Page 14 of The Shadowbound and the False God

Rodney blinked once. Twice. Slowly, too slowly, he worked to regain his composure under the weight of Lyre’s penetrating gaze.

“That’s rich, Prelate,” he replied finally, forcing a chuckle. His voice lacked its usual confidence, but by some miracle it didn’t waver. “I’m pretty sure that sort of magic was bred out, what, a century ago? Two?” He looked to Raif for backup, but the soldier only watched their exchange with a neutral expression.

“And how old are you, exactly?” Lyre challenged. His grin widened, becoming more predatory.

“Enough.” Rodney breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Aisling stepped between them. “Will someone tell me what Saoth—” she paused, struggling to pronounce the word. “What a Weaver is?”

“Saothrealain is an old sort of inherent magic; Weavers are those who can wield it. They Create artifacts. Just as we destroyed most of those, we destroyed most Weavers and Saothrealain bloodlines. There can’t be more than a handful left across all of Wyldraíocht.” A frown appeared on Raif’s forehead that grew deeper and more pronounced with each word he spoke. His dark eyes were fixed on Rodney now, too. Not so harsh as Lyre’s, but still appraising.

Aisling crossed her arms. “Well if Rodney says he isn’t a Weaver, then I believe him.”

“My dear, how many secrets must yourfriendkeep from you before you stop blindly trusting his word?” The way Lyre sneered the epithet—friend—made Rodney’s blood boil. Mostly because of just how right the Prelate was.

Long before he was ever Rodney Finch, in a life so distant he’d managed to purge most of it from his memory, he’d worked and worked to perfect the magic that constantly nagged at him to be used. It made his fingertips itch sometimes even just to think about it, to think about how long he’d left the better part of it dormant. It was his first life, his original form that was born with it, and each life he’d lived thereafter was little more than an escape attempt. Though he carried it always in his blood, Rodney Finch was no Weaver—so long as he didn’t Create anything too remarkable.

“Rodney?” Aisling turned to him then, chin tilted up so she could meet his eyes. There was betrayal in hers, barely concealed but growing. His stomach twisted with guilt to see it there, knowing he’d caused it—and not for the first time.

He reached up to rub a hand over the back of his neck, massaging the muscles constricting suddenly. Instead of addressing Aisling, he looked to Lyre and asked flatly, “How did you know?”

He heard Aisling’s sharp exhale and winced when he felt her pull back from him. Lyre’s grin turned smug. The question was as good as an admission, and whether or not that sanctimonious bastard knew for sure that he was a Weaver, Rodney had just confirmed it.

“Your glamours give you away, púca. They are far stronger than Athrealain glamours—woven, rather than cast.” When Rodney looked away, his cheeks flushing a ruddy shade of red, Lyre clicked his tongue and purred, “What a delightful turn of events.”

He was ready to shoot back a harsh remark, but choked on it when Aisling shoved past him and stalked out into the corridor beyond the armory. The best he could do was cast a withering glare over his shoulder before hurrying after her. He had to jog to catch up and grabbed her by the elbow to stop her going further.

Aisling spun, fury obvious and burning on her face. “How could you not tell me?”

“Ash, I…” Rodney started. He’d wanted to—had considered it a few times—but in the end, there was too much to explain. Too much he didn’t want to drag up from the murky depths of his memory.

She shook his hand off her arm and stepped back, out of reach. “Save it, Rodney. I’m sick of your games; I’m sick of you constantly having to be one step ahead of me. You’re always leaving me in the dark, and I’m always the last one to find out.”

“Aisling, just listen a minute, will you?” He took one step forward, then another. He reached out to put his hands on her shoulders until her harsh warning look stopped him. Defeated, he let his arms drop to his sides. “I wasn’t keeping it from you on purpose. That magic is something I’ve been trying to outrun a long time. I was never great at it to begin with. I hardly consider it a part of me anymore.”

“You know every part of me,” Aisling accused.

He did. He treasured that. In all his lives, he’d never once had a friend as close as Aisling. If platonic soulmates existed, then she would have been his.

Rodney sighed and leaned back against the uneven stone wall, tipping his head to rest against it. He kept his eyes trained on the damp ceiling as he spoke. “I mastered some little things, once upon a time. Just petty things. Then I was asked to Create something bigger, more intricate. I should never have said yes, but I wasn’t in my right mind. I lost someone I…someone who I cared about very, very deeply.”

It took every ounce of effort to say those words, and to say them steadily. Feelings Rodney hadn’t acknowledged in an exceptionally long time began worming their way in: fear. Heartbreak. Regret. He swallowed each back down, one by one like bitter pills.

“I’ve lived a long time; I’ve done a lot of things that I can’t take back.” When he forced himself to look at her again, Aisling’s expression had softened. He cleared his throat, still thick with those unwelcome feelings. “And now you know that part of me.”

Rodney pushed himself off the wall and returned to the armory, leaving Aisling there in the passageway. She was a thinker, a processor. He’d long since learned to give her space to digest these sorts of things on her own, rather than trying to force his way into her head. It usually worked in his favor.Usually.

“Can you do it?” Raif demanded bluntly, cutting through the tension that still lingered in the cavern when Rodney stepped back inside.

“I would say he has little choice.” Lyre had perched on a bench adjacent to Raif. He smirked at Rodney.

Rodney hesitated for a moment, nearly folding under the pressure of their expectations, then squared his shoulders. “Iwon’t make any false promises; I don’t know whether I can or not. I never had true mastery over Creation beyond weaving glamours. And frankly, I can’t recall the last time I tried anything besides.”

It was a lie, but not a big one. He could recall—he simply chose not to. Self-preservation was as threaded through his nature as the magic itself. He suppressed a shudder with a wry smile, then added, “Though I do enjoy surpassing our religious scholar in value on this little expedition. You may not be needed after all, Lyre.”

Before Lyre could bite back, Aisling appeared at Rodney’s side. She was still angry with him—he could tell by the way she held herself, by the way she kept her distance and dug her fingertips into her crossed arms. Still, he was glad to have her there.

“How will you know what to Create for Him?” she asked.

“We might simply ask,” Raif suggested. He’d finished honing his blade and fine-tuning the other weapons he carried: ensuring each arrow in the quiver slung across his back was evenly placed, the dagger at his hip hung at the right angle, and the hilt of the other tucked inside his boot stuck out just enough to be easily reached, but not so much as to be easily noticed. The soldier looked positively lethal.

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