The Vanishing Throne (13 page)

As I watch, the skin begins to heal, leaving nothing but blood behind. “It always heals,” she tells me in that awful dead voice. “See? It always heals.”

I don't say anything. I can't. I know from experience the lies we tell to comfort ourselves, to comfort others, so others never realize how broken we really are.

My scars are all on the outside; what I went through is bared for the world to see. Aithinne's scars are so well hidden that she fooled me.

The truth is, memories weigh a great deal. Each one bends your bones a little more until the heft of them wears you down. Now I know that some scars go so deep that they never fade.

L
ONG AFTER
nightfall, we are far beyond the limits of the city. We walk through overgrown grass in fields that were once prosperous farmland. In winter, the land outside Edinburgh would always be bare, ready to be tilled before the growing season.

I remember how ravens would gather in the soil, all black flapping wings and sharp laughter. Now the rapeseed and weeds are so unkempt that they reach my hips. No animals rustle through the fields; it's quiet around us but for the soft patter of rain.

I follow Aithinne's steps carefully. The only light in the field is from the moon peeking through the thick rain clouds overhead. Its halo burns through the clouds, tinged a rust red. I try not to think of how seeing it like that reminds me so much of the battle, of saying my goodbyes to those I loved.

I never thought I would be responsible for . . . 
this
. All of this. Before the battle I tried not to think too much about
what the human realm would be like if I lost. I always assumed I would never live to see a world taken over by the fae. That I would die before I let that happen.

You sacrificed my realm to save yours
.

My chest tightens.
Stop thinking about it
, I tell myself.
Keep going. One foot forward. Now the other
.
That's how I hold it all back, every ounce of regret. One step and then another, over and over again.

Aithinne pauses for a moment, brushing her fingers along the tops of the weeds. She's been so quiet since the river. She washed the blood off her hands and hasn't spoken to me since. Now she has her head tilted as if she's listening for something. It's so dark I can't make out her expression. She breathes deeply once, twice.

Her voice startles me. “Just up ahead.”

Before I can ask her anything, she's starting forward again, her steps quick. I follow her, wading through the tall grass. There's nothing in front of us but fog, so thick around us that the moisture presses against my skin, my face, dripping down my eyelashes. I can barely see more than a few steps in front of us.

Something is silhouetted in the fog, three figures in the dark—animals. Horses? Once I notice the light that emanates from them, I stop abruptly.

The faery horses are as beautiful now as they were the night the fae army rode into Edinburgh. They are alight from within, the metal that holds them together so soft and delicate it's slightly transparent. Beneath it, glowing golden
blood races through thick veins around mechanical pieces that
tick tick tick
gently inside. Ensconced within is a real horse's heart that beats in a steady rhythm. The horses breathe together, thick smoke streaming from their nostrils and across the dark grass.

The night of the battle, my first instinct had been to pet one of these horses. To run my fingertips over the smooth surface and savor the metal so soft that it resembled fur. I wanted to make something so exquisite.

Now I just keep picturing Lonnrach astride his horse in the canyon, his eyes meeting mine.

Come back to me
.

I want to shoot
seilgflùr
-laced scrap metal through the fae horses so Lonnrach finds them dead. I want to leave a trail of fae in my wake, each one a message for him. This one is:
I will kill you all
.
The second one is:
Come find me
.
The one after that:
I dare you
.

I start forward, grasping the blunderbuss to draw it from its holster at my back. I'll be quick. I'll be merciful. Not like
them
.

“
Falconer
.” Aithinne speaks so sharply that I stop dead in my tracks.

“Aye?” I try to keep my anger subdued, hidden deep again. I can't think clearly through it. It's what got me here in this desolate place to begin with.

“Take your hand off the weapon,” she says softly.

I'm about to do as she says—she's earned that at least, if not my trust—when I see another figure in the fog. My
mouth is suddenly assaulted with faery power and I act without thinking. The blunderbuss is in my hands, the stock pressed to my shoulder.

“
Wait
,” Aithinne says.

I've already pulled the trigger. The blunderbuss slams into my shoulder and the blast echoes across the field. Smoke curls in the air between us.

A familiar voice shouts, “Goddamn it!”

I lower the blunderbuss. “Kiaran?”

He strides through the smoke and fog until I can finally see him clearly—and my breath catches. His gaze is so intense that I can't help but think of our kiss. Without my meaning to, my thumb brushes over the marks of that memory on the inside of my wrist. It's a brief, vivid flash of
his lips his hands his kiss
and
yes more
.

My cheeks are hot when he stalks right up to me, eyes narrowed. Pinched between his bloody fingers is a piece of scrap metal laced with
seilgflùr
from the blunderbuss—a shot that would have killed any other faery.

“
Really
?” he says.

“You were traipsing around in a low-visibility field while enemy fae are afoot,” I say defensively, hoping he can't tell I'm blushing. “What is
wrong
with you?”

Aithinne snickers and Kiaran casts her a sharp glance. “It's not funny.”

His sister tries to hold back a laugh, but doesn't quite succeed. “I'm sorry,” she says. “But you just . . . I've never seen you look like such a
complete
mess.”

Kiaran studies her with a narrowed gaze. “And both of you look like you've gone three rounds with a roving band of feral cats. I'd say we're even.”

“Even? Oh,
please
.” Aithinne ticks off each finger. “Thus far the Falconer and I escaped through a forest of spiked trees, fought off the
mara
, fled from Lonnrach's soldiers, and defeated two
mortair
. You were shot by accident with some weapon composed of a wooden stick with a barrel on the end—”

“A blunderbuss,” I correct helpfully. Kiaran gives me a pointed look that says,
Whose side are you on
?

“—so I'd say I win this round.” She finishes with the sort of arrogant grin that makes it very clear that this must be an ongoing competition.

Sibling rivalry, it seems, is not just for humans.

If Kiaran's glare is any indication, he's contemplating about fifty different ways of killing his own sister. “Just remember,” I whisper to him, “murder is frowned upon in most societies.”

“Not mine,” Kiaran says shortly. “She's lucky I love her.” He snatches the blunderbuss from me and inspects it. Then he unlocks the hold and dumps its contents into the grass.

“
Damnation
!” I make a grab for the weapon but he expertly evades me. “You're wasting perfectly good ammunition—”

“I'm sparing the next bastard you shoot, who could very well be one of your human friends.” He thrusts the blunderbuss back at me. “The next time you want to kill someone, wait until you can actually see them.”

“It's no less than you deserve for—” Then his words sink in. “I beg your pardon, did you say
human friends
?”

Aithinne had said there were survivors, but could she have meant . . . ?
No, don't hope. Do. Not. Hope
.

“That unbearably smug Seer, his mildly tolerable sister, and their group of humans,” he says, “none of whom—I'm fairly certain—would survive being shot by that bloody thing you're wielding.”

I press a palm to my mouth. “They're
alive
?”

“Aye,” he says dryly. “It was a surprise to me, too. The pixie led them up to Skye to stay in the remains of his old kingdom. That's where we're headed.”

I'm so close to crying, I don't think I can stop myself. They're alive. They're
alive
and nothing else matters. Tears are already starting to burn my eyes, clouding my vision.

Kiaran looks at me with an expression I've never seen on him. It takes me a moment to realize it's dawning horror. “Kam. Kam, don't do that. Don't cry. Don't—”

Then I'm crying and he puts his arms around me in quite possibly the most awkward, stiff embrace I've ever had in my life. And I adore every second of it.

Aithinne speaks from behind us. “I admit to being somewhat unclear on the function of human tears,” she says. “So we're sad about this? Should I menace someone?”

In lieu of a response, the only thing I can manage is something of a half-laugh, half-sob, because
they're alive
and I haven't felt like this in so long.

“For god's sake, Aithinne,” Kiaran says, his voice rumbling through his chest, “put the blade away. You're not going to stab Kam's idiot friends.” Then, after a moment: “On second thought, the Seer really serves no purpose . . .”

“Oh, shush.” I look up at him, whisking the tears off my cheeks. “Don't ruin this. It helps if you don't speak.” Then I press my face back into his chest. “And if you stop responding to my hug like I'm torturing you.”

Kiaran makes some attempt to relax, but he could use lessons in hugging. He ends up with one hand shoved up in my hair and the other giving my back a
there there
pat, but it's the thought that counts.

“Oh, don't give me that look,” he says to his sister. “Aithinne. Stop it.”

When I open my eyes, Aithinne is staring at us with her head tilted, a silly smile on her face. “Don't mind me,” she says, putting her hands up. “It's not every day I see my brooding, sullen brother comforting anyone. I think it's splendid. Please continue.”

Now I see why Kadamach wanted me to move heaven and earth to find you
.

Oh lord, my cheeks are burning again. If the earth opened up and swallowed me whole, I don't think I'd object.

Kiaran speaks to her through clenched teeth. “Any time, Aithinne. You're welcome to shut up any damn time.”

That reminds me—Aithinne still has the fae vow written on her tongue. I pull back and Kiaran untangles his fingers
from my hair. Is he reluctant? I can't tell. “Release Aithinne from her vow,” I say. “Now. It's already hurt her enough.”

A flicker of regret flashes in his gaze and I'm startled by it. I'll be damned. He never regrets anything. He looks over at his sister. “I release you from your promise.”

Her smile is gone. Aithinne doubles over, her tongue darting out of her mouth. A gasp of pain escapes her lips, her breath shuddering. Her delicate shoulders hunch forward.

I've never seen a vow rescinded. If it hurts that much, I can't imagine what it would look like if a faery ever broke it.

Kiaran watches Aithinne intently, as if checking to make certain she's all right. When her body seems to relax, he turns back to me. The carefully controlled mask he's always worn—that keeps his emotions so composed—has slipped. He's preparing to tell me something, and this time it's not good news.

I almost tell him to wait. I want to keep the happy cocoon of joy. I want him to put his arms around me for a few minutes more before it's bad news all over again. But putting it off doesn't make it go away, nor does it become any easier when the time finally comes.

You thought all of your friends were dead. You dealt with your home being destroyed. Whatever this is, you can bear it
.

I steel myself for this revelation. “What is it?”

“There's one last thing you should know.”
Wait
, I almost say.
Wait. Don't say it
. But he does. “We couldn't find your father, Kam.”

I wasn't expecting that to hurt so much, for me to
feel
so much. I turn sharply away from Kiaran, so he won't see that my eyes are getting wet again. Because this time I couldn't bear an embrace.

“Oh,” I say softly, unable to form even another word.

My father and I were never close. We were never affectionate, not even after my mother died. He spent so much time away in the country and even when he did return, we lingered in our Edinburgh home like ghosts haunting our familiar rooms. When he spoke to me, it was always briskly, bordering on irritated, and I always assumed he treated me that way because I wasn't the son he so desperately wanted.

After my mother died, Father's indifference toward me only grew worse. He was stuck with a daughter and had no chance for a son unless he remarried. According to Scottish law, I was his heir.

I can't forget the night I said goodbye to him. When he told me,
You look so much like her
. Like
her
, my mother. Before she died, I was a reminder of all the years they tried for a son. After, I was a constant reminder that he had lost her and she wasn't coming back. That I was a poor substitute. I was never as kind or as patient or as selfless. I was always the daughter he didn't want.