Page 62 of Horn of Winter

He stopped recording and handed the phone back to me. “If death can break the red knife restrictions, could it also break another pixie’s orders?”

I shrugged and released her shoulder. Her body sluggishly resumed its original position, a stomach-churning sight that was oddly worse than the smell itself.

“Given she’s here,” he continued, “doesn’t it all but confirm that your aunt found a way to escape the red knife restrictions?”

“Just because Stace escaped doesn’t mean my aunt did.”

“You no more believe that than I do.”

“The only way to escape the red knife is death. If you’re dead, you’re dead; there’s no cheating it, it’s final.” It was almost stubbornly said. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, despite my instincts agreeing with said evidence, there was a part deep within that really didnotwant to believe my aunt was behind the attacks. That she reallywasn’ton a quest for vengeance against all those who did Vincentia wrong.

“That would depend on the definition of final, would it not?” Mathi replied. “Perhaps once upon a time there was no cheating it, but these days, there are dozens of people who technically die on operating tables, at home, or in the middle of some sort of activity, and a good ninety percent of them are successfully revived. The success rate when elven healers are used is even higher.”

“Yeah, but something like that would take a bit of organizing, and there just wasn’t enough time between her being handed the red knife and her disappearance. Besides, she couldn’t receive any visits without permission from the pixie council—with the exception of those supplying vital goods or services.”

“Medical services would come under the latter, and if I remember correctly, they never did find her body, did they?”

“No, but there was evidence of a fight and plenty of blood.”

“All of which can be staged easily enough—believe me on that.” He crossed his arms and stared down at Stace. “Did they test the blood and any DNA found at the scene to see if it was hers?”

“I would presume so.” I thrust a hand through my hair. “If my aunt is alive, then why hasn’t she come after me? She blames me for Vincentia’s death, even if she never came out and said it.”

“Perhaps she saves the juiciest morsel for last.”

I cast him an annoyed look. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I. I would also remind you of the ghul’s comment—revenge is a dish best served cold. I do not think it a coincidence she said that to both you and the other pixie.”

“If that other pixie was my aunt, she’s paid a heavy price for her escape from the red knife.”

“Undoing powerful magic often does exact a high toll.” He shone his light onto the plinth beyond Stace. The words etching the stone were clearer in person than they had been in the dream. “That looks like old Brythonic, or old Brittonic, as it’s also often called.”

“And that is?” I asked.

“It’s commonly acknowledged as the oldest human language in Britain, and generally used by the Celtic people known as the Britons. Somewhere in the sixth century it split into what we now know as Welsh, Cumbric, Cornish, and Breton.”

“Can you read it?”

He glanced at me, amusement evident. “I am not that old.”

“Yet. And you didn’t answer the question.”

“I know enough Welsh and Gaelic to guess, but it’ll be by no means perfect.”

“We can take a photo and get perfect later.”

He nodded and studied the inscription for several minutes. “Okay, the first line says something aboutwhat was once... gifted... is now...”

He stopped, frowning.

“Cursed?” I suggested.

“Possibly. There’s a few letters I don’t recognize.” He frowned. “Those who reunite and raise in... hatred... not lovewill end entombed. The third line says something about joining the queen in endless sleep within the palace that never melts.”

“Borrhás apparently gave the horn as a lover’s gift to a queen who wanted to rain winter down on her enemies,” I said. “When she won the battle, she forsook Borrhás, and he in turn locked her in an icy sleep from which she will not wake until the earth itself no longer exists.”

“Which is why you never double-cross an old god. They get nasty.”

---