Page 56 of The Shadowbound and the False God

“That god isn’t the Low One. The Low One and Aethar were lies. They were never real,” she spat.

The ground Kael stood on spun sharply then dissolved away beneath his feet.They were never real.If what she was suggesting were true, his god—his reason, his guide—was never real. That dark deity who’d imprisoned him in his own head was something else entirely.

But it wasn’t true.It couldn’t be true.He’d heard the Low One’s whispers in his mind since he was old enough to venture out to The Cut on his own, had done His bidding loyally and faithfully for centuries. Had prayed to Him on his knees time and again and had guided the Unseelie Court according to His answers.

It couldn’t be true.

“He’s called Yalde,” Aisling said, the edge of anger yielding just slightly. She still avoided looking at Kael.

“The Star-Eater,” the alseid whispered from behind them, somewhere between awe- and horror-struck.

Suddenly, the pain of Kael’s scarred flesh felt distant. Aisling’s voice sounded muffled; Raif’s sturdy shoulder seemed far, far away. Without another word, another thought, another breath, Kael turned his back on the party and walked away. He followed the perimeter of rowan trees to the back side of the cairn. It was so wide and so tall that the others disappeared entirely as he rounded it; not even the tops of their heads were visible over the crest of the stone structure, nor was the rest of theirconversation audible. He didn’t want to hear any more of it. There, alone, Kael sank down onto the damp grass.

It couldn’t be true.Aisling had been fooled somehow, or confused. She didn’t know the Low One, didn’t understand Him as Kael did. She’d feared Him; Kael had loved Him. The god was not always straightforward or clear in His addresses—even Kael, studied as he was, had misinterpreted His word more than once. It only stood to reason that Aisling had done the same. The very idea that He was a fabrication, a mere phantom of belief, was incomprehensible.

It wasn’t just Aisling’s words that he denied now; it was the unraveling of his entire world.

Kael felt strangely focused then, like the shock of Aisling’s misinformed revelation had turned off everything else and left his mind sharpened. He was more in control: he could slow his breathing, quell the tremors in his limbs. Though a pit of cold was expanding in his stomach, Kael pushed it back down. He sat back on his heels and let his eyes fall closed and simply let himself be. The air was cool and crisp, the ground a cushion beneath him. A breeze stung his skin, but not overwhelmingly. His shadows writhed in the dark cavity of his chest, begging to be set free. A sign. The Low One may not have been able to see Kael there in Antiata, but his god hadn’t forsaken him yet.

It wasn’t true. Aisling was wrong.

Kael’s hands curled into fists in the grass, the smooth blades bending under the pressure. The chill in his stomach persisted, gnawing at him, but he ignored it. The Low One had always asked so much of him—pain, sacrifice, unwavering loyalty—and in return, Kael had been granted power and purpose. This was merely another test, another trial of his faith. He’d been through them before and each time had come out stronger for it.

Except this challenge felt different in a way Kael was unwilling to acknowledge.What if Aisling was right?He shoved thethought away violently, but it kept creeping back, grasping for purchase.

His breathing quickened despite his concerted efforts to keep it steady. Once more, the world around him tilted ever so slightly as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into an abyss he’d never known was there, realizing that it would take very little to fall in and be swallowed up and—

No.Kael forced his eyes open, focusing on the solid, tangible world around him—the grass, the stone cairn, the quiet rustle of the rowan trees. These were real. His shadows, stirring within him, were real. And the Low One—He was real too.

The magic was calmer there in the Enclave. Mellower. Not so unruly as Kael worked to gather it and let it fall over him as his own glamour. It wasn’t nearly as heavy or impenetrable as Rodney’s, but Athrealain would never be so strong as Saothrealain. The glamour flowed into Kael’s scars, filling valleys and leveling peaks until, for the first time since leaving Wyldraíocht behind, his pain dulled to a level he could manage. He could think past it now. Even still, those thoughts were singular and repetitive:

It wasn’t true. Aisling was wrong.

The sight of Kael’s retreating back didn’t dampen Aisling’s anger as it should have, but stoked those flames further. He didn’t care to learn the truth about his god—the god that had possessed him and taken away his agency. The god that bade him to kill her. He wanted to deny that he’d been fooled into worshipping a dark deity that saw him as nothing more than a pawn in a cruel, cosmic game.

Fine.She’d let him.

“You’d best get inside,” Sudryl urged, her wings fluttering in the breeze. Raif stared at Aisling as though he could still see the runic markings on her skin through the material of Rodney’s sweater. She couldn’t read his face, nor did she particularly care to try. He may not have been as guilty as Kael, but he didn’t press for more answers, either. Aisling would have given them freely, had he asked. She longed to spill out every wicked thing Yalde had said, if for no other reason than to share the burden he’d put upon her. The knowledge of his plans for Elowas, for Wyldraíocht, haunted her. And the implications for her ownrealm—she didn’t want to consider those. Not now. Not while she was so very, very far from home.

“Come on, Ash.” Rodney took her arm gently and led her away from the ring of rowan trees towards the cairn. The structure felt ancient. Special, somehow. All that boiling rage and terror she was steeped in slowed to a simmer, overshadowed by a reverence that Aisling sensed deep in her bones. Time seemed to stand still there at its entrance. The weight of centuries pressed in on her, wrapped around her. There was a quiet gravity that made her acutely aware of her own fleeting existence in the timeline of the Fae realms. Though Aisling’s prophecy had long stood, the Red Woman herself was barely a blip.

She drew in a wavering breath as she followed Rodney inside. The timeworn stones were alive: they radiated an almost sacred aura, charged by bearing witness to countless stories, memories, long-forgotten histories. And simply by standing amidst them, Aisling would be one of those stories, too. She was connected now to something enduring and so, so much larger than her own small life. It felt good. It feltright.

The packed soil floor dipped beneath a vaulted ceiling, opening up the central chamber enough that even Rodney could stand straight, though the tips of his ears curled against the lowest stones. The roots of that blackened oak tree that soared overhead had wound into the structure such that Aisling couldn’t tell which was supporting the other. There was an hole in the far corner, a crude chimney under which a small fire burned. Rodney pulled her towards it; the warmth was inviting as it caressed Aisling’s cheeks. She held her hands out over the flames to thaw her fingers, though she knew that the cold in her veins had little to do with the temperature.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently.

She did. She didn’t. Aisling shook her head.

“What about food?” Rodney pressed, rummaging in his bag. “I have—”

Aisling cut him off. “I’m not hungry.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Her stomach roiled and her throat burned when she thought of the fruit Yalde had made her force down, bite after agonizing bite. She swallowed back the feeling and shook her head once more. “Later.”

Rodney let her be, finally, and simply stood by her side. Occasionally, he’d lean closer to nudge her arm with his. Aisling appreciated the silent reassurance that she wasn’t alone, no matter how deeply, achingly, she felt as though she was. The knowledge she carried was isolating.

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