by Ryan Graudin
A castle sits on the edge of this golden shore. Turrets and unbroken stones. A Camelot not yet sieged. Banners bright as poppy petals lash images of a white dragon into the sky. A string of knights gallops along the valley’s edge, their armor winking bright in the noonday sun.
“Where are we?” Richard is by my side, shielding the bright sunlight off his face with a hand to his brow. Wind gusts back at us—cold and clean. A few sunny petals lift and strip from their stems, swirl up past our faces.
“A dream,” I start to say, but another voice speaks. As chill as the wind.
“The paradise before the fall.”
We turn. A woman stands behind us, her gown of ivory and gold embroidery fanning out into the grass. At first glance I see Anabelle, with that long yellow hair flowing over her shoulders. But then I see the color of her eyes: a soft cornflower blue.
“Lady Guinevere,” I whisper.
“You remembered,” she says. Her hands are clasped in front of her, like a prayer. “I was not certain you would solve my riddles.”
“You’re not speaking riddles now,” I say, my words as pointed as the ends of the pennant staffs.
“Morg—” A look of pain lances through Guinevere’s eyes. She clears her throat, chooses her next words carefully. “The . . . sister’s attentions are elsewhere. Runecraft is like a garden. It must be tended or it will wither and die. The runes she wrote on the walls of her cell to bind me into silence are fading. Slowly,” she adds with a rub to her throat. “I could not tell you—not with the silencing spells and the Ad-hene always watching—so I tried to show you. I brought you here.”
“So you were sending the dreams.” I look down at the five crescent-moon scabs which will split open as soon as I wake. “When you cut me with your nails you spelled me . . . but how?”
“The Ad-hene call us faagailagh. To many the word means quitting. Surrender. Weakness.” Guinevere’s eyes are so clear, blue as plunging skies. Such vast worlds apart from the whitewashed orbs which haunted me in the Labyrinth. “But it also means changeling. You and I. We are changed. There’s a power in love that people like Arthur’s sister cannot understand. All they see is the weakness, the cost. To share your soul with someone, to become one with another takes sacrifice. But what you get in return . . .”
Guinevere falters for a moment. There is a pain—high, high, high—in her stratosphere eyes. Cloudy with guilt. “When I gave up my Faery powers to be with Arthur, he found a way to give me his blood magic. We shared it through our soul-tie.”
“Just like what happened with your Faery light,” Richard murmurs, low enough for only me to hear.
We’re sharing the power through our soul-tie. Just like Arthur and Guinevere.
“One of the things Arthur learned from Merlin was the mortals’ art of dreams: second sight. He taught me how to walk in them, a long time ago. I knew it was a way I could warn you without the sister noticing. She has forgotten what it means to be mortal; her sleep is dreamless.”
“Morgaine . . .” The sorceress’s name rings loud from my lips, over canary fields. “She tricked you. She used a love spell to make you fall for Lancelot.”
“I should have been stronger, but I flipped wrong. Every minute, every hour, every day, I remember this.” The pain of Guinevere’s eyes spreads. Wrings her face with a thousand years of regret, fresh as new blood. “I rode off with Lancelot and now I bear the cross of a burning kingdom. I carry the weight of Pendragon’s doom on my heart. But you . . . I see my warning was not in vain. You chose well.”
“It’s too late,” I tell her. “Morgaine has won. The kingdom will burn anyway.”
“There are more powers waking than just yours and Richard’s,” she says softly. Her eyes stray over my shoulder. “Our stories are not over. Our ends have yet to be written.”
I follow her gaze. One of the knights has broken off from the long train riding up the road. His horse leaps through the waves of yellow petals, toward us. His armor forged of flash and silver, blinding against the sun.
“You must wake up now. It’s time for you to go.” Guinevere reaches out, her fingers wrap warm over my five scabs. “I do hope we meet again, sister. In a better light.”
“No! Wait!” I want to ask her so many things—all the questions bunch on the tip of my tongue, get tangled there.
She lets go.
I don’t fall this time. My arm still hums with Guinevere’s ghost grip when I wake. I look down, expecting to see five weeping trails of blood, but the red is gone. There aren’t even scabs. The wounds Guinevere’s nails left have closed—five pearly scars are all that’s left.
Guinevere’s spell has been severed. Her dreams are gone.
My stars are still all glimmer and glint above us. Clinging to the pipes and concrete like living jewels. One is brighter than the rest, pulling closer into my dazed vision. I sit up straight, rub the dreams from my eyes.
And the light keeps growing, as bright as Polaris.
This is no star. No fragment of Faery light.
This is the scar of an Ad-hene.
“Richard!” I grip his shoulder and he sits up, hazel eyes trained on the same point of light.
All of me is awake now. Magic hums from Richard’s shoulder; I gather it to myself, start weaving. As I do, the fragments of Faery light above us flare brighter, flush out all the secrets of this hall.
Kieran stops in his tracks, taking in the sudden light with those concrete eyes. His body is angled half-forward—like a jungle predator suddenly stripped of all foliage. Caught mid-lurch.
“Emrys?” he calls out with caution.
“Come any closer and you’ll wish you never rose up out of that miserable island of yours.” My fingers tingle, burning to let go of the curse they’re holding. The only reason he isn’t a pile of ash already is because of those godforsaken scars.
There are two, I realize now. One for each Labyrinth. The old and the new. Flashing betrayal and hope.
Our only way out of here.
“I’ve come to help. We don’t have much time.” Kieran takes a step forward, as if he knows I’m bluffing.
Unfortunately for him, I’m not.
“Cyspe!” The blood magic is so different from my old powers—it feels slippery and clumsy as I wield it. The spell works well enough. It wraps, all light, around Kieran’s torso, binds his legs together. The Ad-hene falls to the ground, like a monument of some dethroned king tugged down by an angry mob.
I take care to make sure the binding spell is tight, tight, tight around Kieran before I go any closer. He doesn’t fight it. He just lies there, like a rabbit in a snare.
I stare at him. My eyes and heart are stone.
“I see you found a way to fight fate,” he says, nodding to the light which ropes around him like a python.
“I trusted you! Anabelle trusted you!” The anger in my words rattles even me. They brim with heat. “This whole time you were using us. Leading us straight into Morgaine’s jaws!”
Kieran’s own jaw bulges. I’m not sure if it’s because of my words or the binding spell I’m winching as tight as I can without slicing him through like a sushi roll. “You found your king, didn’t you?”
“You were dosing me with love spells for that witch’s amusement!” The magic inside me flares hot. “You KISSED me!”
“Ah.” Richard steps up behind me, he looks down at the Ad-hene with the coolness of a scientist observing a microbe. “You must be Kieran.”
“Your Majesty,” the Ad-hene grunts. Beads of sweat sprout on his brow, catching the Faery light like morning dew.
“What are you doing here?” I ask through locked teeth. “Did she send you?”
“I left my brothers to come guide you out of here before the building is destroyed.” He looks up at me through those night-spill curls, pleading. “Emrys, you have to unbind me.”
My teeth grind harder when he says my name. As if he knows me. As if I know him. As if we kissed and meant it. All I want
to do is pull the spell tighter, make him hurt. “You had plenty of chances to change your mind! So many chances to tell the truth . . .”
“You’re right.” He swallows; sweat shines in the hollow of his throat. “I did. I have no excuse.”
I want him to fight. I want something, anything to lash against. But Kieran stays still.
“I told you about the Labyrinth. How it was a great kingdom once. How there was a war among us and we destroyed ourselves. How Mab intervened. All of that was true. But everything Alistair told you is true as well. The Faery queen tricked us. We’ve spent lifetimes trapped in our own ruin. Confined to a cliff ledge, doomed to watch the world sail by. To wonder if there was anything more.”
I think of the sixteen lights winking and calling when Anabelle and I sailed up to that wolf-fang shore. How a yearning for lost things sang sharp through the air. Calling out for home, freedom, hope.
Kieran goes on. “Mab’s curse on the Ad-hene broke when you killed her, yet we were not willing to risk the same fate at Titania’s hands. Morgaine promised that if we aided her, she would rid us of the Fae and find us a new home across the sea.”
“But you can’t live in London . . . the sickness . . .” I stop, think of how many ages Alistair bears on his shoulders. Exponentially more than Titania. “Alistair shouldn’t even be able to come near this city. He should be going mad.”
“We carry the earth in our bones and stone in our hearts,” he says. “The sickness does not touch Ad-hene the way it withers Fae.”
I think aloud. “So when your veiling spell failed in Trafalgar Square, it wasn’t because of the sickness. You dropped it on purpose.”
“You were too close to discovering the truth. I was ordered to keep you at arm’s length—to lead you in circles and make you doubt—until Morgaine could decide how to weave you into her plan.”
“What a good little monkey you are,” I hiss. “Dancing for peanuts.”
Kieran’s voice is no longer steady and stone. There’s a sadness to it. “I was earning a new home for my brothers and me.”
The want to pull tighter stretches like a shadow in my heart—shows me how easy it would be to take Morgaine’s road. To let the darkness grow, tow me into endless circles of revenge.
I swallow it back. “Why are you helping us now? What made you change your mind?”
“The Labyrinth is my nature,” he explains. “It’s carved into my very skin and soul. I’m meant to live beneath the ground, follow my brothers, and build a new kingdom in these tunnels. I was ready to do anything for it.
“When I first met you, I truly did not understand why you would leave your own people and give up your essence for a mortal. Your choice made no sense to me. But then I met her. She crept under my skin—found all the cracks in my soul. I felt myself changing from the inside, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.”
“She?”
You don’t know how deep your darkness is until there’s a light. I think I’m beginning to understand. Those words in Blæc’s tunnel—they were never meant for me. I think of the rare smiles which broke through his face. The softness in his voice whenever the princess stepped into the room . . .
Anabelle. Those smiles were always for Anabelle.
“This whole time you had feelings for Belle? But—you broke her heart!” Suddenly the Faery lights above us look very much like those paint chips Anabelle tore from the ceiling. Fragments of angels’ wings, plucked free and falling.
“I don’t deserve her. I have no qualms about that.” The pain of my binding spell is starting to shred through Kieran’s voice, mixed with so many other emotions a heart of stone should not feel. “But I can save her. If you both die in here, Morgaine will secure her grasp on this kingdom. She will find a way to either kill Anabelle or control her.”
I’ll find another royal puppet.
Kieran’s right.
My ropes of light loosen, start to fall away from the Ad-hene’s body. “But why didn’t you tell us before? Warn us?”
“After the war among ourselves, Alistair decided that the Ad-hene should be as one, so we would not fight again. We are webbed together in a psychic link. My brothers were watching through this connection.” Kieran sits up. I can see deep red lashes on his arm where my bonds sank tight. “If I had strayed from the plan, they would have intervened. That’s why I had to kiss you in the garden . . . why I had to let Anabelle see . . .”
“Are they watching now?” I look up at the stardust ceiling, down the dark hall.
“I’ve broken my bonds with them, but we must hurry. Midnight is coming soon.” Kieran stands. His scars are brighter than ever, carving the halls out with silver rays. He starts walking back in the direction we were going.
We follow. I take a sharp breath and fold my hand into Richard’s. He stares hard at the Ad-hene’s back. As if he can’t decide whether he’d like to knight him or cut off his head.
“Belle sure knows how to pick them,” he mumbles finally. “At least you’ll no longer be Mum’s worst nightmare.”
So Kieran is a knight. Our knight in shining armor.
I think of the dream and laugh. Kieran plows forward, and our path curves, spits us out into a wide cavern of a room: a mess of pipes and more concrete, electrical boxes hunkered in metal cages, warning signs about voltage. And in the very middle of the room: the way out. A wrought-iron staircase swirls up like a vine tendril inside a ring of eight columns, crowned with a green exit sign.
Our escape. I squeeze Richard’s hand tight. My heart throttles in my throat.
The shadows in front of us flicker and bend, so it seems as if the columns themselves are moving. Ad-hene step from behind them. Fifteen sets of scars blaze silver. Queued up like some warped constellation.
Kieran stops short. His face does not change, but his hands clench, curling into themselves.
Alistair steps into the center of the columns, blocks the staircase with his back. He stands: all power, ghost skin, alabaster hair, and age upon age.
“Brother Kieran.” His words are slow and dangerous. The way a wolf stalks before it lunges: all teeth. “What are you doing? Why have you severed ways with us?”
Kieran doesn’t answer, his fists grow tighter. I count the Ad-hene again. Fifteen. Too many. I hold Richard’s hand tighter. Start to gather all of the magic I can.
Alistair gestures to Richard and me, fingers wispy slow and elegant, like seaweed. “If they go free, Lady le Fay’s plan will fail.”
“We have our new home,” Kieran says. “What does it matter?”
A snarl lurks on the edge of Alistair’s lips. I scan the V of Ad-hene behind him. All fourteen faces echo the same expression. Snarl stacked on snarl.
“Have a few days of daylight addled your brain?” their leader asks. “Have you forgotten how the Fae used our island like a rubbish bin? Made us slaves? This is our chance to see them destroyed.”
Alistair’s black beads of eyes are completely set on Kieran and so are the rest of the Ad-hene’s gazes. None of them has noticed the spell I’m frantically piecing together. I feel like a maid at a spinning wheel—tugging the blood magic out like yarn, collecting it in a mess of knots and loops, trying to create a masterpiece in moments. My hand is on Richard’s like a vise. His palm is open and flat, offering me all he has to give.
If Kieran senses what I’m doing, he doesn’t show it. He speaks, his eyes locked straight into Alistair’s. “The mortals do not need to die.”
“What do you care of their lives? You are an Ad-hene,” Alistair says this like a nanny scolding a mud-encrusted toddler. “You do not belong with these creatures. Their fight is not yours.”
Pull. Spin. Weave. I grip Richard’s hand tighter.
“I am what I choose,” Kieran says.
Spin. Spin. Spin.
Almost there.
I feel Richard sway beside me, his hand almost limp in mine. I keep pulling power from his veins, keep weaving, hoping against all hope that it is e
nough.
“We have made our decision as one, Brother Kieran. They cannot leave.” Alistair’s voice is honeyed and slow, but his magic is bracing. “If you do not step aside, then you leave us no choice.”
Kieran doesn’t answer. Only his scar flares, melds with the light of Alistair’s. Their spells unleash at the exact same time. Thunder meeting thunder. At first I think the runes have finally unleashed—that the roar around us is collapse, flame, and death. The Central Lobby basement becomes a supernova—searing light and shake—as the Ad-henes’ dueling spells clash like dragons. The concrete floor gallops.
“Coad-shiu!” Kieran’s protection spell wraps around us and the earth at our feet falls still, a portrait of cracks and ruin.
Dust settles and all of us remain standing. The other fourteen Ad-hene haven’t even moved. Alistair’s handsome face is spoiled as he snarls at us: more demon than angel. “Don’t waste your magic. Your life. Step away.”
Kieran stands firm.
Spin. Spin. Spin.
Richard’s hand crumples beneath mine. His face is pale and sweat.
The spell is done.
I speak before Alistair does—catch just a glimpse of his stunned face before our magic rushes forward. The stillaþ surrounds the fifteen Ad-hene like an iron web, freezing them against their columns. Before it even settles I can feel them fighting it. Their spirits beating against their frozen bodies like fists on glass.
The blood magic is still strange and fresh; the spell is not woven as skillfully as it should be. Soon, very soon, something will shatter. And we can’t be here to see it.
I start running, pulling Richard over crumpled pavement. His steps are weakened, not as fast as I’d like as we start to climb the stairs. Kieran falls in step behind us, shoving Richard up the corkscrew turns of the staircase.
Through the lattice in the staircase I can see the Ad-hene starting to move again. Thawing like March fields. Alistair has recovered the swiftest. He’s already moving toward the first step—scars flashing bright. We aren’t even halfway up the spiral staircase when it shudders with Alistair’s added weight. I look down in horror, watch as the father of labyrinths starts to rise, closer and closer to us.
