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1
Adara
“From the waters we come, and to the waters we shall return.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks as the ice fae chanted the refrain in unison, the final words to the funeral ceremony. We were all gathered outside Linn Chrystail, a sacred lake ten miles north of Fheir, where the ice fae sent their dead to rest.
Lord Tor, Tamil’s father, cleared his throat as the chanting died away. He was a tall, wizened fae with translucent skin and snow-white hair, and though his imposing stature and the majestic pelt draped around his broad shoulders lent him a commanding air, the walking stick he leaned so heavily against served as a reminder to everyone of his illness. Tamil’s fiance, Havor, and her younger sisters, Lora and Nora, gathered close around him, standing together in solidarity and grief.
In contrast, Einar and I stood on the outskirts of the clan, Leap, Mavlyn, and Quye alongside us. The harpies who had helped us defeat Dune and his shadow soldiers had departed, taking their dead with them. I wish I’d had more time to thank them properly, but it was probably for the best that they'd left so quickly. I didn’t think the ice fae would feel comfortable having them here for the funeral.
The fae who had fallen in battle had all been laid out on ice floes perched at the edge of the lake, dressed in ceremonial robes or armor depending on their status. Tamil and Tuliana were in the center, the former dressed in battle armor, the latter in her high priestess robes. Both had been cleaned of all traces of blood and violence, the crowns and headdresses of their stations perched on their heads, their hands folded atop their weapons and amulets. Fanned out on either side of them, and stretching back behind them for several rows, were the soldiers and acolytes who had also perished.
The ice fae began to sing in the old fae tongue, a funeral lament about transformation and rebirth. We fae did not believe death was the end, but rather a cycle in which we returned to the loving embrace of the universe before being reborn once again in whatever form would best serve the cosmos.
After everything I’d seen and experienced with magic, I was inclined to believe it, too. But even so, it was hard to take comfort in the knowledge that Tamil was not truly gone when looking at the tear-streaked faces of her family and friends.
Lord Tor raised his hands, and the ice floes slid forward, gliding onto the ocean lake like ships setting out on a maiden voyage. Einar slipped his hand into mine, and I squeezed it tight as we watched the floes drift out to the center of the lake. The music swelled around us, the melody poignant and hopeful and heartbreaking all at once, and with a clap of Tor’s hands, the ice floes melted. The bodies sank like stones beneath the lake’s frigid surface, leaving only ripples behind.
Silence fell upon the clan, and all bowed their heads one last time in memory. The stillness was broken by the sound of ice reforming across the surface of the lake—Lord Tor had used his power to melt it for the ceremony, but it came rippling back now that his magic no longer held it at bay. The clan patriarch sagged, gripping his staff, and his children rushed to grab him before he toppled over.
“Stop this nonsense,” he grumbled as more people surged forward, offering to help. “I don’t need the entire clan to carry me. I’ll be fine.”
The other ice fae relented, but their concerned murmurs as they drifted away from the lake told me they weren’t fooled. Their clan leader was hanging on by a thread, his heir had just been slain in battle, and their priestess had also been killed. The entire future of the Bala Oighr had been thrown into peril—and it was all because of me.
“It’s not your fault,” Einar murmured as we followed the clan back to the campsite. There was a nearby village, but it was far too small to accommodate us, so the ice fae had packed tents while Lord Tor and his family stayed with the village headman. If Tor had been in better health, we would have headed straight back to Whitecrest, but given his condition, we couldn’t. We would stay here one more night and allow him to rest, then make the journey back home, where they would hold a proper memorial feast for the dead. “Tamil knew the risks involved. We all did, and we’re still here with you.”
“I know,” I said heavily, my boots crunching through the snow. “It’s just… if I was a better negotiator, maybe I could have convinced Lady Axlya to help me.”
“Lady Axlya is a twat,” Quye said. I jerked my head up in shock, not used to the acerbic note in her normally playful voice. “If this is anyone’s fault, it’s hers. The Bala Oighr, as she so often loves to remind them, are her responsibility, and as one of her descendants, so are you. She should have taken you under her wing and done everything she could to support and help you, not manipulate you into being another one of her pawns.” Quye sighed.
“Also, Old Lady Axlya’s got close to a thousand years on you,” Leap pointed out. “You can’t beat yourself up for not being able to beat her at her own game.”
I snorted. “Thanks, you two. I’ll try to keep in mind that almost everyone I’m up against is centuries older than I am and outclasses me in almost every possible way.”
Einar clapped a hand on my shoulder, his fingers digging into the tense muscle. “Don’t talk that way about yourself ,” he growled. “The House heads may all be older than you, but their age blinds them to both truth and reason, which is why Nox is so easily able to sink her claws into them. You outshine them all, which is why the Radiants are on your side, and why you were born with the power to defeat the Shadows.”
He pulled me to a stop, gripping my other shoulder with his free hand so I was forced to meet his gaze. “But none of that matters if you don’t believe in yourself, Adara. Defeatist self-talk is what creatures like Nox prey upon, getting their victims to tear themselves down from the inside before they even have to lift a finger. The more you doubt yourself, the more of a foothold she gains. You don’t have the luxury of self-doubt, Adara. None of us do.”
His tone was gentle, but the fierce look blazing in his golden eyes kindled a fire inside me. It burned through some of the grief fogging my mind, and I exhaled, letting go of that negative energy and inhaling some of his strength. My shoulders straightened, and I nodded as the self-pity finally sloughed off me.
“You’re right,” I said. It might not be my fault that Tamil and the others died, but it would be my fault if Nox succeeded. I had to be strong, had to trust in my own abilities and those of my friends if I wanted to see this through. We could do this. We had to.
The five of us made it back to camp, where the others were already making breakfast. I offered to pitch in, but the ice fae wouldn’t hear of it. They shooed us away, pressing mugs of hot tea into our hands and sitting us down on logs near the fire to wait as they grilled fish and boiled porridge. They didn’t seem to begrudge our presence—after all they were treating us like guests—and yet I still couldn’t help feeling like an outsider.
But wasn’t that right? I was an outsider—all of us were. It didn’t matter that my water fae half strongly favored ice magic—I didn’t grow up with these people, hadn’t spent part of my childhood with them the way my mother had. A part of me had thought I might find community somewhere amongst the water fae, but Lady Axlya had denied me that. And while it might have been possible to find community amongst the ice fae if I'd succeeded in completing the ritual, that hope had died with Tamil.
Her death would always foreshadow my presence amongst the ice fae, whether I succeeded in my quest or not.
A shadow fell over me, disrupting my dark musings. I glanced up to see an ice fae soldier standing before me—one of the few that had survived the battle at the temple. “My apologies, Lady Adara, but Lord Tor requests your presence in the village. Along with your friends.” His gaze shifted to Einar and the others.
“Of course.” I stood at once, the thought of breakfast forgotten. The others exchanged glances but said nothing as they followed us. The village was a half-mile trek from the campsite, a quaint little cluster of cabins built along a slope that were dusted with snow and fringed in icicles. Perched at the very top was the headman's cabin, with a perfect view of the lake and surrounding areas.
“Welcome,” the headman said as he opened the door, giving us a kind smile. We stomped our feet to shake the snow loose from our boots before we entered, then removed them before venturing further in. The house was large, more like a lodge than a cabin, yet it still had a cozy, rustic feel. The main room was spacious and well-lit, with a large stone hearth at one end, surrounded by comfortable chairs and cushions. On the other end of the room sat a throne carved from antler bones, and behind it was a large, woven tapestry depicting an ice fae hunt. A few simple shelves along the walls held leather-bound books and vellum scrolls, and there was a small writing desk in the corner, just off to the side of the throne.
I expected Lord Tor to be abed, given his condition, but he sat by the hearth in a rocking chair, the quintessential picture of an aging grandpa. The flickering firelight cast shadows on his translucent skin, highlighting the faint lines of age on his face. It struck me then that he had to be older than Lady Axlya, as only the most ancient of Greater Fae showed signs of aging. How much had those wizened eyes seen over the centuries? How much could I learn from him, if only I had the time?
“Lord Tor.” I stopped a few feet away from him, inclining my head. Einar and my friends stood just a pace behind me, allowing me to take the lead. “I’m not sure I’ve had the chance to thank you and your people for their hospitality. We are very grateful you’ve given us sanctuary during these troubled times.”
