Page 107 of The Blood Queen

In this new fate, the High Blade’s past was changed, and my future was rewritten. Without the High Blade developing the means to destroy the wall protecting Scotland, without her influence uniting the exiled Red Caps, without her tugging at the strings of war…

Everyone lives.

I did not completely change the fate of the entire world, but I changed enough.

I watch this all as if I am a tiny spider in the ceiling, a bit of consciousness floating amorphously above it all.

But when the Damhan-Allaidh looks up with her many gleaming eyes, I think she sees me.

“I told you there were other ways,” the voice of the youngest goddess I met in Forres says in my mind.

“And I told you there would be a price to pay.” That other one, the middle-aged one.

“I know,” I whisper. Already, I can see my memories slipping away, fuzzing into nothing. I try to hold on.

Samson.

I try so hard to hold on.

Sam—

The Damhan-Allaidh still watches me. I am vaguely conscious of the way time is folding in on itself, stretching and straining like a cloth pulled far, far too tightly.

Rewriting the High Blade’s history rewrites my own.

With her imprisoned, the remaining Red Caps lose their leader and their greatest weapon maker. The others will be granted a choice: concede their war or join the High Blade in stasis.

With no enemy to hold at bay, there will be no wall for me to protect.

The High Blade will not—can not—use her magic to replace the queen of England. The real Elizabeth Tudor will ascend the throne. Cecil will still be a Red Cap, capable of leaving the restrictions of Scotland without the magical wall I once guarded, but he will have to satisfy his nature with the regular wars of the English Empire, not through any bloody fae insurrection.

Samson will still be born.

But he will never know me. Why would he, without the High Blade’s machinations sending him to Mary’s court? No, Samson will stay in his London, I suppose. If he ever ventures north, he won’t know me.

I have given him a life.

But not the one we shared.

29 Samson

The world’s swaying.

Everything’s dark and cool, my body cushioned as I bobble left and right. It’s comforting in a way, the rocking, and I let it carry me, my mind a pleasant, muted blur.

Until a scent starts to filter in.

My nose twitches—bitterness, sweat, smoke, braiding together.

The usual stench of Southwark, London.

Usual. Usual. The word sits awkward in my swaying, rocking brain. It isn’t…right. This hasn’t been usual for me.

Not this me, at least.

My eyes flare open, and sound hits me like a roar all at once. The clobber of horseshoes on packed roads, people shouting from shops and street corners, and a voice speaking close by.

“—differs from my usual tasks for you.” A pause. Fingers snap. “Sammy, are you paying attention?”