Page 142 of Ulune's Daughter

I clap my hand over my mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper through my fingers. “Fuck, is that true?”

Lawson peels my hand away from my mouth and grips it. “You asked me to be your touchstone.” He draws my hand under the lapel of his coat and presses it over his heart. “Feel your touchstone. Know the truth.”

No memories crowd in. This is a remembrance of Air, of breath, of speaking. Breaking the screaming silence of a thousand years. “He killed me ... no, it was Ferran, who took my crown ... others who poisoned my court ... murdered the ones I loved ... tore, tore out my heart with cold iron.”

“Yes,” Lawson says encouragingly.

A need deeper and more compelling than finding the Magi of the Mist grips me. “I need-I need to go to Ceòfuar. I need to speak the truth there.”

“Let me come with you.”

I nod. “You don’t have to ask.”

Lawson squeezes my fingers. “I ask because you’ve had so much taken from you, my mate. Someone should give you a little back.”

I throw my arms around his neck. “You really are everything I could have asked the Mother for.”

He kisses me. With his lips warm and seeking on mine, I reach into the aether with my claws and tear our way into Faery.

The Castle of Cold Mist is little more than a skeleton. The walls and roof are solid again; the windows glittering with glass and wards. But inside, there’s nothing but bare stone. Some rooms have four walls. Some have fewer and need more. There’s no furniture, no decorations. I’ve drawn us to the center of the first floor, where there’s a low dais in front of a wall. No windows, but witchlight illuminates the empty space.

I walk toward the dais and the blank wall behind it. There are words in the stone, shimmering under the surface, calling to me to speak them into being.

“Look not to the west,” I whisper. “Look not to the dying light.”

Pale blue letters burn their way to the surface of the wall.

“My coming is foretold. I am the queen of the night.”

Lawson moves behind me, wraps his arms around me. “Don’t stop,” he whispers.

“My enchantments will not fail. This power is mine by right. Sidhe blood to Sidhe blood. I am the queen of the night.”

I lift my arms, expecting to see the cloak of feathers, but there’s nothing except the white handknit sweater I found in the closet this morning and my claws, which thankfully have stopped growing. I guess I’m doing this all myself.

“Kellan, don’t stop,” Lawson murmurs in my ear.

“All Faery rise and cry. In death find no delight. My knife at every throat. I am the queen of the night.”

I swallow against the dryness of my mouth and finish the chant.

“Let the doors no more close. Let Time lay down the fight. I am the scourge and savior. I am the queen of the night.”

The last letter burns blue against the stone, which has darkened from the castle’s gray exterior to a glossy black. My eyes drift down to the dais, covered now with a richly patterned rug and set with four low, cushioned chairs. At a soft noise from Lawson, I turn, feeling more of the rich carpet under my heels.

Behind us, filling a long gallery that’s now complete with four walls, all in the same glossy black and hung with bright tapestries, are hundreds of Shades. Some stand on two feet. Some on four. Their eyes are all luminous, reflecting witchlight in hints of gold and green. Their bodies are insubstantial, but I have a sense of male and female curves, of hints of clothing from diaphanous robes to business suits.

A man and two of the huge panthers push forward. They kneel in front of me.

“Caileán,” the man says.

“Kellan,” I choke.

He rests his hands on his knees and bows his head, like a knight praying. “My queen, my love, I beg you, lay us to rest.”

“Marcher.” His name blows off my tongue. “Enion. Rhodrhi.”

---