I walk on, stay my course. All the way into the dark.
The door clangs shut. Sealing off every glimmer of the Ad-hene’s scars. Leaving me wrapped in underground darkness: an absolute black, all claw and dazzle.
A lock grinds into place behind me, though I don’t know why they bothered. I’m not sure I could find the door again. The darkness is too thick, too stifling. Everything has closed in on me—pulled tight. Yet the room I’m standing in must be large. There are noises from great distances. Drips. Clicks. Breathing . . .
My heart stops. I stand perfectly still. Listen.
Nothing. Was it just my own breath circling back to me? The darkness taking on a soul of its own?
And then—a footstep. A scuff of sole against a concrete floor.
“Richard?” My call trails off, gets tangled up in the dark. “Is that you?”
The steps stop. They’re close. So close.
“Embers?” His whisper is barely there, wrapped up in shrouds of disbelief. “You’re here. . . .”
“Where are you?” I reach out through the black.
“By the wall . . .” He pauses, as if just now realizing the darkness we’re in. “Follow my voice.”
He keeps calling to me, in that warm, summertime way of his: Embers, Embers, Embers. With every new syllable I take a step forward. Draw closer to the rich toffee smooth of his voice. Closer, closer, closer.
Here.
My fingers find something even warmer and softer than Richard’s voice. His hand. Our skin meets, almost electric. I pull completely into his touch. His arms fold over my shoulders. We stay like this for a long time, clutching each other like lifelines.
“You’re here,” he whispers again.
I want to say something, but there’s so much feeling in my throat. Swelling, choking out any explanations. All I can do is breathe in, press my face into his neck.
I found him. I lost him, but I found him again.
“Richard . . . ,” I finally manage.
His hand hushes back around my shoulder, dances like feathers through my hair. “You really cut it. The dreams were real. . . .”
“I don’t know how—” I start to say.
“Can you make a light? I want to see you.”
A light. Of course. I had one this whole time.
“Inlíhte.” At my whisper our world flares to life. With Richard at its center. Suddenly I’m glad I didn’t try to fight Morgaine or the Ad-hene, that I didn’t steal any of the light now wrapping around Richard’s face. There’s so little of it: a flash and a long, agonizing dimming.
We gaze at each other through the watery rays of my Faery light. Trying to capture and preserve these new images of ourselves. As we are. Richard looks much as he did in the dream: hair tousled, face thinning and covered in scruff, eyes red-rimmed: tired without the bleariness. Their stare is all focus, drinking me in. The hand which hovered by my jaw brushes back into my hair.
“I didn’t want to change it.” My voice wavers, just like my spell. “I had to. I loved the red. And I know you did too. I had to do it—”
I’m sobbing now. I know it’s not about the hair. It’s about every impossible choice I’ve been faced with since he was torn from my arms. It’s about the death I’ve brought down upon our heads.
We’re standing in a tomb. I can see that now as I try to wipe the tears from my face, finally look away from Richard. The walls around us are grimy white tile, the room itself filled with ladders and machines. Runecraft winds tight around bricks and pipes. Far too cramped and complicated to erase, even if I did have my old magic.
It’s not hard to guess what spell they will unleash. And when.
Tonight when midnight strikes the Palace of Westminster will collapse into flames. King Richard’s body will be found underneath the rubble and yours with it.
We must be somewhere in the Palace of Westminster’s basement. I look around frantically for an exit, but all I can see is the steel door Alistair locked. Slowly my light fades. And my magic with it. I don’t have the strength to open the door. All because I wanted a glimpse of Richard’s face. My last glimpse.
We’re going to die. In a few short hours Morgaine’s runes will eat their way through these walls with flare and fire. The stones will collapse and swallow us whole. Because I chose it.
I’ve buried us alive.
“I don’t care what color your hair is,” Richard says softly.
The tears come harder, after the smile which breaks across his face. I can barely see it. My Faery light is just a shimmer now, the size of a firefly. Darkness collapses back on us.
My fingers dig into him, holding on.
“She’s going to kill us,” I hear myself saying. “Elaine Forsythe. She’s really Morgaine le Fay—a sorceress from Camelot—and she’s going to kill us to rig the elections and take control of Britain.”
“What are you talking about?” Richard asks.
“I thought it was Mordred,” I go on, unable to stop the avalanche of words and tears, “because of the dreams Guinevere was sending. The ones you were in. But I wasn’t paying enough attention. I wasn’t listening.”
“Dreams? Guinevere?” Richard’s arms stay wrapped around my shoulders. The only thing left holding me together. “Emrys, slow down. Start from the beginning.”
My story pours out. I start with that night on the yacht and tell him everything: about the Labyrinth of Man, Guinevere’s curse, Herne’s offer, Titania’s abandonment, his sister’s courage, the effigies the bonfires ate, Blæc’s ashes, the circle of runes cuffing Julian Forsythe’s wrist, Kieran’s lips crushed against mine, the magic Anabelle used to tear Kensington’s angels from their heights.
I’m hoarse by the time I tell him what happened in the garden. The path I chose for both of us.
And after this: a long silence. I wish I could still see Richard’s face. At least his arms haven’t pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” I say, when the quiet becomes too much.
“Why?”
“All of this is my fault. Guinevere tried to warn me, and I could have stopped it. I could have taken back my magic and protected you . . . but I didn’t. I didn’t have the courage to let you go.” I hold him tighter as I say this, my arms looped firm around his waist. “I failed you. I chose this.”
“Is that what you think?” he asks slowly. “That you’ve failed me?”
Richard’s heartbeat is steady. A constant bum, bum, beat, beat metronome.
“Do you know why I fell in love with you?” he asks. “It wasn’t because you protected me, or because you could use magic. It wasn’t because of your red hair. It’s because you saw every part of me—the good and the bad, the rotten and the ripe. You saw me and you didn’t give up. You decided to stay.
“You didn’t choose this,” he says. “You chose me, us. Again. And I’m so, so glad for it.
“Also, I think it goes without saying that I’d rather not be a witch’s puppet,” he adds.
“The lochside retreat was tempting. But the collapse of the Palace of Westminster seemed like too much to miss. Plus I’m not much of a tattoo girl.”
“I don’t know. With that new hair?” I can practically hear the grin on his face. “I definitely think you could pull off some ink.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, as soon as we get out of here it’s straight to the tattoo parlor. I’ll get a heart with H.R.H. King Richard stamped on my arse.”
He laughs, as clean and clear as church bells. How long has it been since I’ve heard that sound? Such lightness in his voice which hasn’t been there since before the integration . . .
Here we are, about to get crushed flat, and he’s laughing. We’re shivering and wrapped in dark, but we’re finally together with time for just us. These might be our last moments, but they’re ours.
We must make the most of them.
He pulls me even closer. His heart is beating harder now, tapping like some edgy drum solo. It reminds me of the music we danced t
o, so long ago.
His lips find mine. Or mine find his. There’s no telling how they meet, but they do. It’s a gentle kiss at first: the softness of heather blooms, the barest glow of dawn’s east edge. It takes me back to the night we walked together in Hyde Park, when the nightingales’ song threaded through the colors of the sunset and Richard kissed me. The night it all began.
Sunrises. Sunsets. Beginnings and ends. Who knew they could be so much alike?
This kiss is so different from Kieran’s. There’s no thrash and rage. No heaving, raw hunger. It’s steady and true and fearless—like the beat of Richard’s heart. Like his love for me.
There’s no wild spin, but there is a depth to the way he kisses me. A sweet swim through hair and skin as we reach for each other. And I’m diving—down, down, down—into his touch. Pulling into his warmth.
But there’s something else. Not a pull, but a blooming. A rising . . .
Every hair on my body stands on end. An unmistakable feeling rushes through my veins, bursts forth.
The room is all light. Bright, bright white, burning with a power which returns the tears to my eyes. I blink them back. See Richard. He’s blinking too, his face made of color and life. His eyes shine like a spell, full of stun as he looks at me. Then above us.
I follow his gaze. To the Faery light which hovers over our heads. My inlíhte—the spell I thought was dead and gone—is suspended above us like a miniature sun. Stronger than it ever was before.
Its blaze rushes through every fiber of my being—magic. But it feels nothing like my old Faery powers. What dances inside me now feels more like the veiling spells Anabelle wove so well on the rooftop.
Blood magic.
And I remember the last time I cast a Faery light—during Lights-down. The night we fought and my inlíhte exploded with anger. It hadn’t been my anger the Faery light flared against. It was Richard’s emotions . . . his blood magic pulsing, somehow feeding my spell.
Richard lets out a breath that’s been held a long, long time. It weighs of weeks and worries. “It didn’t hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” I think of the fear which shone so feral behind his eyes, that night he pulled away and said it wasn’t me and I knew for certain he was lying.
Except he wasn’t.
“It’s been getting stronger ever since Lights-down started.” He looks back down at me. “Every time we were together, every time we kissed, I felt it rising. I was afraid it would hurt you, the way your spells used to hurt me when we kissed. I was afraid that after everything you gave up, we still couldn’t be together. The thought of losing you—I just couldn’t bear it. So I fell back into old habits, tried to run away from the problem. Ignore it.”
“That’s why you were afraid? That’s why you pulled away? Because you thought the blood magic would hurt me?” A laugh bubbles up in my throat, so full of relief and love for him. “Richard, I was made to carry magic. Meant for it.”
The Faery light spins above us, brighter and brighter. Our magic. My spell, fed by his strength. I am the fire and Richard is the flame. My flame. Together we are whole. Powerful.
“I’ve been trying to use it,” he says, staring at the light. “I thought I could get that door unlocked, but it’s a bit tricky to figure out blind. I think I’ve only managed to break a pipe or two.”
The door. Richard might not be able to use his magic to open it, but I can. I weave my hand into his, feel for the power sleeping in his veins. The connection is easy to make, now that I know it’s there. I don’t even really need to use physical touch, but I grip his fingers anyway, start pulling the blood magic into myself.
The door is close, nested beneath ladders and pipes, swimming under the glow of the Faery light. I breathe deep, reach out for the corroded latch. My fingertips tremble with magic and hope. “Opena.”
The spell I weave is almost as rusty as the latch, but still it flows, pries through the steel bolts. The door pulls back with a groan, reveals a dim passageway beyond.
“If we are actually in Westminster’s basement, this should be the main pipe vault,” Richard says as we start walking. Our footsteps sound empty against the hall’s concrete. “The stairs ought to be just down this way.”
Long walls of pipes crowd around us. The flicker of my light makes them look like snakes, weaving in and out of shadow. There was no other way beyond the door. Just this hall and its long stretch of wires which run along the ceiling like nerve bundles.
Yet I don’t remember being carried past all these pipes. Or walking so straight for so long. The Ad-hene were all twist and speed when they brought me here. . . .
We keep walking. Until every step we take feels like another drill into the pit of my stomach. Something’s wrong. The pipes shouldn’t be stretching this far. There should be a turn, a dead-end, stairs . . . something.
“How do you suppose no one at all has been down here since coronation day?” Richard’s voice echoes off the dark. “These are maintenance rooms. Workers should be in and out all the time.”
Dread swirls like hunger in my stomach. Chasing Richard’s question with an answer: “Morgaine has written blocking spells all over London’s underground—to keep mortals from going where they shouldn’t.” I scan the hall for runes. Sure enough there’s a band of them, thick and white against the shiny silver piping. A few centimeters from that is a dent in the pipe. “The workers couldn’t come down here without remembering some other urgent job.”
We keep walking and I try not to think of what else the runes could mean.
But I know the truth. It’s hounding me with every step. With every next minute we don’t reach the stairs.
“We should be in the Central Lobby basement by now. If I remember right.” Richard stops and looks back at the darkness behind us. There’s a frown on his face. “Maybe we’re going the wrong direction.”
I look back at the pipes. There, glimmering a few inches away, is another band of runes. Identical to the ones we passed a few dozen meters back. No—I look closer, see the dent in the pipe—not another band. The same. Any hope I might have had dies inside my chest.
“We’re not going in the wrong direction,” I say. “We’re going in circles.”
“What?” Richard stares at me, his face sharp in the light. “How is that possible?”
Alistair has already looped the tunnels—woven them into endlessness with his older-than-dust magic. This hallway has become part of the new Labyrinth, another stretch of silver on the Ad-hene’s arms.
Alistair didn’t need to lock the door at all. We’re trapped down here by a force far greater than iron or lock. Swallowed whole by the earth.
“There’s an enchantment on the tunnels,” I tell him. “Only an Ad-hene can break it. It doesn’t matter what direction we go . . . we’re still trapped here.”
Suddenly I’m so, so tired. I wilt to the floor like a thirsty rose.
Richard kneels next to me. He wreathes his hand into mine and holds tight. “Guess you won’t be getting that tattoo after all.”
In spite of everything I smile at him.
His thumb runs over my ringless finger. He looks down, noticing its absence for the first time.
“I lost it,” I whisper. “It fell down a sink and I couldn’t get it back.”
Richard’s hand tightens over mine. “I had another ring, you know.”
I can’t hide the shake of my lips anymore. “Even though you thought your kisses might kill me?”
“I was still hoping I was wrong. And even if I wasn’t, I wanted you to know . . .” Richard’s voice fades off and he swallows. “I was going to do it right. I was going to take you to the Highlands after the coronation. I had it all planned out—we’d hike to some castle ruins where a picnic would be waiting. My vintage records would be playing on a turntable. We’d dance until the stars climbed high. I would pull you close and ask you to be my wife.”
I shut my eyes and see the scene. Old weathered stones lined with candles. The tab
le set with finest china—beef Wellington and strawberries. I hear the music playing: stanzas of classic rock sounding across snow-dusted peaks. Stars scattered like mercury tears overhead. And us—together—spinning beneath them.
“I would hold my breath until you answered.” Richard’s voice is all softness, calling me back through the dark.
I open my eyes, find him. The glow of the Faery light sculpts out Richard’s face. He’s holding his breath as he watches me. Waits.
I tighten my hand in his. “I would say yes.”
Richard’s really smiling now too. And there’s a tremble to it, just like mine. “And I’d be the happiest man in the world.”
I feel the tears again, swelling to the top of my throat. A pure blend of fresh and salt, sorrow and joy. These emotions swim through my eyes; what little light there is haloes Richard’s face. Swallows it.
I start to stand, because I know if we keep sitting here—if we keep talking about would bes and what ifs—my heart won’t be able to bear the weight.
“We’re not dead yet.” I pull Richard up next to me. “So let’s do it. Let’s dance.”
Richard rises, his arms slide down my waist. “Without music?”
“Brec.” I whisper to the Faery light and it blows like a spent dandelion—spreading pieces to all corners. Less light, more shine. Like the winter sky has folded and burrowed into this small canopy over us.
“To stillness and starlight,” I tell him. “To the end.”
Twenty-Six
We dance and dance. I keep waiting for midnight to strike. For fire to rip through the tunnels, peeling our souls from our bodies even as we cling to each other. For the passageway and everything in it to collapse into dust.
But the darkness around us holds fast and our steps start to slow. We sit back, together, against the wall. Whispering words, weaving fingers. Waiting through unsaid agonies. The end is still out there, lurking like a wolf in the dark, waiting to devour us whole.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but suddenly the shadows melt—give way to green and air and stone and sky. The grass at my feet is thick—lush and woven through with flowers. A whole sea of yellow petals stretches out across the valley floor.