Page 13 of The Red Woman and the White Bear

He was the last to arrive. The candles were lit, and the circle of ancient runes carved into the ground dusted off. Kael moved into position just shy of its center, heart already thrumming wildly.

The tether, dressed in a white silk shift, was forced to his knees before the king. Kael glanced down at him briefly and thought he recognized the male’s face, if only vaguely. One of the prisoners taken after the last surrender, more than likely. He had broad shoulders and thick arms. Though Nocturne was one of their longer ceremonies, he looked to be strong enough to withstand Kael’s magic for as long as was needed to complete the invocation.

The Low One was already there waiting for them, before the ritual even began. Kael, the Prelates, and even the few higher-echelon courtiers that were invited to witness it could feel Him. He was in the air, in the trees, but most of all, He was in the darkness. He made it thick and even blacker than it would have been otherwise in that desolate clearing. The light of the candles, set up in perfect formation, barely spread more than an inch from their jumping flames.

As the Lesser Prelates took their places around the south side of the circle, Kael rolled his shoulders and his outer robe slid to the ground. He didn’t miss Werryn’s reproachful look when he kicked it into a ball in the dirt and knelt down on it. To the north, almost directly under the moon, Werryn stepped up to the altar. By the time he began the ritual, the moon would be aligned exactly over his head. They had several minutes yet to breathe in the electric air and gather their thoughts.

Kael shifted his weight from one knee to the other before settling back on his heels. He was uncomfortable from the inside out; if they didn’t begin soon, he was afraid his ribs would crack under the pressure expanding inside his chest. Finally, Werryn raised his hands and the quiet murmuring ceased.

“Brothers and sisters of the Unseelie Court,” Werryn’s voice echoed as he began his sermon, resonating in the open space. “As we gather in this sacred hour, we prepare for the coming winter, and with it, the winds of change.”

He raised his hands, his fingers adorned with silver rings bearing the mark of their faith. Kael had his own set that he would don after the ritual, but for this, he needed his hands unencumbered.

“Tonight, we beseech the Low One to grant us His blessings. As darkness enshrouds our Court, let us be embraced by it and draw strength from the depths of the abyss. Let us harness His gifts to weave our destiny and secure our dominion over Wyldraíocht.”

Addressing the unseen forces that lay beyond the material, Werryn’s words called to the dormant power within Kael. Slowly, painfully, the first tendrils of magic emerged from his skin. Kael extended his hands, palms upturned. Wisps of shadow, almost entirely translucent, curled from his fingertips like threads of smoke. Hushed, reverent whispers passed between a few of the courtiers who hadn’t before seen his power firsthand.

“We are the masters of shadow, and the arbiters of our own fate. We ask that winter’s cold, unyielding grip forge us into a force that none can withstand.” After a moment of silence for his sermon to sink in, Werryn lowered his head and lapsed into the ritual chants. Monotone and low, he spoke in a language as ancient as the Low One himself that only the Prelates and a handful of scholars could still understand.

Kael’s shadows began to coalesce and writhe, swirling in a dance of ephemeral darkness. Surges of inky-black energy rippled through The Cut. His control was already precarious, teetering just on the edge of chaos. The courtiers, aware of the violent nature of his gifts, looked upon their king with a blend of aweand caution.

Kael dropped his hands to the ground and dug the tips of his fingers into the earth, clawing at the dirt with his fingernails to relieve any fraction of the energy that surged and burned under his skin. His lungs seized and his heart pumped impossibly fast. The Low One was here, beckoning to his shadows from the darkness, stretching and pulling them out of him. Ripping them from his veins.

Mercifully, Kael found some relief by directing his darkness towards the tether. The male cried out sharply as the shadows wrapped around his body, some plunging straight through him. He just needed to last a few more minutes, just to buy Werryn enough time to finish.

But he wasn’t as strong as he looked. Too quickly, the male fell silent and slumped forward onto the ground. Kael’s shadows retreated from his fading life force and branched out into The Cut, seeking their next target. A deep shudder that wracked Kael’s body shot through the ground and zipped up the nearest tree. One large branch crashed to the earth with a loud crack, narrowly missing a cluster of worshippers. Several of the Lesser Prelates stumbled, clutching each other’s elbows for balance, but Werryn didn’t waver. Steadfast as ever, he continued his invocations. His voice was but a hum in Kael’s ears, the steady rhythm of his words all merging into one constant droning sound.

Another crack echoed through the clearing—a whole tree this time, further off, was split clean in half by a constricting shadow. Kael managed to open his eyes long enough to lock them onto Werryn’s, and the High Prelate understood by the pain he saw there thathe didn’t have more than a minute before Kael lost control entirely. Stumbling over his words, Werryn drew the ritual to a premature close.

“In darkness, we find strength. In shadows, we find solace. As winter descends, we find our resolve. It is by the grace of the Low One that we follow our King, our beacon of power; heed His call to arms; and blaze our path to supremacy. Let His reign be eternal.” The worshippers echoed the closing statement of the sermon—they knew these words by heart.

Slowly, slowly, Kael called his shadows to withdraw. They slid across the ground and his every nerve fired off in protest as they coiled back into his muscles. His bones. His blood. When the searing pain faded, in its place a hot anger bloomed in Kael’s chest. He rose to his feet and approached the tether. The male was barely clinging to life. Kael wedged the toe of his boot under his shoulder and kicked him onto his back. In one smooth motion, he unsheathed the dagger that hung from his hip and drove it into the male’s throat, twisting it once for good measure before standing again. He didn’t wait to hear the death rattle that forced its way out of the male’s mouth.

Kael could hardly remember stalking back to his chamber. Blind with rage, he slammed the heavy door closed and let out a yell so loud and harsh it hurt his own ears. His chest heaved and his body shook. If he thought Werryn wouldn’t have stopped him, Kael would have ripped the tether limb from limb, and likely a handful of the worshippers, too. Just picturing the carnage managed to pacify him slightly. The honey wine he poured himself from the bottle on his desk, even more so. Still, his hands shook as hetraded the simple ceremonial robes for the ornate set he’d had made for the revelry. Spun from a rich black silk, the edges were trimmed with silver embroidery that swept across the fabric in swirls that closely mimicked the movement of his shadows.

“That was one of your worst performances yet,” Werryn said flatly from the doorway. He’d slipped in while the king had still been lost in his own thoughts.

“Do not give your opinions unsolicited,” Kael warned. The anger he’d been working hard to quell began creeping back in, so he concentrated on the repetitive motion of sliding his rings onto his fingers one by one.

Werryn ignored the bite in his words. “We must finish the rite. We’ll wait a few days for you to recharge, but it cannot be left undone.”

“With the way you order me around, it almost seems that you wish to be king.” Kael’s hands dropped to grip the edge of his dresser. “Tell me, Prelate, do you see yourself fit to rule? Or is it that you consider yourself my superior?” He spoke the words calmly—menacingly so. Usually unafraid of his wrath, his tone now was enough to send a brief chill down Werryn’s spine. So he conceded.

“Enjoy your evening, Your Grace.” Neither Werryn nor the Lesser Prelates would be in attendance tonight; their part of the Nocturne celebration began and ended with the ritual. For that, at least, Kael was grateful.

He swallowed down another goblet of honey wine and wished for something stronger. The celebration would begin soon, and hehad a speech to deliver, but despite his earlier anticipation he wanted nothing more than to sink himself into a drunken oblivion.

Kael chose a delicate crown to wear and settled it atop his head before sweeping his hair away from his left ear. He palmed the earring he’d left sitting out: a long string of white gems, the closest thing to a family heirloom he possessed. Roughly, he pushed its sharp post through his lobe. It had been some years since he’d worn one, and he was meant to wait for Methild to come pierce him properly with a needle, but the brief, bracing pain felt good. It forced him to suck in a deep breath of air.

Settled, dressed, and with the faintest buzz in his veins, the Unseelie King was ready to greet his Court.

The Fae were real: this was a fact that Aisling had been varying degrees of sure of at different times in her life. When she was young, she believed her mother’s descriptions of her visits to the Wild with all the blind naïveté of a child. Every word that crossed the woman’s lips was gospel, and she wove such fantastic tales—who was Aisling to deny them? Her mother had introduced her to the forest, led her by the hand all the way to the borderlands and drew a line in the dirt there with her finger that Aisling should never, ever cross. In the very deepest reaches of her memory, Aisling was almost positive that her mother had pointed out, only once or twice, some manner of faerie on Brook Isle. A sprite maybe, like the one she’d rescued, or something else similarly small and curious enough to let them approach.

But Aisling grew older, and her confidence faded. She became conscious of the whispers about her mother that often echoed through town, especially during those times when she’d go away, supposedly through a Thin Place. They’d wane while she was gone, for a day or sometimes two, then would pick up again when she came back. The whispers grew into a dull roar when she pulled Aisling out of the island’s tiny school to teach her at home from the time she was seven until her tenth birthday, when Aisling threw such a fit that her father finally put his foot down and allowed her to go back. The Fae didn’t exist for Aisling anymore then, and the stories her mother told were just that: stories. Aisling squashed that belief down so hard and so deep that she convinced herself that she’d lost it. But even unacknowledged, it remained inside her, the smallest burning ember.

Then her mother was gone. Her stories and sketches were gone. The magic that she brought to the island, and to Aisling’s life, was gone. The ember was doused.

And Aisling didn’t believe in magic again until, by absolute coincidence, she ran into Rodney at the gas station that night a decade ago. But then, her disbelief was replaced with a cold, cruel, and heavy guilt. Guilt, and regret. It consumed her for years.

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