Regan squeaked in pain, but did not move, even as the talons clutched into her flesh and the bowl of blood rocked. Connley grasped her arms.
A gift for you, Ban said to the owl, holding its gaze: deep black eyes against a heart-shaped white face. Its tawny shoulders melted creamier down its back and along its wings, a splash of brown scattered down its underside.
The owl made a softer sound, a clicking trill, and walked to the bowl of blood.
It lowered its white head and tipped its beak into the bowl.
Fire bind us.
The moment the owl touched the blood, Ban whispered the words, making the line of their burning circle flare a brighter white; along the lines of sand and char, higher flames burst like tiny yellow autumn leaves, wavering in a breeze.
The owl shrieked and launched forward, batting the bowl away with its wings. Blood splattered across its white face, and across one elegant wing; blood slid in a branching line down Regan’s hip and ribs.
Ban reached out and grasped the owl’s torso between both hands, even as it slashed at him with its talons. He commanded, Be still, ghost owl, and said its name again.
The charge rang against the walls of the diamond, and the fire shrieked its own wild laughter. Regan sat, pressing hands to her bloody stomach, against both freshly dripping blood and that previously wrung from her cold womb. Her husband put the small dagger into her hand and pushed Regan to her feet.
In Ban’s arms, the owl settled, wings limp, talons flexed but still. Its eyes hooked on his own, black and starry.
Regan joined Ban, slid one hand around his, and then firmly pierced the dagger through the owl’s back.
Its wings spread in a beautiful arc, and blood dripped down its tail.
“Now, while it still lives,” Ban said. He held one wing, and Connley took the other in firm hands. The duke’s face was paler than normal, too, drawn with temper and concern. The men held the owl up by the wings, and Regan grasped its head, then cut free its perfect black eyes.
Ban led Connley as they lowered the owl, carefully, respectfully, to the earth as it died.
The lady walked to the granite slope, gory eyes in her palm. As her wizard and her husband watched, Regan set the dagger upon the stone, and then one by one, put the eyes in her mouth and swallowed them whole.
She knelt, back bent, head low so her loose curls fell all around her arms, hiding her face. The sun pressed up in the east, sending a ray of gold across the horizon, and the half-moon blinked, overcome. Wind nudged them all, waving hands through the fading fires of their diamond.
Hurry now, the wind said, and Ban knew if Regan saw nothing before the orb of the sun lifted itself completely over the earth, she never would.
Connley stepped closer, and Ban grabbed his forearm. Though the duke cast him an angry look, this was Ban’s power. He was the wizard, and his word ruled the moment.
A gasp from Regan, and both men jolted forward but stopped themselves. Her hands flattened against the gray, speckled granite, and blood dripped once off her chin. It was all they could see, but her hair shook and her shoulders trembled. She moaned softly and high, bending over herself. Words in the language of trees fell from her lips, but Ban could not understand them; they were too quiet, too jumbled and full of teeth.
Ban’s heart raced, loud enough to make a language of its own.
The fire blew out, though there was no wind remaining.
And Regan suddenly rose, threw out her arms like wings, and screamed at the bright morning sky.
Connley broke then, rushing to his wife. “Regan, Regan,” he said, and dragged her off the stone altar, holding her about the waist as she twisted and cried. Tears pink with blood marred her cheeks, and she gouged her temples with her nails. Blood colored her bottom lip.
Waiting, impatient, Ban clenched his jaw.
Connley held her as she wept, as she curled in upon herself, and then finally, Regan spoke. “My insides are covered in scars like dark roots, and I cannot see past them, to mend myself! I need another.” She whipped her head around and stared at Ban. “Another guide, one with stronger, better eyes.”
Fear slithered coldly down his spine. He glanced to Connley, then shook his head. “Rest now.”
“Come, my love,” Connley said, embracing her. He kissed her jaw.
Regan clawed at him—but not to push him away. She clutched his neck, pulling him all against her, shoving their foreheads together. Her voice was raw as she begged, ordered, and kissed him with her bloody mouth. And the duke of Connley held her tighter, nodding, promising nothing, everything.
Ban turned his back, shaking with weariness and sorrow. Regan deserved better. He was a scout and a spy, a wizard who knew how to seek and see. But he couldn’t help her more, not without seeking his own mother, or some other witch who knew more of the putting together than taking apart. He started down the promontory alone, toward the deep morning shadows of the White Forest. Thirst drew Ban toward a spring he knew, and behind it, sleep called his name in the voice of wind and roots.
He would have let himself be pulled underground, to be revived as always by the embrace of the trees. But before he could reach them, the earth beneath his feet trembled. Dry golden grass bent awake, shifting and whispering; the White Forest fluttered, bowing toward the sunrise and the southeast.
Raising his face toward the morning sky, Ban heard a longed-for name on the wind, bright as a star, as if all the island gave it welcome.
Elia, said Innis Lear. Elia has come home.
FIVE YEARS AGO,
DONDUBHAN
WAKE UP! SHRIEKED the wind.
Wake wake wake!
The sharp cry threw leaves against themselves and against the walls of Dondubhan,
