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Madame Arana’s otherworldly insight was unsettling yet comforting. It was almost a relief to Elisabeth not to have to explain herself to someone who seemed able to pull the thoughts right out of her head.
“No, Helena’s not seen him all day. I . . . he finally told me what happened. Everything.”
“Did he, now?” Madame Arana rubbed her chin in thought. “His mask crumbles more quickly than I thought.”
That was exactly what he wore. A charming, seductive disguise to keep everyone at arm’s length. Peel one away and there would be twenty more layers behind it. The man was virtually armor-plated.
Again, as if reading her mind, Madame Arana nodded sagely. “He’s locked much inside him. Unable and unwilling to face the things he did while under his father’s influence. Such denial can fester like an untreated wound. Cause great suffering. The spirits do not like to be ignored. They will find a way to be heard.”
She approached Elisabeth, the deep wells of her eyes an infinite spinning of the heavens. Her hands as they caressed the rim of the mirror like those of a tender lover. “You’ve found my scrying glass. It shows me things when I ask. Not always, but when the mood strikes.”
“It’s alive?” For a moment, Elisabeth had forgotten the presence of the unnerving mirror, but now it seemed to crackle behind her as if acknowledging the compliment.
“Not as you and I are alive,” Helena’s grandmother replied, “but like all things born of Fey magic it bears a will. And it is aware. It is how I knew Douglas had returned to Ireland. It is how I know there can be no return of Arthur without great suffering.” Her gaze moved between Elisabeth and the mirror. “You have seen something.”
“I didn’t . . . that is, I felt someone watching me. Or thought I did, but that’s absurd.”
Madame Arana’s gaze narrowed. “The glass would not have spoken to you if the need were not great. You must accept the invitation and learn its secrets.”
“I don’t want to learn any more secrets. I know them all.”
“But you do not believe. Not completely. You think Helena lies or that Brendan exaggerates. That there must be a mistake somewhere.”
“Brendan wouldn’t do such awful things. He’s sarcastic and intense and arrogant and at times downright infuriating, but he’s not a murderer.”
“Perhaps you choose to see only the parts of him you want to see. The man who makes your heart flutter and your blood heat. To know the man for who he truly is, you must recognize the best he can be and the worst he is capable of. The mirror will reflect both if you are strong enough to face the trut
h.”
The challenge in Madame Arana’s stare set Elisabeth’s hands back upon the glass. Instead of the heat she expected, an icy chill raced up her arm. Buried its frozen needles deep into her center. Gasping, she sought to break free, but the mirror held her. The contact between them unbreakable. A scene surfaced as if rising from the deep of an ocean’s tempest. A heavy drone like a hive of bees pounded in her ears.
As she watched, the cloudy glass focused upon nine figures becoming nine men. A tenth prostrate within the circle. The drone expanded to become words. Words chanted over and over. Words in a language she’d heard only once before in her life. In a clearing at Belfoyle. Spoken by a boy whose life had always seemed charmed and whose love she’d long ago given up on.
“Yn-mea esh a gwagvesh. A-dhiwask polth. Dreheveth hath omd-hiskwedhea.”
As she watched, a cloud formed over the man on the ground. Coalesced to become a monstrous creature. Teeth. Claws. A body squat and ungainly.
The chanting rose in pitch and excitement. “Skeua hesh flamsk gwruth dea.”
The man on the ground shuddered.
“Drot peuth a galloea esh a dewik lya. Drot peuth a pystrot esh a dewik spyrysoa.”
The creature hovered for an instant above the man before the two seemed to merge. The process causing the gorge to rise in Elisabeth’s throat as the victim screamed and fought his transformation.
At the end, what had once been human now stood facing its creators.
Two men stepped into the circle. The elder, his bearing regal, solemn as a graven image. The younger, his face a mask of horror, but his gold eyes wild with excitement. “Ana daraa ymesh’na igosk,” he said. “The Nine welcome the Dark Court.”
The creature’s mouth drew back in a razored snarl, more grotesque as it bore the features of the victim it had possessed. “Ana N’thashyl hyghtyesh, Erelth.”
With a cry, Elisabeth tore herself free. Heart thrashing against her ribs, throat sore as if she’d been screaming. She could barely breathe, as if the air within the room had thickened to smoke. Bitter. Acrid. It stuck to her throat. Stung her eyes. She trembled against the splash of icy awareness then the wash of heat that followed. Felt the lancing tightness of a headache clamp her skull.
What kind of man comes up with such madness and evil? What kind of monster would conjure such sickening malice?
Brendan. The Nine. The true son of his father.
She wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered, sickened by what she’d witnessed. “He’s as monstrous as Máelodor. This is his fault. All of it.”
