Arion fell with her. He gathered her into his arms. She smiled up at him, the blood already soaking the bodice of her habit.
“I was…rather good, wasn’t I?” she whispered. “Cairbre thought he had punished me, but he…wasn’t as powerful as he thought.”
“Mariah…” Arion laid his cheek against her hair.
“There is no reason…for anyone to fight over me now.” She closed her eyes. “Cairbre is finished. Donnington…”
The earl was on his knees, the rifle discarded, his head in his hands.
“Mariah,” he croaked. “I never meant…”
“I know,” Mariah said. “You won’t hurt Arion, will you?”
“No.” Donnington began to weep. “No.”
“You see?” Mariah tried to lift her hand, but the life was swiftly leaving her body. “It is over. You can go back to Tir-na-Nog. Your people are waiting for you.”
Arion felt the tears in his own eyes, tears that marked his humanity but, like so much else, came too late.
“Don’t weep, my love,” Mariah said. She felt inside the pocket of her torn skirt. “Nola…gave this to me. Keep it. You may need her some day.”
She laid the carved sliver of bone on the ground and slumped, exhausted. Death was very near. Arion lifted his head.
“Donnington,” he said.
The human didn’t seem to hear him.
“Donnington!”
The earl’s eyes cleared. “What do you want?”
“There is one way to save her. You must cut off my horn.”
“No,” Mariah whispered. “Ash…”
“A unicorn’s horn may heal, but only its blood can conquer death. You must remove it and spill the blood on her wound.”
Donnington stared. “How am I to…remove it?”
“Your iron will crack it. The rest will not be difficult.”
“Ash!” Mariah gasped. “It will kill you!”
“No,” he lied. He stroked her hair. “I will be well.” He set her gently on the ground and rose. “Do it quickly, Donnington.”
He changed again and held himself still. Donnington picked up his rifle, rose and tried to raise the weapon. It hung in his hands like a boulder.
“Let her die!”
Lady Westlake entered the clearing, pistol in her hand. She was panting as if she had just run a long distance, and the hem of her riding habit was covered in brambles.
“Pamela!” Donnington cried. “Why are you here?”
“To see that you do not betray me.” She walked toward him, her skirts dragging in the dirt. “You promised we would be together. Nothing stands in our way now.”
Donnington’s hands tightened on the rifle. “What do you mean?”
“Lord Westlake is not long for this world,” she said, smiling. “A few more pots of my special tea and I will be a bereaved widow.”
“My God,” Donnington whispered.
“Perhaps you are concerned about your brother. He will not trouble us again.”
“What have you done?”
She examined the pistol in her hand. “What you would not. Should the dowager object to our marriage…well, then she will not be an obstacle for long, either.” She seemed to notice Arion for the first time, nothing but cold indifference in her gaze. “Shoot him, and let the girl die.”
Donnington raised the rifle. “You bitch,” he said.
“You believed I would praise you for killing my brother?”
“He was a weakling.” She took another step in his direction. “You are strong, Donnie. Strong and brave. You will do what must be done.”
“Yes.” Donnington swung his rifle toward Arion and fired. Arion felt his horn crack as the bullet struck and lodged in the ivory spirals. He collapsed under the weight of pain so great that his senses were already leaving him.
But Donnington had not forgotten what he had to do. He threw the rifle down and approached Arion, hands outstretched to take the horn.
He never completed the act. The bullet caught him in the chest, and his face went white with shock.
“Pamela,” he grunted.
Lady Westlake dropped her pistol and ran to Donnington’s side. “Oh, my love,” she said, catching him as he fell. “You do see, don’t you? I could not let you betray me.”
Arion heard no more. His horn had not broken. He dashed it against the earth, blinded by the agony that shot from the tip down into his skull. Still it would not break.
He stretched his head across the ground beside Mariah, willing her the fading warmth of his body. He, too, was dying. Perhaps not immediately; his horn was badly damaged, but he might survive another few days.
The bone talisman lay where Mariah had dropped it. Arion took it between his teeth.
Nola. Nola, help me.
And she came.
There were deep shadows under her eyes, her once-bright hair hung lifeless around her shoulders, and she moved like an old woman. Her gaze took in the carnage and settled at last on Arion.
Arion heaved himself to his knees. Save her, he begged.
Tears streaked her face. “I cannot,” she said.
Let me atone. Let her live.
“It will kill you.”
I am already dead.
He bowed his head. Nola’s hand settled on Mariah’s chest. Her breathing was shallow now, almost imperceptible. Cool fingers took hold of Arion’s horn.
It required great strength, but Nola had power enough. The horn snapped. Clear blood flowed from Arion’s forehead as the life drained from his bones.
Nola worked quickly, allowing the horn’s blood to drip onto Mariah’s wound. Agonizing moments passed. Mariah’s bleeding ceased. She moaned and felt at her chest, at the torn cloth that covered nothing but clean, unmarred skin.
Ash knew little about prayer, but he thanked whatever gods might be listening. He heard a stirring in the shrubbery and a tread he had come to recognize: Sinjin, leading his limping horse. He stopped when he saw Mariah.
“Good God!” he said. “Are you all right, Mariah?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking. Her gaze flew to Donnington’s body. “I’m so sorry, Sinjin….”
“Donnington!”
The cry of shock and despair echoed through the clearing as Sinjin knelt beside his brother, his hands pressed to the wound in Donnington’s chest, while Lady Westlake looked on with a blank and emotionless gaze.
But the earl was already gone. Sinjin straightened and stared at Pamela.
“You did this,” he said.
She didn’t deny his accusation. She didn’t answer at all. She merely sat with her legs folded beneath her, maddened by her grief, seemingly unaware that Sinjin had spoken. Sinjin looked at Nola, bitter anger hovering beneath the glaze of anguish
Mariah stirred. With Nola’s help, she managed to stand.
“Ash?”
He tried to look at her, tried to meet her gaze. His neck no longer had the strength to lift his head, and blood filled his eyes. Mariah’s wordless cry hardly touched his ears.
But she was safe. She was alive.
Tell her goodbye, he said to Nola. Tell her that I loved her.
MARIAH KNEW WHAT Ash had done before Nola could explain. She found the broken horn, crawled to Ash’s side and tried to push it against the gaping hole in his forehead.
Nola touched her arm. “You can do nothing,” she said. “I am sorry.”
Her words made no sense. Mariah crouched over Ash, watching the black of his eyes fade to gray.
He was not afraid. He, a creature who should have lived for generations, was prepared to die. He had given up his world, his future, his very life. All for her. She kissed his broad forehead, tasting the blood that soaked his forelock. Then she stood and faced the Gate.
“Unicorns can heal the injured,” she said.
“Yes,” Nola said. “But there is little chance that they can stop a mortal’s death without sacrificing their horns and their lives.”
“B
ut Ash isn’t mortal!”
“Even if he lived, he could never return to what he was.”
“Can you keep him alive? Just for an hour?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try. Please try.”
Mariah continued to the Gate. She spread her hands and focused all her concentration, her will, her love, on the stones before her.
They shimmered, the light beaming into Mariah’s face. She stepped through and onto the rich soil of Tir-na-Nog.
The animals were waiting for her, just as before. But they were not alone. The unicorns had gathered by the Gate, snorting and sidling, as if they knew what had occurred on the other side.
“I need your help,” Mariah said. “Your king is dying.”
Adara stepped away from the rest. She lowered her head to the level of Mariah’s eyes.
“I know you’re afraid,” Mariah said. “Our world was never kind to your people. But you were afraid when you went to fight Cairbre, and you were victorious.”
Eyes rolled white. One of the males forcefully touched his horn to the ground.
They knew. They knew what Arion had done to save her.
“I don’t ask you to sacrifice your horns,” she said. “But with your combined power, surely you can achieve what one unicorn alone never could.” She looked from one set of dark eyes to another until she had met every enigmatic gaze. “I ask only that you try.”
The male stepped backward, as if he were preparing to run away. Several others seemed ready to follow them. But Adara lifted her head and trumpeted, a call as wild and as stirring as a fanfare. Then she bent to touch Mariah’s shoulder with her horn.
“Thank you,” Mariah whispered. “Thank you.”
The Gate still shimmered behind her. She walked through, trusting that the unicorns would follow.
They did. They stepped into the human world gingerly, ears flattened, nostrils wide to take in the strange half-familiar scents known only to their ancient forebears.
Their hesitation was brief. As Nola moved away from Arion, Adara stepped toward him, moaning softly. Others shied, afraid of the scent of death. But then they began to form a circle around him, a dozen unicorns in hues of gold and silver and bronze and white.
Arion was no longer able to move. His breath came in heaving gusts, growing more shallow by the moment.
“Please,” Mariah said, as she crouched beside him. “Save him. Care for him. Take him home.”
Adara nibbled at Arion’s ear. She bobbed her head as a signal to the others and used her horn to urge Mariah out of the way.
Then the unicorns gathered as close to Arion as was possible, shoulder to shoulder and flank to flank, and lowered their horns.
As the tip of each horn touched Arion’s shoulder, something wonderful happened. His dulled coat began to radiate a multicolored light. The wound in his forehead ceased bleeding and began to close. Little by little his breathing grew more regular, and a ripple ran through his body as if each muscle in turn were coming alive again.
Mariah closed her eyes, bathing in the healing power. Nola, too, was rapt with awe. Sinjin, who still crouched beside his dead brother, lowered his head. There was no sound until the unicorns stepped back, raising their horns as one, and Arion rolled to his knees.
Mariah whispered a prayer of thanks. She longed to run to Arion, but the unicorns had not broken their circle. They surrounded their king like vigilant soldiers, helped him to rise, and herded him toward the Gate.
It was what Mariah had told them to do. Take him back. Let him regain as much of his old life as he could. His people would not reject him. They would welcome him into their healing fold and never let him suffer again.
“He does not remember you now,” Nola said, joining Mariah. “He will need much time to recover, and there is no guarantee…” She laid her hand on Mariah’s shoulder. “You are choosing to let him go.”
“It is necessary,” Mariah said, the pain in her heart squeezing the words until they emerged as lifeless, nearly incomprehensible noise. “I think I always knew that he had to return.”
“Does he? Is that what he wants?”
“Better that he doesn’t remember.” Mariah began to back away from the Gate. “He has lost his horn, but he will run again. Cairbre can’t threaten him anymore. No one will ever cage him again as long as he lives.”
“Mariah,” Sinjin said, his own voice broken with sorrow. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled through her tears. “You have lost so much today,” she said. “Perhaps…perhaps we can help each other.”
Sinjin didn’t reply. The anger still boiled behind his eyes. He glanced at Pamela. “If they decide she’s mad, perhaps they won’t hang her for murder.”
So much sorrow. Mariah forced herself to watch the unicorns approach the Gate. One by one they walked into the light, until only two remained.
Adara looked back. She bobbed her head…in acknowledgment, in a kind of shared understanding. She rubbed her muzzle against Arion’s.
And then he turned. He searched the air with raised head, still glowing, still beautiful. And then his gaze fixed on Mariah. She could feel his thoughts trying to focus, trying to grasp memories that would soon be gone.
“Go,” Mariah whispered. “Please…”
He took a step toward her. Adara followed and nudged his flank, trying to turn him back toward the Gate, but he didn’t seem to feel her touch. He walked slowly, steadily, toward Mariah.
“Make him go,” she begged Nola. “It was always what he wanted.”
“Was it?” The red-haired woman brushed Mariah’s cheek with her fingertips. “Why are you afraid, Mariah?”
“He’ll lose his immortality, won’t he? He’ll be vulnerable here. Someday he’ll…he’ll…”
“Is that not his decision to make?”
“I could never live…knowing what he’d given up.”
Nola only smiled with that sadness in her gaze. Arion was but a few feet away now, staring into Mariah’s eyes.
Remembering. She could not stop him. His hornless head bowed nearly to the ground.
And then he changed, and a naked man stood in his place. Ash, whose wound was no more than a round scar, hardly darker than his skin.
“Ma-riah,” he said, his voice as hesitant as it had been the first time he’d spoken in the folly.
“Yes, Ash,” she said. “Mariah.”
He smiled, and all the world was in that smile. He held out his hand.
No power on earth could have stopped her from taking it. “You should go back, Arion” she said, the words cracking like brittle porcelain.
“I am Ash.”
He took one last step and pulled her into his arms, running his hands through her hair, smelling her skin, seeking her mouth with his own. He smothered her protest with his lips and tongue, and when he was done, he held her close.
“I will never go back,” he said.
“But, Ash…”
“You said you loved me,” he said. “You said you would never let me go. Did you…mean what you said?”
“Yes. Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Did you mean what you said when you thought I was mad?”
“Mariah.” He cradled her face in his palms. “Yes. I love you.”
She wept. She couldn’t help it. Ash brushed the tears from her cheeks. And when she looked up, he was weeping, too.
They held each other for an eternity. At last Mariah broke away and looked behind her.
Nola was gone. Sinjin was pulling Pamela to her feet, though she gave no indication that she was aware of him.
“We have to help,” Mariah said.
Ash nodded gravely, and held Shaitan steady while Sinjin lifted Pamela onto the stallion’s back and climbed up after her.
“Stay with Donnington,” Sinjin said quietly. “Just for a little while.”
“We will,” Mariah said. She and Ash watched as Sinjin rode toward Donbridge, the woman in his arms gone to someplace far away.
&nbs
p; “I am sorry,” Ash said, putting his arm around Mariah’s shoulders.
“So am I.” She took his hand. “Everything has changed, Ash. We still have work to do. Vivian will be grieving deeply. She may lash out. We’ll have to be patient, but Sinjin will be on our side.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll have to help both of them.”
“I understand.”
She turned toward him. “I know you do, Ash. In your own way, you always have.”
They kissed. The Gate shimmered one last time, and then the stones were only stones again.
Sinjin returned an hour later with two horses on leads. He and Ash lifted Donnington’s body onto one of the horses, while Mariah and Ash took the second.
Ash drew their mount close to the one bearing Giles.
“I forgive,” he said to the late Earl of Donnington.
And then the four of them rode out of sorrow and into the light.
EPILOGUE
THE BABY WAS BORN different. Everyone could see it: the wet nurse, the new nanny, the servants, Sinjin, even the dowager.
She was the second to hold him, cradling him in her arms as if he were Donnington reborn.
But Vivian knew he wasn’t. Donnington would never come again. He had made many terrible mistakes. But now there was Sinjin, the new earl, with whom she had finally reconciled. He had made Rothwell his wedding gift to his former sister-in-law, though he had grieved over Donnington and had never become more than civil to Ash. And there was Mariah, who had easily forgiven all Vivian’s designs against her.
Then there was Ash. When he and Mariah had been married after the requisite year of mourning, Vivian had found it difficult to be in his presence. But gradually, over time, she had learned to accept him, and to find some affection in her heart for the proud but gentle man who always treated her with the utmost respect.
They had named the baby Finnian, after Mariah’s maternal grandfather. The boy’s hair was as white as his father’s, though there was no telling if it would remain so as he grew older. He was strong from birth, his hands grasping long before such an ability was considered normal. His eyes were blue, like Mariah’s, with a rim of black. They seemed to look directly into Vivian’s soul.
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