“Have you met a werewolf before? A vampire?” Marai asked, causing Aresti to scowl and turn away. Marai’s mind briefly flashed to Nosficio, that ancient, deadly vampire. He hadn’t seemed too concerned about humans. He was too busy drinking their blood to care. But he did seem interested in Marai and her magic. “We don’t know what they’d do, what they want. Vampires are loners. They don’t often interact with others. And werewolves stick to their packs. They’d all be caught up, as well, if we went to war with humans.”

Keshel finally stepped forward. “If we begin this war, the cycle will go on and on, as Marai said. Humans populate quickly. Magical folk don’t breed the same way; this was our problem before. Humans outnumber us, and always will. They’ll continue breeding and rise up again.”

“What will you do with the ring?” came Kadiatu’s soft voice from behind Marai.

“Nothing. At least for now.”

Leif stomped outside, Aresti at his heels. Thora, visibly shaken, went back to her jars and herbs.

Keshel turned to Marai. “My question isn’t about the ring. What will you do with your own powers, Marai?”

She stared back at him, trying to keep her face from revealing the turmoil inside. “I don’t know how much power I have.”

“It’s immense, Marai,” Keshel said quietly. “I don’t foresee you being able to keep it contained forever. You’re going to use it . . . you have to decide how and for what reason.” He grabbed the green leather-bound volume and disappeared down the tunnel back to his cot.

Marai rushed outside, unable to take the confines of the cave any longer. She ran past Leif and Aresti, who were having a heated conversation. Marai ran to the cliff wall where the long weathered rope hung. She climbed all the way up. It required every ounce of her strength to make it to the top, but her body was resilient once again after days of rigorous training. After she pulled herself up over the ledge, she stood, panting, hands burning from the rough rope through her gloves. Marai wiped the sweat from her brow and paced.

No one would follow her up here.

Marai hated that she’d been put in this situation. She wasn’t a leader. She had power, but knew not how to wield it. Why had she been given this responsibility?

Whatever I decide will affect them, too . . . 

Magic throbbed within her, wanting release along with her frustration.

She let go, feeling the sparks travel down her arms and out through her fingertips. A rightness settled over her. White strands of lightning snapped in the air all around her, unhinged and wild . . . She’d been born with lightning at her heels and in her veins. An agrestal storm cloud bloomed in the sky.

Marai let the magic loose until that pent-up need, anger, and confusion subsided. She took several long, deep breaths, inhaling the bone dryness of the Badlands. There was nothing and no one around for miles and miles. Ehle was the least consequential of the Nine Kingdoms, with the sparsest population. Most of Ehle was covered in the red desert, uninhabitable except for those desperate and resourceful enough to survive. Marai was alone up on that plateau. Alone, even amongst the other fae. Alone, with the weight of responsibility heavy upon her shoulders.

Ruen, she thought, dropping to her knees. Her fingers dug into the copper dirt. What should I do?

Chapter 6

Marai

Leif and Aresti didn’t say a further word about the ring. Marai supposed Keshel, Raife, or both, spoke to them in private. She was appreciative, but knew it was only a matter of time before someone brought it up again.

Two more weeks passed. The fae celebrated Ostara, the holiday honoring Lirr and the welcoming of spring. As they did each year, the fae lined their entryway with flowers from Kadiatu’s garden, mimicking the path of blooms Lirr supposedly left in her wake whenever she stepped foot on soil. They left the goddess offerings of desert fruits and fish in baskets by the river next to blazing candles of green flame, created by Leif. Thora waved incense around the cave and chanted in the language of the gods, cleansing away the dark of winter, ushering in the light.

“Did you know that ancient fae is also the language of the gods?” Keshel asked Marai as they listened to Thora’s melodic voice fill the cave.

“No, I didn’t,” said Marai. She’d been a child the last time she heard ancient fae spoken by her father. The language was lost to her, as it was for the others, except for the few holiday chants.

“Curious, isn’t it?” Keshel pondered. “Humans despise us for our magic, but why would Lirr have given her own language to us if not out of love?”

Her lessons with Keshel were stressful. Marai’s magic didn’t want to be controlled. The lightning was feral and yearned to be released, to stretch for miles. Keshel had been correct—her power was immense, but it was dangerous to everyone around her. More than once Marai had almost turned Keshel to ashes, but he’d been quick to put up his shield. Her lightning crashed against it in a bright explosion, ricocheting off, unable to penetrate his barrier.

Keshel had given Marai specific breathing and mind-shaping exercises. He instructed her to imagine her magic as a living thing, part of her physical body, something that must be shaped and honed. She was to visualize her magic flexing and shifting like any normal muscle. It was boring, tedious work. Merely standing there breathing and visualizing was more exhausting than fighting in a battle.

Eventually, though, Marai got the hang of it.

Lightning climbed up the high canyon walls; slunk like a lynx over the water. With a mere thought, Marai directed it, and the strands of white light turned, creating a circle of crackling power around Keshel. Then she reeled it all back inside, as easy as sucking in air.

Trying to catch her off-guard, Keshel threw a ball of blazing fire at Marai. With the flex of her hands, an invisible shield erected around her. The fireball exploded against the barrier, then burnt out, scattering cinders into the red dirt.

“Excellent work,” Keshel said, giving Marai one of his rare smiles. “I don’t think anyone else could’ve mastered their magic faster. Including me.”

“I still don’t have complete control.”

“You will,” Keshel said in a tone that meant he knew because he’d seen it. Keshel was never forthcoming about his visions. Marai guessed there were many things he knew about her that he’d never share. Keshel had told her once years ago that it was often better to let things happen the way they were intended. That sometimes knowing something was going to happen made things worse. She couldn’t comprehend how much those visions of the future weighed on Keshel. He never showed weakness. Perhaps she’d learned that from him.

Every day, Marai awoke and her heart seemed a little lighter. Every hour, a fissure in her soul healed over, and stitched itself together. She gained sturdiness from the laughter of her people. Resilience in their passion, their dedication to each other. She’d crawled through broken glass to reach this point. To find herself again. Marai’s soul was bloodied and torn, but healing.

“I know you miss him,” Thora said as they washed bloody bandages at the river. Raife had accidentally sliced his hand on Aresti’s sword during training, and the wound had bled a lot before Thora could magically seal the cut. He was fine, but they’d used several strips of cloth to soak up the blood. “Your prince.”

“He’s not my prince,” grumbled Marai.

Thora stopped vigorously scrubbing the cloth, and gave Marai her usual knowing look. “No? Then what is he?”

“Nevandia’s prince,” said Marai.

Thora raised an eyebrow. “It’s alright, you know . . . to feel more.”

Ivy curled and tightened around Marai’s mending heart. They’d saved each other, in a way. Ruenen had shown her possibilities. A future that didn’t reside at a blade’s edge. He’d opened her eyes to more. 

“You’re one to talk,” Marai quipped, letting those feelings of more drift away.

“You’re not the only one struggling with those feelings,” Thora said, face falling. “I know what it’s like to care for someone and not be able to be with them.” She clutched Raife’s wet bandages to her breast.

Marai looked away, staring hard at the water lapping on the pebbles as if the river had personally affronted her. A hollowness took over, encapsulating her heart. “It doesn’t matter what I felt once, because he’s dead.”

“Of course it matters, Marai,” Thora said. “Attraction isn’t a choice, but loving someone is. And choosing to love is a brave, scary thing.”

Marai had been brave once; had been willing to cleave her heart in two and share it with another, with Slate. That youthful courage and brashness had been punished. She’d vowed to never let love blind her; that no man would ever hurt or claim her again.

Ruenen had never tried to claim her. He’d chosen to care. Marai still didn’t know what her feelings for Ruenen were . . . was it more than friendship? Did she love him?

But Ruenen was dead. It’d been a month since the day she’d portaled to the Badlands. Rayghast had slain him by now. The cruel king had probably overthrown Nevandia. Keshel hadn’t mentioned he’d seen anything about it . . .

Marai briefly considered portaling to Paracaso to see if there was any news about Tacorn and Nevandia, but then she shook the thought from her head.

Do I really want to know? Because then it would be real . . . then there would be confirmation of Ruenen’s death, and Marai didn’t think she could bear to hear those words spoken aloud.

Aresti’s figure appeared, barreling in from the boundaries of the fae territory. She’d been on watch duty all afternoon. Marai stood at once. From a distance, she spotted the frantic expression on Aresti’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Marai asked.

“Riders,” Aresti panted as she neared, sweat plastering hair to her neck and temples. “Twenty–heading this way. Fifteen of them wear black armor.”