Page 72 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

“Thank the gods, Farrin,” he breathed, his voice thin with relief. “We called and called after you, and our voices bounced back to us. It was like screaming at a wall of rock in the canyons back home.”

I held on to him for a moment and looked over his shoulder at Ryder. He stood a little apart from us, snow dusting his hair and beard, his eyes blazing an angry blue. Gently, I detached myself from Gareth and went to him. He didn’t reach for me, as I assumed he would. The air around him snapped as if it contained unseen fire, and the sight of him looming there, glaring at our surroundings with enraged skepticism, filled me with a strange comfort. He looked like he wanted to tear down the cottage with his bare hands, and yet I knew how gentle those hands could be.

I touched his sleeve. “Ryder…”

“You’re not hurt?” He finally looked at me. He cupped my cheek, his fingers cold and gentle. His gaze searched my face, my body, as if checking for wounds. I saw the fear in his eyes. “You disappeared into the trees. The darkness took you so suddenly.”

I shook my head, leaned closer to him. “I’m not hurt. In fact,” I added, offering him a little smile, “just before you arrived, I pummeled the shit out of her.” I jerked my head at the woman gliding about the cottage’s main room, offering hot tea that no one would touch.

Ryder’s fearsome expression softened; he took a deep breath in and out, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He returned mysmile. “Farrin of the forest light,” he said quietly. “Stronger than she looks.”

Warmth blossomed through my body. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel the mountainous presence of him, so near and angry—a shield and sword both at once, ready to strike, ready to protect me.

Then I stepped back and opened my eyes, feeling calmer. I lightly squeezed his fingers; our eyes locked, a silent conversation passing between us. We were safe for now; he would kill anyone who made it otherwise.

“Please, sit,” said the woman pretending to be my mother—pretending to be agod. She sat in a fine wingback chair by the dark hearth, as serene and unbothered as Yvaine holding court. She’d lit her pipe and now puffed on it for a moment, considering Ryder, Gareth, and Talan in turn.

Her gaze slid to Gemma. “You trust these men?”

Gemma, dry-eyed now, her expression stony, replied, “More than we trust you.”

The woman nodded once. “I understand that, and I understand your anger. But allow yourself to believe for a moment that what I’ve told you is true. Think about what that means.” She looked at Mara, then at me. I hated the feeling of her eyes upon me: my mother’s eyes, and yet there was a mighty weight to her presence, cold and foreign.

The sheer absurdity of what she was asking us to consider made me want to laugh. She was my mother, and she was also a god. My mind couldn’t wrap itself all the way around such a preposterous idea. And yet, as I said the words to myself—my mother, a god; a god, my mother—a slow bloom of comprehension, of acceptance, began to unfurl in my stomach. It was the feeling of a horrible truth settling inside me, making itself inexorably known.

“Now,” said the woman after a moment. She seemed satisfied by my discomfiture. “I ask you again: Do you trust these men?”

“Yes,” Gemma said at once, lifting her chin a little. Beside her, Talan’s eyes shone with love.

Mara glanced at them, then at Gareth, who sat tensely on a pretty footstool that was too small and delicate for his long, lanky body. He looked grave; though he’d not brought out his notebook, his quick green eyes darted around the room, observing every detail. The power of his mind—the mind of an Anointed sage—would allow him to remember everything. Another small comfort.

Mara’s brow furrowed as she watched him; her mouth twisted. But she relented. “Yes,” she replied.

All eyes were on me, but I could look only at Ryder, brooding watchfully not far from me, arms crossed over his chest. He was the only one who hadn’t taken a chair. Fierce and hawkish as he looked, he nevertheless gave me a small smile. My body lit up quietly in response, and I found it easier to breathe.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Well, then.” The woman in the chair took a contemplative puff of her pipe. “Let me say this, before I begin. My daughters trust you. This is no small thing. And I know the importance of allies. It is unnatural for anyone to walk through the world in solitude, especially creatures as fragile and short-lived as humans. But if any of you men reveal what is said here today, rest assured that I will find you and avenge the breaking of my daughters’ trust. And the punishment will not be swift.”

She said it very simply, in easy conversation, and yet the threat was clear and physical; the room trembled with it, as if the very structure of the world we’d found ourselves in were absorbing her words, holding them fast until they were needed again. The air took on the brutal bite of winter.

An instant later, warmth returned. The woman relaxed into the velvet brocade of her chair, took another puff of her pipe, and set it down on a glass tray on the table beside her.

“As I just told my daughters,” she began, “I am Philippa Ashbourne, their mother. But I am also more than that. I am a human woman, yes, and I was born to human parents, and I possess the low human power of elemental magic, with a talent for botanicals, just as I always have. I am Philippa Ashbourne, once Philippa Wren. But…I am also Kerezen, goddess of the senses.” She paused, the air heavy with the weight of her words. “I understand that this may be difficult for you to believe.”

I burst out laughing, suddenly near tears. My body couldn’t decide how to respond. “That is a terrific understatement.”

“You lie,” Ryder said bluntly. “The gods are dead.”

“We were. Well, I was dead, that is. I can’t speak for the others. If they live now, if they have been reborn in human bodies, as I have, that knowledge is beyond me. I can’t hear them or feel them. The bonds that connected us in our godly lives were broken in the Unmaking and have yet to be reforged.” A flicker of sadness moved across her face. “I suppose it’s possible,” she added quietly, “that the others are still dead. It’s possible I am alone.”

“Wait, wait, wait just a moment,” said Gareth, leaning forward eagerly. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. He rubbed his face again; he dragged both hands shakily through his hair.

The woman regarded him with quiet amusement. “Even I, goddess of the senses and not of the mind, can hear the whir of your many questions, Professor Fontaine. You may ask them, if you can find your voice.”

Gareth nodded a few times, swallowing hard. “All right.” He set his glasses back on his nose. “First question, then—”

“Is that why you left us?”

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