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There has to be something that can be done. It can’t end like this, not after what they’ve both been through. It’s not right. Not fair.
I can’t just stand here, listening to Rhiannon call for her love, hearing the raw pain and fading hope in her voice.
I lean closer to Ares so she won’t overhear. “Can you do something?”
He gives me a somber look. “No. This place is closed off from me. I think the realm itself is hiding him from me.”
“Hiding him from you?” I frown.
He nods. “I’m the God of War, Penelope. I lead armies. I can’t mend hearts.”
It’s probably stupid that him saying my name for the first time sends a little shiver down my spine, but that doesn’t make it less true.
If Ares can’t do anything as the Lord of the Fifth Gate, and none of the relics struck me as being particularly helpful, what does that leave us with?
His words echo through my head. He doesn’t mend hearts. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Two broken hearts, trying to piece themselves back together. My mother is the Goddess of Love, and she wielded that power ruthlessly to change alliances, to wage wars and fell entire empires. Love was a tsunami at times, but couldn’t it also be a gentle thing? Soothing rain instead of a raging storm?
I breathe my power into Rhiannon, the golden light that I’ve fought so, so hard to keep small, and silent and hidden. Just a tiny bit, just a trickle. It’s like blowing on a candle flame to feed it, making the light flare up and dance. I don’t want to risk blowing the little flame out.
I don’t know if it’s the magic, or my hand on her shoulder, but Rhiannon’s voice gets more confident. A demand instead of coaxing.
“Arawn, Lord of the Fifth Garden, God of Death, you are pledged. I call you forth.”
For a long, aching moment, the only answer is the wind howling between the crags.
Rhiannon flattens her palms against the lumpy, oddly shaped stone. She bends her head forward, and for a second, I think she’s actually going to kiss it. Instead, she whispers. “You promised me forever, my Lord. I want every second of it.”
The ground beneath us shivers, and Ares actually has to take a step back to brace himself before he catches my elbow and keeps me on my feet.
Rhiannon doesn’t seem to be having any problems. She stands there, her hands pressed to the stone, like she’s going to push her way through it with the force of her will alone.
The rock cracks, pebbles ticking down the surface to the ground, and Rhiannon gives a little gasping laugh, tears pouring down her cheeks. She claws at the stone, flinging chunks away. I hurry forward and help her. The stone is hot, and rough like pumice, but I don’t hesitate. Between us, we manage to pry the crack further.
One pale, long-fingered hands rises up from the stone cairn, and cups Rhiannon’s cheek like she’s made of glass. She sobs, clutching the fingers to her face.
I haul back, trying to get more of the stone free, and then Ares is there. He grips the stone and hauls back, wrenching the cairn wide open.
Arawn as he was in the helm’s vision blinks up at Rhiannon like he can’t look away from her. Pale lips curl into a smile.
“Rhiannon,” he whispers in a hoarse voice. “You’re here.”
A soggy laugh slips past Rhiannon’s lips as she falls to her knees beside the slab Arawn is lying on. She can’t seem to answer him, and just presses a tear-stained kiss to the soft heart of his palm.
If I have to look away and dash some tears from my eyes that I can’t even blame on the swirling dust and ash, at least nobody calls me out on it.
FOURTEEN
PEN
The instant Rhiannon helps a slightly wobbly Arawn to stand, and his foot comes down onto the cracked black rock of the Fifth Gate, a low groan ripples through the realm.
I can feel it in my chest, like the tolling of some enormous bell. And then the ground begins to shake. I stagger, grabbing for the remains of the cairn, Ares, anything that will keep me on my feet while the earth quakes apart.
Ares grabs my arm, but then stiffens, letting out a low grunt like he’s taken an unexpected shot to the ribs. I try to ask him if he’s okay, but I can’t hear my own voice over the roar building in the air.
What’s happening? It sounds like an enormous tidal wave is rushing towards us, but there’s nothing close to water that I’ve seen in this level of the Underworld.
Then I see it, rushing towards us in a cracking, hissing wave. Trees burst free from the rock, oaks and pine and aspen and larch, they tear up through the ground, branches reaching for the sky. The ash and smoke vanish, blown away by a scouring wind as the volcanoes fall silent, their sharp slopes softened by a carpet of moss.
