Page 112 of The Realm That Falls to Her

Ruskin makes a choking noise of disbelief. “That’s what she promised you? Let me guess, she said you could sit on a throne beside her when the Seelie realm flourishes again, or something like that, right?”

I recognize the childish rage building on Albrecht’s face. “When it’s returned to its glory days, actually. Now, you heard me. Get down on your knees.” He smiles with horrible pleasure. “Or watch your little whore’s head get separated from her shoulders.”

“Actually, I think we’ve heard enough from you,” I say, and crush Albrecht’s armor inwards.

The metal of his breastplate constricts dramatically, tightening around his throat. The king scrabbles fruitlessly at his neck, his eyes bulging, his scream silent. His body gives out quicker than I expect, and a minute later he slumps forward across his horse, dead.

“That’s for my father,” I say, feeling a cathartic rush. Tears prick at my eyes, even in the middle of my rage, as I think about all the damage he’s done; how many lives he’s ruined. “And for everyone in Styrland.”

I stare at his limp body, taking in a ragged breath. It feels good, knowing he can’t cause any more suffering.

Ruskin touches my arm. “Come on, we have to hurry.”

We continue up the track to where the waterfall opens up into a small inlet of Lake Irnua.

Evanthe is bent down on the other side from us, one hand buried in the lake. As we get closer, I see that the water isn’t actually touching her, instead it swirls around a dark portal, the depths of which swallow up all light. Shadowy tendrils of Interra crawl forth, twining around her fingers and up along her body. With each new wave, the shadows seem to get darker, layering on top of one another. They’re growing stronger, I think. Making Evanthe stronger too.

The queen opens her eyes and lifts her head. When she settles her gaze on us, the sight chills me to the bone. There are shadows dancing in her eyes, blackening the whites of them, her pupils shining pinpricks in the haze.

“I take it Albrecht is dead?” she says.

“Yes,” Ruskin replies. “A poor choice of ally, Mother.”

“A means to an end,” she replies. “You have my thanks for disposing of him for me. It’s such a bother to tidy everything up one’s self.” Her voice is deep and rasping, and I think I can hear the roars of Interra’s beasts within it.

I swallow. She knows we’ve come here to stop her, but it seems I’ll need to provoke her attack. It’s the most dangerous part of our plan, but she has to cast at me before my magic will work on her. Ruskin’s supposed to shield me from the worst effects of whatever she throws at me, but I’m sure it won’t be pleasant.

“This is your end, Evanthe,” I say, taking a step away from Ruskin. I hope my words will make her angry, but she simply laughs.

“All this effort for a realm that would be better off without you. Just because you managed to get yourself a fae face and snag a prince, do you think that qualifies you to decide the fate of my kingdom? A place that existed for millennia before your grubby, pathetic kind walked your realm? Do you really think you know what’s best for Seelie? You, a human, a peasant girl.” She shakes her head. “The arrogance of it. But then, I suppose that’s what makes her a match for you, Ruskin. I’ve heard plenty of tales of your arrogance recently. The court quite hates you, you know. What a shame. Both my children were nothing but disappointments.”

Ruskin doesn’t look eager to banter like he did when he faced down Cebba. His mask is on, cool and collected, but beneath it I can guess that he’s wondering how his mother could’ve changed so much, perhaps remembering her words to him once, about how he shouldn’t care what other people think of him. But it’s me who needs to engage Evanthe, and soon, before those shadows get much thicker.

“That’s strange,” I say. “I wonder why most of the Seelie are out there fighting your puppets right now, if they hate Ruskin so much?”

Evanthe switches her gaze to me. “Because they’re selfish, short-sighted fools. But they will learn soon enough.”

“Or not,” I say, lifting my hands to indicate that I’m about to conjure.

It’s as I’d hoped—Evanthe pulls her own hand from the portal in order to counter-cast. She doesn’t choose an iron spell for me, knowing how easily I’d redirect it. Instead, the darkness that billows between her fingers is clearly a curse, one she releases towards me a second later. I reach out my magic to meet it, expecting the familiar warmth of Ruskin’s power to wash over me, shielding me. But when I glance at him I see only the flash of iron erupting from the ground.

Evanthe’s attacked us both at the same time.

His eyes are on me, concentrating, and he only looks down at the last moment. Meanwhile, my magic is focused on Evanthe, desperately searching for an opening to send back my own spell. It means I can only watch as he throws himself back, and the iron slices through the flesh in his leg, leaving a gaping wound.

Then Evanthe’s curse hits me.

Pain spears through my body, but it’s not my groans I can hear. I stare across to Ruskin; he’s on his knees, his eyes fixed on me, but I can see his body shuddering. Is the curse hurting him too? It must be, through the bond, and yet I’m powerless to do anything to help him. His head slumps forward, limp, looking horribly like a corpse. I try to scream his name, but I don’t know if it makes a sound.

The curse closes around me, burning tendrils licking across my skin. They sear me with every touch, pulling me down…down into the depths of somewhere far from reality, from my view of Ruskin, until I’m standing in a place with many corridors and rooms.

The palace, the Unseelie Court, Dad’s cottage, Sana’s house…I know all these places, and I finally realize where I am: my own subconscious. But I’m not alone here. The building shakes like an earthquake has hit it, the walls vibrating with a hissing, screeching sound. I clap my hands over my ears, but there’s no escaping it. The sound is inside my head, the shadows of Interra burrowing through my mind.

Like it did to Ruskin, its dark vines twist through the chambers of my memory. To my left, they swallow up the moment when Ruskin proposed to me, the joy on my face in the memory blotted out by the thick, ugly knots. To my right, my mother hugs me as a child, stroking the back of my head, until the vines puncture their way through the scene, choking it with darkness.

The curse is going to obliterate every memory I have, and then I have no doubt it’s going to come for me.

You don’t need those memories to stop her. Use the connection.

---