Page 8 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

Gemma looked up at me, her blue eyes wide with alarm, all her excitement gone. Our gazes locked for a moment, and then she sank onto the edge of her bed and continued to read.

The Warden believes the Mist is simply going through a natural cycle. It has weakened before, she says, and its strength has always returned. As a person might, the Mist—a magical entity itself—likewise endures periods of illness and health, melancholy and cheer. The decline we are experiencing right now is unfortunate but expected, and only temporary. So says the Warden.

However, I think this is something different. Something…else. Mistfires are increasing in frequency and severity, as you already know, and they’re far worse than they were even a few weeks ago. Storms have started gathering at the northeastern perimeter of the Mistlands, horrible, fierce ones that do not abate. The sickness I explained to you previously is spreading—more citizens are falling prey to strange visions, awful nightmares, an insidious derangement. I have been keeping a catalog of the afflicted. Their symptoms, their physical appearance, the art and music and poetry they make reflecting their visions. I am keeping careful note of my findings; perhaps soon I will be able to deduce a pattern. Recurring words or images, some reason in the madness.

Meanwhile, my letters to you might become less frequent. Another unfortunate consequence of the Mist’s…sickness, as I suppose I could call it, is a general weakening, as I’ve said before. But as with the Mistfires, this weakening is getting worse by the day. Passage between realms is no longer limited to the strongest of beings—emissaries, dreamwalkers, fae, and so on—but is becoming possible for ordinary people and for lesser creatures of both realms. Our allies in the Old Country are keeping us as informed as much as they can, and we are fighting hard to limit both deliberate and accidental trespasses, but they are happening more and more, as are kidnappings and illicit trade.

As you can imagine, given the circumstances, the Order is spread thin. My unit is exhausted, and our newest recruits seem more terrified than usual, though I am trying my best to keep their spirits up.

Whether these increasing disturbances are due to our own actions in the Old Country, or to Kilraith’s, or are merely coincidence, I can’t say. But I think to assume coincidence is shortsighted. And if Kilraith is, in fact, not dead—and I cannot imagine he is—what will happen when he recovers his full strength? When will he attack again? And where, and how?

And what will happen to the Mist when that day comes?

As you can see, my head is a worried muddle of uncertainty, and I don’t know what sort of response I expect from you. I’m not sure that there is anything to do right now except keep your eyes and ears open and talk to the people you trust, even when doing so feels impossible.

I think often of your upcoming monthly visit. The thought of home brightens my every morning. I miss you. I love you. Stay safe, and please give my best to the queen at the ball.

Yours always,

Mara

Una had come to me as Gemma read and leaned her lanky fleethound body against my legs. She was now looking up at me with those sad brown eyes of hers, her lips puffing the slightest bit with each breath. For Una, this was a sign of utmost affection. Absently, I scratched the silky spots just behind her tufted white ears and waited for Gemma to speak. I was too tired to utter a word. Mara’s words sat inside my stomach like stones.

“She wants us to talk to the Basks,” Gemma said slowly. She raised her gaze to mine. “And to the queen. She didn’t say it outright, but it’s there at the end.Even when doing so feels impossible. Give my best to the queen.” Gemma sighed, folded the letter back into its envelope, and flopped back onto her bed in a huff of pale green cotton and golden curls. “She’s angry with us.”

“She isn’t,” I said, though I wasn’t convinced. “She’s very busy.”

“She wants you to ask the queen to send aid to Rosewarren for more supplies and weapons. More fortresses along the perimeter too, I suspect.”

“I’m not going to put Yvaine in that position,” I replied, as I always did when the subject of my friendship with the queen arose.

“And when she says talk to the Basks, she meansreallytalk with them—invite them to Ivyhill at last, actuallydosomething with them instead of merely exchange letters.”

The very thought exhausted me. “Do something like what?”

Gemma sat up, her mouth drawn tight with frustration. “I don’t know, but we were all together in the Old Country, and we did an incredible thing there. Maybe we could do more incredible things if we were all in the same space once more. Maybe we could do something tohelpMara and all the other Roses. They’re alone upthere—”

“I know very well where the Order is and what they do and how dangerous it is for Mara,” I interrupted wearily.

Gemma watched me for a moment. “You can’t use Father as an excuse forever.”

I resisted the urge to touch my tender wrist. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t try to play dumb. You’re bad at it. I’m talking about the fact that in the weeks since we left Rosewarren, we haven’t seen the Basks even once. We said we were going to, but we never have, and every time I mention the idea, every time we receive a letter from them, you deflect the whole thing with some excuse about Father’s temper or happiness or some other such rot.”

“It isn’t rot,” I protested, though that sounded weak even to my own ears. “Life is easier when he’s happy. I knowyoudon’t care much about his happiness, but some of usdocare, and have to.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Not really. You’ve spoken to him perhaps three times over the past month.”

Gemma lifted her chin slightly. “I have very little to say to him.”

I saw a flash of pain in her eyes, though she’d grown much more adept at hiding it. Softening, though I didn’t reallywantto soften, I went to sit beside her, reached for her unscarred hand, hesitated.

Some days, when Gemma’s sensitivity to magic was particularly raw, I was afraid to even be in the same room as her, worried that some stray bit of magic would lash off of me and hurt her. I’d hoped, as I knew she had, that our trip to the Old Country and its effect on all our powers would somehow lessen that particular burden for her. But my little sister still hurt unpredictably when magic was near, and it seemed she always would.

“Can I?” I asked quietly, glancing over at her.

---