Page 40 of The Shadowbound and the False God

Rodney’s cheeks heated. “Unglamoured. Yeah, I noticed.”

The soldier schooled his face back to neutral and nodded to Rodney, then again to Fenian.

“Did Sudryl not grant you entry?” The centaur asked, frowning. Rodney glanced between the two; they’d clearly developed some degree more camaraderie than he’d managed.

“She did, and to my companions, once I’ve collected them.”

“Then, púca, it is time you pay me what I am owed,” Fenian said to Rodney, who nodded and approached Raif. The soldier eyed him dubiously. Before he had time to react, Rodney had dipped his hand into the satchel hanging loose from Raif’s shoulder. He sucked in a sharp breath when his bare skin connected with the rope, iron threads searing his flesh as hewithdrew it from the bag and tossed it at Fenian’s hooves. The heavy ball secured to its tip bounced once then rolled to a stop.

“You cannot bargain with another male’s possessions,” Raif growled once he realized what Rodney had done, turning on him.

“I had little choice,” Rodney snapped. “He was hardly interested in the so-called sword you gave me.”

“Thatso-called swordis all you can safely handle.” The anger that had flashed across Raif’s face dissipated, but the way he countered the shot so matter-of-factly irked Rodney further. It was true, he knew it was, but he didn’t care to hear it either way.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking I’m interested in helping you find the rest of your party,” Fenian warned, interrupting their argument before Rodney could fire off another comeback.

Raif made to speak, then paused and glanced around. “Where is Aisling?”

Rodney looked away to hide the tears of shame that sprang to the corners of his eyes. His stomach churned. If she’d been with Raif instead, he’d never have let her go alone. He’d have stayed. He’d have protected her.

“Rodney,” Raif said sharply, pulling him from his unkind thoughts.

Still with his head down, Rodney mumbled, “She went after Kael. We found where the Low One lives. He told her to come, to leave me, and she did. I—”

“I’ve heard mention of the Low One now from both of you,” Fenian cut in. “To whom are you referring?”

“The dark god you hunt for. That which Antiata is hidden from.” Raif’s tone betrayed the same confusion Rodney felt at the centaur’s question.

Fenian was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I do not know him by that name.”

Raif’s eyes narrowed. “Aethar?”

“I’m unsure of his true name, but it is neither of those.” Fenian shook his head again. “I knew it once, I believe. When I was alive. But that was a very long time ago now.”

Rodney wasn’t sure why Fenian’s words brought a tremor to his limbs and tightness to his lungs, but a sick sort of dread settled over him that he couldn’t shake. By the look in Raif’s eyes, Rodney could tell the soldier felt it too—he just did a better job masking it.

“You’ve seen the god, though? When you deliver the aneiydh?” Raif stepped around Rodney to stand in front of Fenian.

“I’ve only heard his voice; I’ve never looked upon him. I leave his bounty amongst the shrouded in the sylvan cathedral.”

Rodney’s breath caught. “That’s where Aisling went.”

“Have you seen anyone else there?” Raif asked intently. “Another Fae?”

“The silver-haired male,” Fenian acknowledged, nodding. “He is unwell.”

“What do you mean, unwell?” Rodney demanded. His panic was growing now, imagining Aisling discovering all of this on her own. That it might have been some other entity with crueler motives calling out to her; that Kael was sick or hurt or dying. Or already dead.

“He is brutally scarred, though he may have arrived that way. More than that, though—he’s not…” Fenian paused, searching for the right word. “There. He doesn’t see, doesn’t react. Shadows pour from him like blood.”

“Shadowbound.” Raif’s voice was tight. “Can you enter at any time, or does the god send for you?”

“Any time I have aneiydh to deliver.”

Raif nodded once, face drawn and jaw set. Solemn. “Then I must ask for your help once more.”

The bitter juice of the fruit burned every part of her it touched. It seared the tips of Aisling’s fingers. Her lips. Her tongue. Her throat. All the way down into her stomach as she forced down bit after bit: the seeds, the pulp, and the rind. Every swallow was agony, every breath now little more than a choking gasp. Tears streamed from her eyes, but her throat was too raw for her sobs to make a sound anymore. Each time she retched—from the pain, from the taste, from the panic—she had to swallow that down, too.

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