The monster lunged for Niamh, and she dodged, scrambling out of range, nearly into the jaws of another creature. She ducked and rolled, her sword flashing with the motion, and barely missed the swipe of a claw. Seamus was just as hemmed in, while Scáthach was still locked in her fight with Cernunnos.
Beyond them, in the trees, dozens of lights drifted their way, growing brighter.
Cillian wanted his rifle or sidearm but had neither. He couldn’t join the Fae in their fight against the lights with a sword even if he had one, having no memory of ever holding one. Bran was caught up in his magic to keep Cernunnos from using the forest itself against them. Cillian had nothing other than the magic he had no idea how to consciously use and control in a fight. Building an ice bridge was different than fighting against a Fae lord who had millennia of skill behind him while Cillian had nothing.
But Bran had said it was about intent, about bending Nature to his will, when Cillian had always believed something like that was impossible. The natural world wasn’t meant to be tamed, no matter how hard humanity tried. Eventually, the elements came calling.
And winter, it seemed, would always answer to him.
Cillian looked down at his hands, thinking of the ice that had appeared in moments of high emotion in his cell, on theBone Breaker, and in that castle by the lake. It was proof he couldn’t deny of his origins, even with a lie wrapped around his skin, so he let it go. The tightness eased over his bones, and he drew in a breath, ribs not feeling so constricted anymore.
“Cillian?” Bran rasped behind him.
He flexed his hands, not needing a mirror this time to know he didn’t look human anymore. “They need help. Let me past the barrier.”
Fingers grabbed the back of his court coat, twisting the fabric. “No. Don’t go. You don’t know how to fight.”
He turned around, forcing Bran to let go. He met thosegold-flecked hazel eyes and didn’t look away, didn’t try to hide. “You said it’s about intent, and I intend to get Aisling’s voice back.”
“Cillian—”
“Bran. Trust me.”
Bran worked his jaw, the hand gripping his grimoire white-knuckled. “The lights will try to kill you.”
“So don’t let them.”
Bran swallowed loudly. “Okay. I’ll open the circle.”
Aisling still clung to her brother, fear in her eyes, lips trembling with it. The geas on her throat had come to the surface, a hideous, malevolent black thing that didn’t belong on her skin.
Cillian turned his back on them and strode toward the edge of the circle. Bran’s magic was a warm presence in the air that cleaved a narrow way open for him. Cillian steeled himself and stepped out of the safety of the circle, keeping his eyes open even as he turned his focus inward.
One of the lights caught sight of him, twisting away from where Seamus was cutting through one of its brethren. Its head was that of a bull, bleeding out of its eye sockets as it lumbered toward him, mouth splitting open to let out a pair of curved fangs as thick as his forearm.
“Cillian!” Seamus yelled. “Get back!”
Cillian reached for that river of power inside him, drawing it forth. And maybe he couldn’t remember being the Winter Prince the Fae all thought he was, but he couldn’t deny howrightit felt to let Nature in all its fury burst out of him.
Ice exploded away from his feet, covering the ground in seconds. Chunks of it rose up to encase the monster, halting its forward charge mere feet from Cillian. It hacked at the ice with clawed hands that couldn’t dislodge any of it. Blue-white ice covered its body before finally wrapping around its head, freezing the monster in its place, turning it into an ice statue like those Fae soldiers in the wyrding, the light that limned it dying out.
The air lost its sluggish heat, temperature dropping. Cillian’s breath puffed out in soft clouds as he reached for one of the monster’s iced-over arms. He wrapped his hand around the limb and used his newfound strength to break it off at the elbow, finding the ice had gone all the way through, leaving no rotten fleshbehind.
He couldn’t think about how he’d killed it, how he’d intended to stop it and his magic had interpreted that into a permanent end. All Cillian could do was direct his magic to the next monster lunging at him, winter pouring out of him with a ferocity he couldn’t deny. Blue-white lines of magic opened up on his hands, cutting up his arms all the way to his shoulders. It didn’t hurt, even though he thought it should, fingertips darkening to blue.
The ground jerked again beneath his feet, and Bran shouted a warning Cillian barely heard. He kept his balance on the ice instinctively, magic humming through him, cold power at his fingertips. Some of the trees across the road upended and crashed to the ground, roots rising. Whether called by Cernunnos or Bran, Cillian couldn’t focus on them.
The only thing that mattered was getting Aisling’s voice back.
Scáthach wrenched herself back from Cernunnos’ reach, the sound of their glaives separating ringing in the air. She settled into a defensive crouch, not taking her eyes off Cernunnos, but her words were for Cillian. “You foolish child. This is not your fight.”
“Cernunnos came to my town, to my forest. He killed people I knew and stole Aisling’s voice,” Cillian growled. “How could it not be my fight?”
He flung his arms outward to the side, magic rushing away from him in a wave of winter cold and ice that bent to his will. It coated the ground and the road around them, lashing at the lights until all the monsters became ice. The ones in the forest were still a problem, but for now, Bran could focus on those while Cillian dealt with the Fae lord.
Cernunnos straightened to his full height, the reach of his antlers making him taller than Cillian. Magic danced in the air around the Fae lord, his glaive glowing with it. “You are not the prince you once were.”
“I don’t remember who I was, but I’m still me.”
