Page 30 of The Shadowbound and the False God

Sudryl thought for a moment, eyes darting between Raif and the rowan tree beside him. “Tell me of the Veil, soldier. Does it still stand?”

“It is damaged,” he said cautiously.

“Then things are graver than I imagined. If Orist perishes in one realm, she perishes in all three. Yours will fall to ruin, and the insidious rot will leak into the human realm. What happens there is of little consequence to either of us.” She waved a hand dismissively before adding, “But, as I remember it, Wyldraíocht was a place of great beauty.”

There was a warning in Sudryl’s simple assessment that she left unspoken. Raif saw Elasha then, and his unborn son—he was sure they had been given a son—in a crumbling Wyldraíocht. One just as twisted and cruel and diseased as that which he found himself in now. It sickened him to picture his child growing up in fear; to see Elasha’s pure, radiant light swallowed whole by insidious darkness.

Sudryl’s lips curved into a sly smile. “If I guarantee you and your companions protection in Antiata, you must find a way to heal her.”

Raif raised his eyebrows—it was far from any bargain he expected. “And how would you suggest I do that?”

“That’s for you to sort out,” she taunted.

“It sounds as though you’ve given me an impossible task,” he growled, that nagging impatience now on full display. “We do not have that sort of time.”

“You give me your word, and I will allow your companions entry. I do not expect you to have found a solution before your return. I simply ask that, once your quest is through, you will devote yourself to seeking out a cure.”

“If it is so easy, how come you have not done so yourself?” he demanded.

“I cannot leave the grove unattended,” she said simply.

Raif ground his teeth, working his jaw from side to side as he thought. But in truth, he had little choice. He hadn’t any idea what state they’d find Kael in, if at all. They needed a guaranteedplace of refuge. Even if it meant he’d spend the rest of his days searching, he would agree to it—for his king, and for his son.

Finally, he held out his hand and said, “You have my word.”

Sudryl reached up to shake. Her skin was the texture of tree bark, rough against Raif’s palm. “Go then. Antiata awaits your return.”

The burning that beset the overworked muscles of Aisling’s legs paled in comparison to the pain tearing at her insides, ripping through her lungs and clawing its way up her throat. He’d killed her, again and again without hesitation or remorse.

His basest desires. His creation. His basest desires.

She didn’t want to believe the Low One’s whispers, but she’d seen a degree of that dark, hateful gleam in Kael’s eyes before. It had been there in both instances: when she’d been pinned to the tree beneath his arm in the night garden and when she’d stood before him at Nyctara. He’d hated her then, hated her so much that perhaps he really had pictured killing her. Had fantasized about how it would feel to snap her neck or to let his shadows rip her apart. She tried to recall exactly how he’d looked at her, if he’d truly worn his rage and intent so openly as that shadowy, vaporous version of him. But it seemed that her memories were twisted, too, and had been replaced by those sick visions. Now, all she could see was Kael’s cruel face and his imagined versions of her own death.

Aisling’s legs gave out beneath her and she sank onto the hard-packed dirt. She struggled to get control over her panicked breathing and her insidious, intrusive thoughts, desperately clawing at the sweater that felt unbearably tight and the chainmail tunic beneath that now seemed heavy and constricting. Her chest heaved beneath her grasping hands and her ribs felt like they could snap under the pressure.

The rain that had been chasing her down caught up to her finally, but the cool drops falling against her skin were somehow steadying. Aisling attempted to count them, one by one. Gradually, as she neared one hundred, their pattering slowed, and her breathing along with it. Soon, only one drop fell for each deep breath of pine-scented air she managed to drag in, hold, and force out through pursed lips.In, hold, out.All of her energy was singularly focused on that pattern and its rhythm.

Once she thought her legs would support her weight again, Aisling pushed up onto her feet. Just ahead of her, a crossroads spanned across a wide gap in the trees, its branching paths running off into darkness in each direction. She hadn’t even realized she’d left the forest behind.

Her hand found its way to rest on the pommel of Kael’s dagger, where it seemed to end up constantly now that she was used to wearing it there: a natural resting place. Avoiding the puddles that had collected around her, she moved to stand in the center of the crossroads. The four paths were illuminated by the stars. The sky was pitch-dark again, an inky shade of indigo speckled with those tiny pinpricks of light. There was still no moon, though. Aisling wished in vain for the bright wash of its glow to show her the way.

She was paralyzed by indecision, her body refusing to move in one direction or another. Something unidentifiable in her gut was telling her to stay, and it held her there just long enoughto hear footsteps approaching from the road she had been moments from starting down.

A male was walking towards her, emerging from the mist and darkness. He was tall and slender, and cut a relatively unintimidating figure in comparison to the other beings she’d encountered in Elowas so far that night. Still, Aisling drew Kael’s blade and held it raised with both hands. Starlight glinted off the metal as it danced in her shaking grasp.

As the male drew closer, she could just begin to make out his foxlike appearance. A barely-there layer of pale hair covered the male’s angular face beginning below high cheekbones. Aisling peered closer—it wasn’t stubble, but fur, smooth and fine. A shock of it sat atop his head, too, a deep shade of russet red. Long enough to knot at the ends, with a wide strip that grew down the back of his neck and disappeared under the collar of his jacket. His nose darkened slightly at the tip. Two russet fur-covered ears rose tall above the crown of his head and tapered into points that ended in white tufts. Foxlike, similar to the rest of him, but ribbed inside like the ears of a bat. They moved like a bat’s ears, too, unconsciously tracking the quiet sounds of the night around them.

He stopped several paces away, hands raised. His fingers, spread apart to show he was unarmed, were long and mottled brown with dirt. Trembling, just slightly. He was breathing hard, too, as he looked at Aisling.

“Hey, Ash.” His voice was unfamiliar, with a hint of a lilting, broguish accent. It was his eyes that she recognized, though—they were a warm shade of gold, and upturned, but she knew them. She’d know them anywhere.

“Rodney,” she breathed. She fumbled the dagger, nearly dropping it in her haste to slide it back into its sheath without looking away from the male before her.

“Yeah.” His tone was apologetic. He moved one of those grimy hands to rub at the back of his neck, as though the fur there irritated his skin.

Aisling approached him cautiously. She couldn’t help letting her gaze roam over his new form—so close to the Rodney she knew, yet entirely different. Entirely Fae. He stayed where he was, shifting his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably as she observed him.

“You—” she started, then stopped. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What happened?”

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