. The end of Fae and the Guard. The end of spells and soul feeders. The end of forever.

There’s a light on in Richard’s window, clear and dazzling despite the late morning sun. I run to it.