Kyrian waits in his inner tower, staring out through the windows at the sea. There’s a compass in his hands, and its needle points due west, though he swiftly snaps it shut when we enter.
“Well?” Thiago asks.
The Prince of Tides turns to face us, his windswept brown hair tied at his nape and his shirt open to mid-breast. “I’ve found her. Angharad has her pet sorcerers working on the Spell of Unmaking. You were right. She’s up to something. They’re looking for a sacrifice to break open the Hallow at Mistmere.”
My blood runs cold. It’s exactly what I saw last night in my dreams.
Thiago exchanges a glance with me, but he doesn’t say anything. “A sacrifice? Why the Mother? If they thought they could break open a Hallow, I thought she’d go straight for the Horned One.”
“Who knows?” Kyrian replies. “The Horned One was a special case. Bran the Mighty linked the pair of them, then drove the Sword of Unmaking straight through his own heart. It was enough to trap the Horned One in a deathlike trance before they closed the prison. Perhaps Angharad needs some way to bring him back from the edge before she releases him?”
“And the Mother has the power,” Thiago says, cursing under his breath as he paces. “She has the skills. She created spell craft, so if there’s anyone who knows how to break that link, it’s her.”
“Angharad seemed to think there was a specific sacrifice required,” Kyrian says. “Do we have any idea who it is?”
Another little chill runs up my spine.
Thiago insisted I wear long sleeves, and I’m grateful for it now, as the blue silk covers the fetch’s mark.
“No,” Thiago lies, looking his friend in the eye. “No doubt a queen. Or a prince. Or someone of equal power. The Hallows required a powerful sacrifice to create the link to the prisons. No doubt they require one that’s just as powerful to break them open. Either that, or one of the great relics like the Sword of Mourning. But most of them are lost.”
I don’t understand. I don’t have the power required. My magic dwells beneath the surface, caged by the wards Thiago laid over me the night I nearly burned the bed. But it’s no greater than that of any pure born fae. I know, because my mother had both Andraste and me tested when we were twelve.
And as far as I can tell, my memory loss begins and ends on the day I first met Thiago, so that previous memory must be real.
“Watch your back then, my friend,” Kyrian says, slapping a hand on Thiago’s shoulder.
“You too. And start preparing for war. I’ll send my armies west, to Mistmere. We need to stop her before she can get the Hallow working.”
“My ships are at your disposal,” Kyrian replies. “And my men. Send word the second you’re ready to attack.” He turns to me. “In light of certain revelations, you may consider my grimoire a gift. I think you may need it, Your Highness, though next time… ask.”
It’s a quiet trip back to Ceres.
Though the thought of travelling through the Hallow and meeting that saltkissed bitch haunts me, the trip is uneventful. The gold cuff on my arm goes ice-cold, but there’s no frightening whirl of seawater, no screaming saltkissed hissing in my face.
I’m almost disappointed.