The Vanishing Throne (9 page)

Normally I'd picture my mother the night of her murder. I'd see Sorcha standing over my mother's corpse, licking the blood off her lips as if she'd just had a satisfying meal.

Now I can't help but compare her teeth to Lonnrach's. Her eighty-two teeth resemble the ones that have left marks all over me. The truth is, Lonnrach and his sister have both claimed parts of me. Lonnrach claimed my body and mind, and Sorcha—she took part of my humanity. Ripped it away until I was left with that violent girl from the mirrors.

I grip the hilt of my sword so hard that my hand aches. I press down the memories just enough for me to speak. “You're lucky Kiaran made that vow to you,” I tell Sorcha. “If his life weren't entwined with yours, I'd put this blade through your chest and cut out your heart.”

Just like you did to my mother. I'll make sure you know exactly how it felt for her at the end. You should die the same way
.

“Tit for tat, as they say?” Sorcha flashes her fangs in a hiss. “I'd dearly love to see you try.”

“That's
enough
.” Aithinne lashes out with her powers, quick and strong as lightning. I watch as a single cut opens across Sorcha's flawless face.

Blood drips down Sorcha's alabaster skin. “
Strìopach
,” she snarls. I may not be familiar with the word, but I'm certain it's
not
a nice thing to call someone. “I'm here to help you, and this is how you repay me?” Her lip curls. “I wish they could have killed you in the mounds.”

Aithinne stiffens. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand curl into a fist. “You
don't
help,” she says coldly. “Never have.”

Sorcha, here to help? She can't honestly think we're daft enough to believe her. More than likely she's distracting us, preventing us from fleeing. I can hear Lonnrach and his soldiers drawing nearer. They'd be halfway down the path by now, moving faster.

“You want to help me?” I say. “Get out of the way.”

Sorcha looks amused. “Oh, believe me. There's nothing I'd love more than to see Lonnrach snap
your
pretty little neck.” She looks at Aithinne. “You need to open the portal here. It's not going to close fast enough and he will just follow you right through. I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen.”

Aithinne narrows her eyes. “And why should I trust you?”

“Well,” Sorcha says lightly. “You have two choices: Trust me, or take your chances with my brother.” Her smile is cruel, cutting. “The word is you're both
very
familiar with his . . . 
unique
methods of interrogation.”

I want to know everything. I just need to use your blood to see
.

I can't help it. I step forward, pulling out my blade—

Aithinne puts a restraining hand on my shoulder. “One day,” she breathes, too low for Sorcha to hear. Then a nod at Sorcha. “Fine.” At Sorcha's smug look, she adds, “But if you betray us, I will string you up by your intestines and make Prometheus's eternal punishment look like a stroll through the woods.”

For the first time, I see fear flicker in Sorcha's features. She's afraid of Aithinne. Sorcha glances at me and, as if sensing I've noticed, hardens her expression. “I'll hold Lonnrach off with my powers for as long as I can without him seeing me.” At Aithinne's sharp look, Sorcha grins, fangs flashing. “Wouldn't want to make an enemy of my brother.”

Aithinne shakes her head and pushes past the other faery to continue across the rocks.

“Oh, Aithinne?” Sorcha calls after us. Aithinne stops to listen. “Just so you know, this changes nothing between us. My loyalty is to him. It always has been.”

Aithinne's jaw sets and I frown at her response. Before I can analyze Sorcha's words, Aithinne is already striding away and I'm forced to follow. We can't stay to see how she distracts Lonnrach and the other fae; we don't have time.

Aithinne leads the way to the other side of the ridge. We're over the loch now, above the shimmering waters. The waves lap against the hard crags. She stops at the edge and looks over. “Here. I have to open it here.”

My heart leaps. Surely she can't mean to jump. The drop to the bottom must be more than four hundred feet—high enough that a fall would leave me dashed against the rocks.

“Right where we're standing, aye?” I say warily, dreading her answer.
Please say aye. Please say aye
.

Aithinne shakes her head and my hope wilts. “About halfway down.” At my small sound of protest, she flashes a quick smile. “The rules are simple again. Don't let go of me. Don't let yourself fall to the bottom. You'll likely die. See? Simple.”

I glare at her. “We really need to review your definition of this word. I don't think it means what—”

Before I can blink, Aithinne grabs hold of me and I'm airborne. I let out an undignified yelp and grip her coat so hard that my hands ache. The air rushes around us, a deafening surge in my ears. We plummet down and down until I feel weightless, until it's as if we're flying and mist envelops us, thick and blinding white.

When I finally land, it's so much softer than I expect, just a light jolt. I roll down a gentle grassy slope and open my eyes to a cloudy gray sky. A frigid wind blasts through the delicate material of my shift. It's still winter, then. It seems like I was gone so much longer. It smells of rain; the drops stick like ice to my skin.

Home. It smells like home. I made it.
I made it
.

I open my eyes with a smile—until I see the flat slope behind Aithinne. I frown. The ruins of St. Anthony's Chapel used to be there.
Didn't they?
I rise slowly and ignore the dizziness as the blood rushes to my head.

“That's not right,” I whisper, unease slicing through me. “It doesn't look right.”

It doesn't look like home
.

The Queen's Park has changed since the battle. The landscape is altered—there are slopes in the hills where there shouldn't be, pockmarks across the land. The dirt path through the park is gone, and grass has grown tall over it, with patches of scorched, ink-black earth where the grass hasn't grown back; remnants of the battle fought here. Jagged rocks have risen up from the once flat meadow below Arthur's Seat.

I knew it would be different. I had been braced for it; I had told myself that if I ever escaped, I would have to be prepared to see the Edinburgh Lonnrach had only let me glimpse.

I'm not. I'm not ready, and I doubt I ever will be. But I
have
to see the rest.

“Falconer, I—”

Aithinne's words choke around her vow and I don't wait for her to try again. I take off running. I sprint up the slope for the view of the city.

The entire way, I replay the vision Lonnrach showed me. I prepare for the feelings that will lance through me—because
what he showed me was a mere suggestion of the destruction. My thoughts are a litany of reassurances. I tell myself that I've seen it. That I've prepared. That I'll be all right.

I stumble and fall. Sharp rocks slice into my bare legs, but I haul myself up and keep going. Making it to the top of the crags is all I care about. I don't focus on the cold, or how my slippers can barely grip in the wet dirt. I slide down and keep going. I use my fingernails, sinking them into the mud to climb. When my slippers stick in the wet sludge, I leave them there and make my way up barefoot. My preparations are spoken aloud in harsh breaths.
It'll be all right. It'll be all right. It'll be all right because you're safe now and
—

I reach the top and drop to the ground on my knees. My chant sticks in my throat. None of it makes a difference, because no matter how much I thought I'd prepared, I'm not ready for what I see.

Below me, the city of Edinburgh lies in ruin.

I
CAN DO
nothing but stare at the sight below. Whole buildings have been smashed; some are entirely gone and others left only partially standing. The once towering tenements of Old Town and Holyrood have been flattened, leaving nothing but piles of rubble.

Edinburgh's castle—a stronghold that survived siege after siege in this country's history—was once an imposing presence atop its own cliff at the center of the city. Now it's been left in a pathetic state, with only the half-moon battery at the front still standing.

Below that, the damage in the newer parts of the city where I once lived are even more sporadic, some buildings left whole and others in various states of decay.

The battle is long over. So long that nature has begun to claim the city. Weeds and grass and moss have grown throughout, a sign of the time that has passed. The disaster here—the Wild Hunt—was not recent. The city has been abandoned,
grown over and left to crumble. The
daysweeksmonthsyears
I spent with Lonnrach in the
Sìth-bhrùth
were slowed down in comparison to the time that has passed here. I dare not wonder how long it truly was.

I wasn't prepared for this. The vision of Edinburgh Lonnrach showed me was an immediate aftermath; the shower of ash from the sky and the thick smoke from the burning buildings was proof of that. It was a mere hint of the chaos.

The truth is, this is hell. Hell is seeing my home destroyed. It's knowing I tried so hard to prevent this destruction—and I couldn't.

The loneliness is back, an ache stretched vast inside me. I'm in the mirrored room with my various selves. My fingers press into my marks, playing each memory left behind by eighty-two teeth. Because that's all I have left of this place the way it was before I failed all my friends.

Tears scorch my eyes and sear paths down my cheeks. I avert my gaze from the sight before me and squeeze my eyes shut.

Aithinne moves to stand beside me. “I couldn't warn you.”

“I told you; I already knew. He showed me,” I say, swallowing when my voice threatens to break.

“Knowing isn't the same as seeing,” Aithinne says softly. She rests a hand on my shoulder. “You don't have to look. We can—”

I pull out of her grasp. “No. No, I need to.”

All sense lost, I run toward the city. My feet pound through the dirt and grass as I make my way down the crags. Aithinne calls after me. Her voice is carried by the wind, her
power trailing behind me in a soft, lingering caress across the back of my neck. I grimace at that brief inhuman touch, a reminder that she is one of
them
, and they destroyed everything.

I've never hated them more.

I splash through puddles along the slope of the crags. The skies have opened in a sudden downpour that slicks my skin and makes running all the more difficult.

When I finally reach the streets that once surrounded the Queen's Park and Holyroodhouse, my shift is soaking wet. My legs sting from various cuts and bruises but I hardly notice as I race through the thoroughfare now overgrown with weeds.

The palace itself has been decimated, the once beautiful towers destroyed. All that remains are scorched black bricks and a few pieces of wall from the quadrangle still left standing. Fragments from the nave of the beautiful abbey that had once graced the property lie in pieces on the ground, covered in moss and grass.

I sprint past it all, up to what was once the center of the city. My feet pound across dirt and rock, but I don't stop—not even to look at the destruction anymore. If I pause for even a moment, I'll have to remember that I failed. Kiaran and I tried to prevent this, and we didn't succeed—
I
didn't succeed. And Lonnrach's army destroyed it all.

You sacrificed my realm to save yours
.

Now nothing remains but the surrounding rubble; a city that has been entirely demolished and left to ruin. The earth has come to reclaim it in vines and moss that cover everything.

Home
. I have to go home. The North Bridge is still only half-standing—the result of my fight with the redcap. The city workers never had time to rebuild it.

Don't think about it. Keep going
.

I take the long route up what used to be the High Street, past the collapsed stone buildings of Old Town, and make my way to the underside of the castle crags. My feet are sore and wet with blood, slapping against stone with every step.

It isn't until I reach New Town—where Charlotte Square once stood—that I even pause. The square is deathly silent, no birds or animals rustling amid the rubble. There is only me, my body trembling, the sound of my panting from running so hard.

My house . . . god, my home—it's still standing, but it's hollow, empty. The foundations groan as I approach, as if the structure could cave in at any moment.

It's far too dangerous to enter, but I approach the white-columned abode anyway. I slip through the overgrown grass that peeks between the cobblestones. The front door is propped ajar. Dust falls and the door creaks on its hinges, resisting as I push my way inside.

Destroyed. It's entirely destroyed, as if something came through here with immense force. Splintered wood litters the beautiful Persian rug that once graced the antechamber, now ruined by dust and soot and dirt. My mother's paintings—her beautiful Scottish seaside views—are in pieces on the floor, stained and barely visible beneath the mold.

It doesn't smell like home. My father's scent doesn't linger at all, not even the aroma of pipe smoke that always remained in the hallway no matter how long he'd been gone. My home smells empty, as though no one has lived here for a number of years. As though no one has even
been
here for years.