Chapter 40 | Silver
And wait she did.
All night.
During breakfast, where she could barely stomach her food. Blackberries that Aire had grown during her practices lined their porridge. Their juice was tart and bright and more than one person came by her table to thank her for the gift.
Sloane stared at her as always, but Aire couldn't muster the strength to snap back at her. Ferdia was called away that afternoon as he had already volunteered to help dye the wool with the roots of the blackberries harvested. She trained with the Aether, glad of the chance to funnel her mind. Laochra had sparred with her and even though he had beaten her, he made sure to remind her that he was proud.
"You had lined your bones with muscle and fat." He said to her, helping her rise from the ground. "You are as sturdy as an oak."
She was glowing from the compliment. He had beaten her by a thimble and she had been ever conscious of making a mistake and breaking something she couldn't. Wynn had grinned at her as she took a gulp of snow-melt water and she smiled back easily; before his smile reminded her too much of Aevran and she had to turn away.
She spent the rest of the afternoon with the other Wielders, teaching the boys to patch their clothing. Siseal lay against Aire's side, watching Brice lazily. Aire absently began braiding his hair into a common Cearnain braid as the men wore it. She wondered if it helped the boys to remember Cearna, or to feel closer to their homeland when their memories of Cearna were so faded by time.
Ferdia was available to her that evening. "I need to speak of my past. A memory. Several, where I think the Bloodbound's true identity lies."
The word Bloodbound seemed sour on her tongue.
As if for the first time, she had to reckon with the person he would have been before. Ferdia listened as she spoke. Her memory of the fall of Cearna was hazy and she couldn't bear to think of it. So instead, she gave him another memory.
Of the sun setting low over the horizon. Distantly, Sirens sang a low melody. For young Aire or the boy, she didn't know.
"Please," Young Aire cast a desperate look to her sister beside her. "Please, sister."
Perhaps her father had thought having the ceremony by the sea would be of some comfort to her, but she could not think. Could not breathe. It was only a reminder of what this ceremony would one day entail. A life beyond Cearna. A life away from Álmhath. The High King of Cearna stood amongst the wild grass, dressed in a simple yellow dyed tunic. The sea wind ruffled his hair.
"I am sorry, dear one." Ríona clenched Aire's hand tight. "I have fought this for you everyday since the last full moon. Father has decided. As has mother."
Young Aire's stomach had sank further. If mother had made up her mind, then it was truly over.
A Druid stood beside her father; with ink marked into the thick trunk of his neck. Thick dark lines cut into a spiral sat along the sun-speckled dome of his head. A stranger. Perhaps because she had tried to blackmail the last one into refusing to oversee the ceremony. And before them...turning to face her with the wind ruffling his hair, was...
"Is that...the Bloodbound?" Ferdia breathed, staring wide-eyed at the memory.
It was and wasn't.
A boy of fourteen harsh winters, long and gangly in limbs he hadn't quite filled out yet, stood with the sea at his back. A diadem had been set atop his wild, dark hair. One of moonflowers and gleaming silver pearls. The same rested atop her head, as light as a bird.
Her breathing had pinched.
The boy's mouth had set into a thin line.
Aire watched the memory but continued to speak, the words falling from her like a spell. The memory continued to play out. Aire watched her younger self, stand before the boy with moonflower in his hair; her face was like thunder, her disapproval obvious. She wore a flowing gown, her sleeves and neckline capped with lace. She still remembered how it itched.
The boy gave her a small smile – one that quickly wilted and rotted as he beheld her stony expression.
"It is not like you are going to your death." The boy cut under his breath.
"I will live with you in Vespith." Young Aire hissed. "I cannot imagine a worse fate."
His jaw had tightened. The memory continued. Aire's voice hushed. The memory pulsed around them. The smell of the sea – the sharp sting of salt wind and the cold of evening-time. The Druid was speaking about commitment. Alliance. Age-old friends and neighbours. Young Aire scoffed at that under her breath. "Vespith and Cearna will never be friendly. Even if I am to be your whore."
The boy with the salt-wind ruffling his hair had cut her an incredulous look. "Who taught you that word?"
Aire snorted at her younger self. Because she had no clue what that had truly meant. She had heard it in a whispered argument between a lord and his friend, sneaking around when she shouldn't have been.
"You are to be my wife."
"Do not remind me."
Her hands had been quaking when she set them on the boy's and he had held them fast, to steady that shake. A small kindness that made her feel guilty for her dislike. Until he said, "You train everyday with the Aether and your hands are as soft as petals."
Ribbon was wound around their hands and wrists, binding them. A promise that when they came of age, they would be wed. An alliance to bring Vespith and Cearna closer together.
"You were engaged to the Bloodbound?" Ferdia's voice brought her back from the memory and she blinked, trying to settle herself.
"A ceremony of promise." Aire said dully, staring at the boy in the memory. Dark, wild hair. Eyes as blue green as the seas beyond the cliff-edge. Cheeks unmarked by the crescent moon. She had settled on fighting for Cearna with blade and body if she couldn't give a Wield, but the political marriage had been a slap in the face. She had disliked him before, because he had just been another Vespith brat thrown into the palace to try and ease relations between Vespith and Cearna. After that, she had hated him.
"Who is he then?"
"A prince," Aire leaned forward, reaching for the memory. It eddied under her fingers, growing muddy. Frustration bit at her throat and she felt like she would cry. Her father. Her mother. Her brothers and sisters. The prince she hated until the moment he hauled her from the palace and sacrificed himself for her in the burning city.
"A prince." Ferdia said slowly. Carefully.
"He is the second son of the Vespith King. Promised to a daughter of Cearna. Cadán Lír Suanach."
Ferdia hummed. "I remember there being whispers of the intent to marry a child from each court to ally the countries. If anything, the Suanach and Aryshalin families adored their children."
"It was a punishment." Aire stared at the boy. Roark. No. Cadán. "I was Wieldless and thought that they had foisted me off to marry the second prince because it was the only way I would truly be of worth. I had trained hard to be something other than the Wieldless daughter and this had felt like a betrayal."
"You would have gone through with it."
"I would have done it if my father, or Ríona had commanded it," Aire said fiercely. " I would have argued, I would have pouted but I would have done it."
Ferdia shifted forward, reaching for her shoulder. She eyed his hand but did not shift away as he settled a hand on her shoulder. "Your lack of Wield has chased your self-worth your entire life. Whatever reason there is for it not being present in your childhood, that does not mean you were not equal to everyone around you. Magic bound inside your blood and bones does not make you. It is apart of you, yes, but its absence does not sap worth from you."
"I know." She replied testily.
"You say this and yet it will take one moment of realization for you to accept it."
"Thank you, Ferdia." She said, wanting the matter settled.
Ferdia sighed softly before saying, "I hope to be there when it happens. I would like to see an Aryshalin step into her role once more. To bear the crown of moonflowers once more and to see our great moon shine silver once more."
*** *** *** *** ***
Aire took the night to stew over her findings. She tossed and turned under her furs, memories flickering whenever she closed her eyes. The boy. Cadán. Roark. Had they given him a new name when he had been trapped as a Bloodbound? Did he remember... did he know that they had once been betrothed once? He had too. He had to have harboured that secret once he figured out who she was.
Disturbed at the thought, she threw her legs over the edge of the bed. If Cearna hadn't fallen, they would have been wed already. She would have been confined to Vespith – torn from Álmhath, pulled across the giant-stamped bridge and confined in a palace she always imagined to be dark and cold. A fate she had considered worse than death. Now, she would have taken it if it meant her family were alive and that Cearna was free of the shackles of Kaelarian control.
She cleaned the edge of a simple half-hand sword that Laochra had given her. The blade was gleaming, unused but she continued to clean as her thoughts turned. When she could sit no longer, Aire threw a shawl over her hair and slipped into warm clothes. The sword was a nice weight on her hip.
The night was quiet and the hall outside her room was empty. She headed towards the Pretender's blood-room, determined to bury just another small piece of Gaela's body. The spirit walked alongside her, a soft ethereal glow guiding Aire even though the paths were stamped inside her mind.
Gaela materialised into a solid form as they reached the door that led out onto the cliff-edge. The wind had carried away from of the snow, exposing the sharp edge of the rock-shelf. Tonight, that wind howled so largely that it sounded like the cries of hundreds, rising in a grand cacophony of misery.
"You are quiet," Gaela wrote into the snow.
Aire's Wield moved stone, opening Gaela's grave. She spoke openly, always finding it easy to speak to the spirits who often had little room inside themselves to judge. Except Royden. He judged everyone openly, but that reliability had been comforting too.
"The Bloodbound is a prince." She said to her.
Gaela cocked her head.
"I do not know what state the court in Vespith is like now. Like the Aether, they tucked their tails between their legs and conformed to Kaelara quickly." Though, if Kaelara had a son in their custody? Was that an attempt to keep Vespith compliant and complacent as Kaelara ripped Cearna apart?
"Does Eimile know?"
"No." Aire shook her head, sealing the stone. "If she did, I am sure she would spin it into her own victory. He is the son of a King, but she is nothing but a liar. She has no more broken his spirit than I have. But... it does help me trust him. He knew me once. The true me."
"He is a Bloodbound now."
Aire swallowed, reading the words. "I know, Gaela. But...if we are going to take down 'Ríona Aryshalin'," Aire's voice was dripping with derision, "Then we have to take what allies we can."
Gaela wasn't convinced. The spirit turned towards the door back into the mountain. And froze.
Aire followed her line of sight.
The door was open. The shriek of winter wind had hidden the sound. Standing in that doorway, staring at the in disbelief, was Sloane.
Sloane's sharp gaze cut between the two of them. Aire knew the second she saw her face, that Sloane had heard enough.
"Listen to me..." Aire raised her hands.
Sloane's face twisted in hate, spitting at her. "Traitor. Honourless, faithless traitor."
Aire held onto her temper. "You just need to give me a minute to explain, Sloane."
"You wish to get rid of our Queen." Sloane withdrew her blade. Her hand did not shake as she levelled the sword at her. "For that, I will bring you to your knees before her or cut you to ribbons now."
Wind cut at Aire's cheeks. She faced Sloane. "You will not."
A sneer curled Sloane's mouth. "You have been doing something to me. I do not sleep well. There are too many nightmares pressing in. But...these past few days," Sloane hissed a breath, "Godless trickster."
"How would this accusation make me godless?" By the Danann, Sloane's posturing was exhausting.
"You have made your dislike of the Aether and of Cearnain customs known." Rotted dislike darkened Sloane's eyes. "To see such a Wield bestowed on a woman who would sooner spit on Cearnain soil than uplift it..."
"Do not assume how I feel about Cearna. I love Cearna. I love my home."
Sloane's laugh was mirthless. "You stand here, whispering to spirits about destroying Queen Ríona Aryshalin. The last good hope Cearna has of ever ridding ourselves of Kaelarian control."
"She is a fraud," Aire snapped. "A moon-damned fraud."
Sloane stilled. It didn't look as if she was breathing. Wild, cold wind whipped at Sloane's braid. She had recently shorn the sides of her head, leaving a dark shadow. A small part of Aire admired Sloane's resolution – she was a true Aether, no matter if she was misled. She would never have fled Álmhath the day the Crimsons attacked.
For that, Aire softened her voice.
"That woman in there that says she is Ríona Aryshalin is a pretender. Her true name is Eimile. She came with Gaela and killed her. She stole her Wield. She -"
Sloane struck. Aire's words garbled in her throat as she twisted to block Sloane. The snow was unforgiving underneath her and the wind pulled at her. At least Sloane felt it, but she had a half second ahead of her. Aire's blood chilled; she read the cold intent on Sloane's fact. Death. She would be killed her or subdued and thrown to the Pretender's mercy.
They fought on the long ledge of stone, watched on only by a ghost and a silver of red moon. Clashing steel was muted by the sound of howling wind.
"Who is acting with you?"
Aire parried Sloane's brutal strike, sidestepping. Her Wield pulsed under her skin. She could see where the stone was without having to look. Sloane was pushing back to where it began to slope. Strength or not, Aire would die if she fell.
Aire pushed back. Sloane's breath hissed between clenched teeth as Aire's strength blew down her arms. Strong. Danann given. Sloane thrusted the sword and Aire side-stepped.
"Sloane, please listen to me!" Aire's teeth chattered. Steel clashed again. Sloane's mouth tightened, her expression a short flash before she ducked away. "That woman you call Queen, is a lair. She is –"
"Do not," Sloane snarled, venom dripping from her voice, "speak of her in such a manner."
Casting her a withering look, Sloane said, "You are a faithless and honourless fool, Aire."
Time funnelled into the mere seconds between a strike and reaction. Inches were lost and gained in those seconds, with the edge of the cliff beckoning like a dark chasm. Air whittled in her lungs. Sloane grew visibly more frustrated.
Sloane struck hard. Aire's finger spasmed and her sword fell noiselessly into the snow. Sloane's blade rested on Aire's heaving collarbone. "You have skill and strength, Aire but you forget that I have trained for far longer than you."
The tip of the blade pressed into her skin. "You have been lied to Sloane."
Sloane's nose had gone red in the cold. Her fingers were bone-white on the hilt. "You will answer for your treachery. And all who have aided you."
"I will not."
Sloane's brow became thunderous. "Come with me, Aire."
Aire stared up at her, face defiant. The wind howled and cut at their exposed skin mercilessly. She would not be cowed. Not now. Sloane's lip curled. "As you wish."
The blade rose. Aire thought of the boys inside the mountain, the young boys still so soft and innocent. Eimile, the Pretender, who twist them all into something rotten. Something gold winked on Sloane's wrist and Aire thought of Aevran's golden hair. Then, of the dark tunnels beneath Irial. The thieves and criminals who had grown rich off her capture. Hatred curled in her gut. If she died on this mountain, they would never answer for their betrayal.
From the snow, chords of hawthorn and briar burst from the stone. Thorns, long and wicked, gripped tight onto Sloane's wrist. She hissed in outrage as thorns tore the blade from her hand. There was a second of disbelief before a curse garbled her voice.
She bowled into Aire; arms banded around her midriff. Her weight drove Aire into the ground and even the snow, she drove the air from Aire's lungs.
"Honourless," Sloane spat. She struck Aire into the ribs.
Aire hooked her legs on the outside of Sloane's and jerked her hips, toppling Sloane. Surprise pinched the Aether's expression as she landed on her back. Aire struck her hard into the face, her nose crunching under her fist. Blood spurted out onto the snow. Sloane hissed. Aire struck her again.
Sloane went slack. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
Aire eased back, eyeing the Aether for a long moment. Aire's lungs still felt pinched. "Oh, Gaela. I am honourless."
The spirit stared at her, before writing one word into the snow. "Strong."
Aire looked at her hands. They were relatively untouched. The skin had not split. "We can thank the Danann for that." Her words were bitter. Again, she had bested Sloane by using her Wield. Not by skill alone.
Shakily, she rose. Crimson eddied onto the snow around Sloane's; blood ebbed from her nose; her head turned to the snow. Aire observed the briars still lingering in the snow. "It was honourless to use my Wield so."
Gaela frowned. "She would have killed you."
Aire sighed, her breath a puff of white smoke, as she read the words. "Perhaps. I could only think of –," that hatred pinched her chest again. "I cannot imagine a world where Junhyn grows rich off my capture. Even here, on the edge of the world, I have not forgotten. And ... Aevran."
The name was poison still. On the sloped cliffside, with the ice-cold wind howling around them, Aire's fractured heart throbbed. She could not speak of him, of what he had meant to her. A fresher loss, made savage by his betrayal.
Movement caught her attention.
She glanced sideways to Sloane.
The young Aether was not rising. No.
Her body, unconscious, lay at the edge of the cliff shelf. Slowly slipping on an incline that Aire had not even noticed. Slipping, slipping towards the edge, where the maw of darkness and certain death awaited. Aire teetered for a half-second, her mind blanked by panic.
"Feck!" Aire lunged. She hooked a strong hand Sloane's wrist as her body tumbled over the edge.
Her weight pulled Aire over.
The dark maw beckoned. Aire found purchase on the lip of stone; her fingers white as they dug into stone. Her arm burned; her grip was tenuous. Her nails dug into Sloane's wrist.
Aire sucked in a short, panicked breath through her nose. Wind pulled at her. Hair spooled around her head. Her Wield seared beneath her skin. Briars wove around her wrist, flowers kissing the thorns as it touched her skin.
Fire bit at Aire's arms and shoulders. Her fingers slipped from the edge and the briars took their weight. Sloane swung beneath her in the open air.
"Pull me up?" She asked her briars.
Moonflower tickled her wrists. A primrose sprouted from her elbow. From the briars, a bush of blackberries grew to ripeness. Aire snorted. 'Thank you."
She was going to fall into the darkness, bones broken from the fall but at least, her corpse would be adorned in her forgotten grave. Sloane groaned weakly. Aire looked down at her, panting.
Slowly, Sloane managed to raise her head. Her lower face was dark with drying blood and her eyes were glazed with pain. She fixed her eyes on Aire, just staring. With her face absent of her usual sneering dislike, Aire saw the youth on her face.
"I do not know -," Aire wheezed out, "how to get us up from this."
Sloane didn't seem to understand. 'At the least, she would die without panicking,'
Aire's shoulder burned savagely. She was certain it would pop from its socket. Her breathing came in rough pants. To Sloane she said, "I think we are going to fall."
A hand, solid but ice-cold, seized her wrist. Aire looked up and saw Gaela staring down at her. Her face was solid and set into a grim expression. She hauled and then, the briars began to pull too. Slowly, slowly, they inched up over the edge. As soon as she felt stone under her knees, Aire began to pull Sloane up too. Along with Gaela, they pulled Sloane far from the edge and lay her there in the snow.
Gaela patted Aire's shoulder as Aire braced her hands on her knees, gasping. She lowered her head, shuddering and waiting for the fire in her shoulders to abate. Groaning under her breath, Sloane rose unsteadily to her feet.
"I would be quite cross if I saved your life and you chopped my head off, Sloane." Aire bit out, turning to her.
Sloane looked unsteady on her feet. Yet, she laced her shoulders tight and levelled Aire with that familiar severe expression. One that melted as she beheld Aire.
"You..."
Gaela's fingers pinched Aire's shoulders before she withdrew. Already she was fading to a mere shadow of herself. Aire inclined her chin in gratitude to the spirit.
"I do not think you are thanking either Gaela or I?" Aire said tartly, facing Sloane once more. Flippantly, she brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. "I believe I have made a mistake in saving you."
"You have hair like silver moonlight. Like in Ferdia's paintings." Sloane breathed.
Aire's hand flew to her crown. There was hair underneath her fingertips. Hair half-loose from its braid, caught in the whistling wind and flying madly around her head. Uncertainty flickered across Sloane's face.
"Silver hair is an Aryshalins' hair." Sloane shook her head. "Is this some kind of trick?"
Softer than she imagined she could, Aire shook her head. "No, Sloane. My name, my true name, is Éalaire Aryshalin, the second daughter of the slaughter High King and High Queen. The woman you call Queen is a..."
"Is a what, exactly?" A smooth voice called from behind them.
Aire turned. A moan tore from Gaela's throat.
The door into the mountain was open still. Half bathed in shadow, the Pretender was waiting and smiling with such savage cruelty that dread curled like spider husks in Aire's stomach.
"Dear sister," the Pretender purred, her voice like layered honey. "I have missed you dearly."
| Welcome back!
Wicked is the Curse is nearing her finale. Nearing it - but not quite there yet.
Do you think Aire should have spared Sloane?
What are your thoughts, theories and conspiracies for what comes next?