THE SETTING SUN stared back at Connley Errigal, daring him to make his decision. In the east, over distant Aremoria, the moon would be rising.
Tonight was the full moon just before the autumnal equinox. A most opportune moment to act, at a time of perfect balance. A boat waited, packed with a few supplies, and exactly as the sun touched the western horizon and the moon reached up into the east, Connley would step off of Innis Lear and into the waters caging it.
Possibly it would kill him.
My son, my son, whispered the wind, and not just any wind, but the longing voice of the Ashling Lady.
Connley stared at a spot just over the sun, unblinking, until his eyes watered. He did not respond to his lady, for all that he loved her. If he spoke, he might remain, and if he remained now on Innis Lear, he would root into the very bedrock, unable to move, until he died. There would be no freedom in it, trapped in a stillness: his blood required movement.
Moments. New moments.
Ocean waves lapped at the pebbles of this tiny beach just south of the Summer Seat, a pretty song that cut into the breath of the island. Connley had very little in the way of belongings—despite having been born the son of nobility on both his mother’s and father’s sides. Long ago, he’d given up his titles to live in the White Forest with the rootwaters and trees, and the spirit of his lady. He had his clothing, his altar box with various magical supplies, and a long knife. Not even food, though beside the box was a skin of fresh water.
my son my son my
I won’t stay away forever, he promised, his back to the raw, shadowed island. This cove allowed him a view of the farthest curve of horizon, all ocean, waves flickering with sunlight as the golden rays touched every ripple. At the very least, Connley would need to return before the Longest Night, before any hemlock queen died.
my son my son
He glanced east, where the moon would rise over Aremoria, land of rich fields and old, happy forests. That moon would rise, a ball of silver, over the kingdom of his destiny, over the castle where perhaps even now Hotspur Persy awaited him. The Wolf of Aremoria. It sounded like a saint’s tale, and a good one, at that: the wolf and the witch. A story with danger and unexpected love. The witch pulls a thorn from the wolf’s paw, the wolf turns into a prince on the Longest Night, they go on a quest, they save each other before the end. Sometimes one of them dies.
Connley’s heart raced. He did not know how to be a husband, let alone an Aremore one, nor a political pawn. He only knew how to be a witch, and a son of magic. He—
Ash, I’ll come home, Connley swore.
When the full sphere of the sun glanced against the blur of the gilded sea, he shoved his boat off the shore. Wind gusted hard at him, a wail, and tears touched his cheeks as he dashed through the shallows and with a single heave, leapt toward his future and the darkening night.