Page 75 of Void of Endings
“I traded it. For something better.” Rowan glanced over at him, and though his face was a mask of disinterest, his eyes told another story. One of sacrifice and loss.
He hadn’t traded his ability tofadefor something. He bartered it for someone.
Maeve.
“That night in Spring, when Casimir handed her off to you.” It seemed the Nightweaver had given up a number of things for the Dawnbringer.
“I made a deal with the god of death. Same as you.” Rowan shrugged, as though it made no difference. “Her life in exchange forfadingseemed fair enough. I figured I’d be stuck flying or walking everywhere for the rest of my life. But when Aed gifted me the power of destruction…”
He spread his arms, and shadows danced between his open palms. “The shadows came with it.”
Interesting. That dark magic had been part of Tiernan as well, yet not once had he ever been able to move between the shadows. He cocked his head, suddenly curious. “What else did he give you?”
Orange blossom and cedarwood flooded the air as Rowan’s magic expanded, shifting the courtyard, morphing it into another place entirely. Misty rain fell from the sky, dampening Tiernan’s hair and chilling his hands. Fog crept along the ground, almost obscuring the path of uneven cobblestone that stretched out before him. Buildings appeared on either side of him—shops, cafes, and other various storefronts—all of them washed in muted shades of gray and blue. Only one of them drew Tiernan’s attention because a steady stream of golden light spilled from its rain-splattered window.
He moved closer, entranced by the glowing aura the way one might follow the glimmering of faerie lights. Up close, he peered inside the building, and his breath caught tight in his lungs. He held fast to the sight unfolding before him.
It was a library, with dozens of floor to ceiling shelves crammed with books. There was a spiral staircase in the back ofthe room leading to another level, and a fire sparked to life in the hearth. But the glow didn’t come from the crackling flames—it came from the fae curled into a leather chair, her head bowed as she read the book cradled in her hands. Maeve’s golden pink curls tumbled loosely down her shoulders, the crimson sweater she wore a perfect match to the color painting her lips. Each time she turned the page, the rustling of parchment sounded softly in Tiernan’s ears, as though he sat right beside her.
Shadows formed by the hearth, and then Rowan appeared. He lounged against the wall with his arms crossed, the power of destruction rippling around him while he watched Maeve from across the room. She didn’t look up, oblivious to his presence, though Tiernan imagined she knew he was there. Waiting.
The Nightweaver’s gaze flicked to his through the window, and when Rowan stepped forward, the illusion vanished.
Tiernan stood in his courtyard once more, keenly aware that they might have just stumbled upon the key to rescuing Maeve from the Spring Court. The idea slammed into him, jumbling his thoughts. It was slightly unhinged, not at all strategic, and while he wasn’t certain about the complexities involving illusion magic, he knew it would work. “That’s it. That’s how we’ll do it.”
Rowan arched a brow in question.
“We’ll go into Suvarese under the guise of illusion.” Tiernan waved his hand through the air, gesturing to where Maeve had been seated in a library. “What are your limits?”
Rowan’s harsh laugh echoed up into the swaying palm trees overhead. “I have no limits.”
“Don’t be a dick,” Tiernan countered, his patience waning. “You might be a demigod, but that power only extends to the magic of destruction, nothing else. Illusion is fae, and you know as well as I do that it comes with a price.”
At the mention of the word price, Rowan instantly sobered.
“Best-case scenario, it will hold up for a few hours, assuming it’s nothing too outlandish in design. We might be noticed upon closer inspection. The edges of the trees may blur, the illusion might waver if I expend too much energy.” Rowan shifted his weight, running his thumb along his jaw. “Worst-case scenario…exhaustion. The magic will vanish completely, revealing us.”
Tiernan nodded. It would be worth the risk. “Can you do it?”
“Yes.” Rowan didn’t even hesitate.
“We’ll tell Casimir of our plan when he arrives.” Tiernan lifted his gaze to the sky. It was still inky with the promise of night, but in a matter of hours, dawn would be on the horizon. “Get some rest, Nightweaver. You’ll need it.”
With that, he turned and walked away, heading through the open air corridors to the living quarters. His heart only stuttered for a moment when he passed by his and Maeve’s adjoining rooms. Their scents mingled in the air, layered on top of one another, like intricately woven threads of shared time and space. Fueled with a greater determination, he kept going, knowing he would find Lir in Brynn’s room. Since it housed an arsenal of healing potions and ointments, it was the most ideal location for his recovery.
He paused outside of Brynn’s door, listening. Lir’s deep breathing was accompanied by the hushed murmurs of Brynn’s voice and her feather-like footfalls. Slowly, he nudged the door open.
Brynn glanced over, motioning for him to come inside.
Instantly, he was assaulted with the smell of crushed herbs—lavender petals, valerian root, and something minty. Shelves lined the walls of her room, each one filled with vials and glass jars. Dried flowers with twine wrapped around their stems hung from her windows. Stacks of books littered a long table, many of the pages were marked in ink by Brynn’s careful hand. She stoodby the bed where Lir rested, leaning over the nightstand where she ground a brown paste together with her mortar and pestle.
Tiernan slowly walked over to join her, keeping his voice low. “How is he?”
He glanced down at his commander. The wound looked better, as though it had already begun to heal. Brynn’s magic had repaired most of Lir’s flesh, sealing the gaping hole left behind, fusing the skin together in a faint scar that resembled a sun.
“Resting.” Brynn set the mortar and pestle down, blowing out a soft breath. She tucked an errant curl behind one ear, her gaze roving over Lir’s prone form, then darting up to Tiernan. “I don’t think it is the injury that plagues him.”
Concern cemented a line across Tiernan’s brow.
