Page 88 of The Vanishing Throne

I swear she almost smiles. She drops my chin and the temperature rises suddenly. I’m left breathing hard, swaying from dizziness, but I manage to stay standing.

‘Why?’ I manage between breaths.

‘You’re a Falconer,’ she says simply, moving to stand near the fire. It lights her momentarily steady features, her high cheekbones and heart-shaped mouth. A face that is just as immaculately fae as the rest of them.

I hear the double meaning in her statement:you slaughtered my own.

I look around for any way to escape. Running into the forest might lead me back to the voices. Fighting the oldest faery in existence might not be terribly wise—

‘Look at me,’ she snaps. Her voice is a cold blade down my arms; it draws my attention back to her. ‘My daughter, Aithinne, shouldneverhave created your kind,’ she says. ‘Your existence has been catastrophic for both humans and thesìthichean.’ She studies me, her eyes dark and endless. ‘Surely you can see that?’

I stare at her, cold to my core.Should never have created the Falconers.

Created the Falconers.

I slowly piece together everything I’ve learned about Aithinne. She fought alongside the Falconers. She was trapped during their battle with the fae. She has the ability to heal. To bring back the dead. The gift of creation, inherited from the Cailleach. Her mother.

Kiaran’smother.

‘Falconers are human,’ I whisper. ‘The fae can’t create humans.’

I recall Daniel’s words, so matter-of-fact.You’re not human.

The Cailleach’s eyes linger on me. There are a thousand thoughts in the way she regards me, starting with pity and ending with distaste. Because no matter what, humans will always be beneath the fae, both in strength and experience. We don’t have a thousand lifetimes that chip away our emotions.

We burn bright, and we burn out. That’s what it means to be human.

The shadows of her cloak snake up to reveal herpale fingers, long and gnarled and spotted with age. She leans down and presses her fingertips briefly to the wet soil, the skin of her hand growing more youthful and pearlescent as I watch.

From the ground grows a single vine. Long and thick as a tree branch, it curls around itself over and over until it forms a seat. The flowers along the vines blossom, the petals a bright, glowing teal.

‘Sit.’ The Cailleach gestures. ‘And I shall show you the truth. Everything you desire.’

I hesitate. The fae don’t offer anything freely, not without an exchange. ‘What do you want in return?’

I could die in the chill of the Cailleach’s smile. I feel the weight of her years like I’m being eaten up by the ground, a force pulling me down into the earth.

‘Ah,mo nighean. I have already taken from you,’ she murmurs. ‘I have your life. There is nothing else you could offer me. I could keep you in my forest for an eternity, but instead I offer you truth. This is not something I give freely.’

The version of truth the Cailleach offers is always brutal; I don’t want to accept. If what she said earlier is true, then she’s drawing out my time here so Aithinne can’t find me.

If you don’t come back, I’ll leave them to Lonnrach’s mercy.

If Kiaran is the Cailleach’s son, that isn’t a threat I should take lightly. I trust him withmylife, but not the lives of my friends – not Gavin or Catherine or Derrick.

They mean nothing to me.

‘And if I refuse?’ I ask carefully.Am I allowed to refuse?To offend a faery is to invoke her anger, and the wrath of the Cailleach is unparalleled.

The Cailleach’s expression is ruthless. ‘It’s your choice, of course,’ she says lightly, but her words don’t match her face. ‘I may have limited powers in your realm, but I know that everyone you have left is in that pixie kingdom. Surely you want them safe?’

This is whatchoicemeans to the fae:deny me and I will kill everyone you love.Deny me and I will make you sorry.

I have to accept. I’ll find a way to trick the Cailleach if I have to, but right now I can’t refuse her offer. ‘Very well.’

She reaches for me, with a hand that has thinned enoughto show bone. Her face changes again, and it is how I imagine Death– skeletal, with eyes like an endless abyss.

The Cailleach touches the crown of my head and before I can do anything, thebrìghthat was in my hair falls to the ground. The flowers are withered and dead, the glow within the centre bulb gone entirely.

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