“As am I—to you.” Merlin grabbed Emrysa’s hand and pressed it against his heart. She could feel it pound double-time under her palm, pulsing with life and wonder. She looked away, unwilling to lose herself in those intense hazel eyes.
“In another life,” she said, closing her eyes not to see his reaction.
“No,” Merlin said, steadfast. “This life. This life is ours and I promise, no matter what, I’m with you. No matter what happens. No matter the darkness of the future. I’m yours.”
“You say this as a promise?”
“Sealed with a kiss.”
Merlin leant down to Emrysa. She felt his skin on her own, smelt his warm musky sent. First, he kissed her forehead, then traced the contours of her temple, her cheeks. When he found her lips, Emrysa found herself hungry for his kiss. Hungry for him, his world. And the entire world shrank to the space between them.
She could live like this. She knew it in her marrow. She would love this man forever, past lives and generations and universes coming and going. It was a love lit up.
A love that could never die—no matter what.
Tears touched her eyelashes and her empty heart nearly exploded with the emotion it tried to contain. It was as if Merlin’s love made her heart whole again. Perhaps his soul could do the same, she hoped, with every fiber of her being.
“You can count on me,” Merlin promised again. Ardent. And Emrysa, with all her heart, believed him.
“I hate to be a glorified pooper of all parties, but dear love-sick, slightly cringe-worthy lovebirds, we have to get moving,” Dermot said, flushing red with an embarrassment neither Merlin nor Emrysa witnessed as they continued to stare deeply into each other’s souls. “Come on, chippy-chop and all. Darkness waits for no man, or woman, or whatever. Emrysa, tear yourself away, dear child. It’s not a good look on you. I far better prefer the sullen, supercilious air of contempt you usually wear, and your usual clothes too, come to that matter.”
Emrysa huffed, then smirked, then kissed Merlin one more time and with that kiss she pressed all her emotions into him so he could never lose them. So he could feel them, forever, no matter her fate.
She would not be forgotten.
The horses whinnied, tense, and a dread filled Emrysa’s fraying soul. A recognition. A knowing.
It seeped through, the Darkness, crawling along the walls with its cold, damp, mildew, turning the golden straw in the barn to blackened ash. Eyes white with fear, Bruce began pulling away.
“There is no time, you have to go!” Merlin ordered, legging Emrysa onto his horse. He slapped its rump. “Go!”
Emrysa pulled back on the reins as the horse lunged forward, forcing Bruce to fidget beneath her. “But what about you, in this darkness, what will you—”
“Go!” Merlin ordered and with that, he swiveled his hand around his head and shoulders and was gone.
Dermot stared, gobsmacked. Even he knew that a magic that could transport was nearly unnatural, even for the whimsical laws of magic. The siblings shared a quick glance. There was time for nothing else.
“Ya!” Emrysa roared a split second later, digging her heels into Bruce’s flanks. But she needn’t have bothered. Both Council horses could not wait to escape the Darkness.
“Apart!” she yelled, and the barn doors crashed open to her spell. And with the sound of pounding hooves and hearts, the Chevals galloped from the barn into the night.
20
Clarity
They galloped through the open pastures hard beneath hoof with frost, and under the stealth of night, headed toward the forests that fringed the coastline.
“The beach,” Emrysa called over her shoulder, breathless. “We’ll make more time across the beach.”
“But we’ll be exposed! We should remain in the woods under cover,” Dermot said.
She conceded, and they entered the forest. Aromas of pine and dirt wafted upwards as hooves cut through the ice atop thick, sloppy mud. They slowed, the slurp of thick mud sucking and pulling at the horses’ hooves and fetlocks.
“We need to get off the main path if we want dryer ground,” Emrysa said over her shoulder, cursing the scars of a wet and frosty Welsh winter. They scrambled to uneven ground between the trees, thick and dense now as they rode from the main path. They picked up speed causing branches to whip at their ice-stung faces. The dark and uneven terrain topped with frost made the horses slip and stumble and lose ground time and again. They pressed on, hunched low over the beasts’ shoulders, protecting their faces from branch welts and putting all their trust in the animals beneath them.
Look after us, Emrysa thought into the mind of Bruce.
As you will us, Bruce thought into her mind. There was no need for anymore conversation, they knew each other’s thoughts. Felt each other’s thoughts. They pressed on in the gloom and the icy fog that formed and snaked its way through the trees.
A sudden shriek, and Emrysa gasped, dreading the arrival of the dark.
“Emrysa!” called Dermot.
It wasn’t the Darkness; it was Dermot’s horse falling. Her brother crashed to the ground beside the beast, and it rolled, scrambled to stand, and shook its body—indignant.
“Shit!” Emrysa cursed, spinning Bruce around. “Are you okay? Is the horse okay?”
Dermot was quick to rise from the forest loam and the horse, although blowing and agitated, was free of any cuts or lameness.
“We’re okay,” Dermot conceded. “But you’re right, again. We should head to the beach.”
The sandy track was hard going, a steep craggy decline filled deep with soft sand and jutted turrets and loose boulders made it slow work—the horses needing to sit right back on their haunches to gain balance and purchase as they slid downward, Emrysa and Dermot leaning right back to help better balance the steeds beneath them. But on they went until the crescendo of crashing waves could be heard beyond the sandbanks—the roaring coastline of a king tide.
The predawn coastline awaited—majestic and mysterious.
A path opened to the expanse of sand stretching as far as the eye could see, while sea-fret whipped from the surging waves pounding the shore; the sand both soft and firm beneath the horses’ hooves. Wind stole their breath.
The high full moon offered little light as the shadows upon horseback rode onto the black night-time sand. The saddlery creaked and groaned with the horses’ prancing anticipation—the only sound bar a horse snort over the battle of wind and shore.
Emrysa took a deep breath, checking over her shoulder to ensure nobody had followed, then looked ahead, choosing their escape. A violent red slash stained the horizon as dawn promised its approach—a deep, expansive blood stain across the swirling ocean. Emrysa bit her lip, hoping this image was not a sign dictating her future.
Like an urgent whisper, they galloped along the shoreline, frigid water spraying from hooves, manes and tails flailing with the wild winds. The lazy sun began to rise as they sped across the sand, casting golden-red rays of light before them. Emrysa turned to look behind her. The wind ceased as she did so, to allow the sound of pounding hooves and the blowing breath of her horse. She couldn’t work out if the darkness behind them was land yet untouched by dawn, or the land in the grips of the otherworldly emptiness spreading from her castle. Then she saw it.
The mass of darkness swirling up to the sky above their home.
“No!” Emrysa screamed, pulling the reins hard. Bruce reared to a stop, throwing his head in retaliation against the sharp metal pull in his mouth. She spun him around, Dermot already slowing to join her.
“Is that...” Dermot trailed off.
Emrysa watched, wide-eyed. The way the black darted and danced with the rhythm of the wind. It wasn’t the Darkness. It was smoke. An incredible amount of smoke billowing into the sky. And the truth hit Emrysa in the pit of her fraying soul.
“Our home! They’re burning our home to the ground!” Emrysa watched as everything she knew was licked with fire and flame. Smoke spiraled from windo
ws, flames from others. And just as the smoke curled into the air, so too, the Darkness along the black and dying sand. It tugged at her soul, beckoned her, seduced her. Emrysa pushed her horse toward both, despite Bruce’s protests.
“Emrysa, what are you doing?” Dermot yelled. “There’s nothing we can do. Nothing to go back for. We have to save ourselves. Come on!”
But his voice was like a fractured memory or dream, too far away to allow the words to ring true. Something else felt true though, the Darkness. Again, she pushed her horse forward then gasped.
“Dermot, my grimoire. I have to go back. I have to save it!”
Dermot’s bottom jaw nearly fell from his face with the force of his surprise. “Your grimoire? Are you serious?! Of all things to go back for, you think you need your spellbook? You don’t even need it to make spells work!”
Emrysa fought with the truth of his words and the feeling in her marrow. “I can’t explain it, but I have to. I just have a feeling, a really bad feeling that if I don’t get that book, something... something awful will happen. Something irreversible.”
“Well I can tell you something awful will happen if you do go back for it, you dunderheaded nitwit! Come on. Leave it, let’s go.”
But Emrysa refused. It suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world to do, to have that book.
“Go, follow the faerie roads to the Winterlands.” But Dermot shook his head. “I’ll catch you up. I promise just... please!”
“No. No way,” Dermot said sternly. “If you’re going back then so, too, am I. I’m not just going to leave you!”
“Dermot, they’re more likely to discover two than one. And besides, my magic is strong.” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but it was the only way he might listen. “What hope would you have if you needed to use your magic to protect yourself against the Council? And you’ll slow me down,” Emrysa hated herself for saying it. “I’ll have to protect both of us because your magic won’t be able to protect you.”
Dermot’s face dropped. Emrysa had been the only one who had ever abstained from bringing to light his magical disadvantages. He was wordless and it broke Emrysa’s heart. She bit her trembling lip. “Please, please look after yourself. I’ll meet you there. I’ll see you in the Winterlands, I promise.”
Watching her brother turn and tear away toward the blood-stained horizon alone was one of the hardest things she ever had to do, but there was certain magic that could not be ignored. The magic of foresight, and it pulsed around her now in the nonsensical way foresight does. She knew not why she had to do it, only that she did, and she galloped back along the shoreline to the burning ruins of her home. Hoping it was not too late to save the spellbook. Hoping the Council had already gone. Hoping Merlin had not gone back on his promise.
Hoping the Darkness would not take her as its claws sank into her skin and flesh.
21
Fire and Flame
Stealth was not needed when Emrysa found her way back to the burning castle, that much was clear. The Council were nowhere to be seen, and the only company she had besides her horse, was the choking ashes and remains of her parents sticking to her lungs. The castle had become a funeral pyre—for her parents, for all the kind and brave souls who had lived and worked there... died there, because of what she had brought back into their world. The flames roared, louder than the ocean ever had. And Emrysa watched, hands clasped to her chest, tears tracking down her soot-covered face.
She said a prayer.
Promised a vendetta.
The Council would pay.
The Darkness thundered around her and she grasped it, holding it tight against her soul, feeling its protection from the pain that threatened to render her senseless. The grimoire. That was all she needed here. Leave the memories and the love and the emotion for another time.
Covering her mouth with her hands she coughed and spluttered as she rounded the back of the ruined building, hoping to find a stairway or a turret unaffected by the flames.
The first turret had already tumbled to the ground, the flames having devoured the internal wooden structure to leave the mortar to crumble and the stones to fall. The second turret had flames licking from every window—from the bottom floor to the highest room that acted as a lookout. The eaves, the floors, the tapestries upon the wall, all acting as kindle for the flames.
But flames had yet to reach the third turret, so she raced toward it, hoping to outrun the fire’s wrath. Around and around she climbed, higher and higher, her hand supporting herself on the wooden handrail she knew would be the stairs’ downfall in time. Coughing and spluttering all the while, she burst into her study, taking one last look at anything familiar left before it, too, would burst into flames before her.
She found the book exactly where she’d left it. Her fingers traced the leather tome with something that resembled reverence, and she spoke the words as she felt them tingle beneath her fingertips.
“The Cheval Book of Shadows.”
She opened it, laughing gently at some of her earlier spells, her smile fading as she flicked through the pages revealing more mature, complex spells, and spells warding against darkness. She never thought she would need one to ward off the Alchive Council themselves. If only she knew then, if only she had the time to summon a protection spell against them.
“Wait, wait!” She felt her foresight come and go like dreams in the morning light. She needed to grapple it, pin it down, find the words as she would a poem just out of reach. There were spells that needed completing. Spells that needed adjusting. New spells. Summoning spells.
Emrysa had no clue as to why she would need to do this, only a certainty in her soul that she must. She scrambled through the smoke to find her ink and quill, the ink bubbling with heat, and desperately, she wrote in the margins of the book, adapting the spells to become stronger.
She wrote like a demon, words rendered almost unreadable with her haste. But quicker, she continued.
“Damn!” In her rush, Emrysa knocked over the pot of ink, a black puddle leaking and sizzling across the hot floor covered in mold and darkness.
“No, no, no, no!” she screamed. This spell she had to write, to finish, to adapt. She opened a random page with wide margins, stabbed the quill into the soft underside of her arm and dragged it downwards to her wrist.
Emrysa bit back her yelp, but still sobbed as red swelled from her incision. Her body shuddered with pain, with disgust, torment, urgency. She had to do this. And with her blood, she wrote the spell she somehow knew she would need to rely upon in the future, somewhere, somehow. A word formed in her mind, not her voice nor the voice of her thoughts, something else.
Fire Heart, it whispered. She looked around at the blaze and smoke. You need a Fire Heart. Emrysa wondered if this name was to be hers, given to her by magic and nature itself, or someone else. Someone who could help her. The only person who could help her.
A loud crash brought her out of her thoughts. The falling of the Golden Oak in the main hall. She felt it combust and for a reason she couldn’t fathom, this saddened her more than anything else. Their reign was over. Their power cut short if the rumors were true. Ash wafted like snow; smoke curled its way toward her. Darkness tempted her soul. But Emrysa resisted. Hugging the book close and spilling her blood along the pages. Task complete, she galloped down the spiral stairway, wondering if she was spiraling to her own descent.
She found Bruce where she left him, of course, she had compelled him. She’d had to. She hated herself for it, but he was too nervous to stay. Emrysa mounted him in one swift movement, and they galloped on toward her brother and the twisting, cruel uncertainty of the faerie roads.
22
The Faerie Roads
Emrysa neither liked nor trusted the faerie roads. She had studied them enough, she had no choice, it was compulsory education at the Cheval household. There was a reason—many reasons—why nobody had entered them for centuries. It was an unnatural place that lead to c
apricious places, so all the more reason to study. All the more reason to go. The Council would not consider the faerie roads as a well-executed escape plan. Begrudgingly, Emrysa knew she had Nimue—the strange creature—to thank for that.
She slowed Bruce to a walk through a craggy pass, where cavernous stones loomed over them full of spiteful threats. Emrysa pulled the grimoire closer to her body for safety. Like the Forest Black, leafless trees bowed down to meet her here and there. Her mind’s eye played tricks on her, seeing once more those terrifying silent screams etched into the bark, but no such thing existed here. Still, breath tight, Emrysa shook her head, feeling an unnatural coldness on the roads as nature bent around her. Bruce was sure and steadfast, thank the Goddess, his hooves dodging the deep crevasses and finding purchase as he slipped and scrambled over slick moss-covered stones in ice cold riverbeds.
Where is he? Emrysa cast a finding spell to help locate her brother. He was close, she gleaned that much, but with the faerie roads’ strange and sinister magic wrapped tightly around her own, finding his exact location proved impossible. But she kept riding toward the feeling of him.
She rounded the corner.
“I hate the Winterlands,” Emrysa hissed, taking in the immense plateau that spanned the endless horizon. Empty and desolate, the place gave her a feeling of hopelessness deeper than she had ever before felt. They wouldn’t stay here long, Emrysa promised herself. Despite Nimue’s best intentions to keep them safe, the Winterlands came with its own version of condemnation, one Emrysa wanted no part of.
“Dermot?” she called in vain, her voice fragile within the expanse of nothingness. Two ravens cawed, perched upon a naked branch above.
She gulped, and kicked Bruce along. On they walked, heading west toward the mountain peaks towering over the wasteland. Its shadow engulfed them, and its size rendered them insignificant. And although she knew the Alchive Council would not be aware of her presence here, and although the urgency of fleeing had, for the moment at least, ebbed, Emrysa couldn’t help but feel on edge. Watched. Seen.
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