Page 68 of The Shadowbound and the False God

But she was sick of being protected.

Aisling was sick of all of it—of everyone else giving things up for her. Kael should have never given his life so willingly. Her friends shouldn’t have come with her to Elowas. Maybe that was the reaction she’d wanted from Kael: selfishness. She wished he would stop giving himself up for her and accept that she would no longer allow it. She wished he would fight not for her, but forthem.

Rather than chase him down to tell him as much, Aisling remained beside the mural. She’d been going over it again, pouring over the painted figures inch by inch. If there was some hint or clue to be found in it, Sudryl surely would have identified it already. Even still, Aisling felt driven to memorize the historyof Yalde and Merak and Elowas. She wanted to know the story of the evil they hoped to kill.

“That’s my favorite part, there.” Sudryl had crept into the cavern unnoticed and was standing at Aisling’s side. She reached up and tapped a nail against the piece of the mural that depicted the Silver Saints standing around a kneeling female.

Aisling leaned in to peer at the figures more closely. She’d paid little mind to this bit, distracted by Yalde as she was. Merak stood together in a semi-circle, almost exactly as they’d appeared before her in The Cut what felt like a lifetime ago now. The female that knelt before them was unmistakably Fae, with delicate features and tiny pointed ears. The artist had given her a serene expression—grateful, almost. The details were small and worn, but the painter’s intent was clear. Aisling could feel it.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

Sudryl stood on her toes to place a finger in the center of the orb of silvery white light the Silver Saints held between them. “Seren—the magic of the Tuatha Dé Danann. As pure and strong as the light of the stars they were born from.”

Light Bringers.The name made sense to Aisling now.

“Your Silver Saints were wise beyond measure. Before they returned to the sky, they hid the last kernel of Seren in her.” Sudryl’s finger drifted over the female, almost as though caressing her long painted hair.

“Who was she?” Aisling was breathless; Fae history was as beautiful as it was brutal. She regretted not taking more of an interest in those dusty tomes Kael had tried to convince her to read.

Sudryl shrugged and dropped her hand. “No one knows; her identity was lost to time, quite possibly on purpose. But legend tells that her line continued to pass that secret kernel on and on down, always to the firstborn female of each generation. It was not to be used, but guarded.”

Aisling smiled a little as Sudryl’s words gave meaning to the painting. She imagined a long line of fierce Fae females, tasked by demigods to protect an ancient magic. Whether fact or legend, the story was powerful either way.

“Ruminating will do you little good, girl. There are no secrets hidden in this mural that will help you,” Sudryl chirped. “Leave it alone. You’ll drive yourself mad looking for something you won’t find.”

The faerie was right, as much as Aisling was reticent to acknowledge it. The mural was just a mural. The history was enchanting and horrifying and fascinating all at once, but it was just that: history. There was no prophecy painted here, no map or guide that would show them safe passage back to the Wild. They were alone in the present to figure it out for themselves. This time, there was no Door Number Three.

Rodney was pacing the main chamber when Sudryl shooed Aisling away from the mural, and Raif had just returned with Kael in tow. He still looked agitated, albeit calmer than before. Aisling kept her distance, though she noticed a muscle in his jaw tick when she crossed the space to sit on the opposite side.

“Rodney,” she said his name loudly when he almost tripped over her foot. He was radiating an almost manic energy. His messy hair—fur—was even more unruly. She could tell he’d been raking his long fingers through it, tugging at tufts here and there. His tail twitched back and forth like the arms of a broken clock and he toyed nervously with his sleeves.

“Good, you’re all here.” He ignored Aisling’s warning tone and continued his erratic pacing.

“Quit that,” Sudryl groused when he almost ran her over. She gave him a disparaging glare before disappearing down a dark side passage.

“Sorry, sorry.” Rodney’s voice was shaky and his eyes were wide; Aisling couldn’t tell if he was terrified or excited or both.He stopped and stood in the center of the space, then drew in a steadying breath. “I’m sorry,” he said again, a little more even this time.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer once she’d asked the question. His nerves were making her nervous now; her stomach twisted and knotted in response.

“Notwrong, exactly. Nothing iswrong.”Rodney’s assurances were unconvincing as he overemphasized the word.

“Well, púca? You have your audience, captive as we are.” Raif leaned against the wall, arms crossed with one eyebrow raised. His sarcasm wasn’t lost on Aisling; she dipped her head to hide a brief smirk.

Rodney held up Kael’s dagger ceremoniously.

Aisling squinted at it, but it looked unchanged. It was still just a dagger.Still just the dagger she’d killed Kael with.She averted her eyes from it quickly.

“I did what I could with Antiata’s threads. They’re strong. Do what you will with this blade; I do not believe it will break. But it still won’t kill Yalde. It needs more—more power—if it’s going to take down a god.” Rodney didn’t pause once for a breath. He was speaking a hundred miles a minute, his words running together.

“Rodney,” Aisling said, more firmly this time. “Slow down. You’re rambling.”

He apologized again, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “I’m a little all over the place. But I was talking to Raif before, and…well, I think I figured out what it needs.”

“Out with it then,” Kael growled. So he was still angry. Aisling winced.

But Rodney was unmoved by Kael’s impatience and ignored the bite in his tone entirely. He just rolled his eyes, turning his back on the males to face Aisling instead. “It needs something from each of you. Something important.”

“What does that mean?” Aisling understood very little of Rodney’s magic—of most Fae magic, really, but his seemed particularly nebulous. He could weave, could Create things out of nothing; what could she or anyone else offer him that might turn a plain dagger into a deity-slaying weapon?

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