Blind Michael lunged, going for the sword. He was closer than I was, and so I didn’t even try to beat him; I jumped back instead, grabbing my knife from Acacia’s lap. “Come on, Michael. It’s not even a fair fight. You’re older and stronger than I am. Now take me down!”
He clutched Sylvester’s sword, expression telegraphing his unease. When was the last time anything truly frightened him? The Riders were whispering in the darkness, but none of them were stepping forward to help him. He was fighting me alone. “You’re beneath me,” he said, trying to sound confident.
“Doesn’t sound like you believe that,” I said. Baiting him was fun, but I didn’t have time for fun. I relaxed enough to let his borrowed eyes tell him my guard was down, and then lunged.
It’s hard to fight what you can’t see, and Blind Michael couldn’t really see me. He had a hundred borrowed perspectives to use, but he was missing the most important one of all: his own. He swung wildly as I approached, and I didn’t even try to block. The sword hit my upper arm, opening a long, shallow cut between my shoulder and elbow. It was a glancing blow—it hurt, but not badly, and it wasn’t going to be crippling. Good. My own attack depended on him thinking he could win, if only for a moment. He thought he had the upper hand; I could see it in the way he let his blade dip, not bothering to brace for a parry.
My shoulder hit him in the chest, bowling him over. He hadn’t been expecting that. Idiot. I had nothing but a knife, while he was wearing armor and had a sword—where, exactly, was the benefit in attacking him directly? Disarming him was a much better approach.
He hit the ground hard, Sylvester’s sword skidding out of his hand. I landed on his chest, bracing my knees against his upper arms and pressing the edge of my knife against his throat. “What does it take to kill a god?” I asked, coldly.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said.
“Too bad you don’t believe that.” I bore down, pressing the blade harder against his skin. My blood was falling over everything, making it impossible to tell whether I was really hurting him. “How long since you did your own fighting, Michael? How long since you started hiding behind children?”
“I—”
“How long?” I shouted. He stopped struggling, eyes closing, and I looked up to see the Ride staring at me in unified terror. They finally believed that I’d do it. That I was going to kill their lord . . .
And I couldn’t. Nothing I did would hurt him enough; nothing. He needed to suffer forever. I shuddered, letting my head droop as I tried to calm myself enough to slit his throat.
Then Acacia’s hand was on my shoulder, and a knife was landing in the dust beside me. “Kill him or let him go, Amandine’s daughter, but don’t torture him,” she said. “Make your choice. You haven’t got much time.”
I looked up. “Acacia—”
She looked down at me, the short tendrils of her hair curling around her face. When I distracted Blind Michael, that must have broken his hold on her, allowing her to rip herself free. “No. You let others make your choices too often. Kill him or let him live, but do it now. No more games.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You always know. You just don’t listen to yourself.” She shook her head, turning, and started to walk away. The Riders parted to let her pass, still silent, still staring at me.
Choices. Oh, Oberon’s blood, choices.
I put the candle between my teeth, keeping my knife pressed tight against Blind Michael’s throat. The flame licked at my cheek, filling the air with the hot smell of singed blood as I reached out and picked up Acacia’s knife. I almost dropped it when the metal hit my hand. Iron—it was made of iron. It would have to be; did I really think I could kill one of the Firstborn with silver alone? That was never an option. Not really.
My father was human; I can stand the touch of iron, if only barely. I forced my hand to close around the hilt, looking at Blind Michael through the thin haze of blood clouding my eyes. I was looking for my hatred, but I couldn’t find it. I found pity and anger, but no hate. He was insane. He hurt people because he didn’t know any better; he hadn’t known better for a long time. Did that absolve him of what he’d done? No. Did that make it right for me to torture him?
No. It didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t forgive you.” I lifted my hand, bringing the two knives together, and slammed them together down into his throat.
Iron slices through faerie flesh like it’s nothing but dry leaves and air. That’s what iron exists to do: it kills us. Silver can do almost as well, if you use it properly. Acacia’s knife was iron, Dare’s was silver, and I held them together as I thrust downward.
He screamed when the blades broke his skin; it was a high, childish sound, the last gasp of someone who thought he was invincible. My vision fragmented for an instant, shared between a hundred sets of eyes before the Ride fell as well, clutching their chests, eyes closing. For that moment, I was Blind Michael; I was broken; I was bleeding; I was dying.
And then there was nothing but blood. The tolls had been paid—I just didn’t know who’d paid them or whether it was done in time. Him or me? The age-old question. I slumped forward onto Blind Michael’s corpse, eyes closing. It didn’t really matter; he was dead, I had won, and I couldn’t fight anymore.
No more children would suffer because of him. In the end, I’d proved myself as a child of Oberon’s line, no matter how much I tried to deny it; I was a hero, and I was dying like one, and that was all right, because it was how things had to be. I let out a long, slow breath, relaxing at last, while blood ran down my cheeks like heavy crimson tears.
I was done.
The darkness was almost polite as it came for me, wrapping itself around my fading mind. I had time to wonder if the night-haunts would be able to find me in Blind Michael’s lands; then there was only darkness and the sweet taste of blood.
I was done.
THIRTY-ONE
THE TASTE OF BLOOD WOKE ME. I opened my eyes and rolled over, spitting at the ground. It didn’t help. The air around me was light—too light—with a strange, even brightness. It was a little jarring. I sat up and looked around, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
I was lying on a bed of moss at the edge of Acacia’s forest, shrouded by the sheltering trees. The branches above me were putting out new leaves, pale green and trembling in the air. They were growing. Everything was growing. The sky between the branches was dark, but three pale moons shone against the blackness, surrounded by a scattering of stars. The strange new light was moonlight. The stars didn’t form constellations I knew, but it was comforting to see them; they were a sign that the long night of this land was changing, if not coming to an end.
The bushes rustled behind me, and I turned to see Acacia walking toward me. The branches bent away from her as she walked, avoiding the hem of her gray silk gown, and her short-cropped hair was curled into a nest of tiny knots that rearranged themselves as I watched. She wasn’t wearing her cloak. I stared at her, openmouthed, as I realized what she’d been hiding. I’d never seen her without that cloak; she’d changed gowns, but the covering had always remained the same. I could finally see why.
Acacia had opened her wings. They were broad moth’s wings, pale green with golden “eyes” at their tops. The edges were tattered from their long confinement, but they’d heal; anything that could last as long as she had would need to be resilient. And they were beautiful.
“You have wings,” I said, amazed.
“I do,” she said, still smiling.
“But why did you hide them?”
“Because if Michael forgot them, he wouldn’t take them like he took everything else.” She tilted her face upward, closing her eyes. “I can feel the stars. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel the stars.”
“Is he . . . ?” I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask if I’d killed her husband, so I stopped.
“Dead? Yes, you killed him.” She smiled, eyes still closed. �
�He’s as dead as dead can be. No more midnight rides or stolen children, no more blood on his hands—or on mine.”
“Bloody hands.” I looked down at my own hands, almost afraid of what I’d see. Dried blood was caked under my nails and in the creases of my knuckles, but the cuts were gone. My skin was whole. “I’m not bleeding.”
“You paid the toll.”
I started to stand, stopping and wincing as I tried to put weight on my left arm. Looking more closely, I saw that my jacket and sweater were slashed open all the way to the elbow; the cut beneath was long and raw. “Not entirely.”
“My husband gave you that. It wasn’t part of your fee.” She lowered her head, opening her eyes. “Consider it a part of your reward.”
“What happens now? Are you free?”
“What does free mean, I wonder?” Acacia shook her head. “I won’t leave these lands, if that’s what you mean; they’ve been my home too long. I don’t know the world you come from. It would be no home for me.”
“Luna’s there.”
“I know. I’ll visit—I can do that, now. I can visit all my children.” This time her smile was sweet and wistful. “I’ve missed them. Luna especially.”
“I think she’s missed you, too.”
“She was always a good girl. She tried to stay. But she was dying here.”
I looked at her thoughtfully. There were traces of green in the mingled gold and brown of her hair. I was willing to bet that as the forest restored itself, Acacia would bloom. “She wasn’t the only one.”
“No; she wasn’t.” She sighed. “He wasn’t always like that. I won’t defend what he did or what he became, but there was a time when he was . . .”
“Sane?” I suggested.
Acacia looked at me, expression grave. “Are the fae ever sane? We live in a world that isn’t there half the time. We claim that windmills are giants, and because we say it, it’s true. Our lives become myth and legend, until even we can’t tell what we truly are from what we’re told we ought to be. How can we live that way and be considered sane? My lord was never sane, but he was my love once. He always will be, somewhere. Wherever it is that the once upon a times go when they die.”
I nodded and rose, this time careful not to put any real weight on my left arm. Once I was up I leaned against the nearest tree, taking a slow inventory. My entire body was covered in blood, but the cut on my arm was the only lingering injury. All the other wounds were made by magic and seemed to have faded the same way.
I looked up to see Acacia watching me. “I think you’ll live,” she said.
“So do I,” I replied. “I should probably—”
“Yes, you should.” She gestured toward the ground. Sylvester’s sword was there, properly sheathed; so were the knives I’d used to kill Blind Michael. “I’ve readied your things, and I’m sure there are people who need to know you’ve survived. I would have wagered on your death. I’m sure they’ve done the same.”
Impulsively, I reached for her hands. “Come with me.”
“I can’t,” she said, and smiled. “I have to stay here. The children need me.”
Oak and ash, the Riders. “Will they—are they going to be all right?”
“No,” she said, simply. “They’re going to be Riders, and they’ll be here forever. But they’ll be better than they were. These are my lands now. The Rides are over, and we’ll live another way. I don’t know how. But we’ll do it.”
“Alone?”
“If we have to.” She let go of my hands. “You’ve given us what we needed, October; you’ve given us our freedom. Now go home and give your family the same gift.”
I bent to collect my weapons, pausing before picking up the second knife. I’d killed with it—it was mine now. In the end, I slid both knives into my belt, slinging the sword over my shoulder. “How do I get home?”
“Come here.”
Her smile was warm and welcoming. I stepped forward, stopping barely a foot away.
“Trust me, and close your eyes,” she said. I did as I was told, and felt her kiss first my eyelids, then my lips. “Good-bye, Toby.”
A breeze rose around me and the smell of the air changed, shifting from forest loam to flowers. I opened my eyes, unsurprised to find myself in the Garden of Glass Roses. The light through the windows indicated that it was past noon, although the light in Shadowed Hills can lie. Crystal butterflies flitted from place to place, unconcerned by the sudden appearance of a changeling in their midst. I could tend myself; it was their job to tend the flowers.
“Good-bye, Acacia,” I said, and started for the exit. I needed to find Sylvester and the others, and let them know that I was all right. If I was going to be a hero, it was my job to make sure every part of my family was protected, including their hearts.
Damn it, when did I become the hero?
I stepped out into the empty hall, wincing at the sound of my heels on the marble floor. Sliding Sylvester’s sword down from my shoulder and clutching it to my chest, I started walking.
Shadowed Hills is large, but some parts of it remain constant; the route to the throne room is one of them. I walked down halls and through antechambers until I was standing in front of the familiar double doors. There wasn’t a footman in sight, so I opened the doors myself and stepped inside.
Sylvester, Luna, and May were on the dais at the front of the room. Sylvester was sitting on his throne with Spike in his lap, while Luna sat on the steps in front of him, trying to calm my sobbing Fetch. All four looked up and stared at me when the doors closed. I stared back. What else was I supposed to do?
Luna let go of May and rose, one hand pressed to her mouth. She looked honestly untidy; her shirt was rumpled, and the fur on her tails was uncombed. May stumbled to her feet a moment later, still crying. She looked just as bad when she cried as I do.
None of us moved for a long time. Then, carefully, Sylvester said, “Toby? Is that you?”
“Yes, it is.” I held his sword out, the scabbard resting flat on my palms. “I brought your sword back. Thanks for the loan.”
I swear I don’t remember him moving. Or me moving, for that matter. No one moved, yet somehow we were all standing in the center of the room, everyone trying to hug everyone else at the same time. Spike was twining back and forth between my ankles, and someone was crying. I thought it might be me.
“You’re covered in blood,” whispered Luna. “There’s so much blood.”
I forced myself to meet her eyes, saying, “The Luidaeg sent me back on the Blood Road.”
She stiffened, eyes widening. “Then . . . my father . . . is he . . . ?”
“Yes, Luna. I’m sorry. He’s dead.”
“Oh.” She turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I see.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. No more children. No more regrets.” She looked back, smiling through her tears. “I’ll cry for him, but I’ll smile for them. And for you.”
“Good,” I said, and looked to my Fetch. She’d backed off when the first frantic embrace ended, watching me warily. “May?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about going back.”
“Yeah, well.” She sniffled. “Does everything have to be about you? Dope.”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “I guess I am sort of a dope.”
“Okay,” she said, and smiled hesitantly. It wasn’t my smile. She was already coming up with a smile of her own. I leaned forward and hugged her. After a moment, she hugged back.
Was she proof that I’d die? Okay, well, maybe. But normally a Fetch shows up right before death occurs. I’d faced down and killed a crazy Firstborn after May arrived. I’d done some ludicrously stupid and suicidal things, and I’d survived them. So what if she was proof that I’d die? I’d known that for years, and treating her like a death sentence wasn’t fair to either one of us.
Sylvester was watching when I let go of May, eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like pride.
I didn’t even pause. I just stepped into his arms, letting him close them around me and seal the world out. There was blood on my hands. I’d killed Blind Michael, and nothing would change that. A lot of people had been hurt; some of the kids were almost certainly scarred for life; and for the moment, that didn’t matter. Not if he could still hold me.
“Thank you for surviving,” he whispered so softly that I almost couldn’t hear.
I raised my head, staring at him. The prohibitions against saying “thank you” are incredibly strong. Thanks imply obligation and fealty. Then again, Sylvester already had mine, on both counts. I smiled at him, answering, “You’re welcome.” Then I put my head back against his chest and closed my eyes. And stayed there.
Eventually I must have dozed off. It wasn’t that surprising; except for my nap in Danny’s cab, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept when not injured or enchanted. I was a little surprised that I hadn’t collapsed sooner.
I woke up tucked into a large bed and wearing clean clothes, with Spike curled up in the middle of my chest. My hair was braided, and the blood had been rinsed off of me; the cut on my arm was sore, but it had at least been bandaged. I sat up, ignoring Spike’s protests as it hopped off my chest and curled up, glaring, on my pillow. My stomach made a rumbling noise. I had no idea when my last meal had been, and I was starving.
That’s why Shadowed Hills has kitchens. I’d almost managed to climb out of the bed when May swept through the door with a tray in her hands, scolding, “Get back in that bed! Luna’s orders: you have to eat something before I’m allowed to let you get up.”
I eyed her. “You’re my Fetch. Who says you get to order me around?”
“The Duchess,” she cheerfully replied, putting the tray down next to the bed. She was wearing a patchwork skirt and a peasant blouse tie-dyed in clashing stripes of red and purple. The combination was frightening. “Now shut up and eat.”
An Artificial Night - BK 3 Page 33
