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I swallow past the dryness in my throat.
“I am truly sorry you were forced to marry my piece of shit grandfather,” Riven says, tone limned with sadness and a hint of annoyance, “but I fail to see what this has to do with you helping our people now, Grandmother.”
“There you go again, saying those two words,” she snaps. “‘Our people’ didn’t bat an eye when your grandfather, along with the council’s approval, rounded up all the otherworld creatures residing in our realm and exiled them from Faerie, uprooting their families and their lives and depositing them into the Wyldelands—lands many had fled to escape persecution or other threats they could never have survived without Faerie.” The area around her flickers, a sign my grip on her summoning is weakening. “‘Our people’ didn’t give a damn when Edric dragged Archer and me through the streets for having an affair, even though he knew it was a loveless marriage and was bedding anyone he could stick his cock in. ‘Our people’ didn’t hesitate to clap and cheer when he tore leagues of the Sovereign Sisters’ magic from the depths of Faerie to curse Archer and me for all eternity because I wounded his fragile male ego.”
Her voice breaks, and the hurt there has me reaching for her hand with my free one.
She looks at where I’m touching her, both of us unable to feel each other’s skin, and smiles. “Before I forget… Thank you for the garland, my sweet. It was very kind of you.”
She fixes her attention back on Riven, who, to his credit, doesn’t budge under her heavy stare. “As I felt my heart breaking, I cried for Faerie. It was my tears, my magic, that flooded the crevices left by Edric. I alone saved ‘our people,’ saved our kingdom. And yet it is a witch who decorates my grave tonight. Not ‘our people,’ not even my blood.”
“I—” Riven snaps his mouth shut. Either he’s lost for words or he’s choosing them wisely. I highly doubt it’s the former, but maybe I’m just hoping for the latt— “You’re lying.”
Death growls from somewhere behind us, drawing Rosemarie’s gaze over our shoulders.
If he disrespects the dead again, eternal one, I’ll keep him.
“Watch your tone,” I ground out, digging my nails into the back of Riven’s hand. “The dead can’t lie, Riven. She speaks the truth.”
“I apologize for any disrespect, Grandmother.” He exhales. “It’s just… If what you say is true, then the story my father told me must’ve been true too.”
“What story?” she asks.
“‘And so Faerie was broken apart by rivers of tears and bordered by mountains of heartbreak, thus creating the Fae Isles.’” He shakes his head. “I thought it was just a fable, the same as the one I read about Gwyn. Seeded with some truths, but mostly lies.”
Death smooths a hand over my hair. You’ve been here too long.
I know.
My body trembles as I desperately maintain the connection. “Riven, we’ll need to end this soon.”
Questions tumble out of his mouth in rapid succession. “Do you think the Sovereign Sisters are punishing the Fae Isles for what happened to you? Could their anger or displeasure be causing the blight?”
“Oh gods, no!” She laughs. “The Sovereign Sisters are not revered for their brutality, but rather their loving touch and guidance. They were never disappointed with me or my rule.”
“Then the blight must be a side effect of Edric’s curse on you and Archer,” Riven rationalizes.
I sway lightly on my feet.
Rosemarie’s face drains of all humor at the mention of her lover. “Absolutely not. I gave all my magic to the lands while I still drew breath, to heal what your grandfather had taken. It is my understanding that my living sacrifice fought off any repercussions from his curse.”
“Then what’s—”
Eternal one.
“Riven,” I say, body aching. “I-I’m using too much power.”
“Just a few more minutes.” His hand tightens around mine, an anchor grounding and tethering me to the Threshold more than my waning power. “Please.”
I can’t ignore the desperation in his tone as his gaze flicks between me and Rosemarie. I can almost see the dozens of questions dancing on the tip of his tongue.
“It’s too much,” I whimper. “But I’ll try.”
Gwynnevere, Death warns. Enough is enough. End the connection, or I’ll do it for you.
I breathe around the burning ravaging my chest, my soul, the very fabric of my being.
The well of magic deep within me is a boiling mess, overflowing and emptying, leaving me dizzy and trembling.
