Page 68 of Heir of Ashes

She bowed her head in a regal gesture in a sort of acknowledgment. “But you took care of that problem, and I found it intriguing. Hence, the reason I followed. Now ask for something.” Her last words were definitely an order rather than a request.

The little creatures stayed where they were, watching us. I looked between them and shook my head. “I don’t think they understand what I’m saying; otherwise, they’d have answered me. As I said, I’ve been talking for hours, I even asked them questions, and they gave no indication that they understood.”

She straightened. “The Low Land inhabitants speak the language of those they’re bound to, however briefly. Think about it like this: your objective transcends words, no matter the language.”

“They can grant me anything?”

“Ask them.”

I turned to the creature’s leader, and his ears flickered back attentively, like that of a cat’s.

So creepy.

“Can you get me out of here? Back to my world?” I added the longing for home as a thought, just in case Lee meant they were telepathic.

Behind me, Lee laughed and clapped twice. “Nay, child. They cannot grant what they do not know.”

I sighed. “Then they’re useless to me.”

“Ah, such negativity, and in one so young. I’ve seen many like you before. I will help you choose, for I do not have eternityfree. Duty awaits me.” She tapped a finger to her lips, mimicking someone deep in thought before snapping her fingers. “Power. Ask for power,” she urged.

I shook my head.

Her lips formed a brief pout before she snapped her fingers again. “Knowledge of the archaic. Wisdom beyond your years. Surely you would want one of those.”

I shook my head again.

“You are no fun. No wonder the mortal wanted to get rid of you,” she muttered under her breath, but I was sure she knew I could hear her clearly.

“Ah, you are young. You will want security in the mortal world. That means gold. Ask for riches.”

“What good will they do me here?” I gestured around the land.

Lee’s head snapped back, like a cobra ready to strike. The playful twinkle in her eyes was replaced by a gleam of speculation. They sharpened and scrutinized me closely. “You are her. You are Fosch’s child, the promised one.”

My stomach quivered and fell, and millions of goosebumps erupted all over my body. This woman knew who I was. This woman knew who my father was.

“What makes you think so?” I didn’t think a direct lie to this woman would be wise.

A smile spread across her face. There was no warmth in it, but it seemed genuine. “Any Dhiultadh has enough knowledge to travel between the worlds. It is innate, like a newborn’s instinct to suckle. You are one of them and yet you do not know. Only two hybrids in existence lack this knowledge. One is not a Dhiultadh. That makes you the offspring of Fosch and the mortal woman.”

My heart raced. All my aches and needs lost their edge to the knife-sharp fear gnawing at me like a relentless predator. This woman was not a friend.

Lee tsked. Her eyes remained locked on mine. That predatory gleam gained a certain quality, as if it had intensified. “It is tragic what happened to your father. He was a good man. A foolish one, but good nonetheless. It is a quality rarely found among his kind, and that trait was what made him a prominent, well-liked Dhiultadh.”

I said nothing.

“Do not fear. Your father owed nothing to me. I see the curiosity in you. I will grant you one boon—an honest answer to one question, as a token for dealing with the mortal in my stead.”

Information. Knowledge about my roots. I thought hard about it. I had many questions I wanted to ask. Later, when I looked back, I’d be able to see my mistake, recognize the manipulation at play. Or at the very least, think of a better question. But at that moment, there was only one thing playing over and over in my head.

“You said I was the promised one. What does that mean?”

Lee’s eyes flashed, and I braced myself. I could tell she was very pleased with my choice, satisfied even.

She smiled, a lazy, secretive curve of lips, like a cat about to feast on tasty prey. She leaned back against the tree—which shouldn’t have been able to support her weight—and fussed with her gown, adjusting the hem of her dress, dusting off imaginary lint from her sleeve. When she glanced up at me again, her face was devoid of any expression, perfectly composed.

In my experience, there were only two types of people who took a moment to compose themselves before telling a story: the liar, because they didn’t want others to discover the deceit, and the emotionally attached, because they didn’t want their feelings to show. Both, in my opinion, were skilled actors.

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